"Yes," I say, walking towards the front door. "Fine. I'm in. Let's go downstairs. I can't stand this place."

"Hold on," Bric says, grabbing my arm as I try to get past him. "We need to show her around."

I turn back to Marcella. "This is the kitchen," I say, waving my hands at the newly repainted cabinets. They are stark white now, a blank slate, just like always. The countertop is black marble and the island cabinets are dark gray. I think Smith was in charge of the contractors this time around. "This is the living room."

Gone are Rochelle's eclectic couches made of crushed velvet. Gone are the drapes. Gone is Smith's old chair in front of the window and in its place is Smith's new chair in front of the window.

The couch is white, like the cabinets, made of leather, and there are two black and white striped pillows propped up against each arm. Smith's new chair is nothing but a curved chrome frame with a black leather seat and back. It looks like it's suspended in mid-air.

"The guest bathroom is there," I say, pointing to a door in the short hallway. "But you're not allowed to have guests. And the bedroom is in there with the master bath and closets."

I don't bother going in there. I saw it earlier.

"We have a closet," I call out after Bric, who escorts Marcella into the bedroom to check it out. "And you have a closet."

Smith has stayed behind with me. "Don't be a dick to her."

"Why not?" I ask. "She fucked my whole world over."

"She didn't do anything. Rochelle fucked your world over."

"Same thing," I say.

"Look," Smith says. "If you're going to be an asshole, then you need to say no. Bric and I will find someone else."

I know he's serious. They will. And they will never say a word about it to me ever again.

"But it's not her, Quin. It's not really Marcella who's pissing you off tonight. It's Rochelle. And if you say no tonight, chances are you'll say no to the next one. And that's fine. But then what we have will be over. And do you really want to throw us all away just because one girl fucked with your head?"

I don't say anything, just listen to the soft voices of Bric and Marcella in the bedroom. I think he's giving her a pep talk. Just like the one I'm getting from Smith.

"You know what you are," Smith says. "What you like. What you get out of this. And we've got something good here. If you walk out, you'll just have to find it again with someone else."

He's right again, of course.

"I already said yes," I say. "My answer is yes."

I head to the door again-no Bric to stop me this time-and go out into the hallway where the elevator is waiting to take me down to Smith's little room off the lobby. I don't wait, just enter, push the button, and let the doors close behind me.

When I get off, the lobby down below is busy, but not crowded. The restaurant is always booked. You have to make a reservation two months in advance to get a public table at Turning Point Club. But it's Friday night, so we have no public tables. Only members are allowed in the building on the weekends.

A few people catch my gaze, but I ignore their nods of greeting and head right into Smith's bar. The bartender comes over with a bottle of Scotch and pours. By the time he's done, Bric and Smith are getting off the elevator with Marcella.

Bric is glaring at me as they approach the table. I'm going to hear an earful later, but he won't pick a fight in front of the new girl.

Bric holds out her chair and she sits directly across from me. Bric sits next to her and Smith is on my right.

"OK," Smith says, producing an envelope from his suit coat pocket. "Here are the details, Chella." He takes the contract out of the envelope and flattens the pages down on the table, then pushes it towards her with one finger.

"We each get you two nights a week," Bric starts. "Quin gets Monday and Tuesday. I get Wednesday and Thursdays. And Smith gets Friday and Saturday. Your free day is Sunday. You will stay here in your new apartment-"

"Wait," Marcella says. "I have a house. I can't live at my house?"

"What part of 'we own you' don't you get?" Smith asks.

I'm surprised he's so rough with her after all that bullshit he was talking upstairs.

Marcella, however, does not seem taken aback. "I'm just trying to clarify things, Smith." The way she snarls his name almost makes me smile.

"We like you here, Chella," Bric explains, tapping on the table. "So you will stay here. On Sunday you can do anything you want. But on our days, we call the shots."

"What do I get out of this?" Marcella asks. Smith laughs. "Besides sex." She glares at him. "I get that part, thanks. Because although I'm sure you all have golden cocks that can bring virgins to orgasm without foreplay, I'm not sure it's enough compensation for being bossed around and treated like shit."

This time I'm the one who laughs. Pretty loud, too. "Burn," I say, unable to hide my delight.

"You get," Bric continues, shooting me a look that says 'shut the fuck up,' "your dream. Fulfilled."

"My dream?" Marcella asks, confused. "What does that mean? I think you guys are all hot, and I'm really OK with the sex part. But my dream? You're not my dream."

"Of course we're not your dream, Chella," Bric explains. "You hardly know us. But you do have a dream, right?"

She's still got a confused look on her face.

"Oh, my God," Smith says, his patience wearing thin. "A dream. Money, new house, new job, or opportunities. Or stupid shit you just don't want to spend your own money on, like a puppy and a trip to the Arctic to see the Northern Lights. Your dream," Smith says. "I don't understand how this is confusing. Everyone has a dream."

"I see you've given this a lot of thought, Smith. Is that your dream? A puppy and a trip to the Arctic?"

"Or," Bric says, trying his best to control things-but I have to give Marcella props for turning what is supposed to be a tightly controlled meeting run by Bric into a circus-"something more meaningful. A gallery of your own, for instance."

"Hmm," Marcella says.

"What?" Smith asks. His arms are stretched out on the table in front of him, palms open, as he leans forward. Like he's about at the end of his line.

"I already have all those things. Not the gallery. But I don't want a gallery of my own."

Smith sits back in his chair, snapping to attention. He looks at Bric. I look at Bric. Bric looks back at both of us.

"Then why are you doing this?" I ask.

It's Marcella's turn to straighten her back. She bristles at the question and does not answer it.

