[The Turning 01.0] Taking Turns

by JA Huss

  I pull out the larger boxes first. The first three are fancy boots. Not what I’m looking for. But the next ones are brand-new shearlings, like the ones I left here that very first night.

  I lie back on the floor and smile at how fucking clueless I was.

  That’s when I notice the attic door in the ceiling and a short pull cord, wrapped around a metal hook.

  “What the fuck?”

  I get up and go looking for a step stool that I saw in the foyer closet last week, and then stand on the top step and pull the cord.

  I have to get down off the stool as I pull, because it’s one of those ladder things that extends to the floor. I move the stool out of the way, extend it to its full length, and then stare up into the black hole of an attic.

  I’ve never been afraid of the dark, so I climb up.

  There’s a small circular window up there and sunlight is streaming in, making a long stripe of yellow in the blackness. I crawl over to it and realize there’s a soft furry rug on the floor beneath my knees.

  Outside I can see the Capitol building, the gold dome reflecting the sun like a beacon of hope in the snow.

  I turn around and sit on my butt to take it all in.

  It’s a… hideaway? Fort? I laugh as I try to find the right word. It’s a secret room.

  And it’s filled with things.

  On the far wall is a small Christmas tree.

  I crawl around until I find a small lamp and flick the switch. Then I realize what this place really is.

  Rochelle’s secret life.

  She’s got a million pillows lining the walls. About a dozen small vintage carry-on suitcases stacked up in one corner. Blankets, and books, and trinkets that she so obviously loved and didn’t want to share with the men who controlled her life downstairs.

  Wow.

  I scramble over to the Christmas tree - it’s only about three feet tall. I find the switch for the lights and click it on. God, it’s so pretty. The whole thing is decorated with vintage cardboard images, hanging on to branches with small loops of twine, and gold garland that has definitely seen better days. There are old-fashioned glass bulbs that are too big and handmade felt ornaments that look older than I am.

  Every wall is decorated with dandelions. Not the flowers. The seed heads.

  I lie back on the fluffy pink rug and notice the ceiling has been decorated too. Only this time, along with the dandelion pictures, there are words written in what I can only assume is Rochelle’s hand.

  I’ll fly away.

  The entire gospel song—one I sang so many times growing up it makes my heart ache to think about it. The same one Rochelle was singing that day I met her down at Buskerfest. The lyrics have been scrawled in a pretty feminine handwriting over my head. More seed heads have been painted, pictures of them tacked and taped all over, so that the entire ceiling is a work of genius haphazard folk art.

  It’s so… her.

  So perfect with all its imperfections.

  I sit up before that song gets stuck in my head and redirect my attention to the carry-on suitcases near the tree. They have the word ‘Christmas’ written on their lids in thick black marker.

  I find everything I need for my tree downstairs in them. She must’ve really liked Christmas if she has this much stuff.

  But then I remember—Quin took her to buy a big tree every year too. So she must've kept all this stuff—all her personal things—up here. Out of the way. Or maybe she just wanted to keep it private. Keep Bric and Smith separate from what she had with Quin in some small way.

  For a second I figure I’ll just use her stuff and forget about Walgreens.

  But then I shake my head. No. Not her stuff. If she was hiding it, she was doing it for a reason. It’s not mine. It’s not part of my world.

  So I turn the lights off, make my way back down the ladder, and go with my original plan.

  Once I’m showered and dressed, I grab my coat and head downstairs. It’s snowing again—which is highly unusual for Denver in December. But when I step off the elevator and look down the stairs, through the large revolving door, it’s so beautiful, I don’t even mind.

  “Chella?”

  I look to my left, up at Smith and Bric, where they are sitting at his table having a drink. “Hey,” I say, walking over to the stairs that lead up there.

  They both stand as I approach the table. Am I allowed to talk to them if it’s Quin’s day? I’m not sure. But Bric called my name, so it must be OK.

  “Where are you going?” Smith asks as I walk over.

