by JA Huss
He doesn’t get on his knees. In fact, I instinctively understand that there is no possible scenario where he gives me another blow job. I just know that. Can feel this power vibe radiating off him like… steam.
“I’ll keep going if you don’t mind coming in my hand and me wiping it on your shirt,” he says.
Fuuuck.
“But if you don’t have another suit here at work, I’d advise you to say no. Because I’m gonna make it messy.”
I just… stare at him.
Which makes him smile, then chuckle, then laugh, and finally… he lets go of me and steps back.
“Tonight,” he says. “You can show me what you love about this building of yours. Why you need it so bad.”
And then he double-slaps my cheek. Not hard, but not soft either. And walks out of my office. Leaving me there with a hard cock sticking up out of my pants, a rumpled shirt, and desire for him I didn’t have when he walked in.
I’ll give him one thing. I don’t exactly forget about my father, but Alexander’s visit definitely pushes it to the back burner of my mind for the rest of the afternoon.
I give the deposition my full attention because it’s my job. Plus, it’s my father’s client and letting him down in any way when he’s so busy with other issues just isn’t an option.
But that’s the last appointment of the day and by the time I go back to the office, answer a few emails, and then head home to waste time before I meet up with Alexander and Augustine, I’m… fucking nervous.
I’m nervous to walk back into the club. I’m nervous to see it with them. I’m anxious about what comes next.
I was in there a couple months back. Broke in with Darrel because Augustine has owned it for over a year and a half now and the place has been sitting empty. I was dying to know what was happening in there.
That was a big fat nothing. The whole place was still… our place. The Turning Point Club. Except there was plastic sheeting over things and layers of dust.
God, why did Bric ever sell it?
Why didn’t I just buy it back then?
And how long have Augustine and Alexander been planning this little reunion?
I pour myself a drink, sit on the couch in my office bedroom, and think about Alexander’s visit today.
I wonder what Augustine was doing while he was with me?
My mind wanders with possibilities. Strange ideas pop into my head. Things that have more to do with that Hungarian accent Alexander sprang on me this afternoon. Things that have to do with our life back in LA. The memories of a too-hot summer, and the broken AC, and the sweaty sex.
And of course, how I fucked it all up with that little plot to use Ixion to break Augustine and Alexander apart.
It’s weird too. Because I was the one with the fixation on cameras and filming people. Watching them in private moments. But Ix was the one who took that and made it into a career.
First with film school. And he and Augustine had a little production company going. They made shorts, ya know? The artsy kind you enter into film festivals.
And even though he dabbled in our little quasi-quad we had that summer, he was always the watcher. Always the one behind the camera.
I knew Augustine loved him, just in a different way. He was always the most important member of our… team. They were best friends. By that time Ixion and I had gone separate ways, but we kept in touch and he was the one who invited me into his tight-knit world.
I was the one who pulled it all apart. Found that unraveling thread and pulled on it until there was nothing but a chaotic pile of what once was.
I set him up. I set up the cameras, and the date with Augustine. I set up the sex. I set up Alexander. Had him walk in. Set up the reveal. The fact that the whole thing was on film. All of it.
And Augustine freaked the fuck out.
Not on me, like she should’ve. Would’ve, had she known back then I was the one responsible.
But Ixion.
I tore them apart with my bullshit.
What I did was a felony and if Ixion hadn’t just sucked it up and took the charges Augustine filed against him… if he had told her it was me… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be a lawyer right now. I’d have done some time, probably.
She only dropped the charges on Ix because his whole family died in that car crash. He was in jail when it happened—his dad flatly refused to bail him out. Ixion always did have that bad-boy persona and I guess this was the last straw. So he was left in jail to await the trial.
Then he missed the funeral.
Then she dropped the charges.
Ixion’s mother, father and little sister died thinking he was a pervert who makes sex tapes with unsuspecting women.
But he wasn’t.
I was.
I gulp down my drink, then get up and pour myself another. I gulp that down too, standing at the front window, looking out onto the elaborately landscaped front garden bathed in the soft glow of expensive landscape lighting.
He was never the same after that.
None of us were. Not even Alexander was the same and it had nothing to do with him at all. He married August, they moved on as a couple, and… whatever. They split up, and got back together, and a part of me knows all of that was my fault.
They know it too. That’s why they’re here. They need to fit all those fucked-up pieces into the fucked-up puzzle we created back in LA so they can move on.
You’d think I’d have learned my lesson.
You’d think I’d change my ways.
You’d think running these games would be the last thing I’d get involved in.
Of course, you’d be wrong.
Because deep down inside I am one sick motherfucker.
At seven-fifty-two I’m standing before the revolving doors at the front of the old Turning Point Club, unable to reconcile what I’m seeing.
The building is an old historical brownstone with an elaborate facade. Six stories in all, and all the windows are tall.
They remind me of the windows on the front of my empty mansion and I let my mind wander for a moment, wondering if they were built at the same time, or maybe they are even…
My phone dings a text.
