Chapter Eleven -Bric
“Why are you so nervous?” I ask Jordan. We’re sitting in Smith’s bar. The table is elaborately set for a nice dinner, our glasses are full of expensive alcohol, and our cocks are happy. Why does he look like shit is about to hit the fan? “She had a good time,” I say, sipping my brandy.
“Yeah,” Jordan says. His eyes are glued to the elevator doors, just waiting for her to come downstairs. “But it was sneaky, ya know?”
“What was sneaky about it?”
He shoots me a look that says, Come on.
“She gave in, Jordan. We didn’t make her do anything.”
“Right.” He sighs. “But you’re what, just pretending we didn’t have that conversation this morning? You know, the one where you said, ‘I’m gonna fuck with her head so bad, she’ll spin like The Exorcist?’”
“It was a joke.” I laugh. “All we did was make her feel good tonight. She loved every fucking minute of it. Even when I choked her with my cock. She couldn’t get enough.”
“That’s because she was drunk on your dick at the time, Bric. But that feeling is gonna wear off and she’s gonna run the entire night through her head, and then—”
“Then she’s gonna realize we know what the fuck we’re doing. That’s all.”
“No,” he says. “She’s gonna realize you’re just playing with her emotions. Like you do with every fucking woman you’ve ever been with.”
“So?”
“So then she’s gonna up her game, Bric. And this is gonna turn into a mind-fuck shit-fest. I like her,” he says. “Maybe more than like her, OK? I don’t want her thinking I’m like you.”
“You are like me,” I say, getting pissed off. Why the fuck is he sharing her with me if he likes her so much?
But I don’t ask that question.
Because I like her too. Just not in the same way.
“See,” Jordan says.
“See what?” I ask
“That fucking evil grin you’ve got on your face. I know you well enough, Bricman. Well enough to see the Machiavellian wheels turning inside your head. Do not play with her emotions.”
“Why?” I ask, my temper rising. “Is she some kind of fragile flower?”
But then I realize this intrigues me.
“Stop it,” Jordan says. “She’s not a puzzle, OK?”
“Then why are we even playing?”
He huffs out some air. Runs his fingers through his still-wet hair. “Because she’s not…” He trails off.
“She’s not what?” I ask. What the fuck is wrong with him tonight?
“She’s not my type.”
“OK,” I say, not really understanding.
“I mean I’m not really her type.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Do you love her?”
“No,” he says. “Definitely not. But I like her. I could see myself playing with her for a long time. And if you fuck it up, that won’t happen. You, of all people, understand how fucking hard it is to get a girl you can trust in this game. One who just gets you, ya know? We get each other, Bric. I realize it’s only been a few weeks, but we know each other. I just like her. And we have an understanding. I get to boss her around and be a dick, but she knows I’m not a dick, right? She knows I’ll show up the next day and treat her nice and give her a gift. She knows I’m just playing. We’re playing.”
“It’s a game. Same as this,” I say.
“Dude, come on,” he says, almost fully exasperated now. “You are a sick motherfucker, OK? You know this, right?”
“Then why am I even here?”
“Because we’re good together, ya know. Not great. Yet,” he adds. “Not what you had with Smith and Quin, obviously. But we understand each other. We work well as a team. She liked that up there.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is you’re in a weird place right now and I’m afraid you’re gonna take it out on Nadia. Don’t do that, OK?” He stares at me. “Just be…”
“Just be your back-up?” I ask, huffing out a laugh.
He shrugs. But that’s it. That’s what he wants. Don’t overpower him. Don’t take her away from him. Don’t make her rethink her strategy. Just help him keep her.
It takes me a minute to decide if I’m angry or not.
I decide I’m not. I don’t give two fucks about this Nadia girl. And my goal really was to break her. So I shrug. “Fine,” I say. “You want a wingman. Fine. I’ll help you out, Jordan. But when I need a favor, I’ll expect the same in return.”
His shoulders relax with relief. His whole body, actually. “Thank you. And yes, for sure. If you need anything, just ask.”
I like Jordan. More these days than I did last month. And it’s not because I just lost my two best friends—although I’m way too analytical not to realize that has something to do with it. It’s because he’s a good friend. He was there on Christmas when I was down. He gave me his girl to make me feel better. He cared.
