Page 24 of Taking Turns

“It’s better to let Mr. Benton handle it. Trust me.”

I do trust him. I’ve not only heard about the temper tantrums of artists, I’ve seen them first hand. And if this is Matisse’s way of warning me that no matter how well things go tomorrow, he’s going to be a raging asshole, I’ll take his word on that.

We chat a little more about his show. What we have planned as far as food and drinks. We’re going all-out. Exquisite canapés and the best champagne. It’s going to be quite the party. But then he switches the conversation back to the club, just as our food arrives.

“Do you get invited here often?” he asks.

The salad and steak are served at the same time. And the filet mignon in front of me has my mouth watering. It smells delicious. My stomach is rumbling so loud, I’m sure the entire restaurant can hear it. But that question… “Invited?” I ask, not sure how to answer.

“You’re not married?” he asks, like he thinks he knows the answer, but maybe he’s wrong.

“No.” I laugh.

“Then you have to be a guest. It’s a gentlemen’s club, after all.”

“I… I never thought about it, I guess. I don’t come here,” I say, in way of explanation. “It’s a place I’ve become acquainted with very recently.”

I look around. Take it all in. Everything is in black and white. I know this bar is called the Black Room and the restaurant on the other side of the lobby is called the White Room. They are each named for the color of the marble on the floors. The brownstone facade is typical of building constructed in the late eighteen hundreds, but the inside is more art deco. The edges and curves that people love about that period are all over in the design of the bar and the inlay on the floors. In the furniture, even, I realize. The black leather booths have rounded tops and the tables in the middle of the room, which do not have white linen tablecloths like the ones along the window, have a pattern on the top that reminds me of Gatsby.

It’s opulent and excessive. Just like the men who run it.

“But I love the decor.” And I do. It might be excessive and opulent, but I like it.

I realize I never unwrapped my silverware. The white napkin is starched and creased into an envelope shape. It has a monogram on what would be the outside flap which reads TPC. Turning Point Club, I realize.

“You should see the rooms upstairs,” Matisse says, cutting his steak as I cut mine. I take a bite before I even process how to respond to that comment.

“Mmmm,” I say, enjoying that first bite of meat so much, I have to close my eyes. “That’s so good.” I laugh.

When I open my eyes and look at Matisse, he’s staring at me. “Would you like to see my room upstairs, Chella?”

Chella. Would you like to see my room? Would you like to go upstairs? Would you like me to fuck you tonight?

I swallow the steak and go stiff. Is that what this is? Did Smith set me up to fuck him?

I look around, and something, I’m not sure what, makes me look up.

There is Smith Baldwin. On that second-story balcony that Bric and Quin were sitting in last night when Smith escorted me out. He’s leaning on the railing with a drink in his hand. Smiling.

I put my silverware down and scoot out of the bench.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Matisse. “I’m really sorry. But I have to go. I just remembered that…” But I have no excuse but the truth. So I say nothing. Just walk out of the Black Room and make my way through the crowd of people in the lobby.

Why are there so many people here? It’s after one in the morning.

Why, Chella? You know why.

It’s a gentlemen’s club.

This is a sex club and Smith Baldwin brought me here to fuck his friend.

“Chella,” Matisse says, gently grabbing my arm as I wait my turn at the coat check. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’ll take you home.”

“My car—”

“I’ll take you to your car.”

“No,” I say, pulling away so he has to let go of my arm. “I’ll get a cab.”