And then he opens the door and walks out.
I let out a long breath of relief. I can’t do this again. I can’t. I won’t.
I want to run away. I want to get the fuck out of this apartment. This city. This life. But my legs—my whole body—is one big mess of exhaustion. What the hell just happened? I feel… wrecked.
The couch is calling me. I sink into the cushions and curl up into a little ball. The memories of what happened in New York—memories I had put behind me—all come flooding back.
Tears are running down my face and sobs are coming out my mouth in weird gasps.
Just close your eyes, Nadia. Close your eyes and sleep it off.
I will never sleep again. So I go to the bathroom, grab the bottle of sleeping pills, and gulp them down without water.
I surrender to the nothingness of sleep.
Pounding on my door wakes me. It’s morning, but early. Just a hint of dawn peeking though my living room curtains.
“Nadia!” Jordan is yelling in the hallway. “Open the door and let me in right now or I swear, I will call the police.”
I drag my aching body off the couch. My legs are so weak from last night’s… game… I stumble over a rug and fall to my knees.
“Nadia!” Jordan yells again, his fist pounding on my door. I scramble on my knees for a few feet, then get up and stumble across the room. “Open the fucking—”
I open the door before he finishes. “What the hell, Jordan?” I look down the hallway and see two neighbors peeking their heads out.
He pushes past me, huffing out air, slamming the door behind him. “I’ve been calling you all night. Why didn’t you pick up the phone?”
“I was sleeping,” I say, unable to think about last night. “I didn’t hear it. I don’t even know where my phone is.” I sort through the couch cushions and find it wedged between the seat and the back. Yup. He’s called me nine times.
“Sorry,” I say.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t fucking play with me, Nadia. Bric called me last night and told me the game was over. He won, you lost. His words exactly. Now tell me what the fuck happened?”
I shrug and slink down onto the couch, curling my legs up underneath me. “He won,” I say.
“I’m gonna need more details. Tell me exactly what happened. You brought him up here…” He waits for me to finish that sentence. But I don’t. “And then…” He walks over and places a hand on my shoulder. “Nadia—” He stops. “Why are you shaking?”
I don’t know. So I can’t tell him. But I am shaking. It could be from Bric making me stand en pointe at the wall last night. Or the mind fuck. Or both. I don’t know.
“Nadia, talk to me.” Jordan sits down on the couch next to me. “Tell me what happened.”
My eyes fill up with tears. They spill down my face before I can wipe them away.
“Nadia,” Jordan says. All his anger is gone now. There’s nothing left but concern. “Just tell me what happened.”
“He won.”
“How? How did he win? What did he do?”
But I can’t tell that story. Not even to myself, let alone Jordan. So I just shake my head.
He reaches for me, trying to put his arm around me, but I push him off and stand up. I try to cross the room without wincing. My legs… God, my legs. They are weak and rubbery, so I sit down in a chair before I fall.
“Go away,” I say. “I don’t want you here.”
“No,” Jordan says. “I need to know why you’re acting like this.”
I shake my head. “No. You don’t.” And then, because I really need him to leave, I look him in the eyes and say, “Get out of my apartment and don’t come back. I don’t ever want to see either of you again.”
“Nadia—”
“Out!” I yell it as loud as I can.
Jordan stares at me for a moment. Sighs. Stands. And does what I ask.
I stay in that chair all day. Until the light disappears on the other side of the curtains. I shiver. I don’t even get up to go to the bathroom. But I don’t have to, because I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since yesterday morning.
My phone rings. Lots of times. Too many times to count.
Whoever is on the other end of that phone isn’t someone I want to talk to. It’s Jordan. Or Bric. Or Logan. I just need them all to go away.
And eventually they do. The ringing stops. I drag myself back into my bedroom, fall on top of the covers, and pass out in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Three - Bric
I drink the entire weekend at the Club. I don’t even go downstairs to play. And Jordan never shows up, so… it’s just me and my bottle of brandy. By Monday, I feel like shit. I’m too hungover to care about Club members or people coming in for lunch at the restaurant, so I sit up in Smith’s bar, nursing a ginger ale.
I’m getting old, I think.
No, that voice in my head says. You’re feeling guilty.
I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. So fuck that. Nadia asked for this. She wanted to play the game. She practically begged me.
But she never asked you to fuck with her past or her head.
That’s what I do. That’s who I am. She came into this game with eyes wide open.
She came to have fun and be challenged. Not to get mentally raped.
Mentally raped? Jesus Christ. My internal monologue is out of control.
I stand up and lean on the half-wall that overlooks the lobby just as the lunch crowd is picking up. I see Jordan walk through the revolving doors. He looks right up at me, heads for the stairs, pushes his way past the sentries I have posted, and storms into the bar.
“What the fuck did you do to her?”
“Who?” I ask.
Jordan takes a swing. It’s so sudden I don’t even have time to process things until his fist crashes into my jaw. I swing back, but miss, then swing again and connect. He charges me, like a fucking bull, and we crash into the table. Glassware goes flying. My bottle of brandy breaks on the floor. I vaguely log the sound of people gasping down below.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yell. The bartender and server are there, pulling Jordan back by his shoulders.
Jordan stares me down as I get to my feet. He wipes blood from his lip just as I taste my own blood in my mouth. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The fuck you don’t,” he yells. “What did you do to Nadia?”
“We played,” I say, trying to shrug and come off nonchalant. “She lost. End of story.”
“She lost,” he says, still trying to wipe the blood from his lip. “She lost? You broke her, Bric. You fucking broke her.”
“She’s fine,” I say. “It wasn’t that bad—”
He lunges for me again, but the bartender grabs him before he gets very far. “She didn’t show up for work today.”
“So? Maybe she’s sick.”
“Or maybe you broke her.”
“Shut the fuck up. She wanted to play, so we played. I was just showing her who’s boss.”
“You?” he says, still breathing hard. “You’re the boss? You’re fucking pathetic, Bric. No wonder Quin left you and took everything you loved with him.”
“You better control that mouth—”