Chapter Nine - Chella
Even with the distraction of the last-minute preparation of the Matisse installation on Thursday, I’ve spent the last three days sick to my stomach about what might happen tonight. Bric was blunt and it was unexpected. Maybe I’ve come to expect that from Smith—if you can form expectations based on just a handful of encounters. But I always saw Bric as the sensible one. The practical one. The one she went to talk to when she had problems. That was Rochelle’s description of him.
He was everything but those two things at my house on Tuesday.
The way he checked me for my arousal, just like Smith. The way he caught me off guard. His cold commands and heated stares. His kiss. God, his kiss.
I know this is the wrong choice, even as I dress for him.
Wear something spectacular.
I hold the collar in my hand. The gold one that Smith clamped on to my neck on Sunday night. And I know this too is wrong. Put it away, I want to scream to myself. Don’t do this, Marcella. Don’t give in to their promises. Don’t wait for him to pick you up. Just get in your car and drive yourself to the opening. Then ignore them. Forget about Rochelle. Forget about Quin and the way he fucked you. Forget about Smith and the way he claimed you. Forget about Bric and the way he dominated you.
Just… don’t do it.
There is no chance in hell I’ll do any of those things. And I prove it to my doubting inner self by bringing the collar up to my neck and fastening the clasp.
It’s tight and when I swallow hard and make my throat expand just ever so slightly it reminds me what it is.
A choker.
I do not have underwear on, just like Bric requested. And I can already feel the slickness pooling between my legs.
When the doorbell rings I shut off the bedroom light and walk slowly down the stairs. My black dress is long, but there is a slit up the side of each of my thighs. A thin, black satin wrap drapes casually around my bare shoulders, but I stop before opening the front door and put on my winter coat.
Bric is scowling at me through the window for making him wait.
I smile as I open the door. “You look nice,” I say. And he does. His tuxedo is perfect. Obviously tailored to his exact body specifications.
“As do you, Miss Walcott. You should’ve let me in so I could help you with your coat.”
“Hmm,” I say. “I’ll consider that. If there’s a next time.”
That makes him cock an eyebrow at me. “No games tonight, Chella.”
Chella. He says it so casually. Like he’s been calling me that name my whole life. Like he gave it to me. Like he owns that name.
“We’re past it.”
“I’m not sure we are,” I say, grabbing my evening bag and letting him guide me out the front door. Once on the porch, I stop to lock up, and then I place my hand on his arm and let him take me down the dozen or so steps to the waiting car. He opens the back door, I slide across the soft leather seat, and then he gets in next to me. Once we’re settled, the driver proceeds.
“Matisse is excited.”
“Oh, good,” I say. And I mean it. “I really hope the show does well.”
“How could it not?” Bric asks.
I let out a small laugh. “Well, it’s art. Not everyone is in the market for such things.”
“Will you be expected to stay late and help with closing?” Bric asks, ignoring my remark.
“No. We have staff for that. Show openings are a night out for me.”
“Good. Then we’ll stay an acceptable amount of time and reconvene at Turning Point.” He hesitates, then adds, “Quin isn’t coming.”
“To the meeting?” I ask.
“To the show. I think he’ll show for the meeting.”
I hold my breath for a few moments. Thinking about this meeting. Marveling at how easily I have accepted it as normal.
It’s not normal, Chella.
Shut up, I tell the inner monologue. I don’t care.
And I don’t. I have thought of nothing else but what will happen tonight. At the show, sure. Since Bric promised to stick his fingers inside my pussy while we’re there. But mostly afterward. When I have all three of them sitting around a table so we can discuss… sex. With me. With them.
Rochelle didn’t go into detail about her relationships. She just said that they were each unique and I’d have to get used to them. I’d have to get used to letting them be themselves while I pretend to be what they want.
“Are you cold?” Bric asks. “I can turn up the heat.”
He’s asking because my whole body is shaking with the anticipation.
“Yes,” I say, as cover for my fear, and anxiety, and excitement.
I don’t live very far from the gallery, so it only takes a few minutes to get to the corner where we must be dropped off. We wait for the driver to do his job this time. And when the door opens, Bric steps out, grabs my hands, and gently pulls me up and out of the car.
There’s a crowd of people milling around outside. We sold tickets for this exhibition, so there is also a line. I’m about to walk us forward and present myself to the staff manning the door, but Bric takes over. He smiles at them as we approach. I don’t know them. We contract out for shows like this. But they know Bric. They must. Because they open the velvet rope and let us pass.
