“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.