That doesn't happen often. Fathers pass this little perk onto sons. In fact, Turning Point Club membership is a very popular wedding gift in my world.

The real Club is down on the lower levels, but the White Room is open to the public and filled to capacity for dinner Monday through Thursday. If you're lucky enough to get a reservation. And since we have forty-two active Club members who eat here regularly with their families, mistresses, business associates, etc., it's not easy to get one of those.

The Black Room is not open to the public, even though it's right across the main lobby. Members only in the bar. A little peek into the forbidden for the masses. Not much happens in there. Just bar stuff. Drinking, food, laughing, informal parties... shit like that.

But it intrigues people. No one knows what we do. Only the members know. Hell, Rochelle never even knew. She never made it downstairs. Smith was done with her long before she ever thought to ask about it.

But Chella... Chella is a maybe. I know Smith thinks he's got her pinned. He understands why she went along with Rochelle's set-up. But I'm not convinced she'll go that far. I need tonight to feel her out a little more. Give her my rule. And then the final rule.

Her reaction to that is what drives me. Drives all three of us.

Smith is right, I guess. Rochelle should've been let go a long time ago.

I miss what we never had with her.

Everyone in the Club has a monthly health screen-even though we do insist on condoms. Everyone has a biannual appointment with the Club psychiatrist-just to make sure we nip any crazy in the bud. And everyone follows the rules.

So Turning Point is a place for members to be among friends. And breakfast is a time when friends get together.

But lunch is another matter.

Lunch today was dead. I was bored out of my mind, counting down the hours until dinner.

Quin shows up after work and joins me upstairs in Smith's bar.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the chair across from me and pointing at the bartender to bring him a drink. "What time will you bring her here?"

"Seven fifteen or so," I say, sipping my drink. I want to ask him about his time with Chella, but I can't. Not until we're all together.

Rules. Smith and his fucking rules.

"What do you think she's gonna say?" The bartender comes with Quin's drink and he picks it up to sip while I consider his question.

She only has two options. Yes or no. I hate being Number Three. And this is the second fucking time I've gotten stuck with it. Maybe this arrangement isn't for me anymore?

The question kinda surprises me. It was my idea in the first place. I'm the one who found the first six girls. I'm the one who helped perfect the rules. I'm the one who seemed to get the most out of it.

But it doesn't feel that way anymore. It doesn't feel necessary anymore.

"Well?" Quin asks.

"What?"

"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you? I asked you what you think she'll say."

"Smith says she'll say yes within two weeks."

"I think so too."

It pisses me off that they know her well enough already that they can even form an opinion. I don't know her at all. I had one night out with her and it doesn't count. Tonight won't count either, we have to have the conversation about the rules. And then the party and then...

It's depressing. I lose either way. Number Three is such a fucked-up arrangement.

Quin talks about other shit until it's time for me to leave, but I just tune him out, finish my drink, and then walk down to the elevator and take it up to the top floor. I don't knock-I don't have to. I just walk in.

The place looks completely different.

"Hey!" Marcella calls from the bedroom. "I'm ready, I swear." She giggles like she's having fun.

Is she having fun? Already? What part of this is fun so far? "Uh... I see you got some new furniture." Gone are the sleek couches I chose to replace the earthy thrift-store look Rochelle had going on. It's been replaced with more classic, traditional pieces. It looks very... homey. Nuclear family, two point two kids kind of homey.

"Yes," Chella says, peeking around the door of the bedroom as she fastens her earrings. "Quin took me shopping. We picked out new stuff. You don't mind, do you?"

"No," I say, looking around. Kinda. "I didn't know what your style was. I guess I missed the mark."

"No," she says, coming out of the bedroom. "It was fine. But given the choice..." She laughs again. "I guess I prefer this. Normal stuff, you know? And Quin is a shopper."

I smile. Sort of. Normal stuff. I have so many questions about that seemingly innocent remark.

"I'm excited," Chella says, grabbing her coat from the front closet. "I don't usually go to Christmas parties."

I take her coat and drape it over my arm. She won't need it until after dinner. "No? Why not?"

"My dad. He's not a Christmas party guy."

"What about your mom?"

"She died three years ago."

"Yeah, that's right," I say. Fuck. "Sorry, I knew that. I should've know better than to ask." I'm so off my fucking game.

"It's OK," she says, smiling as she drags a piece of hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear. "I'm over it."

Over it. Normal. Yeah, I have a lot of questions for Chella Walcott. "Well, you look very pretty." And she does. The black dress fits her perfectly. The lace bodice is tight, her tits look fantastic all pushed up and perky, and her waist is tiny. I envision dancing with her tonight. Placing my thumbs on her hips, my fingers splayed across her ass.

The dress is long, touches the floor. I asked for this specific dress on this specific night for a reason and that, at least, is going as planned.

And then I notice the necklace. The choker. The collar.

"What?" Chella asks. Her hand goes to her throat. To the collar I can't stop staring at.

"Where did you get that?"

"Smith gave it to me. That first night when he took me home? When he dressed me up? He put this jewelry on me." She raises her hand to show off the gold cuff bracelet and then I notice the earrings that match. "I figured it needed a night out as much as I do."

