Page 36 of Taking Turns

“Because if she did, she lied. She has no idea what we do down there.”

“I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine. I’ve—” But I stop talking. Jesus Christ. Get a hold of yourself, Chella.

“You’ve what?” Smith asks. “Been there?”

“No.” I laugh again. “I’ve heard things.”

“From who?”

“Just rumors. People talk.”

Smith’s arm is around me. He pulls me close to his chest, leans into my mouth and kisses me on the lips. “Not our people, Chella,” he whispers. “No one talks who knows. Just keep that in mind.”

Did he just threaten me?

But his kiss is back. A soft flutter on my lips. “You’re mine too, if Quin agrees. And I’d just like to warn you… I’m not good at sharing.”

“What?” I pull away, smiling. “You’re joking, right?”

He shakes his head. Very slowly. “Not even a little bit, Marcella Walcott. Not even close.”

People come up behind us and so Smith backs away and we continue on to the next sculpture. It’s darker here. And we are totally concealed in shadow. Only a single spotlight illuminates the next dancer. A woman at the barre, her leg stretched up high, arm in a graceful arc over her head as she warms up.

“Why does Quin get to make all the decisions?”

“He doesn’t make all of them. We make them together. But he’s holding out. So he needs to agree or it won’t happen. No matter how much Bric wants you.”

“You don’t want me?” I ask. I look up at him, but I can’t see his face. It’s too dark where we’re standing.

“I don’t care either way,” he says. “But Bric wants it now. Something you did or said on Tuesday affected him. Made him desire you. I’m sure Quin will give in, if only to make Bric happy. But you’d better make things right with Quin or it won’t last long.”

That last part really does come out like a threat.

“How do I go about doing that?”

I feel Smith shrug. And then we walk forward again, until we’re in more light and I can see him. “He’s not a hard guy to understand, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Are your ambivalent feelings for me the same ones you harbor for Rochelle?”

“Maybe,” Smith says, his hand finding the little dent of my waist. He places his palm flat and it sends a tingle through my body. “But don’t worry, Chella. It took me two and a half years to grow tired of Rochelle. I don’t think you’ll last that long, so you’ll never know.”

I laugh. Not loud, but enough to let him know what’s coming. “You’re an asshole.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet, whore.”

I am stunned silent. But only for a moment. “Is that what gets you off? Degradation?”

“Sometimes. But no, not really.”

“You just like to call me a whore?”

He smiles at me in the dim light. “Once you sign that contract, Marcella, that is what you’ll be.” He lets me take that all in. And the he pivots the conversation and says, “I’ve seen enough.”

“And said enough,” I say.

He chuckles. “God, it’s so cute the way you underestimate me.”

I let him lead me through the rest of the exhibit. We don’t bother to stop, but it’s a circular path that takes us back to Matisse and Bric, who are surrounded by people holding long-fluted champagne glasses and eating tiny finger food as they chat.