by JA Huss
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway,” Nadia says. “I like where I live. I don’t want to move. Why can’t we just… stay there?”
“No,” Jordan and I say together. At least we are on the same page as far as this goes.
“Why?” she persists. “Because living at my place would take away your illusion of control?”
“Illusion,” I say, laughing. “Don’t fool yourself, darling. We are in control.”
She smiles at me. But it’s not the sweet kind she seems to be throwing at Jordan tonight. “I’m not submissive, Bric. Making me feel good for one night? That’s not enough to change that, you know.”
I shrug. “It’s a start.”
Jordan’s phone rings in his suit coat. He pulls it out, frowns at the screen, and then tabs accept and says, “Jordan Wells,” as he stands up and leaves the table, holding up one finger to us in a, Just a second, gesture.
We watch him walk away. Down the short flight of stairs where he stops in front of the elevator. Not talking. Just listening.
“It was a brilliant twist though,” Nadia says, pulling me back to the conversation. “And it felt amazing. So touché. You won this battle.”
I give her my full attention. This might be the first real in-person moment we’ve had together. “It’s supposed to be fun, Nadia. It’s a game, not a war.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?” she asks.
“No,” I say. And even though it’s been my job to calm the girls down and make them understand what it is we do, and why we do it when we share, I just don’t have the desire to be that man this time. I don’t care enough to explain. I don’t want to make her feel better.
“You know,” she says, pausing to take a sip of her wine. “I’m going to figure out what your problem is. And when I do, I’m going to use it against you. Just like you did to me tonight.”
I want to laugh. “First,” I say. “I don’t have a problem. And second, I set up the massage to make you feel better, that’s all.”
“You set it up to make me submit. Willingly,” she adds. “I’m OK with that. But I know what you’re doing, Bricman. I’m an astute player. I read people. I look at their bodies, their faces, their whole demeanor… and I know what’s inside them.”
“You don’t know what’s inside me.”
“But I will.” And then she does shoot me the sweet smile. “You’re not such a big secret. Everyone knows you. Everyone at the ballet knows you. They talk about you, ya know.”
“What do they say?” I try to come off as unaffected, but… I’m affected. I don’t like being talked about.
“They say you’re kinky, mostly. That’s the rumor floating around. They know you play these games. So if you come by the company and they see me with you, they’ll know we’re playing.”
“So?”
“So they’ll all start telling me little bits of this and little bits of that. All the rumors will come pouring out and I won’t even have to ask for them.”
“Am I supposed to care?”
She shrugs. “Care or not, it’s gonna happen.”
Jordan returns, tucking away his phone. “I gotta go,” he says with a heavy sigh. “One of my fucking clients just got arrested.” He leans down to kiss Nadia. They linger, their lips soft and pliant, their mouths open. I can see their tongues twisting together.
And suddenly the whole scenario reminds me of that first night Quin, Rochelle, Adley, and I had dinner at the loft. When I was the one leaving early. When I was the one kissing Rochelle goodbye. When I was the one lingering in the kiss.
I didn’t love her.
“Bric will take you home, Nadia,” he says, pulling away. “Sorry about this. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
There’s a flurry of commotion as Jordan excuses himself and the food arrives at the same time. Our plates are set in front of us, steam wafting up off the sea bass and asparagus. When all that settles down, Nadia looks at me. “I didn’t know I ordered yet.”
“We ordered for you,” I say, my response dry and dull. But then I add, “Jordan ordered it.”
She looks down and smiles, her fingers playing with the napkin in her lap. And then she picks up her fork and begins to eat.
She likes him, I realize. The way he likes her.
Why the fuck am I here?
“So what do you do all day?” she asks me between bites. I don’t eat. I’m not hungry. And even though I did enjoy myself upstairs, I’m not enjoying myself now.
I drink instead. “I run this place,” I say, wholly uninterested.
“What’s that like?” Nadia asks, still eating. I thought ballerinas liked to starve themselves? She must be pretty happy right now to forget she’s a ballerina.
“It’s a lot of paperwork,” I say. “And parties.”
“You make it sound so boring.” She laughs, stabbing a spear of asparagus and putting it in her mouth. “Mmmm,” she says. “This is delicious. Jordan knows what I like.”
Mmmm-hmmm. I guess he does. “Well, the parties are business,” I say, trying to keep this whole night from going bad to worse.
She raises one eyebrow at me. “All the parties are business? Even New Year’s Eve?”
“No,” I say. “I’m talking about what I do, Nadia. Not how I play. The parties are all about—” But I just don’t care enough to explain. And I don’t want to bring Smith into this conversation. “It’s just a job. Not as interesting as yours. How did you get to Denver? You’re not from here, right?”
She stops eating and gently wipes her mouth with her napkin. Takes a sip of wine. “It’s my dream job. I mean, of course, I’d love to be dancing in New York. Or London. Lots of other places. But I’m young, so this is a really good break for me.”
“How did it happen?” I ask. “Did you come audition?”
“No, actually,” she says, her brows furrowing just a little bit. “I was invited.”
