"You and I?" she asks.

"Quin and Smith will be there, but you are my date. Understand?"

She says nothing, so I wait her out. When the seconds continue to tick off with no answer from her, I explain it another way. "It's a job interview, Marcella."

"A job?" She pulls away from me, her upper body leaning back against the granite countertop.

"A job with lots of benefits."

"Like the sex?" she asks.

I can't tell if that's a snide comment or one filled with longing. It comes off as something in between and I decide Smith was right. She wants in. She wants this. She likes the dark.

She just needs to tell herself she doesn't. That's why she's fighting.

"We can have a proper discussion after the show. We'll have drinks at the club and discuss the details."

I wait for her answer. And after a few moments of thinking, she says, "And then you'll all fuck me together?"

That was not the answer I expected. "No," I say. But I think I catch a little disappointment in her expression. So I add, "Not unless we all agree. And I'm not sure Quin will agree to that."

I reach under her short skirt and slip my hand between her legs, pulling her panties aside. She closes her eyes when I do this. A soft moan. One finger presses inside her. She is so fucking wet, just like Smith said.

My other hand uncrosses her arms and she lets them fall helplessly to her side.

I lean into her, kiss her mouth. She kisses me back as I finger her pussy. "Don't fight it," I say. "We can give you what you need, Marcella." I play with her clit, flicking my finger back and forth. "I'd fuck you right now if I could."

Her eyes open and stare at me. "Why can't you?" Her voice is deep and throaty. Oh, yeah, this girl is a dirty slut. She'd let me do anything I want right now.

"Because if I fuck you first without the other guys involved, then you'd be mine and not ours. And I'm more interested in ours than mine."

I pull my fingers out of her pussy. They are slick with her juices. And when I bring them up to her lips, she opens her mouth and sucks them like she'll eventually be sucking my cock.

"Five-thirty, Marcella. Wear something spectacular. And no panties. I want to finger you again at that gallery. In front of your boss."

I pull my wet fingers out of her mouth and wipe them on her cheek. Kiss her softly on the lips.

I leave her like that. All hot and wet. All ready for more.

She will come to understand what this offer is. And even if it's not her brand of forbidden, she will stay. At least for a while. I know addiction to the dark when see it.

And she's a junkie.

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?