Page 59 of Taking Turns

That doesn’t happen often. Fathers pass this little perk onto sons. In fact, Turning Point Club membership is a very popular wedding gift in my world.

The real Club is down on the lower levels, but the White Room is open to the public and filled to capacity for dinner Monday through Thursday. If you’re lucky enough to get a reservation. And since we have forty-two active Club members who eat here regularly with their families, mistresses, business associates, etc., it’s not easy to get one of those.

The Black Room is not open to the public, even though it’s right across the main lobby. Members only in the bar. A little peek into the forbidden for the masses. Not much happens in there. Just bar stuff. Drinking, food, laughing, informal parties… shit like that.

But it intrigues people. No one knows what we do. Only the members know. Hell, Rochelle never even knew. She never made it downstairs. Smith was done with her long before she ever thought to ask about it.

But Chella… Chella is a maybe. I know Smith thinks he’s got her pinned. He understands why she went along with Rochelle’s set-up. But I’m not convinced she’ll go that far. I need tonight to feel her out a little more. Give her my rule. And then the final rule.

Her reaction to that is what drives me. Drives all three of us.

Smith is right, I guess. Rochelle should’ve been let go a long time ago.

I miss what we never had with her.

Everyone in the Club has a monthly health screen—even though we do insist on condoms. Everyone has a biannual appointment with the Club psychiatrist—just to make sure we nip any crazy in the bud. And everyone follows the rules.

So Turning Point is a place for members to be among friends. And breakfast is a time when friends get together.

But lunch is another matter.

Lunch today was dead. I was bored out of my mind, counting down the hours until dinner.

Quin shows up after work and joins me upstairs in Smith’s bar.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me and pointing at the bartender to bring him a drink. “What time will you bring her here?”

“Seven fifteen or so,” I say, sipping my drink. I want to ask him about his time with Chella, but I can’t. Not until we’re all together.

Rules. Smith and his fucking rules.

“What do you think she’s gonna say?” The bartender comes with Quin’s drink and he picks it up to sip while I consider his question.

She only has two options. Yes or no. I hate being Number Three. And this is the second fucking time I’ve gotten stuck with it. Maybe this arrangement isn’t for me anymore?

The question kinda surprises me. It was my idea in the first place. I’m the one who found the first six girls. I’m the one who helped perfect the rules. I’m the one who seemed to get the most out of it.

But it doesn’t feel that way anymore. It doesn’t feel necessary anymore.

“Well?” Quin asks.

“What?”

“Dude, what the hell is wrong with you? I asked you what you think she’ll say.”

“Smith says she’ll say yes within two weeks.”

“I think so too.”

It pisses me off that they know her well enough already that they can even form an opinion. I don’t know her at all. I had one night out with her and it doesn’t count. Tonight won’t count either, we have to have the conversation about the rules. And then the party and then…

It’s depressing. I lose either way. Number Three is such a fucked-up arrangement.

Quin talks about other shit until it’s time for me to leave, but I just tune him out, finish my drink, and then walk down to the elevator and take it up to the top floor. I don’t knock—I don’t have to. I just walk in.

The place looks completely different.

“Hey!” Marcella calls from the bedroom. “I’m ready, I swear.” She giggles like she’s having fun.