Taking Turns (Turning #1)(38)

I turn over to see him standing in front of the window, looping his tie into a knot at his throat. He’s wearing a dark blue suit. “You’re dressed?” I asked, still groggy. “Where did you get that suit?”

“I brought some things over yesterday. Figured it would save me time.”

It’s like… he moved in.

“Get up. I’d slap your ass really hard for keeping me waiting if I had a different rule, but then I’d just f*ck you afterward and we’d be late anyway.”

I have to stop and picture that for a moment. “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean if you had a different rule?”

“First one to spend the night doesn’t get to touch you,” he says, slipping on his suit coat. “It’s too easy to get attached the first night. And we’ve done this enough to know it never works out if we don’t each get an even chance. You have ten minutes to get ready, so get the f*ck up.”

“What was your rule last time? With Rochelle?” I ask, my mind spinning with this new revelation.

“None of your business. Nine minutes, fifty seconds, Chella. Quin and Bric have both already called. They want a report. So let’s go.”

I swing my legs out and sit on the side of the bed for a moment. Smith is already hopping down the stairs, calling, “No time for coffee. We’ll get it at the White Room. And don’t bother putting makeup on. Bric only likes makeup at night.”

I sit there for a few more seconds, trying to get a grip on this new development.

Taking Turns isn’t really a game, is it?

It’s a lifestyle.





The outfit Smith chose for me is mine, but not something I normally wear—a white sleeveless shift dress that has a low scoop back so I can’t wear a bra. I have no underwear on at all. Somehow he managed to find an old pair of white Calvin Klein knee-high leather boots and a black swing coat I bought when I was twenty and thought they were cute.

Smith hands me a hair tie when I come downstairs and says, “Put it up in a ponytail. High on your head.”

I gather my thick dark hair in my hands and then pull the tie through, hiking the ponytail high up on my head like he asked, until my face feels tight. “I feel like a majorette right now.”

“You look like a go-go dancer.”

“Well.” I laugh. “That makes everything better.”

“Here, put on the sunglasses.”

I take the round, white, Jackie O sunglasses from his hand and shake my head. “What’s with this costume?”

“Quin’s dramatic. He likes this shit. Trust me. Just watch his eyes during breakfast.”

“Am I the butt of a joke?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m just trying to help him out. Move on, you know? He needs to. I don’t want to talk about… that last girl. Not at all. But he will want to, Chella. And you should not encourage it. He has to let it go.”

“What’s his rule? Is that it? He’s not allowed to dwell in the past?”

“No,” Smith says, pointing at the front door. “Come on. Let’s go. We’re so f*cking late.”

The car is waiting outside and the driver doesn’t get out to open the door. Smith opens it instead, and we slide in. His phone rings, he takes the call, and then proceeds to have a conversation about things that have nothing to do with me or this arrangement. Business, I suppose.

But as soon as we get to Turning Point Club, he ends the call and takes my hand.

“No touching,” I say, pulling it away.

“Rules don’t apply during meetings. Just wait. I’ve got something fun planned.”

Oh. I feel a little heat between my legs.

The lobby is crowded and everyone turns to look at us as we enter. Smith doesn’t talk to anyone. Not the valets, not the coat-check girl, not the maitre d’. He keeps hold of my hand and leads me into the White Room, past all the gawking people already eating, and towards the back of the restaurant where Quin and Bric are sitting at a private elevated table, surrounded by so many gigantic flower arrangements, I can barely make them out.

Bric sees us first and stands up, smiling. It takes Quin a few seconds to stand up, but he does, half-heartedly, and doesn’t send me a smile.

He does notice the outfit when Bric offers to help me with my coat, just like Smith predicted.

Smith pulls out a chair for me, I sit, and then they do too.

“You’re late,” Quin says.

“Cereal?” Smith says, looking across the table at Quin’s choice of breakfast food. “What are you, fourteen?”

Quin doesn’t look up, just starts shoveling cornflakes in his mouth.

“Did you have a nice night, Chella?” Bric asks, ignoring everything going on between Smith and Quin.

I open my mouth to reply, but Smith beats me to it. “Chella has nightmares.”

“What?” I ask, looking at him. “I don’t have nightmares.”

“She walks in her sleep.”

“I do not. Why are you saying that?”

“And she plays with herself all night long. Her hand never stopped.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” Smith says, hint of annoyance in his voice. “How would you know anyway? Were you awake? Because I was.”