Nash

I practically vaulted into the ring this morning. There’s an honesty about fighting that I love, and I needed it today. Lose focus. Bam. You get hit. Too slow. Bam. You get hit. Poor aim. Bam. You get hit.

Cause and effect. Action and reaction. Reward or consequence. Truth. Honesty. Pain.

Half an hour later, my opponent was on the floor and I was in the shower, trying not to let the adrenaline rush swirl down the drain.

Life wasn’t as simple outside of the ring.

Last night, walking down the stairs of Nixie’s apartment building, leaving her, was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

Which was absurd—I barely knew her. We hadn’t even had sex yet.

Now there was a tragedy.

So fucking close. There was something holding her back, something she wanted from me that I wasn’t sure I was capable of. Not that I was sure of much right now. But those eyes of hers, filling with disappointment, with doubt, had just about slayed me. I walked out of her crappy apartment, knowing I was leaving something precious behind. Even now, striding into the office in my five thousand dollar suit, custom made Italian oxfords on my feet, French silk tie choking my neck—I had never felt so worthless.

And Eva. What the fuck was I going to do about Eva?

Yeah, life in the ring was so much easier.

As if she heard my turbulent thoughts, my phone rang. “Hey. About last night—”

Eva stopped me. “Nash, we don’t need to talk about last night.”

I frowned, wanting to confront the inevitable awkwardness head-on so we could move past it. “I think we should.”

“No,” she said, firmly. “It was a mistake. I never should have put you in that position. We’re friends, you’re the twins’ uncle. For now, that’s all.”

For now? But I decided not to press the point. “I’m sorry, Eva.”

“Me too.” She paused for a minute before taking a breath and perking up. “But, like I said, that’s not why I’m calling. I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page for Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving? That’s—”

“Next week.”

I muttered a curse beneath my breath. I’d completely forgotten. “Right.”

“I know we spoke about going to Florida together to visit your parents . . .” Hope flared in my chest that she’d decided to make alternative arrangements. Maybe I could just stay in New York and forget the holiday existed. “ . . . but Celeste Van Horne called and invited all of us to Bermuda for the week.”

Crap. I searched for another out. “A week? I can’t take off an entire week.”

“Since I knew you would say that, we’re only going for a few days. Tristan and Reina will be there, too, although not their parents or older sister. Tristan is hardly a slacker, and if he can take off for a long weekend so can you.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Tristan Bettencourt was one of the hottest hedge fund managers in New York. Wall Street was an insular, elitist circle and we had crossed paths occasionally, but didn’t become friends until Eva and Reina’s sister, Celeste, a longtime friend of Eva’s, decided to introduce us. I never expected to like a guy who was born on the Forbes 400 List, but Tristan was one of the least pretentious people I’d ever met. And one of the hardest-working. His wife, Reina, was no slouch either. She was managing her own fund these days, too. If the New York Stock Exchange decided to throw a prom, Tristan and Reina would be crowned King and Queen.

“What about my—

“Your parents? They’ve already booked their flight. Like you, they seemed a little reluctant, but when I put the twins on the phone, they couldn’t say no. And if you give me a hard time, I’ll sick Madison and Parker on you, too. Anyway, I’ll take care of the necessary arrangements with Katherine. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

She hung up before I could insist that I was too busy to go to Bermuda, even for a few days. Shaking my head, I dropped the phone and sighed. I would have to call her back later, and my parents, too. Find some way to extricate myself.

I turned my attention back to my work. There at least, I knew what the hell I was doing. Everything about Knight Ventures brought me comfort. Leather soles slapping marble tiles. Elevators that raced upward without the slightest hesitation. Rows of desks and cubicles, ringing phones, humming computers—every last one of them bought and paid for by me. Employees I’d hired, and could fire at the slightest whim. Pitching ideas and acquisition plans with the precision of a general going to war.

Business was a daily battle, and I relished every day. Here, on my home turf, I shoved all thoughts of Nixie and Eva, and even Madison and Parker, from my mind and bellowed my assistant’s name through the open door of my office.

Katherine stepped into my office, her face as calm as ever. “Yes?” She was used to my occasional outbursts, and my rough edges never seemed to rub her the wrong way. It was unfortunate not everyone in my life could be a paid employee.

“That think tank in San Francisco, the one that specializes in merging—”

“FIT, the Foundation for Innovative Technology?”

