Chapter Eighteen - Nadia
When I wake up I’m alone in bed.
I turn over, my body aching badly. But I ignore it. I’m so used to it.
“Jordan?” I whisper to the empty room. My eyes are still adjusting to the light when I shift my gaze over to the clock on the side table. Four thirty-seven. Jesus Christ, I slept all day.
I can hear banging in other parts of the apartment.
I’m at Turning Point Club, I remind myself. Bric’s apartment.
There’s food in the air and my stomach rumbles from the emptiness. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and all the memories of last night come rushing back with the blood to my head. Which makes me dizzy.
What a crazy night.
But I smile. Because I liked it. It wasn’t anything like I imagined, and yet… it’s everything I’ve come to expect from this crazy world Jordan has pulled me into.
I wander over to the closet to look for clothes. It’s a huge closet filled with suits. Black, charcoal gray, blue. And a whole rack of crisp shirts. His ties are all hung on a long rack and each pair of shoes has a home in a cubby.
Elias Bricman is a neat freak.
I feel the sleeves of the shirts, choose a white one, and slip it off the hanger. It’s cool and soft against my skin and my fingers find a small embroidered monogram on the stiffly starched cuff.
TPC.
Turning Point Club. So not his initials.
Why, I wonder? Why would he have that monogrammed on his shirt? It’s like this is his uniform. I wonder what he wears when he’s not in uniform?
And then I wonder why I care. He’s not the reason I’m playing this game. Jordan is. He’s the one who brought me in. He’s the one I trust. Bric is just another player as far as I’m concerned.
And last night… God. It was fun, but now all the feelings I had when I realized what they’d done—the mind fuck—the emotions come back to me.
I felt really stupid last night.
But then they were nice, weren’t they? They took care of me. Aftercare, Jordan said. Tie me to the bed if I tried to leave before they were done.
That was unexpected. Not something I have participated in before. Not like that, anyway. Jordan doesn’t push me that hard when we’re together. He doesn’t really fuck with my head. Yes, we have our little game-playing moments. I resist, he punishes me, I give in, repeat. But last night was something very, very different.
I don’t bother buttoning the shirt, just let it hang open as I back out of the closet and walk to the door. I listen for a moment. More sounds of cooking. The aroma more pronounced. My hunger gets the better of me until I open the door and walk out into the long hallway that leads to the main room.
The dark hardwood floors are cool against my bare feet and I can hear music now too. Classical music. Music I recognize and love. In fact, this song he’s playing was a warm-up song for my class last week.
I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow. Teaching the kids is fun for a little bit, but I’m definitely ready to get back into my routine. Long days, long hours, hard training.
The living room has obviously been professionally decorated for a bachelor. Everything is monochromatic gray, black, white. The couch and chairs are all dark gray leather with silver nail-head trim, the coffee table is a brushed stainless-steel rectangle, and the lamps on the coordinating end tables are chrome.
Sexy, I guess. For a man’s place.
“Hey,” Bric says.
I look up and find him in the kitchen holding a spatula. He’s wearing an apron that has a buffed-out cartoon man screen-printed on the front.
“Hey yourself,” I say. “What’s going on out here?” When he turns his back to me I can’t stop the snicker. “What the hell are you wearing?”
He looks over his shoulder and winks, then goes back to hovering over the stove. What he’s wearing is that apron and nothing else. His tight ass is clearly visible and accented by the apron strings fluttering against his butt cheeks as he moves.
“Like it?” he asks, pushing some bacon around on the griddle.
“Yes,” I say, walking up to the island and taking a seat on the stool. “I do, actually. But your body is much nicer than that cartoon on the front.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “But it makes you appreciate me more, right?”
Elias Bricman. Officially an enigma.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Breakfast. I had breakfast in mind when I planned last night and I’m kinda set in my ways, so we’re having bacon, eggs, and pancakes.”
I think about that for a moment. Last night, specifically.
“Did you have fun?” he asks.
I admit nothing. Still thinking.
“We did. I talked to Jordan. He left early to get some work done on that big case. But he said to tell you he’ll be around this week when he has a chance.”
“OK,” I say.
Bric grabs plates from the cupboard and starts piling food on them. His kitchen is very nice. Gourmet chef kinda nice, with one of those elaborate range hoods made out of glass and stainless steel instead of a microwave that doubles as a vent. His counters are almost black, with thin white veins running through them. Soapstone, I figure. The cabinets are all black too, but the sink is white and deep and the appliances are industrial high-end stainless steel.
“Here,” he says, sliding a plate in front of me. “I’ll have the toast in a second.”
On cue, it pops up in the toaster. I watch the muscles move in Bric’s back as he butters the pieces, cuts them diagonally into triangles, and then turns and drops two on my plate. “Eat up,” he says. “You can’t leave until you eat.”
I pick up a piece of toast and dip the corner into my sunny-side-up egg. I cannot remember the last time I had eggs and toast and that first bite is heaven. “So we’re still playing?” I ask, needing clarification.
“The date’s not over until I take you home, Nadia.”
“Just asking,” I say.
