Taking Turns (Turning #1)(5)

“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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*ck I’m not! I was in a three-year f*cking 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 f*ck. 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 f*ck up your life. But losing is part of the game, you understand? Our secrets are law, Quin. And you won’t f*ck 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 motherf*cker 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 f*ck-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.

I have to take a sip of brandy just to get through the memory of sitting in a five-star restaurant, cringing the entire time because she was sitting across from me and I had to look at her.

She was stale. Old. Not her age. She was only—hell, I have no idea how old she was. Not yet thirty, for sure. Maybe twenty-seven. But everything about her had grown old.

It was OK in the beginning, I guess. I like things the way I like them and she was fine with that. So it was fun. But if it wasn’t for Bric and Quin, no way would I have ever looked at that girl twice. Ever.

I actually shudder just thinking about it. Take another sip.

And then I get up.

Set my glass down on a nearby table and walk to the hallway.

Stare down it for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do.

Whoever is in that closet isn’t making a peep of noise.

I have to agree with Quin on one aspect of this whole mystery. Where did Rochelle go? Not that I care, because I don’t. But clearly she set this up. She brought us a replacement.

And Quin—that dumbass—already f*cked her.

I’m intrigued at how that happened. What was this girl thinking? Why did she come here? Did Rochelle lie to her? If so, why didn’t she scream? Or fight when Quin got in bed with her? I’m guessing it was dark, so I can’t blame Quin too much. He looked like he had a few drinks tonight. He was expecting Rochelle to be in bed, as she probably is every Sunday night when he comes by for his time with her. He came to f*ck her. So he did.