by JA Huss
“Who the fuck else would I be talking about?”
“Nope,” Smith says. But still there is that smile.
“What?” I ask. “Why the fuck are you smiling at me?”
“I’m just surprised that we’ve lasted this long,” he says. “Aren’t you? You’re not tired of her yet?”
“Of Rochelle?” It’s my turn to laugh. “Not even a little bit.”
“She was interesting at first, you know? Her quaint Bohemian ways. The apartment, the clothes, the hobbies. Whatever.” He waves his hand in the air. “But I’m not really into her anymore. Not my type.”
“Kinda like Lucinda for me, I guess.” I take another sip of Scotch. “Why haven’t you mentioned this?” I ask. “Is Bric tired?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. “You know how Bric is. He’s a man of habit. He’ll stick it out until one of us makes him change.”
“So it’s just you and your weird shit talking tonight?” He’s making me fucking nervous. But when doesn’t Smith make me nervous? “I’m not done. So if you’re gonna call a meeting about Rochelle, call it knowing that in advance.” I check my watch, decide it’s close enough to midnight for me, and stand up. “See ya around,” I say, nodding to the butler and dropping a twenty on the table.
The security guard outside Smith’s room unhooks the black velvet rope as I approach.
“Good night, Mr. Foster.”
“Later,” I say, heading straight for the elevator and punching the call button, making it light up. The doors open and I step in, adjusting my suit in the mirrors as they close behind me.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I turn and insert my keycard into the slot next to the button that has no floor number or name next to it. The doors close.
Rochelle Bastille is a twenty-seven-year-old musician Bric met at a party three years ago. Some corporate event put on to celebrate… whatever. God only knows what he really does for Smith. But it involves a lot of networking. Translation—parties.
He took Rochelle home that night and fucked her. Like, his real home. Not here. Not the Club. But she was between apartments—homeless was probably more likely, we never talk about the old days—and since we were short a player at the time, he asked if she wanted in on the game.
Three fucking years. I have no idea where the time went. But Jesus Christ, it’s been a really good time.
I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with her, but I know it’s been a while. Years, at least. Maybe even that first year. Maybe even that night. Rochelle is my type. One hundred percent my type. And two nights and two days a week she’s mine. All mine. Starting at midnight Sunday and all the way through midnight Tuesday. I own her.
Unlike Bric and Smith, I make the most of it.
By the time the doors open into the top floor hallway, I’m smiling. I forget about Bric and Lucinda. I forget about Smith and his weird shit. I forget about the stupid, boring weekend I just made myself get through.
I walk down the short hallway to her door. There is only one apartment up here and it belongs to her. It’s really the attic of the building that Bric remodeled back when we first started sharing girls more than a decade ago.
We keep them here. Like good little princesses locked up in their towers.
We don’t really lock them in, but I like the analogy.
I get hard just thinking about it.
Rochelle is the ninth girl who has lived in this apartment over the Club and the ones before her felt like practice. She feels like the real thing. Game day.
When I get to the door I insert my cardkey, letting that feeling wash over me. Relief and happiness. Something I’ve become accustomed to.
It’s late, the place is dark, so I close the door quietly, trying not to wake her up. Just head down the familiar hallway, making my steps soft in the stillness.
The bedroom door is open, like it always is. And I can just make out her bare legs on top of the white sheets. She must be freezing.
I walk past her and go into the closet. I’ll take care of that in just a minute. I take my tie off and hang it up. Then the jacket, doing my best not to make the wooden hangers clang together. I untuck my shirt from my trousers. Unbutton it, starting from the top. I hang that up too.
Then I open the velvet-lined drawer and place my watch and cufflinks in there, closing it when I’ve arranged them properly.
The pants fall down and I grab my cock, so ready to fuck her. I slip out of my boxer briefs and walk out in to the dark bedroom.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You awake?”
She doesn’t even move. Her body is sprawled out on top of the sheets, one leg up higher than the other. Her face buried. Her long, wild hair flowing over the side of the pillow like a waterfall.
There is light filtering in from outside, but not enough to really see anything. Just a little bit of glow from the lamps lighting up the gargoyles that decorate the top of the building. Details that make Turning Point Club one of the most photographed icons in the city.
Through the floor-to-ceiling window there is a direct view of the gold-domed capitol building, one block south, and that’s lit up too.
I place a hand on her outer thigh as one knee comes down on the mattress, making it sink. Making her body shift, ever so slightly.
She is naked, her ass towards me like an invitation.
I swing my leg over, place the other knee on the other side of her hip, and straddle her. My hands all over her ass. Rubbing. Eager to slip my fingers between her legs and see what’s waiting for me.
“Rochelle,” I say, bending over her body to place my lips on her neck. “Did you miss me? God, I missed you. Two weeks is too long. We need to renegotiate.”
I let out a long breath, and she trembles for a moment.
“I don’t like the sabbaticals anymore,” I say.
She says nothing.
Fuck. Don’t ruin it, I tell myself. Don’t ruin the time you have. We’ve had this conversation too many times to count and it always ends the same way.
