She's pretty. I noted it last night but watching her at work let me see her. She likes her job, she likes her co-workers, and she appears to be happy.

So why was she going along with Rochelle's plan? Because I think it's pretty clear at this point that Rochelle did have a plan. What it was, what it's about... I have no idea.

I slip my coat jacket off and drape it over the back of the chair I'm sitting in. Then my tie. And once that's situated neatly on top of the jacket, I start unbuttoning my shirt. It's cold out tonight, and even though the heat is on in the house, it's set low. So I leave it on, just open it up to expose my chest.

I unbuckle my belt next. It jingles a little and I watch her face closely to see if she's a light sleeper. No, I decide, once I'm unzipping my pants. She's not. My cock is hard when I grip it. And when I close my eyes and let my imagination take over, it grows even harder.

Rochelle, I hear myself saying in my head. Just the way Quin described it to me earlier today. I needed a good visual so I hunted him down at work after lunch and got the whole story. Did you miss me? Because I missed you. We need to renegotiate. Two weeks is too long.

What would I have done if it was my night instead of Quin's?

I don't think I would've mistaken her for Rochelle, that's for sure. Marcella's breasts are bigger, for one. And Quin said he grabbed them. He said he was kinda rough. For him, anyway. He pulled her hair.

God, I wish I had seen it. I wish I was there.

I open my eyes, my hand still pumping my cock as I play that scene over and over in my head. Trying to make it perfect. And when it is, I come on my stomach in the still silence.

I let myself breathe hard for several minutes, hoping she wakes up so she can see me here. Understand what I did. What I want from her.

But she is dead to the world.

I want to touch her very badly.

But instead I get up from the chair and walk out, silently descending the stars until I get to the bottom floor. I go into the bathroom and clean the come off my stomach and stare at my face in the mirror.

I look tired. I need sleep and a shave. But neither of those things are mine tonight, because I'm stuck here in her house. I'm not going to wake her up. And miss her reaction when she realizes I just spent the night in her house and she didn't know it? I laugh. Out loud. Fuck that.

Marcella agreed to Rochelle's plan for one reason and one reason only.

She's a dirty slut. She wants to be with us. She wants what Rochelle left behind.

And the longer I think about it, the more I think about it.

When I'm walking back to my chair I note the thermostat. I kick the heat up a little higher so I don't get cold, and go back to my chair in front of the family room window and consider calling Bric so we can discuss. But then I look at my watch and realize it's nearly three in the morning. He'll be up in a few hours.

I sit there in my chair, listening for her sounds. Snoring, or sighing. Or... shit, I hope for a little moaning. What if she plays with herself as she sleeps?

That thought is enough to get my ass back upstairs.

She's kicked the covers off. In fact, it almost looks like she was thrashing around from a bad dream. Her fair legs are long. One is hiked over a pillow, which she hugs to her chest. I get my phone out and open the night vision app. Take some pictures. I never have a shutter sound on my camera, so all this is done in silence.

I have a lot of questions for Marcella Walcott, starting with her father, a US senator for thirty years. In fact, it turns out baby Marcella was born the first year he was elected. She spent her entire childhood being the daughter of Senator Walcott.

I found internet pictures of her up until age ten and then... she disappeared. I can only assume it was boarding school. But ten. Jesus. That's young, isn't it? There are no more pictures of her until she's well into her twenties. Maybe just a few years ago, now that I think about it. She's thirty. Her birthday is in February, so almost thirty-one. Those pictures online are all of her at the Charles Benton Gallery.

There are none with her father.

It strikes me as weird. Why no pictures of him with his daughter?

Maybe they just like privacy? Maybe her mother insisted on it. She died three years ago. The same year Marcella started her job at the gallery.

There's a lot of gaps. Where did she go to school? She has a short biography on the gallery website. It says, Marcella Walcott is the daughter of US Senator Henry Walcott. She studied art history and curation and graduated with a PhD.

Usually after a biography rattles off credentials, they list a university. From Harvard. Or Princeton. Or wherever she was.

But not this biography.

"You have secrets, Marcella." I say it out loud but she never even stirs. "And I'm gonna figure them out."

I unzip my pants again, ready for another round as I stare at her half-naked body, so helpless and sweet, lying there in bed.

I imagine Bric this time. How he might fuck her. I'd pay money to see that. Watch him with his toys. His whips, his gags, how he can turn an ass cheek bright red with one, hard smack.

"Fuck," I whisper, my hand sliding up and down my cock in long, slow strokes.

He got rough last night when we went downstairs. Not with Lucinda, she was busy and she's not even close to his type. Some other wife or some other club member. They wear masks and no one talks about who they are. All I care about is the pussy. And the cocks. And the sweat. The slick sweat covering their bodies, dripping off their faces, red with exertion and lust. I like the way Bric grunts when he's turned on. I like the way his huge cock fills them up and makes then cry out. I like the way he whips them until they have welts on their backs.

He's sick.

But so am I. So is Quin. And so was Rochelle.

I'm betting Marcella Walcott is just as sick as us. I'm betting she walked out on Matisse this evening because she can't admit it.

She likes the dark, I decide, coming on my stomach for a second time.

She likes the forbidden world we live in. And she wants to be a part of it, whether she realizes it or not.

I don't bother going back downstairs to clean up when I'm done. Too fucking wiped out.

I just leave my eyes closed and drift off.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

I open my eyes-or try to. The sunlight is bright today. The storm must be over.