“Unless you don’t want to go home,” he adds, grabbing a plate and setting it on the counter. He doesn’t sit, just leans his body into the island and starts cutting his pancake with a fork.
He brings the food to his mouth and I watch him eat. He has nice lips, I decide. And then I picture his face between my legs. His unshaven jaw of stubble. His tongue doing its thing.
“Do you want to go home, Nadia?” he asks.
“I… think I have to. I live there, after all.”
“You could just stay here.”
“I don’t want to stay here,” I say.
“We’re getting a place anyway, right?”
“Are we?” I ask. “Seems to me that we were supposed to do that last weekend and you bailed.”
“I forgot.” He shrugs. “New Year’s weekend. My real-estate guy wasn’t working. But we can look this week.”
“Well, if we find a place I’ll move into it, I guess. But I don’t want to live at your club.”
“Why not? You’re wearing my club shirt.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.
“I don’t have any clothes. You let people rip them off me last night.”
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” He grins like a boy who is very proud of himself.
“I’m not sure I’d call it… fun.”
“Well, I do,” he says, redirecting his attention to his food. “And since the date is not over yet, we’ve got more fun coming.”
“Do we?” I ask.
He nods knowingly. “Of course, you can say no if you’re not into fun.”
“What are you into?” I ask. “Besides fun?”
“Oh, is this getting-to-know-me time? What does Bric like? What makes Bric tick?”
I pick up a piece of bacon and take a bite. “You’re a good cook,” I say. “I know that much.”
“I’m an excellent cook. Did you know,” he asks, “that I own a tea room with Chella Walcott? And I actually helped create one of the scone recipes.”
I smile and shake my head. “I did not. But very interesting.”
“It’s called Bric’s Strawberry Tart.”
“Does it taste like pussy and come dressed in red leather thigh-highs?” I ask, shoving some toast into my mouth before I laugh.
“Strawberries,” he says. “Hence the name.”
“Why are you telling me this? So I can gush over the fact that you bake?”
“I thought you wanted inside my head? I’m just trying to give you a well-rounded example of who I am.”
“Playboy,” I say. “Check. Deviant. Check. Bisexual.” I smirk now. “Check.”
“So you liked it, huh?”
“You sure seemed to. Especially the parts that involved Jordan. Kissing him. Touching him.”
“If you think that’s gonna set me back, embarrass me, well”—he laughs—“you’re gonna have to try a little harder. I’ve been doing this a long time, Nadia. I’ve had plenty of guys in my game.”
“But you won’t fuck them?” I ask.
“Why would I? I’m not gay.”
“I’m pretty sure bi men also like to fuck each other.”
“I like to fuck women,” he says. “But if it turns you on I’ll play a little harder next time.”
I take whole moments to picture what that might mean.
“Does it turn you on, Nadia?”
I nod. “Mmm-hmmm.”
“You’d like to see a little more of that?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“And let me guess, you’d like to be in control too?”
I get wet from that offer.
“For sure,” I say, scissoring my legs together. Enjoying the stimulation.
He nods, smiling as he looks down at his food, then looks back up at me, smile gone. “You’re not in control here, bitch. So make sure you remember that.”
“Fuck you,” I say. “You’re the one who wants me here.”
“You want to be here, Nadia. Otherwise you’d have never agreed to any of this.”
“I was playing with Jordan, not you.”
“And now you’re playing with both of us. So either get on board or get the fuck out.”
I just stare at him for a second, then recover. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Everyone knows that, Nadia. Try to keep up, will you please? You’re making this so easy.”
“Easy?” I scoff.
He reaches across the table and grabs me by the hair so fast, I gasp. “Do you want to play the game or not?” He growls it out. A low, deep rumble like it came from deep inside his throat. His eyes are intensely serious. No trace of a smile on his lips. No sign of the man who just cooked me breakfast.
And all this while wearing that ridiculous apron.
I grab his wrist and push him away, but he holds onto my hair and pulls me halfway over the soapstone counter.
“Stop it,” I say.
He lets go and I ease backward. A smile slowly forms. His lips barely curling up at the edges. An evil smile, I realize. A smirk. Nothing friendly about it. “Do you want to know why you’re here, Nadia?”
“I came here to fuck,” I say, practically spitting the words out. “And I did that. And now I’m done.”
I turn away, but he grabs my hair again and it pulls. Harder this time. I refuse to react again. I refuse to give in to him like this. “If you hurt me again I will press charges.”
“You’re the one who said—what was it again? ‘We’re all gonna get hurt, that’s not a secret?’ You said that, Nadia. You came into this game to hurt us. And now you’re what? Mad because we’re gonna hurt you back?”
“Let go of my hair,” I snarl. “Now.”
He lets go and then eases himself back over to his side of the counter. “Do you know why you like to submit?” he asks.
I have to laugh at that. “I don’t like to submit, Bric. I’m playing a game, remember?”
“You like it because you’re out of control. You like it because someone hurt you in the past. You like it—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, cutting him off. “You have no goddamned idea what you’re talking about.”
“Were you abused, Nadia? Did your daddy—”
I slap him. Hard. Right across his stupid fucking face. And then I slap him again and make it count.