[The Turning 01.0] Taking Turns

by JA Huss

  I swing my legs out and sit on the side of the bed for a moment. Smith is already hopping down the stairs, calling, “No time for coffee. We’ll get it at the White Room. And don’t bother putting makeup on. Bric only likes makeup at night.”

  I sit there for a few more seconds, trying to get a grip on this new development.

  Taking Turns isn’t really a game, is it?

  It’s a lifestyle.

  The outfit Smith chose for me is mine, but not something I normally wear—a white sleeveless shift dress that has a low scoop back so I can’t wear a bra. I have no underwear on at all. Somehow he managed to find an old pair of white Calvin Klein knee-high leather boots and a black swing coat I bought when I was twenty and thought they were cute.

  Smith hands me a hair tie when I come downstairs and says, “Put it up in a ponytail. High on your head.”

  I gather my thick dark hair in my hands and then pull the tie through, hiking the ponytail high up on my head like he asked, until my face feels tight. “I feel like a majorette right now.”

  “You look like a go-go dancer.”

  “Well.” I laugh. “That makes everything better.”

  “Here, put on the sunglasses.”

  I take the round, white, Jackie O sunglasses from his hand and shake my head. “What’s with this costume?”

  “Quin’s dramatic. He likes this shit. Trust me. Just watch his eyes during breakfast.”

  “Am I the butt of a joke?”

  “No,” he says quickly. “I’m just trying to help him out. Move on, you know? He needs to. I don’t want to talk about… that last girl. Not at all. But he will want to, Chella. And you should not encourage it. He has to let it go.”

  “What’s his rule? Is that it? He’s not allowed to dwell in the past?”

  “No,” Smith says, pointing at the front door. “Come on. Let’s go. We’re so fucking late.”

  The car is waiting outside and the driver doesn’t get out to open the door. Smith opens it instead, and we slide in. His phone rings, he takes the call, and then proceeds to have a conversation about things that have nothing to do with me or this arrangement. Business, I suppose.

  But as soon as we get to Turning Point Club, he ends the call and takes my hand.

  “No touching,” I say, pulling it away.

  “Rules don’t apply during meetings. Just wait. I’ve got something fun planned.”

  Oh. I feel a little heat between my legs.

  The lobby is crowded and everyone turns to look at us as we enter. Smith doesn’t talk to anyone. Not the valets, not the coat-check girl, not the maitre d’. He keeps hold of my hand and leads me into the White Room, past all the gawking people already eating, and towards the back of the restaurant where Quin and Bric are sitting at a private elevated table, surrounded by so many gigantic flower arrangements, I can barely make them out.

  Bric sees us first and stands up, smiling. It takes Quin a few seconds to stand up, but he does, half-heartedly, and doesn’t send me a smile.

  He does notice the outfit when Bric offers to help me with my coat, just like Smith predicted.

  Smith pulls out a chair for me, I sit, and then they do too.

  “You’re late,” Quin says.

  “Cereal?” Smith says, looking across the table at Quin’s choice of breakfast food. “What are you, fourteen?”

  Quin doesn’t look up, just starts shoveling cornflakes in his mouth.

  “Did you have a nice night, Chella?” Bric asks, ignoring everything going on between Smith and Quin.

  I open my mouth to reply, but Smith beats me to it. “Chella has nightmares.”

  “What?” I ask, looking at him. “I don’t have nightmares.”

  “She walks in her sleep.”

  “I do not. Why are you saying that?”

  “And she plays with herself all night long. Her hand never stopped.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not,” Smith says, hint of annoyance in his voice. “How would you know anyway? Were you awake? Because I was.”

  I let out a long sigh as I turn away and look at Bric. “Do you have nightmares?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “She’s lying. But anyway, it was a good night. I fingered her and kissed her before we discussed the rules. Afterward, it was strictly hands off.”

  “We’re having a play-by-play?” I ask, completely embarrassed.