“You must be some dancer,” I say.
“I’m good,” she says. “Good enough for an invitation to dance for Mountain. You should come see me some time.”
“The next show is…” I search my memory for the spring schedule. “Romeo and Juliet. Are you Juliet?”
“No.” She laughs. “But I’m Rosaline.” She seems proud of this.
“A good part,” I say. “For someone new to the company. I bet you already have enemies over there for getting that part.”
She huffs at me and squints her eyes. “I’m not the kind of girl who makes enemies, Elias.”
“Are we back to Elias?” I feel like I have this conversation about my name a lot. They never know what to call me. As Bric, I’m the master. As Elias I’m the pseudo-boyfriend. It’s confusing, even for me.
“I’ve noticed something when I call you Elias.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You soften a little. You’re a frowner. Did you know that?”
Am I? “No,” I say. “I haven’t.”
“Well, you are. And when I call you Elias you soften. You like it. So I use it when it’s appropriate.”
“And how do I look when you call me Bric?”
“Like a predator,” she says, refocusing her attention back to the food. “Bric is hungry for something. Elias is already satisfied.”
Jesus Christ.
“How does Jordan look when you call him Jordan?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He’s Jordan, that’s all. He’s got no secret side to him.”
“Does that disappoint you?” I ask.
“Not in the least,” she says, putting her fork down, daintily pressing the napkin to the corners of her mouth, and placing it on top of her plate. She only ate a small portion of the fish and half the asparagus. So I guess she never forgets she’s a ballerina. “Jordan is just…” She laughs.
“Just what?” I ask. She’s got a power in her. She commands attention. And it’s not the new sexy dress or the hair. Or even her fresh face, devoid of all that d
ark make-up. It’s inside her.
“He’s good,” she says.
“Do you think you deserve him?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re not good,” I say. “No one who plays a game like this is good. He’s not good either. I know him better than you.”
“Then why is he good to me?” she asks. Her eyes are bright with mischief. She knows the answer to that question just as much as I do.
“He likes you,” I say. Because I don’t care.
“He does like me. And I like him. But mostly,” she says, leaning forward in her chair—leaning across the table, like she’s about to share a secret with me—“mostly I just like to play with him, you know. The way you like to play with me.”
“So you’re pretending to like him?”
She leans back in her chair, the secret over, her voice a little louder now. “I like him enough. I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t. But he’s kind of easy, don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
She huffs some air. Like I’m amusing her. “He’s not quite,” she says, lowering her voice again, sharing another secret, “the player you are, Bric.”
“So this is all a game. And if he gets hurt? Fuck him, right?”
“We’re all going to get hurt, Elias. I don’t think that’s a secret.”
Chapter Twelve - Nadia
Bric was done with me after that last comment. He took me home, walked me to my door, said goodbye. It was all very cold and very predictable.
But I smiled when I closed the door and leaned back into it. I smiled as I got ready for bed. Brushed my teeth, set my alarm, and crawled under the covers.
I might even have smiled in my dreams.
I’m not smiling now.
Cold is not a word I’d use to describe Jordan, even though he’s mostly predictable. But he was neither cold nor predictable today, because I haven’t seen him. He didn’t show up at lunch to make it up to me, as promised. I was waiting too, my attention half on my little would-be ballerinas, half on the sounds coming from the lobby.
I was straining to hear the phone. A call telling me to come outside. Or the busy-body whispering of the parents as he entered the school, looking for me.
But it never happened.
And I cannot, for the life of me, remember the last time I was stood up.
What they did for me—to me—it was nice. It felt really good. And the shower after—Jordan asking me if it was enough or did I need another fuck. I regret not letting him take me again.
The dress is pretty. It’s hanging on the door. Blue silk. Light and airy. Too light and airy for winter. But I didn’t care. I was only outside briefly when Bric took me home.
And my hair was done up so well, I almost wanted to go to work with it this morning. Of course, I slept on it, so couldn’t. I took it down and put it back up in the typical bun ubiquitous to all polished dancers.
I look at the phone, now that it’s night and almost all chances of Jordan making it up to me are gone, and consider calling him.
“Don’t do it,” I tell myself. “Don’t fall for their games.”
Because that’s what this is.
Show me a nice time. Make my body throb from their touch. Make me dream about their hands, easing the aches from my legs and my feet and my shoulders.
And then walk away. Isn’t that what they all do?
My phone rings in my hand. It startles me and I drop it onto the fluffy white down comforter.
But it’s not Jordan. Or even Bric. It’s not a number I recognize, but the area code is. New York.
I send it to voicemail. I blocked him the other day but obviously I’ll need to change the number.
So what are they doing? I have been asking myself this question all evening. Were they playing last night just to get control? Are they done with me? Have they walked out? Are they waiting for me to call them?
What? What do they want?
They want me to submit, I know this. They spelled it out. Jordan was upfront when we started playing our little game. And Bric, well. He’s made his conditions clear.
He was angry when he found out I lied to him about the phone sex. Was angry when he realized I was controlling him.
