Taking Turns (Turning #1)(30)

“They want you and I don’t.” I sum it up simply. And then I shrug. “I’m over her.”

To my surprise, Marcella slips her hands around my arm. An attempt to warm them up and give me comfort at the same time?

“You’re not over her. And I don’t care. I mean,” she corrects, “I don’t mind. I do care. But it’s not reasonable to expect you to just move on.”

She leans into me then. A nice touch to the speech Bric probably hand-fed her on the way over here.

“I know they want you. So I’m not going to say no.”

I turn to walk back inside and put an end to the drama, but Marcella has hold of my arm, so I stop and look at her. She is covered in snowflakes.

“I do want you happy though.” She sighs, knowing she can’t win tonight. “So I’m going to do my best. We can be friends at least.”

“Friends?” I say, my mouth turning down into an expression of confusion. “Oh, I’m still gonna f*ck the shit out of you, Marcella Walcott. Don’t mistake my sadness for celibacy. You’re mine from midnight Sunday to midnight Tuesday.” I turn towards her, lean in and whisper, “And don’t ever f*cking forget what you are to me.” Her eyes widen with a touch of fear. “A whore I pay a lot of f*cking money to keep.” I pull back and point to the door. “Now get the f*ck inside. You’re getting wet.”

She doesn’t comment back. Just walks carefully through the snow in her stupid high heels and does as she told.

When I get inside Smith is leaning against the kitchen island and Bric is standing in front of the door, hands in his pockets, legs spread in a stance that tells me he’s uneasy.

The whole place is different now. All of Rochelle’s things have been removed, just like Bric promised. And in place of all the things Rochelle meticulously hunted down and collected over the past three years is cold, modern, simple furniture that no one gives a f*ck about unless they actually had to pay for it.

“Everything OK?” Bric asks Marcella.

I chance a look at her and find her pale.

“Quin?” Smith asks. “Are we going to continue or not?”

“Why does it have to be my decision?” I ask, suddenly pissed off they’ve put me in this position. “Why not just take her yourself and leave me out of it?”

“Come on, Quin,” Bric says with a hesitant smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

I let out a long exhale. “I don’t give a shit. OK? If she makes you happy, she makes me happy. How’s that for an answer?”

“At least it’s one I can relate to,” Smith says.

And he’s right. I don’t think he ever liked Rochelle. And the fact that he stopped coming by on his days with her months ago was just the first clue. Something I didn’t pay attention to until he told me about it.

Marcella is standing between us. Surrounded. She says nothing.

“Yes,” I say, walking towards the front door. “Fine. I’m in. Let’s go downstairs. I can’t stand this place.”

“Hold on,” Bric says, grabbing my arm as I try to get past him. “We need to show her around.”

I turn back to Marcella. “This is the kitchen,” I say, waving my hands at the newly repainted cabinets. They are stark white now, a blank slate, just like always. The countertop is black marble and the island cabinets are dark gray. I think Smith was in charge of the contractors this time around. “This is the living room.”

Gone are Rochelle’s eclectic couches made of crushed velvet. Gone are the drapes. Gone is Smith’s old chair in front of the window and in its place is Smith’s new chair in front of the window.

The couch is white, like the cabinets, made of leather, and there are two black and white striped pillows propped up against each arm. Smith’s new chair is nothing but a curved chrome frame with a black leather seat and back. It looks like it’s suspended in mid-air.

“The guest bathroom is there,” I say, pointing to a door in the short hallway. “But you’re not allowed to have guests. And the bedroom is in there with the master bath and closets.”

I don’t bother going in there. I saw it earlier.

“We have a closet,” I call out after Bric, who escorts Marcella into the bedroom to check it out. “And you have a closet.”

Smith has stayed behind with me. “Don’t be a dick to her.”

“Why not?” I ask. “She f*cked my whole world over.”

“She didn’t do anything. Rochelle f*cked your world over.”

“Same thing,” I say.

“Look,” Smith says. “If you’re going to be an *, then you need to say no. Bric and I will find someone else.”

I know he’s serious. They will. And they will never say a word about it to me ever again.

“But it’s not her, Quin. It’s not really Marcella who's pissing you off tonight. It’s Rochelle. And if you say no tonight, chances are you’ll say no to the next one. And that’s fine. But then what we have will be over. And do you really want to throw us all away just because one girl f*cked with your head?”

I don’t say anything, just listen to the soft voices of Bric and Marcella in the bedroom. I think he’s giving her a pep talk. Just like the one I’m getting from Smith.