Page 6 of Taking Turns

“Months?” Bric asks.

I shrug. “You don’t think she was getting boring?”

“Where. The fuck. Did she go?” Quin spits.

“I just told you. I have no clue. Whatever she’s doing, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.”

“I don’t believe him,” Quin snaps, turning to Bric. Elias Bricman, or Bric for short, doesn’t seem to care as much as Quin. He is, at least, calm. “Not thirty fucking minutes ago he was downstairs bitching about how tired he was of her. He sent her away, Bric. He sent her away.”

“Calm down, Quin,” Bric says. “If she left, she left. I’m more worried about the new girl. Where is she?”

Quin is pacing now. Back and forth in front of the large window. He’s got no shirt on, no shoes, and his pants are hanging off his hips. In fact… I don’t think those are his pants. No belt, not even buttoned up. But the capitol building outside the window is pretty tonight. It’s snowing, so the gold dome is muted with dropping flakes. “She’s in the closet.”

Bric and I exchange a glance.

“I gagged her. I didn’t fucking know what to do. I just—Goddammit. I just grabbed the ball gag from the drawer, hooked it on her, tied her hands behind her back, and threw her in our closet.”

“OK,” I say, walking down to the hallway to stare at the open bedroom door. “I think we have a problem.”

“You didn’t get her name?” Bric asks, ever the practical one.

“Her name?” Quin yells. “No, I didn’t get her fucking name! No one cares what her goddamned name is!”

Bric looks at me. Takes a deep breath. “You wanna take care of this?”

“Me?” I laugh. It’s a real laugh. “I don’t think you want me to take care of this.”

“Rochelle.” Quin is on his phone. “Rochelle, call me back. Where the fuck are you? What the hell is going on? You’re breaking the deal. You’re not getting—”

Bric grabs the phone from Quin and ends the call. “That’s enough of that,” he says. “You know the rules, Quin. If she left, then she left. You’re not allowed to contact her again.”

“Fuck you!” Quin is losing it. “The fuck I’m not! I was in a three-year fucking relationship with her. I’m not letting her walk out. Not without… without… an… explanation.”

He starts out loud and strong. But he knows what he’s saying is all wrong and his resolve falters at the end.

“You’re not,” Bric says in that low monotone he has, “going to contact her, Quin. You’re not going to look for her. You’re not going to ask people about her. You’re not going to do anything but leave her. The fuck. Alone. Do you understand me?” Bric stops to see if Quin will reply, but he doesn’t. “Because if you do contact her,” Bric continues, “I will drag your ass to court so fast. And I will rip your goddamned balls off when we get there. I’m not kidding, brother. I like you. And I don’t want to fuck up your life. But losing is part of the game, you understand? Our secrets are law, Quin. And you won’t fuck up Smith’s business by getting us caught.”

It sinks in. Quin strides over to the front door in four long paces, and walks out.

“He’ll be back,” I say. “He forgot his clothes.”

Bric looks at me and says, “I’ll handle him. You handle her.”

And then he walks out too.

I sigh and go into the kitchen, looking for a drink. Rochelle drinks wine. And there are plenty of bottles to choose from. But I haven’t been up here to see her in so long, there is no trace of my brand of whiskey. I grab a bottle of brandy—Bric’s go-to, high-and-mighty motherfucker that he is—and pour three fingers into a snifter I get from the top shelf of a cupboard.

The chair I like is still in front of the window. Facing it, so I can look out. I take a seat and think this through.

Do I have feelings about it?

Maybe.

I think a little longer. Take a few sips of the brandy. Admire the view and the snow. Then decide… not many.

Rochelle was never my type. She’s flighty. A musician. That was her dream. She is long straight dirty-blonde hair and loose gauzy blouses. She wears knee-high boots—and not the sexy kind, either. Not the fuck-me kind I like. They are all distressed from being bought in the second-hand shops. And she likes fringe. On jackets and purses. Which isn’t that uncommon for Denver, but so not my type.

The only time I attempted to take her somewhere nice she wore a long, strapless dress that had no shape at all. And sandals.