Page 3 of Taking Turns

“Good night, Mr. Foster.”

“Later,” I say, heading straight for the elevator and punching the call button, making it light up. The doors open and I step in, adjusting my suit in the mirrors as they close behind me.

When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I turn and insert my keycard into the slot next to the button that has no floor number or name next to it. The doors close.

Rochelle Bastille is a twenty-seven-year-old musician Bric met at a party three years ago. Some corporate event put on to celebrate… whatever. God only knows what he really does for Smith. But it involves a lot of networking. Translation—parties.

He took Rochelle home that night and fucked her. Like, his real home. Not here. Not the Club. But she was between apartments—homeless was probably more likely, we never talk about the old days—and since we were short a player at the time, he asked if she wanted in on the game.

Three fucking years. I have no idea where the time went. But Jesus Christ, it’s been a really good time.

I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with her, but I know it’s been a while. Years, at least. Maybe even that first year. Maybe even that night. Rochelle is my type. One hundred percent my type. And two nights and two days a week she’s mine. All mine. Starting at midnight Sunday and all the way through midnight Tuesday. I own her.

Unlike Bric and Smith, I make the most of it.

By the time the doors open into the top floor hallway, I’m smiling. I forget about Bric and Lucinda. I forget about Smith and his weird shit. I forget about the stupid, boring weekend I just made myself get through.

I walk down the short hallway to her door. There is only one apartment up here and it belongs to her. It’s really the attic of the building that Bric remodeled back when we first started sharing girls more than a decade ago.

We keep them here. Like good little princesses locked up in their towers.

We don’t really lock them in, but I like the analogy.

I get hard just thinking about it.

Rochelle is the ninth girl who has lived in this apartment over the Club and the ones before her felt like practice. She feels like the real thing. Game day.

When I get to the door I insert my cardkey, letting that feeling wash over me. Relief and happiness. Something I’ve become accustomed to.

It’s late, the place is dark, so I close the door quietly, trying not to wake her up. Just head down the familiar hallway, making my steps soft in the stillness.

The bedroom door is open, like it always is. And I can just make out her bare legs on top of the white sheets. She must be freezing.

I walk past her and go into the closet. I’ll take care of that in just a minute. I take my tie off and hang it up. Then the jacket, doing my best not to make the wooden hangers clang together. I untuck my shirt from my trousers. Unbutton it, starting from the top. I hang that up too.

Then I open the velvet-lined drawer and place my watch and cufflinks in there, closing it when I’ve arranged them properly.

The pants fall down and I grab my cock, so ready to fuck her. I slip out of my boxer briefs and walk out in to the dark bedroom.

“Hey,” I say softly. “You awake?”

She doesn’t even move. Her body is sprawled out on top of the sheets, one leg up higher than the other. Her face buried. Her long, wild hair flowing over the side of the pillow like a waterfall.

There is light filtering in from outside, but not enough to really see anything. Just a little bit of glow from the lamps lighting up the gargoyles that decorate the top of the building. Details that make Turning Point Club one of the most photographed icons in the city.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window there is a direct view of the gold-domed capitol building, one block south, and that’s lit up too.

I place a hand on her outer thigh as one knee comes down on the mattress, making it sink. Making her body shift, ever so slightly.

She is naked, her ass towards me like an invitation.

I swing my leg over, place the other knee on the other side of her hip, and straddle her. My hands all over her ass. Rubbing. Eager to slip my fingers between her legs and see what’s waiting for me.

“Rochelle,” I say, bending over her body to place my lips on her neck. “Did you miss me? God, I missed you. Two weeks is too long. We need to renegotiate.”

I let out a long breath, and she trembles for a moment.

“I don’t like the sabbaticals anymore,” I say.