Page 7 of Taking Turns

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 fucked 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 fuck her. So he did.

But why didn’t this new girl stop him?

I admit I don’t get curious often… but…

I walk down the hallway to the bedroom. The lights are off and when I glance at the closet I share with Bric and Quin, there’s no light peeking from under the louvered double doors. The bed sheets are rumpled and there’s an unfamiliar smell in the room. Not the earthy perfume Rochelle used to wear, but something sweeter like citrus and flowers. Orange blossoms or gardenias.

I flick the light on and take it in. She’s moved some of the furniture since the last time I was in here—which was a triple date about a year ago. My chair near the window is gone.

Where the fuck did that go? Did she sell it?

It bugs me and I make a mental note to ask Quin the next time I see him.

There’s a settee in front of the window now. A long light-gray bench with chesterfield tufting on the seat back. It looks old. Like Rochelle got it from an antique store.

There is no way I’d ever sit on that thing.

Maybe that’s why she put it there?

That makes me laugh, because her passive-aggressive gesture went unnoticed by me and now she’s gone and doesn’t even get to appreciate my reaction.

Gone.

I smile at the thought.

I like that she’s gone.

In fact, I’m far more interested in the girl tied up in the closet than I am Rochelle.

I hear a faint whimper and whirl around. She must’ve heard me laugh. It must’ve spooked her. Had to have.

Will she scream?

I wait for it. I wait for some muffled attempts at yelling through her ball gag. Or a well-placed kick at the door. Quin didn’t say he tied her legs up, right? So why is she still in there? The door doesn’t even lock. It’s a closet, for fuck’s sake.

Nothing but silence.

“OK, then,” I say out loud. “Might as well get this over with.” I walk over to the closet and pull the doors wide open. I have to squint for a second to make out her shape, but yeah, there’s definitely a girl on the floor.