"I said-"

"I heard you," I grumble, sitting up a little straighter. My neck is sore as fuck from sleeping in this chair.

"Then answer me. I called the cops. They're on their way!"

When I finally get my eyes to open and can properly see her, she's holding a gun on me.

I laugh.

"What's so funny? You're a fucking pervert. And you're gonna get slapped with a sex offender charge for this. Do you have any idea who my father is?"

I laugh again.

"Stop it!" She yells it. Loud. "And get out of my fucking house. Right now!"

"I can't," I say, looking down at the dried-up mess on my bare stomach. "You locked me in last night."

"Locked you-" She stops to laugh. But it's one of those how-dare-you laughs. Incredulous.

My dick is hard from morning wood and she does not miss this once I start playing with it.

"You're sick," she says, backing away. The gun is still generally pointing at me, but only half-heartedly.

"I have a question for you, Marcella." I look her in the eyes as I say this, but my hands are busy tucking my still-erect cock back into my pants.

"Get out!"

"I will, just calm down. But I can't get out until I'm put back together. And you need to let me out. I don't know your alarm code. I didn't expect you to arm it when you got home."

"Oh, my God. You were waiting in here for me. That's why you put me in that car alone, wasn't it?"

I think about this for a second. "Did you want me to get in the car with you?" I laugh again. Jesus Christ.

"I'm calling the police if you're not out of my house in thirty seconds. I'll let you out from the bedroom control panel, just get up and get the fuck out of my house."

"You said you already called them. Let me give you some pointers about lying, Marcella-"

"Get. The fuck! Out!"

"My question is," I say, ignoring her theatrics. I stand up so I can tuck in my shirt and put on my tie. "Why did you refuse Matisse?"

"What?" She blinks a few times, like I'm an idiot and she can't believe I even know how to dress myself. "He's my fucking client, Smith. Why the hell did you assume I'd be up for something like that?"

"You let Quin fuck you. Why wouldn't I assume you're a whore?"

She slaps me. I don't even know how she got that close, that fast. But my left cheek is stinging like fuck. I touch it with the palm of my hand and smile. "Bric is gonna really dig you, honey. I can't wait."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

I grab my suit coat and walk towards her. She backs away, holding the gun up. It presses into my chest as I grab her arm. Her face is one of total shock. Her mouth is open, eyes wide, face flushed red.

I lean into her neck and whisper in her ear. "It was just a test, sweetheart. Congratulations, you passed."

And then I skip down the stairs, two at a time, as I adjust my collar and my suit coat. By the time I get to the front door, the alarm has been turned off.

So I just unlock it and leave.

Chapter Eight - Bric.

"God, I hate Mondays," Quin says. We're sitting in the White Room having breakfast and he looks like shit.

"It's Tuesday, you asshole."

"Whatever."

"Maybe you should stop drinking so much. Then you wouldn't have a hangover on a Tuesday."

Quin doesn't even acknowledge me, just sips his coffee and stares out the window. It's not snowing today, at least. It's sunny. Very bright, in fact. The whole room is flooded with sunlight reflecting off the snow we got yesterday.

"You didn't call me last night," Quin says. "Did you hear anything?"

For a second I don't even know what he's talking about. Then I remember that I told him I'd ask that girl if she knew anything about Rochelle. "I didn't get a chance yesterday, Quin. Sorry. I was kinda swamped with end-of-year shit, you know?"

"What kind of end-of-year shit? Christmas parties?" He scoffs at me.

"I'll see if I can get a hold of her today. I still have the card."

Quin looks up from staring into his coffee. "Why don't you just give it to me and I can ask her myself?"

"Because I don't trust you," I say. "She's someone... important."

"Important how?" Quin asks.

I'm not sure how much to tell him. If he even needs to know. But I don't have to answer because the White Room manager, Margaret, comes up to our table and says, "Excuse me, Mr. Bricman? You have a phone call." She's holding out a handset.

Who the hell would be calling me on the Club's public phone?

Margaret reads my confusion and begins to explain. "Someone named Marcella Walcott? She's called about a dozen times demanding to speak to you." And then Margaret lowers her voice. "She's angry about something. I tried to find out what, but she refused to talk to anyone but you."

I look over at Quin, who is looking back at me with a pretty hard glare. "Is that her?" he asks.

I take the phone from Margaret and say, "Thank you. I'll handle it," as I stand up from the table.

"Don't you fucking leave, you bastard," Quin says, cutting off my escape. "I want to hear this if that's her."

I sit back down. Sigh. "Look, Quin, you just need to let Rochelle-"

"I have," Quin snaps. "I don't care anymore, but I'd like to know if she's OK. Is that so bad? I'm over it, all right? But if she's in trouble, Bric, then she has earned our help. We should help her even if we never see her again. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I do understand. Quin has a huge heart. He's a good guy in many ways. And I know he's doing his best to let this Rochelle thing go, but I also know he'll handle it a lot better if he gets this one answer.

I exhale loudly and then press the hold button on the handset. "Yes, Miss Walcott? This is Elias Bricman. What can I do for you today?"

"You had better tell that freak of a friend of yours that if he comes near me again, I will get a fucking restraining order. I will have the goddamned FBI on his doorstep. I will drag his name-"

She's yelling. Like... loud. So I pull the phone away from my ear and look at Quin. He's smiling so big, getting shit on by Marcella Walcott is almost worth it.