Chapter One - Quin
From the outside, Turning Point Club looks like any other historical downtown brownstone mansion. The only thing really worth noting about it is the extra-wide revolving door made out of frosted glass—and that’s not even original. But the moment you step inside, the surreal quality of the atmosphere, the opulent luxury, and the security standing at the door quickly adjust your perception.
“Mr. Foster.” The greeting comes from the formally attired doorman. He tips his head at me as I enter.
“Can I take your coat, Mr. Foster?” the hostess says. It’s a rhetorical question. She is already slipping it down my arms.
“Thank you,” I mumble, side-stepping a crowd of club members having a conversation in the two-story foyer. “Where’s—” But before I can get the last word out, I see Bric in the Black Room off to my right. He’s got his arm around the reason this party is happening tonight. Lucinda Chatwell is turning forty. We do business with her husband, and he’s a member, so it’s a ladies’ night.
Not something I’m interested in, but Bric, ever the host, looks like he might actually be enjoying himself. He’s joking with a group of formally dressed men and women who surround him and hang on his every word like he’s the whole world.
He catches my gaze and gives me a slight nod.
I stand there for a moment, watching him. He leans into Lucinda’s ear to whisper a secret that makes her throw her head back and laugh.
The crowd I’m in looks over and laughs with her.
“I need a drink,” I say to no one in particular.
“Mr. Baldwin is at his table,” the hostess says. “Would you like to join him?”
I look up to the second floor and see Smith staring back at me. I don’t nod at him. “Yeah, sure.”
“One moment, Mr. Foster.” The hostess whispers into the almost invisible wireless mic that wraps down her cheek and then smiles at me. “They’re expecting you now, Mr. Foster,” she says, waving me forward.
I straighten the lapels of my tux and make my way towards the back of the lobby, taking a moment to appreciate the way the crystal chandelier showers the room with dew-drop sparkles of light.
Once I get past the crowd I head towards the stairs, where two security guards stand sentry in front of a black velvet rope that lets everyone know there is no activity up there tonight. No one spends the night on Sundays. We’re closed on Sundays except for parties, like this one for Lucinda, or dinner in the five-star restaurant, the White Room, across the lobby from Black Room. The restaurant is closed now though. Private party tonight—and no one comes for the food.
One guard unhooks the black velvet rope as I approach and by the time I’m upon him, my way has been cleared.
The stairs lead straight up to a landing, which is where the main elevators are located, but I turn to the right and continue up to the second story of the lobby, where another security guard releases yet another black velvet rope and allows me to enter Smith Baldwin’s private bar.
He really wants to be left alone tonight, I guess.
Smith ignores me as I approach his table. He’s looking over the railing of the balcony, checking things out in the Black Room down below. I take a seat directly opposite him and crane my neck to see what’s so interesting. “What?” I ask, when I don’t see anything worthy of his attention.
Smith turns to me and takes a sip of his Scotch. “You’re early tonight,” he says.
“Bored as fuck,” I say, motioning to Smith’s butler for a drink. He’s already heading towards me with a glass. I wait as he pours from the bottle sitting on the table between Smith and me, and then take a long sip. “Why the hell are you here?”
“I dated Lucinda a long time ago.”
I have to laugh at that. “You’re pining for Dr. Chatwell?”
“No,” Smith says in his unassuming monotone. “I just like to show up for her birthdays.”
“Did you come last year?”
“Every year,” Smith says, dragging his gaze away from Bric and Lucinda and refocusing on me. “I like to keep my mistakes fresh. So I don’t repeat them.”
“OK,” I say, glancing at my watch. I’ve been here one minute and I’ve had enough conversation with Smith.
“It’s only eleven thirty-seven,” Smith says, not missing my subtle rejection.
“Yeah,” I say, letting it come out as frustration.
“What do you have going on this week? Bric has an event on Wednesday and a dinner on Thursday.”
“Not much,” I say, looking away and turning in my chair to study the lobby down below. “Just looking forward to my time, I guess.”
“You seem to do that a lot these days.”