I don't like it. Rochelle was supposed to be eradicated before Chella got here. Gone. Thrown out. Given back to the world. And yet there is still something left of her. But if it makes Chella happy... "It looks beautiful, Marcella. And so do you."

"Thank you," she says, blushing pale pink.

"I hope you're hungry."

"I am. Quin told me I have access to the kitchen any time I want. But it's no fun eating alone. And I already did it twice today."

I force a smile. And then I lie. "Sorry about that. The Club was so busy today I just couldn't get away."

"I understand. I always get lonely on my days off work. And now that Matisse will be on display until March, well, I have four full days off a week. I feel lucky that you guys came along. My whole week is planned, it seems."

"You like that?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "I like it."

I give her a real smile for that answer. And as we take the elevator down to the second floor, I start to think that maybe... just maybe, Smith is right.

Maybe this one will pull me back into the life?

When we get off the elevator Smith is in his usual chair, so I place Chella's hand on my arm, hand her coat off to a server to check downstairs with mine, and lead her up the short flight of stairs and towards to the table overlooking the Black Room and the lobby.

Smith and Quin both stand up as we approach, and then Smith backs out and waves his hand at the chair to his left.

I shoot Quin a look but he's too busy kissing Chella on the lips. They linger for a moment, and then he backs off, leaving Chella embarrassed as she looks at me.

"It's OK," I say, motioning for her to take a seat next to Smith. He boxes her in with that seat because it's next to the railing that gives her a view down into the Black Room. Quin takes the seat across from Chella and I take the seat across from Smith.

"Nice dress," Smith says, looking at me instead of my date. "Full length. Smart."

"What?" Chella asks.

"Bric always tries to stop Smith's wandering hands." Quin chuckles. "The dress is Bric's way of keeping Smith's fingers dry while we dine."

Chella laughs.

I don't. "Do we want to eat first? Or talk first?"

"Let's talk," Smith says.

"OK," Chella agrees. "I'm dying to know what this is all about."

"This is about the rules, love," Smith says. "Bric's rule and the final rule."

Chella bites her lip as she looks at me in anticipation.

"My rule," I say, "is..." God. I hate being Number Three. "I can't have sex with you unless Smith is watching."

Chella's smile drops. Like immediately. And I get more satisfaction out of her disappointment than anything I can recall in recent memory. "What?"

And then Smith makes his move, long dress be damned. His hand is in her lap. Rubbing her thigh, fingers pressing down between her legs. She's looking down at it like it's a spider, or a bug, or a mouse. Something disgusting. "What are you doing? I thought your rule was no touching me?"

"And that's the final rule we need to discuss, Chella," Smith says. His smile's as dirty as his mind. Filled with filthy fucking and hot sweaty bodies all twisted together in one bed. Arms and legs tangled together. Our hands all over her body as we fill up her pussy, and her ass, and her mouth all at the same time. "When the four of us are all together, we have no rules."

Chapter Sixteen - Chella.

I am quiet for so long Quin reaches across the table and takes my hand. But Smith's fingers are trying to stimulate me under the table. He doesn't care about the fabric of my dress holding him back from what he wants. He simply lifts it up-yards of expensive fabric pool into my lap as he finds what he's looking for.

My pussy is wet and in this moment, I hate myself. I hate that everything they are offering me is something I want.

"Chella," Quin says, squeezing my hand.

But Smith has found what he's looking for and I have to draw in a deep, deep breath so I don't close my eyes and moan.

I concentrate on Bric instead. He gives me a weak smile. "Are you OK?" he asks.

I push Smith's hand away, expecting a fight, but he retreats and pulls my dress back down again.

"What do you think?" Quin asks. "Do you want to walk out?"

"You can," Bric says.

"You won't," Smith adds.

I look down at the place setting in front of me. The china is classic white with a black stripe around the edge. The white linen napkin is folded like an envelope, just like the last time when Smith brought me here with Matisse. As a test, he said. But this time there's writing underneath the envelope flap. Right on the napkin in bold black marker are the words, Don't worry. I'll take care of you.

I look at Smith, still lifting the cloth flap.

"Don't give me that look of doubt, Chella," Smith says. He claims the message in his response.

I was wrong the other night when I thought Taking Turns was a lifestyle. I was one hundred percent wrong. Because this is nothing but a game of one-upmanship between these three men using me as a pawn on the chess board.

Which of them can get the upper hand? Which rule will be their downfall? And which rule will make them winners?

"For fuck's sake, Chella," Quin blurts. "Say something."

I clear my throat and when I speak, my voice is small and weak. "You're playing with me. Like a toy."

"Like a toy," Smith repeats. "Yes. You're our toy."

"You can say no," Bric says. "Just get up and walk out and we'll never bother you again."

"You like this?" I ask him. "You like the thought of Smith watching you? Watching us?"

"We've been doing it so long, Marcella, I barely know he's there."

"Liar." Smith laughs. "He's lying. He gets off to it, Chella. He gets off to some pretty sick shit. I should know. I've seen him do it all downstairs."