Taking Turns (Turning #1)(28)

“Why does Quin get to make all the decisions?”

“He doesn’t make all of them. We make them together. But he’s holding out. So he needs to agree or it won’t happen. No matter how much Bric wants you.”

“You don’t want me?” I ask. I look up at him, but I can’t see his face. It’s too dark where we’re standing.

“I don’t care either way,” he says. “But Bric wants it now. Something you did or said on Tuesday affected him. Made him desire you. I’m sure Quin will give in, if only to make Bric happy. But you’d better make things right with Quin or it won’t last long.”

That last part really does come out like a threat.

“How do I go about doing that?”

I feel Smith shrug. And then we walk forward again, until we’re in more light and I can see him. “He’s not a hard guy to understand, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Are your ambivalent feelings for me the same ones you harbor for Rochelle?”

“Maybe,” Smith says, his hand finding the little dent of my waist. He places his palm flat and it sends a tingle through my body. “But don’t worry, Chella. It took me two and a half years to grow tired of Rochelle. I don’t think you’ll last that long, so you’ll never know.”

I laugh. Not loud, but enough to let him know what’s coming. “You’re an *.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet, whore.”

I am stunned silent. But only for a moment. “Is that what gets you off? Degradation?”

“Sometimes. But no, not really.”

“You just like to call me a whore?”

He smiles at me in the dim light. “Once you sign that contract, Marcella, that is what you’ll be.” He lets me take that all in. And the he pivots the conversation and says, “I’ve seen enough.”

“And said enough,” I say.

He chuckles. “God, it’s so cute the way you underestimate me.”

I let him lead me through the rest of the exhibit. We don’t bother to stop, but it’s a circular path that takes us back to Matisse and Bric, who are surrounded by people holding long-fluted champagne glasses and eating tiny finger food as they chat.

“You better think it over, Chella,” Smith says in a hushed whisper as we approach them. “Because once you’re in, you never get out.”

I stop walking and look up at him. “Rochelle got out.”

“Did she?” Smith asks, wry grin on his handsome face. Why are all the *s so handsome? “Do you really think she can just flip her upside-down life right-side up again and there won’t be consequences?” He’s totally serious and my heart begins to pound with the implications of his words. “She can walk away. They all walk away eventually, Chella. But they can’t escape. You’ll see,” he says. “You’ll see what I mean.”

We cross the final few steps and become one of the crowd.

“I’ve decided to return your date, Bric,” Smith says, taking my hand, which he’s been holding the entire time, and placing it on Bric’s arm. “I’m leaving. Nice to see you again, Matisse,” Smith says over his shoulder as he makes for the front door.

When Smith Baldwin commands attention, he gets it. I’ll give him that. Because everyone in the substantial crowd of people surrounding Matisse stops what they are doing to hear him speak.

Smith never looks back.

There is only a second or two of silent awe. The chatter begins again. I have to control myself so I don’t roll my eyes.

“Now you get to walk through with me,” Bric says, smiling down at me. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, my date is anxious to show me what’s in the dark.”

When we’re safely inside the exhibit again, hidden in the shadows, Bric says, “Don’t take him seriously.”

I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “Why is he like that?”

“He’s an unhappy person, Chella. Very few things bring out the human in him these days. But don’t worry, you’ll be one of those things.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think he’s playing with me. Like I’m just another piece on the game board.”

“His whole life is a game. And this,” Bric says, indicating us. “We’re a game too. But it’s a fun game. It’s fun if you play with the right people. And both Smith and I think you’re right for it.”

“And Quin?” I ask.

“He needs some time to adjust.”

“He liked Rochelle a lot?” I ask.

“More than he should, probably. I liked her too. What they had was not special. What I had with her was not special.”

“And what you’ll have with me won’t be special, either?”

“You’re missing the point, Chella.” He pushes me into a corner. Away from the people and the exhibits. It’s a small hallway that leads to a utility room door. His hands are on my legs. Fingers pulling on the slits of my dress, exposing the skin of my thighs. He palms my ass cheek and whispers, “Good girl,” when he realizes I’m not wearing underwear.

I place both hands on his chest to push him back, but he doesn’t yield.