Inside the exhibition is spectacular. I have seen the pieces, of course. But tonight we have dramatic lighting to highlight each piece. And Matisse has it set up like a journey through a backstage. You meet the ushers standing sentry right at the door, walk down a makeshift aisle, lit up by lights on the floor to mimic a theatre, and then pass through a curtain where the rest of the exhibition awaits.
Matisse is there with Smith and they both stop to look at Bric and me as we approach. Smith is wearing a tuxedo that matches Bric’s. Matisse is wearing white. Typical artist.
“It’s fantastic,” I tell Matisse, leaning in to give him pretentious air kisses. “Congratulations. This is wonderful.”
“You look lovely, Chella.”
Chella. Again. All week he’s been calling me Marcella. But tonight everything changes, doesn’t it? My position has switched from gallery manager to Bric’s date. And it makes a difference. Matisse and I had a few awkward moments on Thursday when I came back to work, but generally we both pretended nothing happened at the Turning Point Club on Monday night.
Or maybe Bric told him about the arrangement and so he didn’t feel awkwardness was necessary?
Either way, it did the trick for me. I feel nothing but admiration for the artist right now.
“Chella,” Smith says. “Would you like to take me through the exhibit?”
I look at Bric.
Why? Why did I just do that?
And it makes him smile that I asked for permission, even if it was just a look.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Have fun. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
And if I wasn’t going to enter into a shared relationship with these two men, it might be normal.
But I am. So it’s not.
Have fun. What does that mean?
“Are you afraid of me?” Smith asks as he leads me away.
“No.” I laugh.
“Good. I’m not the one you should be afraid of. You’ll come to realize that soon enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Is he trying to scare me away?
“You’ll see,” Smith says, taking my hand and leading me toward the next sculpture. “I’m sure Bric promised you something fun here tonight. He likes it like that. He likes parties and big groups.”
“And you?” I ask, concentrating on the ballerina on the floor, tying up her toe shoes.
“I like it a different way. You’ll realize that soon enough as well.”
“Is that what the basement of the Club is for?” I ask, chancing a look up at him.
Smith smiles. “You’ll never know.”
“Why not?”
“Did Rochelle tell you what we do down there?”
“No.”
“Because if she did, she lied. She has no idea what we do down there.”
“I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine. I’ve—” But I stop talking. Jesus Christ. Get a hold of yourself, Chella.
“You’ve what?” Smith asks. “Been there?”
“No.” I laugh again. “I’ve heard things.”
“From who?”
“Just rumors. People talk.”
Smith’s arm is around me. He pulls me close to his chest, leans into my mouth and kisses me on the lips. “Not our people, Chella,” he whispers. “No one talks who knows. Just keep that in mind.”
Did he just threaten me?
But his kiss is back. A soft flutter on my lips. “You’re mine too, if Quin agrees. And I’d just like to warn you… I’m not good at sharing.”
“What?” I pull away, smiling. “You’re joking, right?”
He shakes his head. Very slowly. “Not even a little bit, Marcella Walcott. Not even close.”
People come up behind us and so Smith backs away and we continue on to the next sculpture. It’s darker here. And we are totally concealed in shadow. Only a single spotlight illuminates the next dancer. A woman at the barre, her leg stretched up high, arm in a graceful arc over her head as she warms up.
“Why does Quin get to make all the decisions?”
“He doesn’t make all of them. We make them together. But he’s holding out. So he needs to agree or it won’t happen. No matter how much Bric wants you.”
“You don’t want me?” I ask. I look up at him, but I can’t see his face. It’s too dark where we’re standing.
“I don’t care either way,” he says. “But Bric wants it now. Something you did or said on Tuesday affected him. Made him desire you. I’m sure Quin will give in, if only to make Bric happy. But you’d better make things right with Quin or it won’t last long.”
That last part really does come out like a threat.
“How do I go about doing that?”
I feel Smith shrug. And then we walk forward again, until we’re in more light and I can see him. “He’s not a hard guy to understand, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Are your ambivalent feelings for me the same ones you harbor for Rochelle?”
“Maybe,” Smith says, his hand finding the little dent of my waist. He places his palm flat and it sends a tingle through my body. “But don’t worry, Chella. It took me two and a half years to grow tired of Rochelle. I don’t think you’ll last that long, so you’ll never know.”
I laugh. Not loud, but enough to let him know what’s coming. “You’re an asshole.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet, whore.”
I am stunned silent. But only for a moment. “Is that what gets you off? Degradation?”
“Sometimes. But no, not really.”
“You just like to call me a whore?”
He smiles at me in the dim light. “Once you sign that contract, Marcella, that is what you’ll be.” He lets me take that all in. And the he pivots the conversation and says, “I’ve seen enough.”
