by JA Huss
We went and got our Christmas tree last weekend. All the way up to the National Forest. Chella and Smith came too. Watching Smith use an ax was almost the highlight of my day.
Almost.
My highlight was realizing this is the fourth time Rochelle and I have done this little trip and the second time Chella and I have done it. Adding in Adley and Smith created something new, and we don’t miss the past. In this small way, we’re happy to share.
It’s an old tradition done a new way.
Of course, Chella and Smith’s tree is filled with sophisticated ornaments and looks like it belongs in a department store.
Our tree looks like it came out of my grandma’s attic. But hey, that’s just how we roll here at the Foster house.
Adley went to the allergist. Turns out she’s allergic to latex and Rochelle would’ve found this out sooner if she had bought cheap bottles with latex nipples. But she’s a genius and knew better. Latex has some cross-reactivity with certain fruits—mango is one of them. It scares me a little. To think that fear of knowing the truth almost made me doubt what I always believed to be true.
Adley is ours.
We’re petitioning the court to add me to Adley’s birth certificate. And tonight, when everyone goes home and Adley is fast asleep in her crib, I’ve got a little sparkly something for my future wife. We’ll be changing her name too. Sometime next summer, to be more specific.
Adley is sliding around the condo in the little walker Bric bought her. We invited him tonight too, but he’s busy, I guess. Whatever. He needs to learn his lessons in his own time or not at all. But I’m done. I did what I could for the guy and I’m done.
He lives in a world I don’t understand anymore. He lives in denial. Denial of the truth inside him that’s dying to get out and denial of all the good things Smith and I have found now that we’ve stopped playing his game.
The door beeps and a second later chaos erupts. Three puppies—yes, three now—burst into the room barking and racing around like, well, puppies. Adley squeals with delight and tries to maneuver her walker to chase them.
Rochelle warned me about Smith’s new addition. But I have to fuck with the guy. I can’t help it. “What the hell is this, Baldwin?” The little husky puppy was Chella’s gift to him for Christmas this year. Turns out she knew he was just going along with those rat dogs to make her happy. So she went back to the shelter and got him the dog he really wanted.
“Triplets.” Smith beams.
I can only shake my head.
“Am I a lucky guy or what? I can’t believe it,” he says, looking down at the completely crazy husky pup as it runs circles around Ads. She’s gonna get dizzy trying to follow him with her eyes. I’m expecting that little shit to eat all the couch pillows, pee on the floor, and probably steal food off the table tonight. But whatever.
The things we put up with for love.
Smith and Rochelle talked for hours that night we set things straight. She told him everything. He listened. They forgave each other for… well, whatever it was that kept them from seeing eye to eye. I think Smith was just looking out for me. I can appreciate that. And now I think we’re all on the same page. We’ve moved on. Left the past behind.
That’s all you can do, right?
There’s no such thing as turning back.
All you can do is move forward.
Once upon a time I had no idea what it meant to be happy.
I know what it means now.
It’s love—in twos and threes and fours.
Does the number of people really matter?
Yes. The more the better.
I’m happy with our new foursome. It’s not what it used to be, that’s for sure. We’re just… normal, I guess. And that’s not a bad thing anymore. It would be a lot nicer if Bric was here. But like I said, I did what I could.
He can turn back all he wants. He can live in the past forever, for all I care. But one day his turn will come.
And then he’ll know what we know.
Game over.
Epilogue - Bric
Christmas Day at Turning Point was pretty much how it always has been. If you don’t mind the fact that all my friends are absent.
I take a drink of my brandy and exhale. I’m sitting in Smith’s bar, looking down at the Black Room. There’s only about a dozen people left now. They’ve all got rooms upstairs and will stay the night.
Me? I’m just gonna sit here for as long as I can. No one is in the basement tonight. They are all with their families and friends.
Fuck them.
The revolving doors make that swooshing sound they do when someone is coming in. I can’t usually hear it from up here, but it’s so quiet down there, it makes me look.
A woman comes in. She’s wearing a black fur cape and a long black dress. She doesn’t stop, but keeps walking. Across the front lobby and right up to the stairs. Her head is perfectly straight, her spine too. Her long dark hair falls down her back, but jiggles a little with each upward step.
Who the hell?
But just when I recognize her, my phone buzzes on the table.
I check the text.
Jordan: You wanted her trained? She’s trained. Merry Christmas.
It’s that ballerina chick. She’s been slapping him around for weeks. The wannabe dom, I chuckle to myself.
When she gets to the second-floor landing she pivots right and walks towards the second, shorter set of stairs that lead up to Smith’s bar.
She stops at the threshold of the bar and waits.
“What?” I ask her.
She doesn’t even look at me. Just stares straight ahead.
That’s when I notice she’s got a tag attached to her right wrist.
“What the fuck is Jordan up to?” I mutter, getting up from my chair. I walk over to her and try to make her meet my gaze. She looks straight ahead and then lifts her hand up. The one with the tag.
I take her hand and read the tag.
I will not speak, but the answer to all your questions tonight is yes.
Jesus.
I text Jordan. What’s going on?
