Taking Turns (Turning #1)(90)

I have no idea what to expect right now. But I walk over and sit, placing our glasses of champagne on the seat next to me. He sits too, and then brings out a turquoise blue box with a white ribbon tied around it.

I smile. “Tiffany’s?”

“Women go crazy for Tiffany boxes, right?”

“We do.” I laugh. “Even girls like me.”

“Well, don't jump to conclusions,” he says. “It’s more than it seems.” He hands it to me and I take it. It’s not a ring box, it’s bigger than that. About eight inches square. And it’s very light. “Open it,” he says.

I pull on the white satin ribbon and let it fall into my lap, then lift the lid off the box.

It’s empty.

I furrow my brows and look at him expectantly.

“It’s not empty,” he says.

I look again. But yes, it is.

“It’s filled with everything, Chella. Every possibility. You can put whatever you want in that box. It doesn’t even need to fit inside, it will still count. Whatever you want.”

I look at him and… have a small revelation. Just like I did last night.

“I’ll get it for you. I asked you what it would take to make you forget Bric and Quin. And I mean it. Whatever it takes. I can put it in there for you. To some people life is about survival. I’ve been there. Not by birth, I had to find that part of living by myself. And I’m betting you’ve been there too. I don’t know how, or when, or why—since your family is obviously wealthy. But I have a feeling you’ve been in survival mode before. But life isn’t really about survival. It’s about living. It’s about meeting people, and going places, and feeling things you don’t normally get a chance to meet, or see, or feel. It’s about being aware of what you’re doing, and why. It’s about opportunities and possibilities. It’s about experiences, Chella. So my gift to you is whatever you want. Put whatever you want in that box, and it’s yours. Courtesy of me.”

“The dream?” I ask.

But he shakes his head. “No, it’s not about the dream. It’s about the want. The longing, Chella. You remember the longing?”

“The book?” I ask, still slightly confused.

“The message inside the book. Longing. A yearning desire. A burning ache in the heart. Something you hunger for. Thirst for. Something you want so bad, it’s killing you slowly not to have it. That’s what goes in the box. And I realize the box is small and these things feel big, but they have no boundaries. They are ethereal. Like a mist or a spray. Or that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you lost something and can’t get it back. I will give you that, Chella. I will fill in the deep, dark hole you’re so desperate to cover up with whatever it is you’re doing here with us, and I will make your longing go away. That’s my present.”





Chapter Thirty-One - Bric




Quin is pouting as he stares down into his whiskey glass as we wait for Smith and Chella to arrive at the Club. “Three years,” he says. “This is the first Christmas without her in three years.”

I roll my eyes because he’s not looking at me. But I try to be patient. “I hope to God you do not start with this shit tonight, *. This is for Chella, understand? She’s not interested in your stupid broken heart. So suck it up, be a man, and shut the f*ck up. I can’t take any more of your whining.”

I’m not really known for my patience but that was me trying. Hard.

Quin looks up at me. “Don’t be a dick.”

I take a deep breath. “Focus, Quin. On the here and now. Let her go. She’s gone. Perhaps one day she’ll come back, but the chances are low, so don’t get your hopes up. And I’m sorry if this is harsh, but you’re being a *.”

“You are a dick. You don’t know what love feels like because that cold, black heart of yours is two sizes too small.”

“You were watching The Grinch on Saturday morning cartoons again, weren’t you?”

Quin smiles, but tries to hide it. “Saturday morning cartoons don’t even exist anymore, dumbass. And you are the Grinch.”

I point to my outfit. “Do I look like the motherf*cking Grinch?”

He laughs this time. Usually Smith plays Santa at the Christmas Eve party—that’s his deal, right? I’m gonna give away all my money. I’m gonna be the goddamned fairy godmother to the world. But he’s with Chella, and this is a surprise for her. So. Yeah. I’m Santa.

There are a shitload of kids here. I’m not into Christmas. I let the staff decorate the Club two weeks prior and it all comes down before New Year’s Eve, because that’s the holiday that counts as far as I’m concerned. New Year’s Eve is a man’s holiday. A party holiday. Not the kind with that sickly sweet eggnog. The kind with the eggnog that knocks you on your ass. The kind of party with foil hats and masks—we like masks here at the Club, regardless, but we especially like holidays that advocate masks—and a ton of confetti and balloons coming down from the ceiling. New Year’s Eve is the only time we allow Club activities on the first floor.

It’s hot as f*ck in here on New Year’s Eve, and I’m not talking about the furnace. Naked women everywhere, dirty sex going on all over the place. We close all the outside shutters on the building for this party. The only night of the year we do that. Everyone in by ten, no one leaves until after midnight. It’s not a long party, but it’s one every member comes to.