But instead of doing the predictable—teaching me a good lesson with nipple clamps, or a good spanking over his knee, or chaining me to the fucking ceiling like he did Christmas night… he switched it up, didn’t he?
Made me want him. Made me want to submit to him. Made me feel good, and not in a roundabout way, either. He didn’t spank my ass so hard I’d scream, then gently caress it and stick his finger in my pussy to take away the pain.
No. He just… gave it to me freely.
Was it really free, Nadia? If he’s making you pay today?
I know it’s him. Jordan would not stand me up. We’ve been doing this for more than a month now. I’ve seen him every single day except this one.
I frown and lie back. My phone rings again. I send it to voice mail.
I really need to change my number.
A good player would have a move ready. But Bric is better at this than I first thought. Yes, it was all very well played.
Think, Nadia. Think, think. What can you do to get him back?
The ringing phone draws my attention away from my problem and towards a solution. Makes me smile.
I turn the phone off, fluff my pillow, and then close my eyes, putting this day to bed.
Tomorrow things will be different.
Chapter Thirteen - Bric
“Hey,” I say when Jordan calls. “What’s up?”
“What the fuck did you do?”
I gather the papers on my desk that I’m working on and shove them in a folder, attempting to straighten up my desk before I take two days off for New Year’s. “What are you talking about?”
“Nadia,” he seethes, like this explains everything.
“What about her?” I ask.
“She’s changed her fucking phone number.”
“Huh. Why’d she do that?”
“You tell me. What the fuck did you say to her yesterday?”
“I didn’t say shit.” That’s not entirely true. I said a lot. But I was only trying to protect him. And she gave it right back. “She ate, we talked, I took her home. We were barely there thirty minutes after you left.”
“What do you mean after I left? That was Thursday night. It’s Saturday, you dumbass. I left you a message Thursday night and told you to show up for lunch on Friday. Play with her a little. She was expecting one of us to show up, for fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, yeah.” I laugh. “Ooops.”
“Ooops?” Jordan is pissed. “I told you I liked her. I told you not to fuck with her. I told you—”
“You know what you didn’t really tell me?” I say, interrupting his rant. “Why the fuck I’m even involved.”
Jordan lets off an incredulous huff that is not a laugh. “I thought we had something good going here, Bric. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you don’t want to play. Maybe you’d like to find some other guy to share with? Maybe this is over now?”
I take a few moments to think about this. Am I done playing?
No. No, I’m not. And I definitely don’t want to find a new player to share with. Jordan is good enough. He’s really great at some things. We fuck together pretty well. I like the way he holds their legs open for me sometimes. Like he’s offering them to me. It’s hot.
“No,” I say. “It’s not over. I just spaced it, OK? Just… tell her I’m sorry, it wasn’t on purpose—”
“I can’t, Bric. I don’t have time this weekend. I have a client in a lot of trouble. I just got him released from county this morning. The charges are serious, OK? I have to take care of this shit because we’ve got an eight AM hearing on Tuesday. You need to take care of Nadia. Call her up—no, just go over there and—”
“It’s Saturday night, Jordan. She probably has plans. And they’re def
initely not with me.”
“Just go over there and be nice to her. You don’t have to fuck her or anything. Take her some flowers.”
“Flowers?” I say. “That’s lame.” There’s mumbling on his side of the phone. Like he’s got his hand over it so I can’t hear some other conversation he’s having.
“I gotta go,” he says. “Go over there. And get her new goddamned number while you’re at it. I’ll call you later.”
I get hang-up beeps.
“Dammit,” I hiss. I was gonna go down to the basement tonight. Fuck, some women who actually like it when I take control. And if Jordan thinks I’m baby-sitting this bitch all weekend… fuck that. Tomorrow night is New Year’s Eve. I will not be missing that party.
I fume about my new responsibility as I grab the phone on my desk and press the button for the lobby.
“Yes, Mr. Bricman?” Margaret says when she answers.
“Get my car ready, please. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“On it,” she says, and hangs up.
I look out the window as I wonder what this night will bring. Maybe I can make Nadia slap me?
That makes me chuckle.
It’s not busy outside. Everyone is ready for tomorrow night. Parties and drinking and celebrations in the street. I have never understood people who want to stand outside in the cold waiting for midnight. Just… no.
Then I turn and go downstairs. Margaret smiles at me as I descend into the lobby. The coat check woman has my coat and Margaret helps me into it. “What are you doing this weekend?” I ask her. She never comes to the New Year’s parties. It’s straight-up fucking on every floor, including this one.
“Hanging out with the grandkids.”
“Stop lying, Margaret. You’re not old enough for grandkids.”
She gives me a smirk. “My daughter and worthless son-in-law are off to the Bahamas tonight. So I’m leaving in about an hour and I won’t be back until all your festivities are over.”
Margaret was the very first employee I ever hired here at Turning Point. She was younger then. Just one grandkid. Now they are big and she is older. We’re all older.
She had just divorced her worthless husband and was looking for meaning in her life. I was looking for… well, not a mother. I have that already. But someone like a mother. Someone who cared and always told the truth.
