Taking Turns (Turning #1)(31)

“You know what you are,” Smith says. “What you like. What you get out of this. And we’ve got something good here. If you walk out, you’ll just have to find it again with someone else.”

He’s right again, of course.

“I already said yes,” I say. “My answer is yes.”

I head to the door again—no Bric to stop me this time—and go out into the hallway where the elevator is waiting to take me down to Smith’s little room off the lobby. I don’t wait, just enter, push the button, and let the doors close behind me.

When I get off, the lobby down below is busy, but not crowded. The restaurant is always booked. You have to make a reservation two months in advance to get a public table at Turning Point Club. But it’s Friday night, so we have no public tables. Only members are allowed in the building on the weekends.

A few people catch my gaze, but I ignore their nods of greeting and head right into Smith’s bar. The bartender comes over with a bottle of Scotch and pours. By the time he’s done, Bric and Smith are getting off the elevator with Marcella.

Bric is glaring at me as they approach the table. I’m going to hear an earful later, but he won’t pick a fight in front of the new girl.

Bric holds out her chair and she sits directly across from me. Bric sits next to her and Smith is on my right.

“OK,” Smith says, producing an envelope from his suit coat pocket. “Here are the details, Chella.” He takes the contract out of the envelope and flattens the pages down on the table, then pushes it towards her with one finger.

“We each get you two nights a week,” Bric starts. “Quin gets Monday and Tuesday. I get Wednesday and Thursdays. And Smith gets Friday and Saturday. Your free day is Sunday. You will stay here in your new apartment—”

“Wait,” Marcella says. “I have a house. I can’t live at my house?”

“What part of ‘we own you’ don’t you get?” Smith asks.

I’m surprised he’s so rough with her after all that bullshit he was talking upstairs.

Marcella, however, does not seem taken aback. “I’m just trying to clarify things, Smith.” The way she snarls his name almost makes me smile.

“We like you here, Chella,” Bric explains, tapping on the table. “So you will stay here. On Sunday you can do anything you want. But on our days, we call the shots.”

“What do I get out of this?” Marcella asks. Smith laughs. “Besides sex.” She glares at him. “I get that part, thanks. Because although I’m sure you all have golden cocks that can bring virgins to orgasm without foreplay, I’m not sure it’s enough compensation for being bossed around and treated like shit.”

This time I’m the one who laughs. Pretty loud, too. “Burn,” I say, unable to hide my delight.

“You get,” Bric continues, shooting me a look that says ‘shut the f*ck up,’ “your dream. Fulfilled.”

“My dream?” Marcella asks, confused. “What does that mean? I think you guys are all hot, and I’m really OK with the sex part. But my dream? You’re not my dream.”

“Of course we’re not your dream, Chella,” Bric explains. “You hardly know us. But you do have a dream, right?”

She’s still got a confused look on her face.

“Oh, my God,” Smith says, his patience wearing thin. “A dream. Money, new house, new job, or opportunities. Or stupid shit you just don’t want to spend your own money on, like a puppy and a trip to the Arctic to see the Northern Lights. Your dream,” Smith says. “I don’t understand how this is confusing. Everyone has a dream.”

“I see you’ve given this a lot of thought, Smith. Is that your dream? A puppy and a trip to the Arctic?”

“Or,” Bric says, trying his best to control things—but I have to give Marcella props for turning what is supposed to be a tightly controlled meeting run by Bric into a circus—“something more meaningful. A gallery of your own, for instance.”

“Hmm,” Marcella says.

“What?” Smith asks. His arms are stretched out on the table in front of him, palms open, as he leans forward. Like he’s about at the end of his line.

“I already have all those things. Not the gallery. But I don’t want a gallery of my own.”

Smith sits back in his chair, snapping to attention. He looks at Bric. I look at Bric. Bric looks back at both of us.

“Then why are you doing this?” I ask.

It’s Marcella’s turn to straighten her back. She bristles at the question and does not answer it.

“You don’t have to decide what you want right now, Chella,” Bric says. “Whatever it is, between the three of us, we can manage. Think about it. I’m sure there’s something you want. Something you’ve always wanted but never had. Sometimes you need more than money to buy happiness.”

“The next rule,” Smith says, taking over—he points to the contract on the table—“is the most important. Because it spells out your purpose in one very simple sentence. You exist to play the game of Taking Turns with us. And you agree to try your best to make us happy in all ways, at all times.”

Marcella looks up and swallows.

“It’s not as ominous as it sounds,” Bric says. “We’ve been in this arrangement for over a decade, Chella. We’re not looking to hurt you or make you miserable.”