She likes the time off. It’s something new she started last summer. Two weeks off, one week on. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
But I take my own advice and let it go. I lower my whole body over the top of hers, enjoying the heat we create. My hands slip under her breasts to squeeze and my cock hardens, brushing against her ass. The space between her legs.
One small moan is all I get.
But it’s enough. I bite her shoulder and lift my hips, letting my dick slip into her wet folds. It finds its way inside her with so little effort, I want to fucking die from the pleasure.
One knee comes up, dragging across the sheet to give me more access, and I let one hand leave her breasts and press its way under her belly, until I find her clit and begin to strum.
“You like that?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. At least not with words. Her ass bucks up a little, urging me to give her more. One hard thrust and I’m fully inside her. Her pussy clamping on to me, muscles tightening around my shaft.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, pushing my upper body up off her back and sitting up so I can fuck her better. I grab both her ass cheeks and then I give one a hard smack.
Rochelle draws in a sharp breath, but still her hips are bucking up against my inner thighs. Asking for more.
“You want it hard tonight?” I ask. “You want me to fuck you hard?” I grab her hair and pull, making her upper body lift up off the mattress. My other hand is digging into the flesh just below her hip.
I scoot back and reach under her thighs, drawing them up so she’s on her knees, and press her face into the pillow as I pound her from behind.
“Yeah,” I say, half speaking, half moaning. “You like it like this, don’t you? You let Bric fuck you like this all the time, don’t you?”
I reach around and smack her tit, which makes her yelp. A high-pitched yelp I’m not familiar with. For a second I think I’ve hurt her, and I slow down. But she backs up into me,
covering my dick again. Burying it deep inside her. Everything is already so wet. She feels so goddamned good tonight.
“You fucking whore,” I say, letting go of her hair so she falls face-first back into the pillow. “You let Bric fuck you like this, Rochelle? You like the way he slaps you around? Hmm?”
Hell, I like the way Bric slaps her around. And as soon as that thought enters my head I laugh.
“Maybe we’ll do it rough next weekend. You want that? You want us to fuck you hard? Stick our dicks inside you at the same time?”
Another unfamiliar moan.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, still kinda laughing. But then I let it go and just… fuck her. I grab onto her ass and do it hard. Pounding her with so much force, her head is inching closer and closer to the headboard of the bed.
I don’t stop when it finally makes it there. I just keep thrusting until the pounding is compounded by the headboard crashing into the wall.
She’s moaning. Close. So fucking close to coming. I reach underneath her body and strum her clit to the rhythm we’re making. She goes wild. Wild like I’ve never seen her before. Writhing, and moaning, and gasping for air.
I draw back, grab her hips, and flip her over, one hand pushing her head aside so her cheek is pressing into the pillow, the other one still playing with her pussy. I watch my dick as it slips in and out, just barely able to make it out in the dim, filtered light from outside.
I grab her hair, so fucking ready to come, and yank her head so she has to look at me. Her eyes are closed, but I don’t care. I press my hand over her mouth and close my eyes too. And then I spill inside her. Throwing my head back to let out a groan of relief.
Her legs are trembling from the exertion. Little spasms as she gasps for breath. I laugh a little as I roll off to the side and wrap my arms around her. “What’s wrong, baby? Too much for you tonight?”
No answer.
I bury my head into her neck and smell her hair.
“Did you get a new shampoo?” I ask. “You smell so different.”
No answer.
“You want a date with Bric on Sunday? Hmm? We can skip Smith if you want.” I kiss her neck and then pull back and open my eyes. Trying to get an idea if she’s up for this kind of fun. It’s been a while so I—
I blink my eyes. Three times, fast.
“Rochelle—”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry—”
But I’m up and out of the bed, fisting her hair and pulling her with me. She drops to the floor, whimpering.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “Where the fuck is Rochelle?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You’re gonna be sorry all right,” I say, letting go of her hair so I can open the drawer in the bedside table. I take out the ball gag and strap it on.
She doesn’t even try to get away. Just lets me do it.
I pull her to her feet and reach for the rope, yanking her hands behind her back and wrapping the rope around her wrists. Tight.
And then I shove her into my closet and close the door.
I pace up and down the hallway, trying my best to figure what the fuck just happened. And then I’m on the phone, calling Bric. It goes to voicemail.
“Fuck!” I yell. “Fuck!”
I find Bric’s message stream in my phone and text, Come upstairs. Now. Emergency!!!!!
I do the same for Smith.
Five minutes later they both come bursting through the door of Rochelle’s apartment.
I’m sitting on the couch, half naked. I had to open the closet door to get pants and I just grabbed at the first hanger. I think they’re actually Bric’s pants.
I place my elbows on my knees and hold my head, rubbing my eyes, still trying to figure out what’s happening.
“What the fuck is going on up here?” Bric says. He looks panicked, his eyes wild as they search the room for the emergency. “Where’s Rochelle?”
I look up, find Bric’s face. Then Smith’s. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” they both say together.
“Did you kill her?” Smith asks. “Choke her to death while you were fucking her?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “No, I didn’t fucking kill her, you asshole. She’s fucking gone! Like, left!”