I take it out of my pocket and read the screen. It’s from Alexander and it says, Come inside.
I look back at the revolving doors. At the soft glow of light that filters through the frosted glass. The windows are shuttered, like this is another night, in that other life when the weekends here were filled with people dressed in black and white and the shuttered windows were a sign that there was fun to be had inside.
Private fun. Hot, sweaty, sexy fun.
I take a deep breath, straighten the lapel of my black tuxedo—because the Club always did have a dress code—and then step into the cramped compartment of the revolving door and push.
I could hear the music outside. It was part of the reason I hesitated. Got lost in the memories of how it used to be. Felt that little pang of ache that started two winters ago when I was last here and never seemed to fade away.
It’s just… music, ya know. Background noise. And if this was real, and not an illusion, it would be accompanied by the clink and clatter of silverware on china, and platters of food being served in the White Room restaurant off to my left. And the tink of cut-crystal glasses filled with Macallan, or Hine Triomphe, or Hennessy Paradis Impérial in the Black Room bar off to my right.
All the wives would be dressed in white or silver, and all the men in black tie.
And Bric would be there. I glance over at the bar. Picture him talking to people. Picture people hanging on his every word. The gregarious laughter that would always come after. The side looks he would throw at me, or Quin, or Smith, maybe. Which makes me look up to the second-floor balcony overlooking the Black Room and the grand lobby, where you’d always find Smith. Watching. Waiting. This was before Chella. Back when he was still weird. Back when things were fun for me.
I was new at the C
lub. Just became a member a few weeks before. It was Lucinda’s birthday and there was a party for her. She chose me to take her downstairs and share her with her husband.
It was a fun night.
But it was more than fun. It felt like… like after all the bullshit in LA I’d finally found my place in the world. A place where what we wanted out of marriage and sexual partnerships wasn’t discouraged.
Where we could all just be ourselves.
“I’m so glad you came,” Augustine says.
And it’s like she knows. Because she’s wearing a long silver gown. I have to take a deep breath. Have to stop the memory of those long-gone nights from becoming too real.
“It looks the same,” I say, noticing Alexander now. He’s sitting at a booth near the window. The same booth Nadia and I sat in when I first mentioned her to Bric. First gave her to Bric, is probably more accurate.
They’re not married yet, but they will be soon.
“Come,” Augustine says. “Sit.” She waves a hand to Alexander’s booth. My booth. You can’t see outside because of the shutters, but I know… I know people are looking at this place right now, asking themselves, Is it open again?
I walk over to Alexander and slide into the booth opposite him.
He stands, waits for Augustine to get in the booth, then sits again.
I let out a long breath as we stare at each other.
“This is it, huh?” Augustine asks.
I nod. “Sorta.”
“What do you want to do with it?” Alexander asks.
“What do you mean? I want to fucking open it back up.”
“Just like this?”Augustine asks.
“Yeah. Just like this.”
“Why?” Alexander asks.
“Because I miss it. We all miss it.”
“Who’s we?” Alexander asks.
“Me.” I laugh. “Everyone who used to be a member.”
“OK,” Augustine says.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“We want to understand,” Alexander says.
“We want to know why it’s so important to you,” Augustine adds.
I shrug. “It’s just a place where I can… be me.”
“You can be you lots of places,” Augustine says.
“Not really,” I say, wishing this was all real and not some fake setup to trap me in this game they’re playing. I get up and go over to the bar without saying anything, grab a highball glass off the shelf, and take down the bottle of Hennessy.
“When did you clean it all up?” I ask, pouring my drink.
“Been working on it for the last few weeks,” Augustine says.
I turn to face them, walk round to the other side of the bar, then lean back on it as I sip my drink. “I broke in here about two months ago and it was a fucking mess.”
“Yes, we know,” Alexander says, standing up, then offering his hand to Augustine. “That’s how we knew you were ready.” He holds her hand as he leads her over to me. Places her on my left, then goes behind the bar and, as I tilt my body towards Augustine, I see him reach for two more glasses and pour each of them their own Hennessy.
“Ready?” I laugh. “For what?”
“For us,” Augustine says.
“I’m ready for all this to go back to the way it was,” I say.
Alexander returns to stand in between us, hands his wife her drink, then raises his glass. “To the way it was,” he says, making a toast.
Augustine clinks his glass, but I don’t. I just drink down my cognac.
“So what’s so special about it?” Augustine asks. “This could be any restaurant and bar.”
“It’s not,” I say.
“Then show us,” Alexander says. “Show us what you want, Jordan. What you need.”
“Why? So you can convince me I don’t need it?”
“So we can give it to you,” August offers.
But I don’t think I can. I really don’t think I can. “I don’t want to see this place empty. It’s… sad.”
“Then tell us about it,” Alexander says. “Tell what you liked. Tell us what you need, Jordan.”
