I want to defy Bricman by wearing white instead of black. But I only own one white dress and it’s made of lace and makes me feel like a cheap bride. So I give him that point and put on the black.
He said slutty, so I’ve got that covered too. The dress is barely long enough to cover my pussy. I’m wearing pink lingerie, but not the sweet kind. The kind that showcases your goods when you open your legs. The kind that comes with garters and thigh-high stockings. The kind that pushes your tits up to your chin and lets the tops of your nipples peek out from behind the cups.
I debated on whether to wear high boots or stilettos, and went with the stilettos. They cost more than one month’s rent for most people. But I didn’t buy them, Jordan did. So that means nothing to me. They make me taller than the boots, and even though I still won’t be as tall as Bric or Jordan, I’ll be closer to eye level.
Being small isn’t something I find cute.
I round it all off with some sterling silver jewelry. Nothing special, just a few pieces I have collected over the years.
At exactly seven-thirty, the buzzer rings on my door. I take one more look at myself in the mirror, self-consciously pull my ridiculously short dress down one more time, and let out a deep breath.
Let the game begin.
“You look… slutty,” Jordan says when I open the door. He takes me in for a few seconds longer, then takes both hands, leans in for his kiss, and lets me go so he can grab my coat.
It’s not slutty, it’s not warm, and it’s not cheap. It’s wool cashmere, but it’s short and black, so I think it’s better than the double-breasted pea coat I wore last night.
“Bric wanted slutty,” I say casually as I slip my arms into the coat and grab my purse. “And you know how eager I am to please, Mr. Wells.”
Jordan chuckles. He’s so easy-going compared to Bric. He laughs a lot too. I like it. He can be controlling and he’s definitely had some asshole moments with me over these past few weeks. But that’s not who he really is. Jordan is a decent guy in the real world. He’s a trial lawyer, so probably most people think he’s scum. But I’m OK with that. Because I know he takes a lot of pro bono cases. I looked him up and he’s been listed on the Crawford Top Fifty for three years in a row. That’s a special list for lawyers who give back to the community. And that’s Top Fifty in the whole country. Not just Colorado.
I trust Jordan. Sure, he might be a dick to me tonight, but if he is, he’ll show up tomorrow with roses. Or new ballet slippers. Or he’ll send me lunch and it will consist of all things I will actually eat and not things I’d just throw away because they’re junk.
And even though I know we’re playing a game, it doesn’t feel like a game with Jordan.
I mean, I know it’s a game. I know he’s not serious about me. I know this isn’t a relationship and we’re on the road to nowhere.
But he makes it feel real. He’s a good actor. He deserves the Stepford Wife version of me.
Elias Bricman though… No. He’s not worthy of the good-actress me. He’s not worthy of the girlfriend experience. Hell, he’s not even worthy of the whore experience. Bric gets what he gives.
The Machiavellian me.
Elias Bricman and I are definitely playing a game and we both know it. I got him good last night.
“What are you smiling about?” Jordan asks me as we get inside the elevator.
“This is fun,” I say, meaning it. But there are wild fluttering butterflies in my stomach for some reason.
“It’s about to get better. Play your A-game, Nadia. Because what you did last night really pissed Bric off.”
“So he told you?” I say, trying—and failing—to hide my smirk.
“He told me. I’m just warning you—”
“I know, I know,” I say, just as the elevator doors open. We step out, he offers me his arm and I curl my hand around it and let him lead me to the door. “You already told me he’s dangerous. I get it. I’m not a child, Jordan. And I’m not fragile. He won’t break me.”
We walk through the first set of doors, the doormen on their toes tonight, opening it up ahead of us, and then the second.
And that’s when I notice Bric isn’t here to pick us up. “Where’s Bric?” I ask.
“He’s waiting for us, Nadia. At the Club.”
“Hmmm,” I say as I slip into the open door of his car. Jordan gets in a second later and revs the engine of his sporty BMW.
“Hmmm, indeed, Miss Wolfe. You have really gotten his attention. And I’m not sure the full attention of Elias Bricman is a good thing.”
We’re both quiet on the way over to the Club. It’s not far, so the silence isn’t glaring. But his warning makes me second-guess all the moves I’ve planned.
Still, it’s exciting. I’ve been to the Club many times with Jordan, but aside from that one night at Bric’s apartment, I don’t make it upstairs. Or downstairs, for that matter. We have dinner in the White Room or drinks and dinner in the Black Room. Then he takes me home and fucks me at my house. Or in his car. Or someplace public. Wherever.
This will be the first time Elias is expecting me at the Club.
Just as I get my stomach to calm down from nerves, we’re there and the valet is opening my door. He extends a hand to help me out and Jordan makes his way around the car to offer me his arm.
I take it. Maybe even need it.
OK, Nadia. Play well tonight.
The people at the door greet Jordan and me. They take our coats, but then I am unexpectedly maneuvered towards the back stairs.
“What?” I whisper, leaning up to Jordan’s ear. “No dinner first?”
Jordan says nothing. And when I chance a glance up at his face, there’s no smile. His mouth is just a straight line of determination.
Hmmm.
So yes, all those butterflies in my stomach on the way over here were warranted. They have something planned for me tonight. Something that will put me in my place. Something that will give them power and make me submit.
We enter the elevator, but instead of taking it up to the fifth floor where I know Bric lives, we exit on the third floor.
“Where are we going?” I ask Jordan.
The hallways are quiet. Empty. So even though my words weren’t loud, they seem loud.
Jordan doesn’t answer. We keep walking down the dimly lit hallway until we reach the last door on the right. And then we stop. Jordan turns to me, offers me a small smile, and then places both hands on my cheeks and kisses me softly on the lips.
“Don’t make it hard, Nadia,” he says, whispering the words past my lips as he continues to kiss me.
“What—”
But his kiss becomes stronger now, his palms on my cheeks no longer gentle, but gripping.
“Don’t say anything,” he replies, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “Just give in to us and everything will be fine.”
Oh, yeah. The butterflies are back. I swallow hard, unfamiliar with the emotion coursing through my body.
Dread, I realize.