Jordan: You’re pathetic and sad. So I got you a present. Like I said, Merry Christmas. It’s your turn, Bricman. Have fun.
I look her body up and down as I circle her.
Mine?
I smile. That devious, deviant, I’m-gonna-make-you-sorry-you-ever-started-playing-this-game-with-me smile.
And then I take her hand.
I lead her to the elevator.
We go up to my apartment.
I tie her wrists together with rope.
Raise her arms above her head.
And chain her to the ceiling.
It is my turn.
By J A Huss
Copyright © 2017 by J. A. Huss
DESCRIPTION
I look her body up and down as I circle her.
Mine?
I smile a devious, deviant, I’m gonna make you sorry you ever started playing this game with me smile.
And then I take her hand.
I lead her to the elevator.
We go up to my apartment.
I tie her wrists together with rope.
Raise her arms above her head.
And chain her to the ceiling.
It’s my turn.
Chapter One - Bric
There is nothingness… and then there is emptiness.
I’m lying in bed trying to figure out which is which.
Trying not to notice that the girl who was here last night is gone.
She’s not the reason for my existential crisis. And it’s not Rochelle either. It’s Smith and Quin who have my wandering attention this morning.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I want to ignore that buzzer pretty bad right now, but this day has priorities. I grab it, tab accept, and put it up to my ear. “Yes.”
“Bric,” Margaret says. She’s my manager downstairs. “There’s a real-estate agent here to see you.�
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“Give him a table, offer him anything he wants off the menu, and tell him I’ll be right down.”
“Got it,” Margaret says. She hangs up without saying goodbye, but I don’t take it personally. Margaret is the very first person I ever hired at the Club. She knows this place better than anyone except me. She might know me better than anyone except me as well.
I drag myself out of bed, sighing, then shuffle around the room picking up my clothes and pulling on my pants.
I leave the apartment and take the elevator down one floor to my own place. My shower is exactly two minutes long. I don’t shave, just finger-comb my hair and pull on a fresh suit.
Lawton only waits fifteen minutes, tops, and he’s enjoying his complimentary breakfast when I slip into the booth, holding up a finger to signal the waitress I’d like coffee.
“Bricman,” Lawton says. “I was beginning to think you stood me up.”
“I need you, Lawton. Don’t be absurd. I don’t piss people off until I’m done using them.”
Lawton laughs, like this is a joke, and continues eating. He’s in his prime. Twenty-eight years old. Built like a fucking MMA fighter, tall enough to be intimidating, wealthy enough to be confident, and good-looking. But he’s also smart enough to know how to rein all that in. Present himself as someone who is just another humble servant, ready to please.
Of course, I’ve known him since he was sixteen. So I don’t fall for any of it. He’s not a Club member and we never meet here for business, but his office is being remodeled over the holiday and it’s as good a place as any.
“So what now?” he asks, taking a sip of coffee.
“I need to sell the loft.”
He almost chokes, takes a second to recover, and then says, “Why? The market is down right now and you can still make a killing off short-term rentals.”
“I’m done with it,” I reply, just as the waitress comes up with my coffee.
“Oh,” Law says. “All right then.” He takes a moment to think, then says, “I’ll go over and take a look at the new improvements and then put together a listing. Should go live by the end of the week.”
I let out a long breath. And it’s not a sigh of relief.
“But do you want to tell me why?” Law says. “I mean… when we last talked you were moving in there full-time.”
“With Rochelle and Quin,” I say.
Law just cocks his head a little, not understanding.
“We broke up,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. “OK. I get it. No need for lengthy explanations.” He takes his attention back to his omelet.
This is one reason I like Law. He’s a little bit like Smith. Only cares about himself. Not interested in the messy details. Just the facts, ma’am.
Or… how Smith used to be. Before Chella. And even though I really love Chella, every day since I got the results of that paternity test back have been filled with thoughts of what if? What if Rochelle never left? What if we never met Chella? Smith never fell in love. Quin never got what he wanted.
I’d be a lot happier.
“Did you have a nice Christmas?” Law asks, throwing his napkin on his plate. “Oh, wait.” He laughs. “Never mind. I forgot. You don’t do Christmas. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Sure,” I say, as he pushes back from the table and gets to his feet.
“Good. I did as well. OK, gotta run, Bric. But I’ll call you in a few days and give you an update.”
He turns to leave before I can even bother responding, and I wonder if his life is as perfect as it seems. Lawton Ayers was a kid with a brain and not much else when I took him under my wing twelve years ago. I have a scholarship fund at the private high school I attended here in Denver. Law was just one among hundreds of kids who wanted that spot back when he was a junior in high school. He’d been in the foster system for two years by that time. Absent father, drug-addicted mother, and kicked out of every public high school he went to.
But his SSAT scores were perfect. He was brilliant in a way only one born with brilliance can be. So he made the shortlist of candidates and we ended up having a one-on-one.
Cocky doesn’t even come close to describing him back then. But I knew he had potential. He got the scholarship. And when he graduated, he got more than a scholarship. I became his sponsor.
And look at him now. Made his first million two years ago and well on his way to real-estate domination.