“You want me to leave?” I ask. “I can, you know.”
“No,” Jordan says. He sucks in a breath of air and then lets it out slowly. “No, dude. I want you to stay, OK? It’s going really well tonight. We’ve got her. And if we keep doing this… ya know?” He gestures with his hands to indicate this is what we’re doing tonight. “Making her happy. Making us happy. Everyone is happy. Then we’re golden. We’re set. We’ve got a long-term player.”
“But if I play mind games she’ll walk out?”
“Yes,” Jordan says. “She’s fucking sensitive to the control shit. I know this now. I know what she needs. I know how to keep her going. I understand her limits. I don’t want her to walk out and if you challenge her too much, she will, OK?”
“I really don’t see what’s so special about this girl. She’s young, she’s arrogant, and she’s playing with fire. But whatever. I can do you this favor. I’ll be nice. But we still have a plan, Jordan. And we stick to it until it plays out, understand me?”
The elevator doors ding before he can say anything else and Nadia Wolfe steps out looking… radiant. But a little confused. There’s a big crowd of people down in the lobby of the Club and they laugh loudly in this same moment, making her take a step back. Like she’s afraid they might be laughing at her.
Hmmm.
But then she looks over at us and smiles.
The dress is light blue. Her dark hair has been pulled up into some kind of elaborate twist. And her skin is glowing from the sex, or the massage, or maybe both.
She looks a thousand times better now than she did when she came upstairs tonight.
Jordan and I stand up as Nadia ascends the steps, and then Jordan walks over to her and takes her hand, leading her over to the table. He pulls out her chair and she sits as he pushes it in.
I study him as he pours her wine from the bottle. She studies him back.
He wants to treat her like a lady in public. Like me. Is he copying me? I mean, that’s how I usually play as well. Smith is the dick, Quin is the fun one, and I’m the gentleman.
So why am I so hell-bent on breaking her?
Her name pops into my head without warning.
Rochelle.
“Nadia,” I say, just to get the image of Rochelle and Adley out of my head. “You look very relaxed and satisfied.”
She smiles as her eyes dart in my direction, then look away. Her attention is on Jordan. “Thank you,” she says, still looking at him. “I wasn’t expecting that. But”—she sighs—“I have to reluctantly admit… I needed it.”
“Well,” Jordan says, lifting his glass. “Here’s to the start of something special.”
Nadia lifts her glass and then takes a sip. When I look over at Jordan he’s looking at her the way I looked at Rochelle two weeks ago.
He says he’s not in love with Nadia. I wasn’t in love with Rochelle, either. But there’s a pull here between these two. Just as there was a pull there between Rochelle and me.
Maybe I should just bow out now? Why should I help him get what he wants? Why should I always be the one left over?
“Hey, Bric?” Jordan says, snapping his fingers.
“What?” I say, becoming annoyed.
“I asked you a question.”
“I was thinking about something else,” I admit. “Repeat it, please.”
“Do we really want to play the game here?” Jordan asks. “We could get our own place.”
“I don’t—”
“Quiet, Nadia,” Jordan says. Not mean, but definitely authoritative enough to shut her up. “Let’s look for one together.”
I glance over at Nadia. She’s frowning. She likes her apartment, I guess. The way Chella liked her house. But Chella settled in.
Yeah, and look what happened after that.
But I already tried the new apartment with Rochelle and Quin. That didn’t work out well, either.
“Think about it,” Jordan says. “We’ll go looking together. Make it ours, you know.”
Ours. Maybe that was the problem with the loft? It was mine. I guess, looking at this whole thing from Quin’s point of view, he probably thought I was trying to steal Rochelle and Adley away from him.
Was I?
It’s a hard question I don’t want to answer.
“Sounds fun,” I tell Jordan, then raise my glass of brandy in a delayed response to their toast. “To the start of something special.”
“Great,” Jordan says, smiling at Nadia. The table is set for three. It’s round, not the one we use to spy on people down below, and we are spaced evenly around the perimeter. So Jordan can look at her, he’d said earlier.
Didn’t Rochelle tell me Quin sat across from her for the same reason?
God, I need to get these people out of my head.
“This weekend?” I ask them, breaking their moment. “We should go look this weekend. I have a guy. I’ll have him set up some viewings.”
“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 dark 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.”