I shrug and turn back around. Nothing at all interesting down there. “Why not?” I look him dead in the eyes as I take a drink. “We have a lot of fun together. Why shouldn’t I look forward to it?”
Smith turns away and resumes his stalking of Bric and Lucinda. Eventually he says, “They dated a long time ago too.” Smith nods his head down to the Black Room. “We kinda did her together.”
“No shit?” I actually have to shake that image out of my mind because Lucinda… she is just a great big no for me. Who needs a fucking psychiatrist picking your brain when you’re having dirty sex? Not me. “Did you get weird with her?”
It’s a joke. But Smith misses it. “If we did, you’d already know about it.”
Right. “Changing the subject. What about you?” I ask. “You have plans this week?”
“None,” he says without emotion.
“Why do you even bother?” I ask. “I mean, she’s fucking expensive, right? If you’re not having a good time, just buy yourself out.”
Smith glares at me for exactly two seconds. Takes a sip of his drink. Says, “The game only works if there’s four people, Quin. You know this.”
“So you’re doing it for me?” I ask him.
“Do you think I’m doing it for you?”
I glance at my watch again, wishing for midnight to be here already. “I have yet to figure you out, friend. Your world is so foreign to me, I feel like we come from two different planets.”
“Eleven forty-one,” Smith says, not even checking his own watch. “I told ya you were early.”
I roll my eyes, but Smith is too busy crowd-watching. “How come you guys never mentioned Lucinda before?”
“Why should we?” Smith deadpans. And then he shifts his body away from the party and towards me. “It makes no difference.”
“If you were doing her together…” I shrug. “I think it matters.”
“Take it up with Bric.”
“Right.” I sigh. “So… have you seen her?”
“Rochelle?” Smith asks. And then he smiles. It sends a chill up my back. All the way to my neck.
“Who the fuck else would I be talking about?”
“Nope,” Smith says. But still there is that smile.
“What?” I ask. “Why the fuck are you smiling at me?”
“I’m just surprised that we’ve lasted this long,” he says. “Aren’t you? You’re not tired of her yet?”
“Of Rochelle?” It’s my turn to laugh. “Not even a little bit.”
“She was interesting at first, you know? Her quaint Bohemian ways. The apartment, the clothes, the hobbies. Whatever.” He waves his hand in the air. “But I’m not really into her anymore. Not my type.”
“Kinda like Lucinda for me, I guess.” I take another sip of Scotch. “Why haven’t you mentioned this?” I ask. “Is Bric tired?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. “You know how Bric is. He’s a man of habit. He’ll stick it out until one of us makes him change.”
“So it’s just you and your weird shit talking tonight?” He’s making me fucking nervous. But when doesn’t Smith make me nervous? “I’m not done. So if you’re gonna call a meeting about Rochelle, call it knowing that in advance.” I check my watch, decide it’s close enough to midnight for me, and stand up. “See ya around,” I say, nodding to the butler and dropping a twenty on the table.
The security guard outside Smith’s room unhooks the black velvet rope as I approach.
“Good night, Mr. Foster.”
“Later,” I say, heading straight for the elevator and punching the call button, making it light up. The doors open and I step in, adjusting my suit in the mirrors as they close behind me.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I turn and insert my keycard into the slot next to the button that has no floor number or name next to it. The doors close.
Rochelle Bastille is a twenty-seven-year-old musician Bric met at a party three years ago. Some corporate event put on to celebrate… whatever. God only knows what he really does for Smith. But it involves a lot of networking. Translation—parties.
He took Rochelle home that night and fucked her. Like, his real home. Not here. Not the Club. But she was between apartments—homeless was probably more likely, we never talk about the old days—and since we were short a player at the time, he asked if she wanted in on the game.
Three fucking years. I have no idea where the time went. But Jesus Christ, it’s been a really good time.
I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with her, but I know it’s been a while. Years, at least. Maybe even that first year. Maybe even that night. Rochelle is my type. One hundred percent my type. And two nights and two days a week she’s mine. All mine. Starting at midnight Sunday and all the way through midnight Tuesday. I own her.
Unlike Bric and Smith, I make the most of it.
