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.

I flick the light on and she closes her eyes, hiding her face to shield herself from the sudden brightness.

She's... pretty. Dark hair, long and straight, kind of like Rochelle's, but nothing at all like Rochelle's at the same time. Her skin is fair, which isn't surprising since it's winter and the sun seems to have gone missing in Denver for the past month. Her hands are tied behind her back, so I can't see them. And she's sitting up, knees to chest, completely naked, and I can see her pussy.

I stare for a moment longer than I should and then I finally look at her face-a sweet face. Wide blue eyes looking up at me, the remnants of her make-up streaked down her cheeks like she's been crying.

But she isn't crying now.

Her nose is small and her plump lips are wrapped around the ball of the gag. Drool is dripping out of her mouth. One long strand hangs just above her left breast, ready to fall.

"Well," I say, far beyond curious at this point, "I can't wait to hear what you've got to say about this."

I crouch down in front of her legs and catch her scent. The flowers. Or citrus, whichever it is. I inhale deeply and can't help but take in the smell of sex.

I look her in the eyes as I reach behind her head and unstrap the gag. It falls forward, dropping into her lap as I watch her adjust, swallow down the drool, and then take a deep breath.

She says nothing.

Hmmm.

Just stares at me.

My hand is between her legs. My finger slipping inside her pussy. She is wet. So fucking wet. She doesn't close her eyes or moan. In fact, her eyes never leave mine. Not once.

She likes it.

I remove my slick fingers from her pussy and bring them to her mouth.

She opens, sucks them.

My God.

Still, she stares into my eyes.

I envision her mouth on my cock and grow hard at the thought.

And then I close my eyes.

But only for a moment. Barely a blink. I'm back in control. I reach for her upper arm and pull her to her feet. She complies willingly. And then I spin her around and begin untying her wrists.

The rope is tight. Tighter than it should be. Quin knows how to tie a girl up, I've seen him do it enough times to be sure of that. But he was probably panicking, so I don't judge.

When I get the rope off there is a deep red burn ringing her wrists.

She brings her hands in front of her to get a look at her wrists. I take them, looking closely at her wounds. "I have something for that. But first, let's make progress on your clothes."

"I have clothes," she says, her voice not weak, not small, but firm and strong. "On the chair."

I walk over to the chair and pick them up. Jeans. Nondescript sweater. Winter shearling boots. Some semi-nice lingerie and thick cotton socks.

"Well, that won't do," I say, walking back to the closets. I open the one across the short hallway from the one I share with Bric and Quin. Rochelle's closet.

I don't know what I expected, but I'm kinda taken aback that everything Rochelle owns is still in there. Her many, many, many pairs of thrift-store shoes, and skirts, and those horrible long dresses. Even her purses are still here. She never shopped for purses at the thrift stores. They are all designer. Even the fringy ones. They live in soft cloth bags that come inside the purse when you purchase it, and they are lined up on the top shelf like little surprises wrapped in velvet.

I only know this because I bought her a few purses myself that first year. A Prada, a Gucci, and some other brand she asked for that I had never heard of, but which set me back almost three thousand dollars.

If Rochelle ever tells someone the story of us, she better not call me cheap.

I sigh and divert my attention to the limited number of classy, five-star-restaurant-worthy dresses hanging on the far end of a rack. I look back at the new girl for a moment, then choose a red one. To set off her hair.

"Here," I say, holding the hanger out to her. "Put this on, please."

"What?" the girl asks, taking the hanger from me.

"I didn't stutter. Put on the dress. I have to walk you out, obviously. You can't walk out in jeans, for fuck's sake. This is Turning Point Club. We have a dress code."

"Why can't I go out the back?"

I stop looking for shoes to match the dress and turn to stare at her. "Is that how you got in?"

She nods. "The freight elevator."

"Figures. Fucking Rochelle hated the dress code. Well, the freight elevator isn't going to work for me, I'm afraid. I don't leave by way of the freight elevator. I walk in. Everybody sees me. I walk out. Everybody sees me. And since I have to walk you out, you're going to look the part. Now put on the fucking dress."