  “It’s OK, Chella,” Bric says in his calm, authoritative voice. “We don’t normally, no. But we have to make sure everything is proceeding well the first week. It’s a critical time.”

  “She comes so fucking fast, you guys,” Smith says, a new playfulness in his voice I haven’t heard yet. “Demonstration?”

  And then Smith’s hand is between my legs, his fingertips playing with my clit.

  I’m watching Quin concentrate on his cereal as this happens, but he looks up from the cornflakes and his eyes meet mine.

  He smiles. Sits back. Drops his spoon, picks up his napkin, and reaches under the tablecloth to…

  I look around nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” Bric says. “No one can see. Just relax.” And then he grabs his napkin and hides his hand under the tablecloth too. His eyes go half-mast as Smith continues to stimulate me.

  Smith’s warm breath caresses the back of my bare neck. “Close your eyes, Chella. Enjoy it. I won’t be touching you again for a long time.”

  I do. I close my eyes. But I want to participate as well. So I reach down between my legs and place my hand over Smith’s. Helping him get me off. He’s kissing my neck, biting my ear, and I want to feel his cock inside me so bad, I reach over and grab him. Stroke him. He chuckles softly.

  When I look at Quin he mouths the words, You’re a dirty, fucking whore.

  I feel like a dirty fucking whore, so I don’t even care. I just lick my lips and smile.

  Smith pulls his fingers out of my pussy and brings them to my lips. “Suck them, Chella,” he says. “Suck them like you want to suck my cock. And get yourself off at the same time.”

  I let him put his fingers in my mouth and I suck. I imagine what his cock would feel like. I imagine swallowing his come as I play with myself under the perfectly crisp, white-linen tablecloth until I can’t stand it anymore. Until my body wants to writhe. Until I want to rub my pussy on something—anything—and I come.

  Both Bric and Quin come into their napkins. Quin clenches his jaw and closes his eyes as it happens. Bric stares at me and I stare back.

  We are all breathing hard at the table, even Smith, who didn’t come. But I realize I’m still gripping his cock in my hand.

  I look at him, slightly embarrassed, and let go. But he just gives me a lopsided grin. “I can’t see you tonight,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh,” I say, pulling myself back together. I look around nervously. This experience was so intense, I forgot I was in a restaurant. But Bric was right. No one can see us. We have a little private oasis in a very public place.

  “But I’ll send a car to take you home after work. And Quin will see you on Monday. Make sure you’re back here by midnight Sunday, just in case he wants to visit early. You’ll be OK, right?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Of course. I’m a big girl. I know how to live alone.”

  But it’s the worst weekend of my life. It is long, and boring, and I rub myself raw because I spend almost the whole time masturbating to the thought of Smith fucking me.

  Chapter Thirteen - Quin

  It’s déjà vu all over again as I enter the apartment on the sixth floor of Turning Point.

  Until it’s not.

  Until the fact that this is not Rochelle’s apartment anymore hits me in the chest like a fucking brick. Gone are all her quirky pieces of furniture. Gone are the long, heavy drapes. Gone are the pictures of the four of us on the fridge. Gone is her exotic scent. Gone are her vases filled with fresh flowers and the never-ending throw pillows.

 
Everything about her is gone.

  Except the memories.

  Chella is sitting on the new couch. Some modern piece-of-shit thing that Smith probably picked out. It’s leather, and white. In fact, everything is black and white up here. Just like it is downstairs.

  She stares at me as I toss the keys onto a new foyer table and they go sliding off and onto the dark, hardwood floor, because gone is the little green glass dish that used to catch them.

  “I didn’t think you were coming tonight,” she says. She’s wearing a white nightie that ends at her hip bones and a matching pair of panties. She makes no move to get up and greet me like Rochelle would’ve. She keeps her long legs tucked under her slim body and stares at the bags of food in my hand.

