Page 42 of Taking Turns

Marcella looks over her shoulder as she stumbles towards the stairs. The look is really a plea for help from Bric.

But Bric knows he’s got no power tonight. His power comes later next week.

So he shuns her. Lets her go.

Tonight, she belongs to Smith.

I hold my glass up to her as she’s led down the stairs. “Cheers, Marcella Walcott. Welcome to Turning Point Club.”

Let’s just see how long you last.

Chapter Eleven - Smith

Marcella’s reluctant, but I don’t care. I have one goal, one focus, one way to end this night. And all of that revolves around her. She gets in the car when I open the door and then I say, “Scoot over,” before sliding in and placing my hand on her leg.

She draws in a deep breath that I almost miss due to the soft clunk of the driver closing the door.

“Are you afraid yet?”

“No,” she says, not looking at me. Looking at everything else but me. The backseat, which she already knows, because this is the same car I sent her home in last weekend. Out the window, where the capitol building dominates the skyline. Her feet. Her hands. My face.

I smile.

She swallows.

“One of these days, Marcella Walcott, I’m gonna get your story.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath for that,” she mumbles, turning away just as the driver gets back in.

“Why not? It’s a secret?”

A long, deep inhalation of air.

The car moves forward and I settle in. The drive over to her place is short, practically over by the time her shoulders relax. But maybe it’s the thought of home that relaxes her?

We pull up right in front of her townhouse and I’m out of the car, extending my hand. She takes it and I help her step out of that world and into this one.

More silence as we walk up her front steps, She starts digging into the decorative clutch she’s using as a purse for her keys, but I’m already unlocking the door.

“You have a key to my house?” she snaps.

“What did you think I was doing on Monday?” I practically laugh the words out.

“You left the gallery to break into my house?” She is angry now.

But I don’t care. Better to get things out in the open as soon as possible. “Why are you surprised?”

“I shouldn’t be,” she says. Her jaw is clenching and her lips are pressed tightly together.

“Get inside, Chella. I’m fucking cold.”

She looks at the car as it pulls away and she understands. She knows what’s happening. What she’s got herself into. Or at least, she’s telling herself that. She’s busy rationalizing this as some sex experiment. Something she’ll walk away from in a few weeks, probably? Something dirty, yes. But very, very temporary. She will have her fun, we will have our fun, and then she will get out.

So she thinks.

I grab her arm when she refuses to move and push her across the threshold, dropping my new set of keys into a tray on the side table and locking the door behind us. I turn to the alarm panel on the wall and arm it.

“You have the code to my alarm? How?”