By the time the doors open into the top floor hallway, I’m smiling. I forget about Bric and Lucinda. I forget about Smith and his weird shit. I forget about the stupid, boring weekend I just made myself get through.
I walk down the short hallway to her door. There is only one apartment up here and it belongs to her. It’s really the attic of the building that Bric remodeled back when we first started sharing girls more than a decade ago.
We keep them here. Like good little princesses locked up in their towers.
We don’t really lock them in, but I like the analogy.
I get hard just thinking about it.
Rochelle is the ninth girl who has lived in this apartment over the Club and the ones before her felt like practice. She feels like the real thing. Game day.
When I get to the door I insert my cardkey, letting that feeling wash over me. Relief and happiness. Something I’ve become accustomed to.
It’s late, the place is dark, so I close the door quietly, trying not to wake her up. Just head down the familiar hallway, making my steps soft in the stillness.
The bedroom door is open, like it always is. And I can just make out her bare legs on top of the white sheets. She must be freezing.
I walk past her and go into the closet. I’ll take care of that in just a minute. I take my tie off and hang it up. Then the jacket, doing my best not to make the wooden hangers clang together. I untuck my shirt from my trousers. Unbutton it, starting from the top. I hang that up too.
Then I open the velvet-lined drawer and place my watch and cufflinks in there, closing it when I’ve arranged them properly.
The pants fall down and I grab my cock, so ready to fuck her. I slip out of my boxer briefs and walk out in to the dark bedroom.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You awake?”
She doesn’t even move. Her body is sprawled out on top of the sheets, one leg up higher than the other. Her face buried. Her long, wild hair flowing over the side of the pillow like a waterfall.
There is light filtering in from outside, but not enough to really see anything. Just a little bit of glow from the lamps lighting up the gargoyles that decorate the top of the building. Details that make Turning Point Club one of the most photographed icons in the city.
Through the floor-to-ceiling window there is a direct view of the gold-domed capitol building, one block south, and that’s lit up too.
I place a hand on her outer thigh as one knee comes down on the mattress, making it sink. Making her body shift, ever so slightly.
She is naked, her ass towards me like an invitation.
I swing my leg over, place the other knee on the other side of her hip, and straddle her. My hands all over her ass. Rubbing. Eager to slip my fingers between her legs and see what’s waiting for me.
“Rochelle,” I say, bending over her body to place my lips on her neck. “Did you miss me? God, I missed you. Two weeks is too long. We need to renegotiate.”
I let out a long breath, and she trembles for a moment.
“I don’t like the sabbaticals anymore,” I say.
She says nothing.
Fuck. Don’t ruin it, I tell myself. Don’t ruin the time you have. We’ve had this conversation too many times to count and it always ends the same way.
She likes the time off. It’s something new she started last summer. Two weeks off, one week on. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
But I take my own advice and let it go. I lower my whole body over the top of hers, enjoying the heat we create. My hands slip under her breasts to squeeze and my cock hardens, brushing against her ass. The space between her legs.
One small moan is all I get.
But it’s enough. I bite her shoulder and lift my hips, letting my dick slip into her wet folds. It finds its way inside her with so little effort, I want to fucking die from the pleasure.
One knee comes up, dragging across the sheet to give me more access, and I let one hand leave her breasts and press its way under her belly, until I find her clit and begin to strum.
“You like that?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. At least not with words. Her ass bucks up a little, urging me to give her more. One hard thrust and I’m fully inside her. Her pussy clamping on to me, muscles tightening around my shaft.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, pushing my upper body up off her back and sitting up so I can fuck her better. I grab both her ass cheeks and then I give one a hard smack.
Rochelle draws in a sharp breath, but still her hips are bucking up against my inner thighs. Asking for more.
“You want it hard tonight?” I ask. “You want me to fuck you hard?” I grab her hair and pull, making her upper body lift up off the mattress. My other hand is digging into the flesh just below her hip.
I scoot back and reach under her thighs, drawing them up so she’s on her knees, and press her face into the pillow as I pound her from behind.
