Page 78 of Taking Turns

“Nice,” Bric says, puffing on the cigar. “Nice going, Smith.”

“All right,” Quin says, standing back up. “Fuck both of you. I don’t need this shit. I don’t need either of you to enjoy this arrangement. I get her all to myself. No games. And I only came to go downstairs tonight, so catch you down there whenever the fuck I see you.”

Bric and I both watch him walk out.

“Just stay away from her, OK?” I say. “If it’s not Wednesday or Thursday, stay away and keep your fucking mouth shut. I don’t like to be talked about, you know that. Don’t talk about me to her.”

Bric is silent for almost a minute before he too gets up from my table and heads towards the stairs. I watch him go down into the lobby. Lucinda is here again. I cannot remember, for the life of me, seeing her so goddamned much in such a short time span.

But then I see why she’s here when the newest member, Jordan Wells, brings her a drink and he cops a feel between her legs as her husband watches with eager eyes.

Saturday nights at Turning Point Club can get wild. It’s all private. All the shades are closed on the windows facing the street and the restaurant is closed to the public, so you have to be a member to get past the front door.

Bric stops to chat with her, also copping a feel, which makes her whole face light up with delight. She’s been after us both for years. But he can have her. I’m not interested. He goes downstairs every weekend. Without fail. And most of the time I have no idea what he’s doing down there. Don’t care, either.

I went for Lucinda’s birthday party two weeks ago because it’s something I do to make her happy, but I only came back because I was horny as fuck. Marcella Walcott’s pussy was wet when I checked her in Rochelle’s closet. Has it only been two weeks?

A few minutes later Lucinda heads towards the back of the lobby with Bric, Jordan, and her husband. Bric’s eyes meet mine as he moves out of sight.

“Good for you, motherfucker,” I say, raising my glass of Scotch to no one.

He can have that fucking club. He’s always been more interested in what goes on down there than I have. Quin as well. Hell, maybe Quin will join in. Lucinda can get the gang-bang of her dreams.

I stew in my thoughts like this for hours. Until it’s after eleven o’clock and I’m about ready to call it a night.

And then Chella walks in the front door, wearing a white dress that shows more cleavage than I need right now. For a second I’m enraged, thinking she’s going to join Quin and Bric downstairs. But she leans in to talk to the hostess, who smiles and nods at the sentry standing guard in front of the black velvet rope in front of the main staircase, and she is given permission to go upstairs.

What the fuck is she doing?

I watch her with interest as she ascends, and then our eyes meet. I repeat my thought out loud. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She turns her head and keeps climbing until she gets to the landing and presses the button for the elevator.

“Chella,” I say again, a little louder this time as I get up and walk to the opening of my private bar and look down at her. “What are you doing?”

The elevator doors open and she steps inside without answering me.

I jump down the six steps that lead to the second-story landing and follow her, just in time before the elevator doors close.

“Did you hear me?”

“Do I appear deaf? Of course I heard you.”

“Why are you here?”

“I live here. Top-floor apartment. Brand new furniture. Ringing any bells?”

“No,” I say. “You do not live here. You live down on Little Raven Street and there’s where you need to go. Right now.”

“No,” Chella says, her back straight, her chin tipped up. Defiant. “No. I’m not going back there. I’m bored. And you already told me you wouldn’t be around this evening. So why should I stay there? I’d rather be here.”

“It’s Saturday night, Chella. You don’t need to be here, trust me.”

“Rochelle stayed here on Saturday nights.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?”