  “Out to buy ornaments. Quin took me up to the mountains yesterday to cut down a tree but I don’t have any ornaments.”

  “Do you need a ride home to get them?” Bric asks. “We can get you a car?”

  “I was just going to buy them new,” I say. I really don’t need another conversation about my lack of Christmas decorations at home. “At Walgreens.”

  “Walgreens,” they both say at the same time.

  “Chella,” Smith says. “No. That’s just not right. We have a ton of ornaments in the basement.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, looking around. “This place is really decked out.” No fewer than three Christmas trees are in my line of sight right now. A huge one that appeared last week in the lobby. A small one on the bar, over in the dark corner of Smith’s room. And another largish one down in the Black Room. “I’ll take some Club decorations. If that’s OK.”

  “I’ll have to go get them for you,” Bric says. “Have someone get them for you. You can’t go in the basement.”

  “Right.” I say, resisting the urge to look at Smith.

  “I’ll send them up later. Do you need anything else?” Bric asks.

  “No,” I say, hesitating. “But I think I’ll go shopping just the same.”

  “OK,” Bric says. “I’ll call for the car.”

  “I’m gonna walk. There’s no place to park down here. It’s just a big hassle.”

  I can tell they do not want me to walk, but they have no say in my day.

  Because it belongs to Quin.

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Bric

  “Hello,” Chella mumbles into the phone when I make my midnight call.

  “You were sleeping.”

  “I’m awake. Are you coming up?”

  “No.” But I smile at her interest. “Just checking in. Did you get the ornaments for the tree?”

  “Yes,” she says, waking up a little. “They’re so pretty. Why didn’t you use them?”

  “We have so many. And I only allow three trees. I like to make the Christmas season at the Club as short as possible. Can’t wait to see your tree though.”

  “You could come see it now if you want. You live in the building, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “We’re neighbors.” She chuckles a little. “So no? Not interested?”

  “I am,” I say. “But… you made the invitation, right? To Smith?”

  “Yes.” She pauses. “Why? Does that change things?”

  “It’s just courteous to include him from now on.”

  “So wait,” she says. I think she sits up in bed for this little revelation. “Once I invite him in, then he has more power? And I lose my time with you?”

  “Does that upset you, Miss Walcott?”

  “Kinda. I mean… I like you, Bric. I don’t want this to change what we have.”

  I smile into the phone. “That’s very sweet, Chella. But the whole reason we’re doing all this is to get you ready for all three of us at once. So it doesn’t matter what kind of relationship we have as a couple because we’re not going to be a couple. We’re going to be a quad.”

  She’s silent.

  “Chella?”

  “I get that,” she says. “And it sounds super fun. But shouldn’t we be allowed to have a personal relationship without the other two?”

  “How does that help us as a quad? Give me one example where a stronger relationship with Quin would help the f
our of us together.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

  “We have. We know the pitfalls, Chella. That’s why we have rules. It takes a lot of time to trust each other. Develop friendships. Not couple bonds, but just friendships. So now we’re invested in you. And we need to take every precaution to ensure this lasts for as long as it was meant to.”

  “I get it. I’m just looking forward to more time with you.”

  “We still get to go out. We have two parties this week. That’s why I called tonight. No time for dinner tomorrow, so you can order room service or take the car somewhere. I have a few things to take care of during the day. But I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Is Smith coming on our date?”

  “Nope,” I say, feeling kinda smug that I hear the dread in her voice. “Just us. So that’s our alone time. Will it be enough for you?”

  “No sex with Smith unless I’m with you—”

  “No,” I say. “No sex with Smith at all until you’re with all four of us. And I’ll warn you now, it takes him a while.”

  “It… does?”

  “Smith likes to watch, Chella. He’ll participate in the quad, but he’s slow to join in. So be prepared for that.”

  “Hmmmmm,” she says, dragging the sound out as she thinks this over. “OK… No sex with Smith at all. No sex with you, unless Smith is watching. But all the sex I want with Quin. I guess we know who’s getting lucky on his two days.”