"You don't have to decide what you want right now, Chella," Bric says. "Whatever it is, between the three of us, we can manage. Think about it. I'm sure there's something you want. Something you've always wanted but never had. Sometimes you need more than money to buy happiness."

"The next rule," Smith says, taking over-he points to the contract on the table-"is the most important. Because it spells out your purpose in one very simple sentence. You exist to play the game of Taking Turns with us. And you agree to try your best to make us happy in all ways, at all times."

Marcella looks up and swallows.

"It's not as ominous as it sounds," Bric says. "We've been in this arrangement for over a decade, Chella. We're not looking to hurt you or make you miserable."

She clears her throat. "Understood." Her gaze lands on me. "But what if I don't make you happy? What if I fail?"

Bric puts an arm around her shoulder and smiles. He leans in and kisses her while his other hand reaches for her breast, pinches her nipple. Her mouth opens for his. Their tongues intertwine. I don't see it, but I know her hand is on his cock already. No encouragement necessary.

When I look over at Smith, he's transfixed. Unable to stop staring. His hand on his cock too. God, they really want her. I don't recall ever seeing them so... interested. The meeting we had with Rochelle didn't go anything like this.

Bric pulls out of the kiss and smiles at Marcella. "You're already making us happy. It's going to be easy."

But again, her wary gaze lands on me. "I don't think I'll make Quin happy."

I get a sharp look from Bric. And even though I don't turn to see if Smith is giving me that same snarl, I know he is. "She's overreacting," I say with a sigh. "I'm fine. It will be fine."

"You said yes," Bric replies. "So it better be fine, Quin. The rest of it is just messy details, Chella. Are you on birth control? I, for one, do not like children. So I'm not interested in that. At all."

"I am," she says softly. "And I've just had a check-up last week and I'm clean."

She's clean? I have so much to say about that little remark. Like... she got herself tested last week?

Smith shifts the papers on the table, revealing our own health records. "This is all you need to know about us." He ignores her remark, as does Bric.

How badly they must want her to just gloss over all these warning bells. "Are we done now?" I ask.

"Is that it?" Marcella asks, leaning in to get a better look at the contract.

"Except for the payout," Bric says. "But that's all about the dream. When you get an idea of what you'd like, you come tell me, Marcella. We'll make it happen." And then he holds her chin as he kisses her on the lips one more time, whispering, "Sign the contract," into her mouth.

Smith pushes a pen in her direction, but she ignores him until Bric is done owning her lips.

Her hands are shaking when she picks up the pen. And I don't know what her signature normally looks like, but when she signs and pushes the contract across the table at me so I can sign next, it's almost illegible from her unsteady hand.

I sign and pass it to Smith. He signs and pushes it across the table to Bric. Bric looks at us both like he just hit the bullseye and won the biggest prize at the carnival.

He signs his name as a big, dramatic swoosh and then folds the contract up, tucks it back into the envelope, and slides it into his suit coat pocket.

"Great," Smith says, pushing back from the table, his chair making a loud scraping sound. "Then let's get started, Marcella. It's Friday, so looks like I get to break you in first."

Marcella Walcott goes completely pale. The reality of what's happening hits her and she puts both hands up, like she needs to ward off Smith. "Tonight?" She's breathing hard. "Not tonight. I'm not staying here tonight. I don't have any of my things. There's nothing of mine in that apartment. I need time to adjust. Next weekend. Can we start-"

"No," Bric says. He's not loud, but he's got a way of commanding people into shutting up.

Marcella shuts up.

"You're going with Smith, Chella. He's right. It's Friday and your part in this game is to make him happy."

"I don't-"

"Hey," Smith says, his word coming out light and easy, interrupting her. "I'll take you home tonight if you want. I'm OK with that. No big deal, right? Relax, Chella. Like Bric said, we're not out to hurt you or make you miserable."

He walks around behind Bric and then pulls Marcella's chair out. She gets up on instinct. Like she knows just what to do when a man pulls out a chair. Smith latches on to her arm and leads her away, leaning into her ear to say, "I'll take you home. Just calm down."

Marcella looks over her shoulder as she stumbles towards the stairs. The look is really a plea for help from Bric.

But Bric knows he's got no power tonight. His power comes later next week.

So he shuns her. Lets her go.

Tonight, she belongs to Smith.

I hold my glass up to her as she's led down the stairs. "Cheers, Marcella Walcott. Welcome to Turning Point Club."

Let's just see how long you last.

Chapter Eleven - Smith.

Marcella's reluctant, but I don't care. I have one goal, one focus, one way to end this night. And all of that revolves around her. She gets in the car when I open the door and then I say, "Scoot over," before sliding in and placing my hand on her leg.

She draws in a deep breath that I almost miss due to the soft clunk of the driver closing the door.

"Are you afraid yet?"

"No," she says, not looking at me. Looking at everything else but me. The backseat, which she already knows, because this is the same car I sent her home in last weekend. Out the window, where the capitol building dominates the skyline. Her feet. Her hands. My face.

I smile.

She swallows.

"One of these days, Marcella Walcott, I'm gonna get your story."

"I wouldn't hold my breath for that," she mumbles, turning away just as the driver gets back in.

"Why not? It's a secret?"

A long, deep inhalation of air.

The car moves forward and I settle in. The drive over to her place is short, practically over by the time her shoulders relax. But maybe it's the thought of home that relaxes her?

We pull up right in front of her townhouse and I'm out of the car, extending my hand. She takes it and I help her step out of that world and into this one.

More silence as we walk up her front steps, She starts digging into the decorative clutch she's using as a purse for her keys, but I'm already unlocking the door.

"You have a key to my house?" she snaps.

"What did you think I was doing on Monday?" I practically laugh the words out.