“Hell, yeah, I’m satisfied. My life has never been more on track than it is right now. And,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around like someone might hear us. Which is stupid. We’re in my condo. “We might be getting pregnant soon.”
“Shit,” I say, running my fingers through my messy bed hair. “Really?”
“I’m not getting any younger, Quin. My biological clock is ticking like a goddamned time bomb. If I want five kids, we need to start pronto.”
I try to picture Smith Baldwin with five kids and can’t get past the image of him changing diapers. “Chella wants five kids?” I ask, trying to decide if she’s into spending the rest of her thirties barefoot and pregnant.
Smith almost spits out his burrito when he laughs. “She thinks I’m nuts. But she’ll come around. I have a plan that will change her mind.” He taps his head with his foil-covered food. “And it all starts with that dog.” He points to Precious, who is still sitting demurely inside his gym bag, her pink-ribbon-adorned head the only thing visible.
“Yeah,” I say, just staring at the dog. “Well, I’m happy for you guys. Really. It’s amazing what you’ve done this past year.”
“Which is what we need to talk about,” Smith says, setting his food and coffee down. “You need to stop, man. You need to let her go. Rochelle is gone, Quin. She’s never coming back. She’s moved on. Lives a whole other life now.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “We never found her. Not even Bric found her. And I know he’s been looking. He leaves me messages once a month to update me.”
“Which is nice of him, by the way. Since you refuse to talk to him or answer his calls.”
I sigh. “It’s not like I made a conscious decision.”
“I know, you say this every time I bring it up. But conscious or not, you fucked up, Quin. He’s a good guy. He didn’t realize she’d take him so literally, you know?”
“My problem is… he should’ve known that. She depended on him for advice. That was always his role in the game. The girls have problems, they go to Bric. He talks to them in that stupid reasonable voice of his, and gives them good advice. He told her—”
“He gave her the options, Quin. That’s it. He never told her to get an abortion. He’s a man. He thinks like a man. He had no idea she’d walk out like that.”
I huff out a long breath of air. We’ve been over this a million times. I get it. Bric made a mistake. Probably an innocent mistake. But it had a very dramatic effect on my life. I can’t let it go.
“You need to let it go,” Smith says, like he’s reading my mind. “It’s time, Quin. One year has passed. If she wanted to contact us, she would’ve done it by now.”
“I know,” I say, some of the sadness creeping back in. One year is a long time. Enough time to get past something that hurt and try to patch things up. But she’s still gone. And no one can find her. She wants to be gone. She wants to stay gone. Otherwise she’d leave a trail. She wouldn’t be so careful about not opening credit cards or whatever people refuse to do when trying to hide themselves. She’d be in the open. And she’s not.
“And you need to make things right with Bric. He’s unhappy too, you know. Both of you are so fucking pathetic right now, I’m about to lose my mind. Just go over there and talk to him.”
“Not today,” I say. And I say it firmly. With enough conviction that Smith doesn’t press. Not today of all days. I can’t do it.
“Not today,” Smith agrees. “Fine. But soon. You’d both be much happier if you’d fix this part, at least. So Rochelle’s gone. I get it. But Bric is still here. I’m still here. Chella is still here. You’re OK, Quin. I promise. You are.”
I think about that for a few seconds.
Smith waits, then says, “Well, I gotta go. So much to do today. Make sure you go to work this afternoon. And Chella says she wants to have lunch at the Club tomorrow.”
“No,” I say. “Fuck that.”
“Fine with me,” Smith says, shrugging as he walks over to his gym bag and hikes it over his shoulder. He pets the dog, who pants excitedly at his attention. “But she told me to tell you she’d be in the White Room waiting for you tomorrow at one. So if you want to stand her up, be my guest. Just don’t expect her to show up for lunch the week after.”
He walks out without another word and leaves me to my thoughts.
If Chella wants to pull this either-or shit, she can. But I don’t like ultimatums. I might not be as rigid as Smith or as dominating as Bric, but I know how to hold a fucking grudge.
I won’t be showing up at the Club tomorrow.
No way. Fuck that.
Chapter Two - Bric
The curtains in the top-floor apartment of Turning Point Club are closed, but sheer. So just enough light filters through from the rainy day outside to make the atmosphere seem gloomy and dramatic.
It’s not a good sign.
I could change the mood, flick on a light or open those curtains, but is the light really the problem?
The girl’s hands are cuffed to a chain above her head that attaches to the ceiling. It clinks as she moves, her head turning this way or that as Jordan moves about, getting things ready. She’s blindfolded, so she doesn’t know I’m here. And she has noise-canceling headphones on, so she can’t hear anything but the music and the words Jordan whispers into the mic wrapping down his jaw as he works.
I take my tie off and unbutton my shirt, waiting for my cue.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it and it goes to voicemail after a few seconds.
“Ready?” Jordan asks, holding out the chain harness for me.
I take it, letting the silver links pool into my palm. “Yup.” I sigh.
“What? Are you bored?” he asks.
“Kinda,” I say, surprising myself. “She’s not gonna like this.”
“You don’t know,” Jordan says, equally exasperated. “I talked about it with her last night. She said yes… so…”
I shrug. I’m not into this girl. Which is weird for me. I’m into anyone. As long as they go along and do as they’re told, I’m generally good. Very easy to please. But this one… she’s only been here for a week and I can already tell. She won’t last. It’s a waste of time.
“I’m going to place the clamps on your nipples now, Sandy. Don’t move.”
Sandy whimpers and, predictably, moves when I reach up with the first clamp and touch the peak of her nipple.
“Don’t. Move.” Jordan is not the most patient of men. So it comes out rough. But the girl stills as I attach the clamp. There’s a long moment where she doesn’t quite know how to react and I almost hold my breath, waiting for the freakout.
She sucks air in through her teeth as the pain eases and then relaxes.
That’s my cue for the next clamp. This time I make sure she reacts so she’ll pull on the chain and get the punishment twice.
She twists—winces, moans, and then whimpers.
I look at Jordan as he whispers encouraging things into her headphones. This whole headphones thing was a lot more fun when Smith and I did it with Chella. A lot more fun.