Page 9 of Taking Turns

“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.”