I turn back to the shoes.

"I need my bra and underwear," she says.

"Not for that dress, you don't." I find a pair of shoes. They have four-inch stiletto heels, and that's gonna suck in the snow. But they are black and I like them. I drop them on the floor at her feet and then go looking for jewelry.

When I open up the jewelry case I see the gift I got Rochelle for Christmas two years ago. It all came in a special box. An opal case. I open it and look at the eighteen-karat gold collar. A matching cuff, ring, and long, drop earrings are situated around it.

I let out a grunt of anger when I realize she never wore it. There's not even a fingerprint on any of the thick bands. Not the necklace, not the cuff, not the ring.

What a waste of forty thousand dollars.

"The shoes are a little tight," the girl says.

I shoot her a look over my shoulder as I reach for the Prada bag. It's black, like the shoes. It looks brand new too.

Why didn't I ever notice that Rochelle never wore the gifts I gave her?

"You won't be walking far," I reply to her comment. "If you brought a purse you're leaving it here. Along with your clothes. If you need them back-" I stop and stare at her. The dress looks nice. My eyes wander down her legs, take in how shapely her calves are in those heels. "You're not getting them back. I'm going to throw your clothes out. So if you brought a purse, change it over to this one because it's staying behind as well."

I grab some antibacterial ointment from Rochelle's bathroom for the burns on the new girl's wrists, drop it on the bed, and then watch her as she exits the closet and crosses the room and gets to work, meticulously lifting out each and every object in her purse and placing it in the Prada. When she's done, she stands and reaches for a coat I hadn't noticed.

"Not that." I snicker. It's nice but... it's pink. "You can't wear pink with red and black. Even I know that much."

"It's cold out," she says.

I go back into the closet and come back with a black coat, draping it across the bed. "You need makeup too. Rochelle's vanity has that stuff in it. It's in there." I point to the bathroom. "Do the best you can in five minutes, please. It's getting late."

I take the opal case, go out in to the living room and wait, looking out the window at the capitol building dome.

"I'm ready."

I turn and admire my work as I walk towards her. "It'll do. Turn around and lift your hair."

She does that without comment and I place the choker on her neck, then the cuff on her wrist, and the ring on her finger. "You can do the earrings."

"Why..." She pauses, her hand on the gold at her throat, her eyes on the gold around her wrist. "Why do I need to wear all this? No one will even notice."

"Everyone will notice," I say in a low voice. "Everyone notices me. Now put the earrings on."

"I know who you are," she says, bringing an earring to her lobe and fastening it.

"Good for you," I say, watching her carefully as she repeats the motion on the other lobe. "You're not the only one."

"I guess I'm ready."

I hold out my arm and she places her hand on it.

We walk out together.

Chapter Three - Bric.

Quin is already getting inside the elevator when I follow him out the door. "Hey. Wait up," I say. I walk in behind him, he stabs at the buttons, and the doors close. "Just calm down, OK?"

"Where is she?"

"I don't know, Quin. I haven't seen her in two weeks. Same as you."

"She planned this," he says.

And even though I want to say something like, Don't be ridiculous, or, Don't get paranoid on me, I can't. Because there is no other explanation for it. "Yeah." I sigh. "I think she did. Have you ever seen that other girl before?"

"I didn't even really see her. I fucked her in the dark and then tied her up and put her in the closet. I have no clue who she is." He looks at me, defeated and sad. And Jesus Christ, I don't know why I didn't see it before. He's in love with Rochelle. Has been for a while, I think.

"She'll call," I say. "Or..." But I trail off. She won't call. We have rules. We all signed a contract three years ago when Rochelle joined the game. And the rules state she can leave whenever she wants, but once that happens, she will never come back. She will never enter Turning Point Club again. If she ever sees us on the street, she will not engage. And we will not look for her.