“Yeah,” I say, half speaking, half moaning. “You like it like this, don’t you? You let Bric fuck you like this all the time, don’t you?”
I reach around and smack her tit, which makes her yelp. A high-pitched yelp I’m not familiar with. For a second I think I’ve hurt her, and I slow down. But she backs up into me, covering my dick again. Burying it deep inside her. Everything is already so wet. She feels so goddamned good tonight.
“You fucking whore,” I say, letting go of her hair so she falls face-first back into the pillow. “You let Bric fuck you like this, Rochelle? You like the way he slaps you around? Hmm?”
Hell, I like the way Bric slaps her around. And as soon as that thought enters my head I laugh.
“Maybe we’ll do it rough next weekend. You want that? You want us to fuck you hard? Stick our dicks inside you at the same time?”
Another unfamiliar moan.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, still kinda laughing. But then I let it go and just… fuck her. I grab onto her ass and do it hard. Pounding her with so much force, her head is inching closer and closer to the headboard of the bed.
I don’t stop when it finally makes it there. I just keep thrusting until the pounding is compounded by the headboard crashing into the wall.
She’s moaning. Close. So fucking close to coming. I reach underneath her body and strum her clit to the rhythm we’re making. She goes wild. Wild like I’ve never seen her before. Writhing, and moaning, and gasping for air.
I draw back, grab her hips, and flip her over, one hand pushing her head aside so her cheek is pressing into the pillow, the other one still playing with her pussy. I watch my dick as it slips in and out, just barely able to make it out in the dim, filtered light from outside.
I grab her hair, so fucking ready to come, and yank her head so she has to look at me. Her eyes are closed, but I don’t care. I press my hand over her mouth and close my eyes too. And then I spill inside her. Throwing my head back to let out a groan of relief.
Her legs are trembling from the exertion. Little spasms as she gasps for breath. I laugh a little as I roll off to the side and wrap my arms around her. “What’s wrong, baby? Too much for you tonight?”
No answer.
I bury my head into her neck and smell her hair.
“Did you get a new shampoo?” I ask. “You smell so different.”
No answer.
“You want a date with Bric on Sunday? Hmm? We can skip Smith if you want.” I kiss her neck and then pull back and open my eyes. Trying to get an idea if she’s up for this kind of fun. It’s been a while so I—
I blink my eyes. Three times, fast.
“Rochelle—”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry—”
But I’m up and out of the bed, fisting her hair and pulling her with me. She drops to the floor, whimpering.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “Where the fuck is Rochelle?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You’re gonna be sorry all right,” I say, letting go of her hair so I can open the drawer in the bedside table. I take out the ball gag and strap it on.
She doesn’t even try to get away. Just lets me do it.
I pull her to her feet and reach for the rope, yanking her hands behind her back and wrapping the rope around her wrists. Tight.
And then I shove her into my closet and close the door.
I pace up and down the hallway, trying my best to figure what the fuck just happened. And then I’m on the phone, calling Bric. It goes to voicemail.
“Fuck!” I yell. “Fuck!”
I find Bric’s message stream in my phone and text, Come upstairs. Now. Emergency!!!!!
I do the same for Smith.
Five minutes later they both come bursting through the door of Rochelle’s apartment.
I’m sitting on the couch, half naked. I had to open the closet door to get pants and I just grabbed at the first hanger. I think they’re actually Bric’s pants.
I place my elbows on my knees and hold my head, rubbing my eyes, still trying to figure out what’s happening.
“What the fuck is going on up here?” Bric says. He looks panicked, his eyes wild as they search the room for the emergency. “Where’s Rochelle?”
I look up, find Bric’s face. Then Smith’s. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” they both say together.
“Did you kill her?” Smith asks. “Choke her to death while you were fucking her?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “No, I didn’t fucking kill her, you asshole. She’s fucking gone! Like, left!”
“Then why are you half naked?” Bric asks, calming down.
I take a deep, deep breath. Hold it for the count of three. And then let it out. “I fucked—” But I have to stop and shake my head because it makes no sense. “She left someone in her place,” I finally say. “I fucked her. I fucked her before I knew it wasn’t Rochelle.”