“Then why are you half naked?” Bric asks, calming down.
I take a deep, deep breath. Hold it for the count of three. And then let it out. “I fucked—” But I have to stop and shake my head because it makes no sense. “She left someone in her place,” I finally say. “I fucked her. I fucked her before I knew it wasn’t Rochelle.”
Chapter Two - Smith
Well, this is an interesting twist. I have to say, of all the things I imagined happening tonight, a missing Rochelle was never on that list.
And yet—
“Where did she go?” Quin is right up in my face. We are the same height—to the half centimeter—so we are eye to eye.
“How should I know?” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “I haven’t fucking seen her in months.”
“Months?” Bric asks.
I shrug. “You don’t think she was getting boring?”
“Where. The fuck. Did she go?” Quin spits.
“I just told you. I have no clue. Whatever she’s doing, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.”
“I don’t believe him,” Quin snaps, turning to Bric. Elias Bricman, or Bric for short, doesn’t seem to care as much as Quin. He is, at least, calm. “Not thirty fucking minutes ago he was downstairs bitching about how tired he was of her. He sent her away, Bric. He sent her away.”
“Calm down, Quin,” Bric says. “If she left, she left. I’m more worried about the new girl. Where is she?”
Quin is pacing now. Back and forth in front of the large window. He’s got no shirt on, no shoes, and his pants are hanging off his hips. In fact… I don’t think those are his pants. No belt, not even buttoned up. But the capitol building outside the window is pretty tonight. It’s snowing, so the gold dome is muted with dropping flakes. “She’s in the closet.”
Bric and I exchange a glance.
“I gagged her. I didn’t fucking know what to do. I just—Goddammit. I just grabbed the ball gag from the drawer, hooked it on her, tied her hands behind her back, and threw her in our closet.”
“OK,” I say, walking down to the hallway to stare at the open bedroom door. “I think we have a problem.”
“You didn’t get her name?” Bric asks, ever the practical one.
“Her name?” Quin yells. “No, I didn’t get her fucking name! No one cares what her goddamned name is!”
Bric looks at me. Takes a deep breath. “You wanna take care of this?”
“Me?” I laugh. It’s a real laugh. “I don’t think you want me to take care of this.”
“Rochelle.” Quin is on his phone. “Rochelle, call me back. Where the fuck are you? What the hell is going on? You’re breaking the deal. You’re not getting—”
Bric grabs the phone from Quin and ends the call. “That’s enough of that,” he says. “You know the rules, Quin. If she left, then she left. You’re not allowed to contact her again.”
“Fuck you!” Quin is losing it. “The fuck I’m not! I was in a three-year fucking relationship with her. I’m not letting her walk out. Not without… without… an… explanation.”
He starts out loud and strong. But he knows what he’s saying is all wrong and his resolve falters at the end.
“You’re not,” Bric says in that low monotone he has, “going to contact her, Quin. You’re not going to look for her. You’re not going to ask people about her. You’re not going to do anything but leave her. The fuck. Alone. Do you understand me?” Bric stops to see if Quin will reply, but he doesn’t. “Because if you do contact her,” Bric continues, “I will drag your ass to court so fast. And I will rip your goddamned balls off when
we get there. I’m not kidding, brother. I like you. And I don’t want to fuck up your life. But losing is part of the game, you understand? Our secrets are law, Quin. And you won’t fuck up Smith’s business by getting us caught.”
It sinks in. Quin strides over to the front door in four long paces, and walks out.
“He’ll be back,” I say. “He forgot his clothes.”
Bric looks at me and says, “I’ll handle him. You handle her.”
And then he walks out too.
I sigh and go into the kitchen, looking for a drink. Rochelle drinks wine. And there are plenty of bottles to choose from. But I haven’t been up here to see her in so long, there is no trace of my brand of whiskey. I grab a bottle of brandy—Bric’s go-to, high-and-mighty motherfucker that he is—and pour three fingers into a snifter I get from the top shelf of a cupboard.
The chair I like is still in front of the window. Facing it, so I can look out. I take a seat and think this through.
Do I have feelings about it?
Maybe.
I think a little longer. Take a few sips of the brandy. Admire the view and the snow. Then decide… not many.
Rochelle was never my type. She’s flighty. A musician. That was her dream. She is long straight dirty-blonde hair and loose gauzy blouses. She wears knee-high boots—and not the sexy kind, either. Not the fuck-me kind I like. They are all distressed from being bought in the second-hand shops. And she likes fringe. On jackets and purses. Which isn’t that uncommon for Denver, but so not my type.
The only time I attempted to take her somewhere nice she wore a long, strapless dress that had no shape at all. And sandals.
I have to take a sip of brandy just to get through the memory of sitting in a five-star restaurant, cringing the entire time because she was sitting across from me and I had to look at her.
She was stale. Old. Not her age. She was only—hell, I have no idea how old she was. Not yet thirty, for sure. Maybe twenty-seven. But everything about her had grown old.
It was OK in the beginning, I guess. I like things the way I like them and she was fine with that. So it was fun. But if it wasn’t for Bric and Quin, no way would I have ever looked at that girl twice. Ever.