Taking Turns (Turning #1)(6)

But why didn’t this new girl stop him?

I admit I don’t get curious often… but…

I walk down the hallway to the bedroom. The lights are off and when I glance at the closet I share with Bric and Quin, there’s no light peeking from under the louvered double doors. The bed sheets are rumpled and there’s an unfamiliar smell in the room. Not the earthy perfume Rochelle used to wear, but something sweeter like citrus and flowers. Orange blossoms or gardenias.

I flick the light on and take it in. She’s moved some of the furniture since the last time I was in here—which was a triple date about a year ago. My chair near the window is gone.

Where the f*ck did that go? Did she sell it?

It bugs me and I make a mental note to ask Quin the next time I see him.

There’s a settee in front of the window now. A long light-gray bench with chesterfield tufting on the seat back. It looks old. Like Rochelle got it from an antique store.

There is no way I’d ever sit on that thing.

Maybe that’s why she put it there?

That makes me laugh, because her passive-aggressive gesture went unnoticed by me and now she’s gone and doesn’t even get to appreciate my reaction.

Gone.

I smile at the thought.

I like that she’s gone.

In fact, I’m far more interested in the girl tied up in the closet than I am Rochelle.

I hear a faint whimper and whirl around. She must’ve heard me laugh. It must’ve spooked her. Had to have.

Will she scream?

I wait for it. I wait for some muffled attempts at yelling through her ball gag. Or a well-placed kick at the door. Quin didn’t say he tied her legs up, right? So why is she still in there? The door doesn’t even lock. It’s a closet, for f*ck’s sake.

Nothing but silence.

“OK, then,” I say out loud. “Might as well get this over with.” I walk over to the closet and pull the doors wide open. I have to squint for a second to make out her shape, but yeah, there’s definitely a girl on the floor.

I flick the light on and she closes her eyes, hiding her face to shield herself from the sudden brightness.

She’s… pretty. Dark hair, long and straight, kind of like Rochelle’s, but nothing at all like Rochelle’s at the same time. Her skin is fair, which isn’t surprising since it’s winter and the sun seems to have gone missing in Denver for the past month. Her hands are tied behind her back, so I can’t see them. And she’s sitting up, knees to chest, completely naked, and I can see her *.

I stare for a moment longer than I should and then I finally look at her face—a sweet face. Wide blue eyes looking up at me, the remnants of her make-up streaked down her cheeks like she’s been crying.

But she isn’t crying now.

Her nose is small and her plump lips are wrapped around the ball of the gag. Drool is dripping out of her mouth. One long strand hangs just above her left breast, ready to fall.

“Well,” I say, far beyond curious at this point, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got to say about this.”

I crouch down in front of her legs and catch her scent. The flowers. Or citrus, whichever it is. I inhale deeply and can’t help but take in the smell of sex.

I look her in the eyes as I reach behind her head and unstrap the gag. It falls forward, dropping into her lap as I watch her adjust, swallow down the drool, and then take a deep breath.

She says nothing.

Hmmm.

Just stares at me.

My hand is between her legs. My finger slipping inside her *. She is wet. So f*cking wet. She doesn’t close her eyes or moan. In fact, her eyes never leave mine. Not once.

She likes it.

I remove my slick fingers from her * and bring them to her mouth.

She opens, sucks them.

My God.

Still, she stares into my eyes.

I envision her mouth on my cock and grow hard at the thought.

And then I close my eyes.

But only for a moment. Barely a blink. I’m back in control. I reach for her upper arm and pull her to her feet. She complies willingly. And then I spin her around and begin untying her wrists.

The rope is tight. Tighter than it should be. Quin knows how to tie a girl up, I’ve seen him do it enough times to be sure of that. But he was probably panicking, so I don’t judge.

When I get the rope off there is a deep red burn ringing her wrists.

She brings her hands in front of her to get a look at her wrists. I take them, looking closely at her wounds. “I have something for that. But first, let’s make progress on your clothes.”

“I have clothes,” she says, her voice not weak, not small, but firm and strong. “On the chair.”

I walk over to the chair and pick them up. Jeans. Nondescript sweater. Winter shearling boots. Some semi-nice lingerie and thick cotton socks.

“Well, that won’t do,” I say, walking back to the closets. I open the one across the short hallway from the one I share with Bric and Quin. Rochelle’s closet.

I don’t know what I expected, but I’m kinda taken aback that everything Rochelle owns is still in there. Her many, many, many pairs of thrift-store shoes, and skirts, and those horrible long dresses. Even her purses are still here. She never shopped for purses at the thrift stores. They are all designer. Even the fringy ones. They live in soft cloth bags that come inside the purse when you purchase it, and they are lined up on the top shelf like little surprises wrapped in velvet.