  I laugh.

  “It’s really not funny,” she says.

  “It’s fair,” I say. “You’ll see that soon. So… tomorrow at seven. Be ready. A dress and some accessories will be delivered sometime in the afternoon. I hope you like it.”

  She sighs into the phone. “See you tomorrow night.”

  We hang up and I sit in the Black Room, Smith staring at me from across the table. “She took it well?”

  “I think so,” I say, lifting my glass of Scotch to my lips and taking a swallow. “She seemed a little disappointed that you won’t be fucking her tomorrow night.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Maybe we should give her what she wants?”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  We laugh after that. Marcella Walcott might never be the same after tomorrow night. She has no idea how well we play this game.

  But she’s about to figure it out.

  The next day is filled with planning for the parties coming up, a mundane meeting with the Club staff, and of course, going over my plans with Chella tonight in my head. By the time seven o’clock comes, I’m ready to ditch the party and get down to the real point of the evening.

  That is… until I see her in that silver dress.

  “Jesus Christ,” I say, mouth open, eyes on the low-cut slit down the front of her floor-length sheer silver gown, because almost half of each breast is exposed.

  It looks better on her than I could’ve ever imagined.

  “It came with tape,” she says, looking down with a frown. “Two-sided tape so that I don’t have a wardrobe malfunction tonight at your stuffy party.”

  I smile at her characterization of tonight’s party. “Don’t worry, Miss Walcott. This party is not as stuffy as the last one.”

  “I really hope not, Bric. Because this dress is… movie-premiere-red-carpet party. Not we-want-your-money-for-medical-research party.” She bends over to stare between her legs. “Is my pussy showing through this lace?”

  I chuckle again. I cannot remember having so much fun giving a girl a dress before. “Quin is right about you.”

  “What’s he say?” She crinkles her nose, but it doesn’t last. Her eyes are smiling as she envisions that conversation in her head.

  “He says you’re funny.”

  “Funny?” Her nose crinkle is back. “Is that all? Not fuckable? I mean, good God, I’ve given him the best three weeks of my life and all he has to say about me is that I’m funny?”

  I lean down and kiss her mouth, my hand sliding behind her neck to keep her close. “And fuckable,” I whisper into our kiss. “One day soon, maybe by the time next Monday comes along, we’ll both fuck you together at the same time.”

  She draws in a deep breath. “I can’t wait.”

  Me either. “Are you ready?” I ask. “Do you have your purse?”

  She grabs the evening bag off the side table in the foyer. “Oh, this old thing?” She laughs. “I do have to give you guys credit. When you decide to give a girl a purse, you give a girl a purse. I know how much this Jimmy Choo clutch costs, Mr. Bricman. I shop at Saks as well.”

  “Then you know it’s not good enough for you, Miss Walcott.” I open the foyer closet and take out a black wool shawl coat and drape it around her shoulders. “Not nearly good enough. And I will do better next time.”

  “Oh, man.” She laughs. “I could get used to this.”

  “That’s the idea,” I say. “Ready?” I place my hand into the small of her back.

  She smiles up at me. “Mmmm-hmm,” she says softly. “I think so.”

  But underneath all her jokes is real apprehension. I’d be worried about her if she wasn’t apprehensive. Especially when I know what Smith and I have planned for later.

  When we get downstairs she places her hand over her heart as we walk to my car. “No driver tonight?” She laughs. “I know what we’ll be doing in the car then.”

  “It’s a special night,” I say, opening the door to my silver Mercedes AMG GT S. “You’ll never forget anything about this night, Miss Walcott.”

  She looks up at me and says, “I’m getting nervous.”

  But the only hint I give her is, “You should be. Now get in, Chella. We’re way past fashionably late already. The party started an hour ago and the performance is going to start in twenty minutes.”

  I close her up in the car and walk around to get in on my side.

  “What performance? I thought this was a party?”