  “I wasn’t coming. But Smith called me forty-five minutes ago and said he didn’t have the apartment stocked with food and never told you about the room service. So…” I hold up the bags. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured this is as good a place to start as any.”

  She continues to stare at me, or maybe it’s the food, as I walk past her and place it all on the dining table. It’s just a small four-seater table. Just enough room for all the players to eat together. As if that would ever happen up here.

  “I got McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, and Chick-Fil-A.”

  She smiles, but then tries to hide it as she gets to her feet and walks over to me. “I’m impressed, Quin. For a while there I thought you’d be mean to me. But fast food at one AM? You really know how to treat a girl. You must love me already.”

  She’s joking. She’s insulting me. And she’s doing a good job at all of it because every word comes out sweet and innocent. I actually feel bad about the fast food. “If you want to go somewhere nice tomorrow, we can.”

  “I want what you want, Quin.” She peeks into the McDonald’s bag and smiles. “And even though you probably chose the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them, I love the fish sandwich, so you lose and I win.”

  I did pick the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them. Bitch.

  She sits on the table next to the bags of cheap food and starts eating a French fry. Her long legs cross and scissor together, like she’s stimulating herself.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” she says, unwrapping her fish sandwich and taking a bite. “What’s your rule?” she asks, her mouth full as she chews. “I hope it’s to fuck me sideways, because I’m horny.”

  I smile at her. Then laugh. “That’s not my rule.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “My rule is to learn something about you. And tell you something about me.”

  “Who makes these rules?” she asks. “Who enters a plural relationship with stupid rules like no fucking and more talking?”

  I laugh again. Maybe she’s not half bad after all. At the very least, I might enjoy her company.

  “Which one do you like?” Chella asks, pointing to the bags of food. “If you tell me that, we can knock your stupid rule off our to-do list and spend the rest of our time having sex.”

  Yeah. I could like her. I point to the Wendy’s bag. “I got me a triple hamburger.”

  “Oh, I’m going to like you a lot, Quin. We’re gonna get along just fine. I know it.”

  I sigh, sit at the table so she’s across from me, and take out my burger. “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been a dick to you and you don’t deserve it.”

  “I do deserve it,” she says, eyes downcast. But she looks up at me for the next part. “I tricked you and I’m sorry too. I know I already told you that, but I mean it. It wasn’t nice and you got hurt. I’m not here to hurt you. I swear.”

  I know I shouldn’t ask. I can hear Smith’s words in my head, warning me to leave it alone. But I have to. I have to hear it from her. I need closure. “Why are you here, Marcella?”

  She finishes chewing her food, gets up to get us two glasses of water from the kitchen, and then takes a long drink before answering. “Smith said not to encourage you, but I don’t care. I’m going to tell you how it happened. OK?”

  “Do you know where she is?” I ask. Praying, praying, praying.

  “No.”

  I hate my life. “Do you know why she left?”

  “No,” she says again. “I promise. I don’t know either of those things. And if I did, I’d tell you. But I’ve been thinking about this for a week now and I have some idea of why she chose me.”

  I nod and frown. I shouldn’t let her tell me. I should drop it, wish Rochelle good luck in my head, and then leave her behind like the baggage she is.

  But I can’t. I just can’t.

  “I think she set me up.”

  I stop my pity party and look at her. “What do you mean? How?”

  She tells me a story about a book in a used bookstore down on the 16th Street Mall and I start to feel sick. She tells me about how she bought it, how much she paid for it, and what it means to her.

  I slump in my chair feeling defeated and alone.

  She tells me about how they became friends. And how Chella used to go watch her play in small venues every Sunday night. And then she tells me about the offer. About what Rochelle told her about me.

  “She said she loved you and that it was never going to work out.”

  “She said that?” I ask. “She said love?”

  Chella nods. “Love, Quin. But she told me that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say it back. That you guys had no future and she needed to leave or Bric would find out and he’d make her leave. She wanted to end it on her own terms.”

