Page 71 of Taking Turns

“My house?” I ask, as we step out on to the landing. Smith is staring at me from his perch in the balcony bar.

“You belong to Smith at midnight. And he wants you at home tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, letting Bric guide me down the stairs. Quin isn’t in the lobby when we get there. He’s in the Black Room sitting near the bar with a blonde woman who I swear to God I think is Rochelle before she turns her head to laugh and I realize she’s not.

“Are you OK?” Bric asks.

“Fine,” I say, letting him take my hand. He drops the coat off with the coat-check girl and then leads me into the bar and over to the very same table I sat at when Smith brought me here for my test.

I sit down on one side and Bric sits on the other. He smiles at me. “This party is going to be boring. Not that last night’s wasn’t, but worse. No one under the age of sixty tonight. So we’ll get there at eight thirty, stay ninety minutes, and then come back here for a little bit. Sound good?”

“All the parts except for the party sound perfect.”

He laughs. “Did I get your imagination working last night, Chella? You seem to be warming up to this arrangement.”

“I just… had a lot of fun. And I like fun, don’t you?”

“I do,” he says. “What do you feel like eating tonight?”

“Just something light, like a salad. With chicken, maybe?”

“I can get that for you,” Bric says. And then someone comes over to talk to him and he’s distracted for a moment. The man eyes me, but Bric makes no move to introduce us.

I look down at my place setting and grab the napkin, which is folded into a crisp envelope shape.

But it’s what’s peeking out from under the flap that catches my eyes.

Writing.

I look at Bric to see if he’s watching me. Maybe he left me a little note. But he’s not. He’s still busy with the interloper. So I lift the flap and find the same thick, bold handwriting last’s night message was written in.

I look up at the bar balcony and find Smith smirking down at me.

He lifts his drink as if in a toast but I turn my head, shake the napkin out, and place it in my lap.

I spend the next hour repeating Smith’s words in my head as I have mindless conversation with Bric and the many, many people who come up to the table to try—and fail—to get an introduction.

If you want to go dark, go dark.

Don’t take a light.

You’re mine every night, Chella. You just don’t realize it yet.

When we’re done eating, Bric takes me outside where a car is waiting, but not the long, black kind we usually take.

His own personal car.

He opens the door and there’s a present on the seat.

“What’s this?” I ask, smiling up at him as I pick up the bag.

“Open it and see.”

It’s a video camera. A little handheld one that almost no one uses anymore because everyone just uses a phone.

“He was pretty happy with last night, Chella.”

“This is from… Smith?”