  “It is,” I say, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb. The Mountain Ballet Center is only about a mile away, so I go slow and enjoy this time with her. “But I’m a platinum-level supporter of the ballet, as are all Turning Point members. So every Christmas they put on a special show for us. Which is why I have to drive. It’s very hush-hush.”

  “Oh. My God. What is happening right now?”

  “Just relax.” I laugh. “Smith and I aren’t going to fuck you at the ballet.”

  “Smith is going to be there?”

  I don’t want to hear the excitement in her voice when she asks that question, but it’s there. “No, I told you, he’s not part of our date.”

  “So… Club members are going to be there?”

  “Yes, it’s all for Club members. But don’t worry. Same rules apply. No one will ever find out what happens tonight.”

  “There’s no public sex, is there?”

  “Chella.” I shoot her a look. “We share you between us, not the public. And not the Club, either. You won’t be naked, I promise.”

  “OK,” she says, breathing out some relief. “Will I be embarrassed? I mean, will there will cocks flying?”

  “You kill me, woman. I can’t promise there won’t be. I haven’t seen the show yet.”

  “OK,” she says again. “I’m just preparing myself. And it’s only fair. If there’s tits, there should be plenty of penises to balance it out.”

  I can only shake my head at her.

  A few minutes later we pull into the valet of the Mountain Ballet, hand off the car, and walk up to the entrance. The doorman checks our names off his list and then opens it for us.

  Inside there’s about a hundred people—all club members and theatre staff. After we check our coats, Chella’s eyes are all over the place. Mostly on the dozen or so naked men walking around greeting guests.

  “See why I brought you at the last minute?” I lean down to whisper in her ear.

  “You’re no fun, Bric. We should’ve been fashionably early fo
r this.”

  There are an equal number of naked women, and I watch Chella appreciate them as well, wondering if she’s ever been with one sexually.

  The lights dim on the lobby, signaling that it’s time to take our seats, so I lead Chella up a flight of stairs and let her into my box in the front balconies.

  The show is notable for its erotic theme, which was choreographed specifically for Turning Point Club members, and not for its classical beauty. But it is provocative. And it is the perfect way to get her ready for what’s coming.

  It’s a short show, only about an hour with no intermission. And once it’s over, I lead her out to the lobby for a few minutes of polite chatting about donations and upcoming schedules, as we wait on the valet to get my car.

  Several couples come up to be introduced, but I glare at them until they back away, leaving us alone.

  I don’t want to introduce Chella to Club members. She’s not a member. She’s ours.

  And I only take my eyes off her for a second to glance down at my buzzing phone—a text from Smith, asking for an update—when Jordan Wells suddenly appears in front of Chella, holding his hand out and introducing himself.

  I sigh loud enough to get Jordan’s attention, but he ignores me as he takes Chella’s hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss.

  “What are you doing?” I growl.

  “Miss Walcott and I are old acquaintances,” Jordan says.

  “No.” Chella laughs, looking at me uncomfortably.

  “Yes, you don’t remember me? Our parents were friends when we were little. Back before you went away. You came to my eighth birthday party and then—”

  “Oh, shit,” Chella says. She looks at me—deer in the headlights.

  “Sorry, Jordan,” I say, pushing him away with a palm to the chest. He is forced to take one step back because my push means business. But he’s a big guy too. Just as tall as I am. Just as cut too. So it’s only a single step back. “We’ve got to be going.”

  I don’t wait for his answer, just grab Chella’s hand as I lead her over to the coat check.

  “I cannot believe a family friend was here with me at this show. My father—”

  “It’s OK, Chella,” I say, trying to calm her down. “Jordan knows better than to say anything.” I hope. Jordan Wells is new to the Club. He’s only been there a few months. “He signed the NDA like everyone else. And he’s a lawyer,” I add. “A damn good lawyer. He’ll keep his mouth shut. Almost all of our members have something to lose if word of this Club and their membership get out.”