Taking Turns (Turning #1)(53)

But I see them. I see all three of them when I get home from work.

Bric is in the bar talking to a good-looking man and a woman I recognize from the first night I was here. Quin is chatting with four men in the main lobby and even though I catch his eye for a second, he doesn’t acknowledge me. Smith is sitting up in that private bar they have on the second floor.

He never stops looking at me while I climb the stairs.

“Come here, Chella,” he says from his balcony seat as I wait for the elevator.

“No,” I say, just loud enough for my voice to carry up to his ears. “This isn’t your night.” When the doors open, I step in and make sure I don’t turn around until the they close me up tight.

When I get to the apartment I find the dress already laid out for me on the bed. I look around for the cameras I know are here, but can’t seem to find. And then I put them out of my mind.

That’s a lie.

I undress for them.

For him.

For Smith.

I undress and sit at the makeup vanity in the large master bathroom, naked. And when I’m happy with my dark eyes and red lips, I lie back on the bed and finger myself until I come so hard, there’s a wet spot on the comforter.

The dress slips over my flushed body in seconds, and at exactly seven o’clock, Bric walks through my apartment door.

“Wow,” he says. “I like you in the black, but red is your color.” He kisses me, a long, lingering kiss with one hand around my throat and one hand between my legs.

“You’re wet,” he whispers into my mouth.

“I just came,” I whisper back. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”

“You filthy whore,” he says, smiling.

I want to undress him right now. Tell him to forget this party and f*ck me instead.

But I’m being good. I’m being very, very good.

“Are you hungry?” Bric asks. “For something besides my cock?”

I laugh with him. “Not really,” I say, my answer more truthful than he suspects. “But I’m happy to wait for that later.”

“Like a reward,” Bric says, grabbing a black coat from the front closet I’ve never seen before. He drapes that over one arm, places his hand on the small of my back, and then leads me out into the hall. We get on the elevator and look at each other the entire way down to the second floor.

“I saw you come in but I didn’t want people to know I was looking.”

“I saw you as well.”

“We’re having dinner in the Black Room tonight.”

“I thought that was a bar?”

“It is, but the booths by the window are nice.”

They are nice. I know this because I already sat in one when Smith first brought me here. “I saw Quin and Smith too. Are they joining us?”

“No,” Bric says as the elevator doors open. “They’re both busy tonight. And we can’t stay at the party long.”

“Good.” I laugh.

“We might want time to ourselves before I have to drop you off at your house.”

“My house?” I ask, as we step out on to the landing. Smith is staring at me from his perch in the balcony bar.

“You belong to Smith at midnight. And he wants you at home tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, letting Bric guide me down the stairs. Quin isn’t in the lobby when we get there. He’s in the Black Room sitting near the bar with a blonde woman who I swear to God I think is Rochelle before she turns her head to laugh and I realize she’s not.

“Are you OK?” Bric asks.

“Fine,” I say, letting him take my hand. He drops the coat off with the coat-check girl and then leads me into the bar and over to the very same table I sat at when Smith brought me here for my test.

I sit down on one side and Bric sits on the other. He smiles at me. “This party is going to be boring. Not that last night’s wasn’t, but worse. No one under the age of sixty tonight. So we’ll get there at eight thirty, stay ninety minutes, and then come back here for a little bit. Sound good?”

“All the parts except for the party sound perfect.”

He laughs. “Did I get your imagination working last night, Chella? You seem to be warming up to this arrangement.”

“I just… had a lot of fun. And I like fun, don’t you?”

“I do,” he says. “What do you feel like eating tonight?”

“Just something light, like a salad. With chicken, maybe?”

“I can get that for you,” Bric says. And then someone comes over to talk to him and he’s distracted for a moment. The man eyes me, but Bric makes no move to introduce us.

I look down at my place setting and grab the napkin, which is folded into a crisp envelope shape.

But it’s what’s peeking out from under the flap that catches my eyes.

Writing.

I look at Bric to see if he’s watching me. Maybe he left me a little note. But he’s not. He’s still busy with the interloper. So I lift the flap and find the same thick, bold handwriting last’s night message was written in.

I look up at the bar balcony and find Smith smirking down at me.

He lifts his drink as if in a toast but I turn my head, shake the napkin out, and place it in my lap.