“And said enough,” I say.
He chuckles. “God, it’s so cute the way you underestimate me.”
I let him lead me through the rest of the exhibit. We don’t bother to stop, but it’s a circular path that takes us back to Matisse and Bric, who are surrounded by people holding long-fluted champagne glasses and eating tiny finger food as they chat.
“You better think it over, Chella,” Smith says in a hushed whisper as we approach them. “Because once you’re in, you never get out.”
I stop walking and look up at him. “Rochelle got out.”
“Did she?” Smith asks, wry grin on his handsome face. Why are all the assholes so handsome? “Do you really think she can just flip her upside-down life right-side up again and there won’t be consequences?” He’s totally serious and my heart begins to pound with the implications of his words. “She can walk away. They all walk away eventually, Chella. But they can’t escape. You’ll see,” he says. “You’ll see what I mean.”
We cross the final few steps and become one of the crowd.
“I’ve decided to return your date, Bric,” Smith says, taking my hand, which he’s been holding the entire time, and placing it on Bric’s arm. “I’m leaving. Nice to see you again, Matisse,” Smith says over his shoulder as he makes for the front door.
When Smith Baldwin commands attention, he gets it. I’ll give him that. Because everyone in the substantial crowd of people surrounding Matisse stops what they are doing to hear him speak.
Smith never looks back.
There is only a second or two of silent awe. The chatter begins again. I have to control myself so I don’t roll my eyes.
“Now you get to walk through with me,” Bric says, smiling down at me. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, my date is anxious to show me what’s in the dark.”
When we’re safely inside the exhibit again, hidden in the shadows, Bric says, “Don’t take him seriously.”
I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “Why is he like that?”
“He’s an unhappy person, Chella. Very few things bring out the human in him these days. But don’t worry, you’ll be one of those things.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think he’s playing with me. Like I’m just another piece on the game board.”
“His whole life is a game. And this,” Bric says, indicating us. “We’re a game too. But it’s a fun game. It’s fun if you play with the right people. And both Smith and I think you’re right for it.”
“And Quin?” I ask.
“He needs some time to adjust.”
“He liked Rochelle a lot?” I ask.
“More than he should, probably. I liked her too. What they had was not special. What I had with her was not special.”
“And what you’ll have with me won’t be special, either?”
“You’re missing the point, Chella.” He pushes me into a corner. Away from the people and the exhibits. It’s a small hallway that leads to a utility room door. His hands are on my legs. Fingers pulling on the slits of my dress, exposing the skin of my thighs. He palms my ass cheek and whispers, “Good girl,” when he realizes I’m not wearing underwear.
I place both hands on his chest to push him back, but he doesn’t yield.
“It’s not special, Marcella. Not with me, or Smith, or Quin. Not alone. Alone it’s nothing but fucking and filthy, sick desires. But what we have together is totally different. Shared ownership of anything implies partnership. Working together, finding common ground, and making decisions that are best for the group, not the individual. What you want doesn’t matter. What I want doesn’t matter. What Smith and Quin want doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is us. And once you figure out what us is, you’ll know what it’s really like to live. I promise you. You’ll know, and you’ll never go back to singular relationships. They’ll feel hollow and simple. You will be addicted to us and we’ll be addicted to you. It’s a disease, Chella. And you’re sick as fuck, just like us.”
I look up at him, then over his shoulder where my boss, and Matisse, are standing in front of a sculpture, talking. Their voices are loud and boisterous and they carry into the small hallway. And that’s when Bric slips his fingers between my legs and finds what he needs.
My permission.
“I’d like to fuck you right now. But all I can do right now is tease, Chella. Don’t let the details scare you away. You’re here because you understand the big picture.”
I’m not so sure about that, but I don’t say anything. Because the way he’s stroking my pussy feels too good to care.
“Come on my fingers, Chella. We’re not leaving this hallway until you do. And if anyone sees us, comes near us, I won’t stop. So you better do it fast, you fucking whore. You better clench down and show me it’s real, too. If you fake it, I’ll know. I’ll take you outside, bend you over a bench on the 16th Street Mall, lift your dress up so everyone can see your bare ass, and spank the shit out of you until you cry. Until you beg me to stop or until you come. So don’t fight it, just—”
I come. I moan. A little too loudly, but it makes Bric happy, so I don’t care.
He laughs in my ear as I pant through my orgasm. “Please,” he says, fisting my hair and pulling my head back so I have to look him in the eyes. “Sign that contract tonight so we can fuck you hard next week.”