I’m hungover at the funeral the next day. I wear a pair of sunglasses I bought at the drug store even though we’re inside the funeral home for the service. We bury our dead on the ranch and there’s no burying anything this time of year. After the service Luc’s body will go to the morgue to wait until spring.
I want to be sick. I’m not sure if it’s the thought of Luc being kept in that frozen crypt for the next few months or the fact that I drained two bottles of cheap whiskey last night. But I want to be sick.
My phone buzzes in the middle of the ceremony and what feels like a hundred faces turn in their chairs to look at me.
Disappointing Elias.
I grin and shrug, like the fuck-up I am, and glance at my screen. Margaret. She’s the last fucking person I need to talk to right now.
I refuse to make Margaret—dear, sweet, perfect mother-figure Margaret—a part of the life I left behind up here.
So I ignore it. I ignore all seven of her calls that come after. I ignore her as Nadia and I board the plane. I ignore her as we get off back in Denver. I ignore her all the way over to Nadia’s apartment.
“What are we doing here?” Nadia asks, when I pull up to the curb.
I slide my cheap shades down the bridge of my nose. “I’m dropping you off, Nadia. The game is over and you won. Congratulations. I’ve already transferred money into your bank account and Margaret made sure everything you had at the house was returned to your apartment. Have a nice life,” I say, finishing the speech I’ve been practicing in my head since she called me Master yesterday morning. “And don’t ever call me again.”
She stares at me, mouth open. But she shuts up, gets out of my car, and walks away.
“That’s right, bitch,” I jeer, saluting her back as she disappears inside. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”
I drive back to the Club, drop my car at the valet, and go inside—so fucking relieved to be home.
“Bric?” Margaret says, coming up to me as I make my way into the Black Room for a drink. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Sorry, Margaret,” I say, so fucking happy to see her face and not the ones I left behind up north. “I got caught up in shit. But I’m back now.”
“You have a visitor,” she says. “He’s been calling since yesterday. He came in a few hours ago and I let him wait in the White Room.”
“What?” I say, taking off my shades. “Who?”
She spreads her hands wide as she shrugs. “He says his name is Logan. He’s a friend of Nadia’s. He says he needs to talk to you and it’s urgent.”
Chapter Twenty-Six - Nadia
“Nadia!” The yell stops me mid-step and makes me stumble. Mostly because the music is so loud, so Chris is yelling over it, and she scared the shit out of me.
I skip over to the stereo, press stop, and the small rehearsal room is silent except for my own heavy breathing. “What?” I say, leaning over, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath.
“You have a visitor,” Chris says. “It’s Jordan.”
My body stiffens as I straighten and look at her. “Tell him I’m busy.” I reach for the music, press play, and get back into my routine.
I’m spinning across the room in a long sequence of piqué turns, spotting at the door, when Jordan appears. My head spins, my eyes find him, I spin again, find him, spin—but now he’s crossed the room, directly in my path, blocking my way.
“What?” I yell over the music, panting and out of breath. “Can’t you see I’m practicing? Why do you bother me at work?”
He just stares at me, frowning, walks over to the stereo and shuts off the music.
“Well?” I ask again, quieter this time. “What do you need, Jordan? I’m busy.”
“What happened?” he asks. His voice is low, but not stern. And his frown, I now realize, is… sympathetic.
“With what?” I ask.
“You know with what, Nadia. Bric. The house. Everything. I went there last night and it was dark and empty. What the hell happened?”
I walk over to my water bottle, tip it over my mouth, and gulp. I look at him, all dressed up in that suit, and wonder what his angle is in all this. “It’s Wednesday,” I say. It’s an accusation and he knows it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was busy with—”
“I know,” I snap at him. “Your case. So busy with your case it took you three days to realize that the game was over. Just what the fuck, Jordan?”
He walks over to the studio door, looks out in the hallway to see if anyone is eavesdropping, then closes it to give us privacy. “I heard about Bric’s brother.”
“Good for you. But I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”
“He took you… home with him?” Jordan asks. “For a fucking funeral?”
“Yes,” I shrug.
“Why? How did that happen, Nadia?”
“What do you mean? He got the call, I wanted to be supportive—”
“Wait,” Jordan says, putting up a hand. “Supportive, Nadia. You don’t even know the guy. It’s a personal family moment. Why the fuck did he take you home with him?”
“Is this my fault?” I ask, thoroughly pissed off at this point. “Is that what you’re insinuating?”
“If the game is over, it’s over,” Jordan replies. “It’s no one’s fault. But I need to understand just how the fuck you got Bric to take you up to Montana.”
“Why?” I ask. “What difference does it make?”
“Because, Nadia, no one goes up to Montana to see Bric’s family. Chella has never met Bric’s family. Rochelle has never met Bric’s family. Shit, not even Smith or Quin have met Bric’s family.”
“Well”—I laugh—“I know why. Would you like to know why no one has ever met Bric’s family, Jordan?”
“No,” he says. And this time his voice isn’t sympathetic or low. It’s harsh, and mean, and loud. “I don’t. Because I know Bric well enough to understand whatever’s going on up there is private. And you shouldn’t have gone. He shouldn’t have taken you. So I want to know”—he’s crossed the room and is standing right in front of me now, his hands on my shoulders like he’s about to give me a good shake—“how the fuck you got him to take you up there.”
“First of all,” I say, backing off his grip on my shoulders and slapping at his arms, “no one makes Elias Bricman do anything. Let’s just get that out of the way right now. Second, I told you. I was only trying to be supportive. The call came in. You had already disappeared—no surprise there—and he was upset when he told me his brother had died and he needed to go to the funeral.”
“That’s not what happened,” Jordan growls. “And you know it. So either you tell me the truth or—”