See? This is what I tell myself on days like this. See what I did? I made him.
But the thing that really kinda pisses me off about Lawton Ayers is that he comes off so damn satisfied. I just want to smack that self-assured smile off his face, wrap my hands around his throat, and shake the truth out of him.
No one is that fucking satisfied at twenty-eight coming from a place like he did. No one gets over shit that easy.
“Hey.”
I pull myself out of my fascination with Lawton’s personal demons and find Jordan grabbing the seat Law just vacated.
“What’s up?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.
“You look deep in thought,” Jordan says. “Still thinking about her, huh?”
“Who?” I ask, defensive. I wasn’t thinking about Rochelle. Fuck him for even—
“Nadia,” Jordan says, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Who the fuck is Nadia?” I ask. But I’m relieved he didn’t say Rochelle. Even though I wasn’t thinking about her.
“My present last night.” Jordan laughs.
“Oh,” I say. “Her.”
“What the fuck do you mean, Oh, her? She’s fucking amazing, right?”
“I guess,” I say, taking another sip of coffee.
“You didn’t like her? What she’d do? Mouth off? I fucking told her not to talk to you, goddammit.”
I wave my hand at him. “No, she didn’t talk.” I laugh. “She didn’t make a single fucking sound.”
“Explain,” Jordan says. His forehead is all scrunched up, like this is the most unbelievable puzzle that needs solving.
“What part of she didn’t make a sound needs explaining? She didn’t talk. She didn’t do anything but submit.”
Jordan laughs. “And? That’s your thing, right? Shut up and submit.”
“Yeah, but I like a little screaming and a lot of moaning. She didn’t even cry.”
Jordan stares at me for a few seconds. “Huh.”
“Huh, what?” I ask.
“That’s weird. She’s fucking perfect with me. Her moans are so loud I usually have to gag her. I guess she didn’t care for it.”
“Care for what?” I ask.
“Well.” Jordan snickers. “You.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I wasn’t looking for a fuck last night anyway. I only did it because she was there.”
“Did she say anything when she left?” Jordan asks.
“I dunno. I was sleeping. I don’t even know when she left. Just woke up this morning and she was gone.”
“Huh,” Jordan says again.
“Would you stop it with your silent judging? Who cares? I don’t want her. She’s yours anyway.”
“Well,” Jordan says. “I was thinking, you know. We could bring her in on the game.”
“Fuck that. She’s boring.”
“Boring?” Jordan’s laugh is practically a guffaw now. “Well, I have a lot of words to describe Nadia, but boring is definitely not one of them. She’s fucking amazing. Fights back like nobody’s business.” He leans in, looking around to see who’s at the tables nearby, then whispers, “And she cries the most beautiful tears when I fuck her throat. Fucking make-up runs down her cheeks. Eyes on me the entire time. She’s all, ‘Yes, sir. Do it harder. Yes, sir, I want more.’ God, I get hard just thinking about it.”
I admit… I have trouble picturing that. “I thought you told me she was a top?”
“Was.” Jordan chuckles. “But that whole time you were busy with Rochelle and Quin I was training her. I told you that.”
“It was only a couple weeks,” I say, doubting.
“She liked it, Bric. Well,” he says, taking a moment to think. “She liked it with me, anyway. Maybe she just doesn’t like you?”
I’m done here. “I gotta go,” I say, standing. “I got things to do today.” I take out my wallet, throw down a fifty, and say, “Order whatever you want. Breakfast’s on me,” as I turn away.
“So we’re still on for tonight?” Jordan calls after me.
But I don’t even know what he’s talking about, so I don’t bother answering. I have nothing planned for today, let alone tonight. But I don’t want to have a conversation about how a girl I don’t even care about prefers Jordan over me.
I go up to the second-floor elevator, take it back up to my apartment, undress, and crawl back into bed.
There is nothingness… and then there is emptiness.
I’m still trying to figure out the difference.
Chapter Two - Nadia
My feet are killing me and my nipples are sore from the clamps Jordan’s friend used on me last night. My ass still stings when I sit down from the slaps, and my thighs tremble even though all I’m doing is walking around the classroom, pointing out imperfections in form.
“Point your toes,” I say to the room filled with little girls. They are at the barre, left feet turned out, ankles already hurting as they stretch their right arms over their right legs propped up on the barre. “Keep your body straight, Kallie. And hold for one. Two. Three. Don’t bend your knees, Jessica. And other side.”
There are seven nine-and ten-year-old wannabe ballerinas in my morning class. They wear pink tights, light-blue leotards, and pink slippers. They all have their hair pulled tightly back into buns, strained, serious expressions on their faces, and their young muscles tremble as we progress through warm-up.
By the time they are nine, they know most of them will fail. They watch each other with an even more critical eye than I do. They assess their peers, then self-assess, then reassess.
Maybe one of these seven girls will make it. Maybe.
I’m new here at the Mountain Ballet. They barely know me. But none of them are new. All of them have been in the Mountain Ballet School since they were five years old. All of them understand the rigors of ballet training. All of them dream, and stress, and hope, and pray that one day they will be like me.