I look around, my eyes darting to the stairs that lead up to the second floor elevators. “That,” I say, pointing to the landing with my glass. “That’s how you get upstairs to the upper floors. And that,” I say, pointing up to Smith’s balcony. “That’s the bar where Smith used to sit and watch.”
I glance at Alexander. He’s nodding his head.
“And over there,” I say, pointing to the White Room. “That was the public face of the Club. The White Room restaurant. Anyone could come here to eat in the White Room. But this place, the Black Room bar, it was strictly for members. Before I was a member I’d come to the White Room and watch them.”
God, it fucking hurts to picture it. Because it was exciting, and fun, and real.
“I was so close back then.”
“So close to what?” Augustine asks.
“Being invited in, of course.” I smile as I down the rest of my drink. Remembering back that night of Lucinda’s birthday was my very first private party. “And over there, behind the stairs, there’s elevators back there. They take you to the basement. That’s where all the fun stuff happened.”
“Take us down there,” Augustine says, picking up my hand to hold it. “Take us down there and show us what you need, Jordan.”
For a moment I wonder… do they have people down there? Is there a party happening and I just don’t know it yet? Is this some kind of surprise?
But no. There’s not.
“You own it,” I say. “You’ve been down there so you know exactly what it look like.”
“We don’t care what it looks like,” Alexander says. “We want to know what it feels like.”
I hesitate. Unsure if I can. Will it make everything worse? Or will it bring me relief?
“I dunno,” I say. “Maybe I should just go.”
But that thought barely makes it past my lips. Because Alexander’s mouth is on mine. Kissing me as Augustine moves in, pressing her body against mine. Her lips coming up to join us.
I close my eyes and pretend.
Pretend this is real, even though I know it isn’t.
Pretend that I will go downstairs with them and there will be people waiting. Women, naked. Some marked up with fluorescent paint, letting me know they’re into plurality. Letting me know I’m welcome to join in.
And Augustine would be painted up like that too, if this was real. She’d be naked, and Alexander and I would stay dressed in our black and white tuxes all fucking night. Our zippers down, cocks sticking out, as the night morphs from the mundane into a carnal delight.
“Come on,” Augustine says. “Show us what you need.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The elevators in the back of the grand lobby are how you enter the real Turning Point Club. These elevators only go down one level. There’s stairs somewhere. Fire regulations say there have to be stairs. And I’m pretty sure there’s a service elevator for staff and whatever.
But guests use these elevators.
The same black and white marble floor tiles carry over from the lobby. The cab front is one-of-a-kind art deco metal etching with sharp, zigzagged lines that criss and cross each other as they climb up the silver plate and expand into a geometric sunburst at the top.
It’s erotic in its own right and just stepping inside—just hearing the tap, tap, tap of our shoes on the chevron-pattern floor—is enough to make me feel better.
Just a little bit.
The doors close and the three of us stare at each other in the soft white light from the two wall sconces.
And then the doors open and we step out…
The strobing black lights make the white paint glow on her body. Her black mask hides her face from us, revealing only the desire in her eyes. The music is pounding, pulsing, and the place is packed, moans and screams of pleasure in progress weaving their way past bodies and echoing t
hrough the hallways.
Everywhere there are men in tuxedos. Fully dressed with zippers down, cocks spilling out of their pants and into hands, or mouths, or whatever. All the women are naked. Some with white paint to signal they want more than a one-on-one, some not, indicating they’re there only for their husbands.
The room where we belong is off to my left. A smallish space with three walls so people can watch us as we take her. There’s a white vinyl bed with a cage underneath it and when we lead her over to it, she climbs onto the mattress and crawls towards the top with her ass in the air.
Bric smiles at Quin, and Quin smiles at me, and—
It’s empty and quiet. The black walls look garish and stupid with the overhead lights on. The white vinyl chairs and couches look aged and overused. The tiled marble floor is scuffed, and the magic is gone. Faded away or left behind, I’m not sure.
“Let’s go,” I say, backing away, then turning on my heel to head back into the elevator.
“No,” Augustine says, grabbing a hold of my arm. “Tell us, Jordan. Tell us why you need this place.”
“It’s not the same,” I say. “Let’s just go.”
“Then tell us what’s missing.”
“I can’t,” I say, suddenly angry. “I can’t, OK? It’s stupid. It’s fucking pointless. There aren’t enough words in the English language to compare these empty hallways and silent rooms to what it was.”
“Why are you so upset?” she asks.
I glance at Alexander, but apparently he’s sitting this discussion out. Because he just stares back at me and keeps quiet.
“I’m upset,” I say, trying to figure it out as I talk. “I’m upset because this place was fucking perfect. And I’m sorry I came down here with you because it ruins all the memories of what it was.”
“Why was it perfect?” Augustine prods.
I just shake my head in response.
“Why can’t you just admit it?”
“Admit what?” I say, too loudly.
“That you need more than one person to love, Jordan. Jesus, are you that clueless?”
“I don’t need to love anyone. Nothing that happened down here for me had anything to do with love. It was sex. That’s it. Just dirty sex.”