“Yes, that one. Get a group of their people here and coordinate with the teams covering our Asian investments and everyone who worked on evaluating NetworkTech. We need to figure out exactly what they’re worth.” Unfortunately, no think tank could tell me the lengths I might have to go to convince Mack Duncan to sell.

“Oh, and Simmons?”

She turned around and poked her head back in my office. “Yes?”

I rattled off Nixie’s address from memory, watching as she copied it on the notepad in her hand. “Do some digging on the owner of the building, and make a few calls criticizing the hazardous living conditions. Crumbling steps, insufficient exterior and interior lighting, an intercom system that doesn’t accurately reflect the tenants’ names. The place is a mess and the landlord should be ashamed of himself.”

“Is that all?” My assistant’s face didn’t betray the slightest curiosity for my sudden interest in a dilapidated Brooklyn apartment building.

“Make sure you tell them to get the windows washed.” No matter where she lived, Nixie should wake up to sunshine on her face.

Nixie

I frowned at my window, trying to figure out what time it was. The glass was so filthy, I couldn’t tell. After Nash left, I spent a sleepless night recalling every second of his visit, and it felt as if my eyes had only been closed for a few minutes when I heard Kismet scratching at the door. If not for her, I might have pulled the covers over my head and stayed in bed all day.

Instead I scribbled a note to the building superintendent about the grimy state of the exterior windows, somewhere between a strongly worded complaint and a beseeching plea, and slid it beneath his door on my way to walk Kismet. It was unlikely anything would come of it, but it was worth a try.

Not that I hadn’t tried to clean the glass. I had, many times. On the inside, the panes of my apartment gleamed. But I couldn’t reach the outside, and that was the problem. The building’s windows probably hadn’t been washed in the past decade. Maybe longer.

A brisk walk helped clear some of the cobwebs from my brain, and once we were back in my apartment I fed Kismet and headed to the Pratt campus.

My second class of the day was Sculpture. It was a small class, just four of us, each assigned to a corner with a potter’s wheel, a chair, a lump of clay, and a jug of water. Usually the professor walked around, inspecting our progress. But today, of all days, she instructed us to turn our chairs to face the corner. Then she dimmed the lights and put on instrumental music with a heavy beat and sensual rhythm. Today, she said, we were to focus on the feel of the clay in our hands. We could make something, or nothing. But this class was about experiencing the act of sculpting through our palms.

I’ve seen Ghost. Hasn’t everyone? That scene with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, their hands woven together, his front to her back, his thighs pressed against hers, wet clay oozing through their fingers. Does foreplay get any better?

I wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel anything sexual in a room with three other art students I barely knew. But I was wrong. Spreading my legs around the potter’s wheel, the pedal humming beneath my right foot, I poured water on the already moist clay and wrapped my hands around the cool, spinning mound. It warmed up quickly, changing consistency and shape as I worked with it. The lights were low, and I let my eyes drift closed to focus on the tactile nature of sculpting.

Of course, it wasn’t long before thoughts of Nash intruded. I’d spent all morning forcing memories of last night, memories of him, from my mind. But now, my defenses were down.

The clay within my hands became Nash’s shoulders, his abs, his thighs, his . . . everything. And damn, he felt gooood. I could touch him the way I wanted to, without fearing that he was comparing me to the mile long list of women that had already shared his bed. With clay, there was no need to ask the pesky questions crowding my skull. Do I measure up to all those that came before me? Will you even remember my name tomorrow? Will you leave as soon as we finish, eager to be rid of me now that you’ve had a taste?

For an hour, I gave myself over to the joy of manipulating something between my hands. Having the power to build or destroy, add or remove, speed up or slow down.

When the lights came back on, I took my foot off the pedal and lifted my hands away. In front of me was an irregularly shaped vase. I looked more closely, inspecting it. No, not irregularly shaped. It was a heart, slightly open at the top, as if I’d curled my fingers inward at the very last second. Leaving a gap where it should have been fused together. An open heart? Or a broken one?

I scraped it off the wheel head, readied it for firing in the kiln. Tonight was one of the few nights I didn’t have to work, and I was debating between painting at a nearby park and calling my boss to ask if he needed me to fill in for anyone. After my sculpture class, the last thing I needed was more time to brood about Nash.

But when I got back to my apartment, the building super, T.J., was on a ladder in front of the entrance, replacing a bulb that had been broken as long as I lived here. “Let there be light,” I joked as it sputtered to life.