  I knew it. I knew it was because of that time she broke the cardinal rule. “Did you tell this story to Smith?” I ask.

  “No,” Chella says. “Smith doesn’t want to talk about her at all. He won’t say her name anymore. But before we go on… that’s what she told me, Quin. Not what I think really happened.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I think that was her lie to me. You know? To get me to think… I don’t know.” She stops talking and resumes eating.

  “No,” I say. “Keep going. Finish that thought.”

  She chews her food. Swallows. “I think something else was happening that she didn’t want to tell me. I have always thought that, since we first started talking about it. But I didn’t want to ruin my chances at… the game, right? So I just pretended I believed her.”

  “What do you think was happening?” I ask. “Even if you don’t know for sure, just tell me what you think.”

  “Something… big,” she says. “Something very stressful and life-altering. Maybe someone died?” she offers. “Big like that.”

  “Who would’ve died?” I mumble, talking to myself.

  “I don’t know. But she was sad. I will say that. She was very sad. On the inside. She never said anything and she always had a smile. But I recognized it.” Chella stops for a moment, looking out the window for a few seconds. “I know sadness. So I recognized it.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Any of it. Both Rochelle’s sadness and Chella’s. So I change the subject. “Do you still have the book?” I ask. “I wrote something in there for her. I’d like it back, if you have it. I’ll pay you for it.”

  Chella gets up and goes into her new bedroom. Comes back with a box and places it on the table in front of me. She opens the box and unwraps the book from vintage linens that remind me so strongly of Rochelle, my throat begins to ache.

  “It’s yours,” she says. “It’s a gift. I don’t need the money.”

  I want to touch that book so bad. I want to pick it up and hold it to my heart and hug it the way I wish I could hug Rochelle right now. But I close the box back up and push it away with one finger. Like it’s poison. Because it is poison. If I take this book—if I allow myself to keep it—then I will write the end of this new story before we even get past the beginning. I will doom the new game of Taking Turns to failure. And maybe I don’t care all that much for Chella, but Bric likes her. Smith likes her. And they both gave m
e what I wanted by continuing the game with Rochelle. They gave me three years of happiness with her.

  I owe them a fair chance, at least. I owe them this much.

  “No,” I say, trying to hide the deep sadness coursing through my body. “I don’t want it.”

  I expect Chella to ask more questions. I expect some persuasion from her. Urging me to keep it. Hide it away if I don’t want to look at it. I hope for this conversation because I hope she will talk me into staying in the past. Give me the excuse I’m looking for.

  But she doesn’t. Chella nods, picks up the box, and takes it back to her new room.

  I close my eyes and breathe through the pain, and the loss, and the regrets.

  I fucked up. All of this is my fault because I fucked up.

  Chapter Fourteen - Chella

  When I come back out of the bedroom Quin is sitting on the new leather couch looking… sad. He’s slouched down, legs open in kind of a sexy way. But his face. One look at his face and I know the last thing on his mind is having sex with me.

  I sit down next to him. “Is there anything I can do?”

  It takes a few seconds for him to look at me. And then it’s just a quick glance before he looks straight ahead again. “I don’t think so, Chella. I think I loved her.”

  I want to keep saying sorry, over and over and over again. But it’s stupid. It’s probably annoying and it won’t help. So I stay quiet. I wrap my hands around his upper arm, lean my head on his shoulder, and stay quiet. Right now, we are just two friends being sad together.

  “Say something,” Quin finally says.

  “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know you well enough to make you feel better. And there’s really nothing I can say except… I hope you find her again.”

  “I was really counting on you having answers.”

  Shit.

  “I really thought it was some fucked-up joke or you’d tell me it was just temporary. Or she’d call me. But that’s not what’s happening, is it?”

  “No,” I say softly. “I don’t think so.”

  He shrinks in that moment. Folding into himself. Trying to escape reality.