T.J. grunted, reaching for a screwdriver dangling from the brown leather utility belt wrapped below his substantial belly and fitting the cover in place. “Have a list a mile long today. Got your request ’bout the windows, too.” He shoved the screwdriver back in his belt and lumbered down, the ladder shaking wildly.

I stepped forward, wrapping both of my hands around the metal sides. No good would come of T.J. breaking his neck this afternoon. “Did hiring a window washer make it onto your list?”

Another grunt as he stepped to the ground and slammed the ladder shut. “Not mine.” My heart sank, until he lifted it onto his shoulder and glanced at me. “But it must be on someone else’s, because I got a message that a crew would be here first thing tomorrow. Already put a notice under everyone’s door to make sure their windows were sealed shut unless they want soap scum getting in. Blinds, too, in case there’s something they don’t want anybody seeing, if you know what I mean.”

I gave a polite laugh, deciding to check on Mrs. Dwyer in case she needed any help. “Great. Thanks, T.J.” I started up the stairs before turning back. “By the way, any particular reason for all this activity? Are we all about to be evicted and the building turned into condos?”

Drawing a fleshy palm over the sweat-beads popping up across his forehead, T.J. snickered. “In this neighborhood? Doubt it. Alls I know is I got a message about being personally named in a safety hazard suit. Building’s been this way for years, no reason to sue over it. But the wife tells me I need to fix stuff, kicked me outta bed with a damn list.”

I made a mental note to thank T.J.’s wife the next time I saw her. “Well, thanks. I’m sure we all really appreciate it.”

I made it halfway up the next flight when T.J. called out. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—there was a guy here earlier while I was putting the notes about the windows under the doors. I was coming up the stairs and it looked like he was trying to get into your place. Said he was a friend, but when I asked if he had a key he seemed real fishy. I told him to get out of here.”

Gritting out a word of thanks to T.J., I sprinted up the remaining stairs. Goddamn that man. My phone was out of my purse before I closed the door behind me. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that no means no?” I demanded, absentmindedly patting Kismet on the head as sniffed excitedly at my feet.

“I take it you’re upset about the locksmith?” Nash’s tone was clipped, not a sliver of apology dripping from his tongue.

“What? No. I’m upset about you trying to break in again. What is wrong with you?”

“Nixie, I’ve been in the office since seven am, and before that I was at the gym.”

Understanding dawned. “Fine. This time you sent a locksmith to do your dirty work.”

“I did not break into your apartment.”

“Really? How would you describe what you did last night?”

“A misunderstanding.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in those.”

“I don’t believe in mistakes. Misunderstandings are entirely plausible.”

Realizing we were getting off track, I conceded the point. “Fine. Whatever. You broke in last night and someone you had absolutely no business hiring apparently tried to do it again today.” Pushing out a heavy sigh, I picked up the dog and carried her to my bed. “You need to stop, Nash. I’m not interested in what you’re offering. Back off.”

“Nixie, listen to me. I hired a locksmith to change that abysmal lock on your apartment, precisely because I was able to get in your door so easily. That must have been him, inspecting your lock. I’m going to hang up right now, and tell him that you’re home. He’ll be there shortly.”

The line cut out and I glared at my phone, so mad I wanted to throw it on the ground and stomp on it. What did I need a mobile for, anyway? Almost all of my communication was exclusively through instant messages or email. This way I would never have to talk to Nash again.

Even stewing with anger, a twinge of sadness chipped away at my temper. Is that really what I wanted? To never see or speak to Nash again? With a frustrated sigh, I did the next best thing. I turned the phone to silent.

My mind was still at odds, two warring factions battling it out, when a knock sounded at my door. Pushing the home button on my phone to check the time, I was surprised to see that half an hour had passed. The screen also showed several missed calls from Nash. Calls I had no intention of returning.

I slid Kismet off my lap and jerked to my feet, intending to tell the locksmith to get lost. Not that I didn’t need a new lock, Nash had proved to me that I did. I just didn’t want one bought and paid for by someone else. I didn’t have much cash, but I’d find a way to pay for it myself, thank you very much. No way was I going to use Nash’s guy. Not when I had every reason to believe he’d wind up giving Nash his own key.

I yanked at the knob, bypassing my usual glance through the peephole. “Listen, I’m sorry about the confusion—” The sentence died in my throat, my phone falling to the floor.

The man at my door was no locksmith.