“So what do you do all day?” she asks me between bites. I don’t eat. I’m not hungry. And even though I did enjoy myself upstairs, I’m not enjoying myself now.
I drink instead. “I run this place,” I say, wholly uninterested.
“What’s that like?” Nadia asks, still eating. I thought ballerinas liked to starve themselves? She must be pretty happy right now to forget she’s a ballerina.
“It’s a lot of paperwork,” I say. “And parties.”
“You make it sound so boring.” She laughs, stabbing a spear of asparagus and putting it in her mouth. “Mmmm,” she says. “This is delicious. Jordan knows what I like.”
Mmmm-hmmm. I guess he does. “Well, the parties are business,” I say, trying to keep this whole night from going bad to worse.
She raises one eyebrow at me. “All the parties are business? Even New Year’s Eve?”
“No,” I say. “I’m talking about what I do, Nadia. Not how I play. The parties are all about—” But I just don’t care enough to explain. And I don’t want to bring Smith into this conversation. “It’s just a job. Not as interesting as yours. How did you get to Denver? You’re not from here, right?”
She stops eating and gently wipes her mouth with her napkin. Takes a sip of wine. “It’s my dream job. I mean, of course, I’d love to be dancing in New York. Or London. Lots of other places. But I’m young, so this is a really good break for me.”
“How did it happen?” I ask. “Did you come audition?”
“No, actually,” she says, her brows furrowing just a little bit. “I was invited.”
“You must be some dancer,” I say.
“I’m good,” she says. “Good enough for an invitation to dance for Mountain. You should come see me some time.”
“The next show is…” I search my memory for the spring schedule. “Romeo and Juliet. Are you Juliet?”
“No.” She laughs. “But I’m Rosaline.” She seems proud of this.
“A good part,” I say. “For someone new to the company. I bet you already have enemies over there for getting that part.”
She huffs at me and squints her eyes. “I’m not the kind of girl who makes enemies, Elias.”
“Are we back to Elias?” I feel like I have this conversation about my name a lot. They never know what to call me. As Bric, I’m the master. As Elias I’m the pseudo-boyfriend. It’s confusing, even for me.
“I’ve noticed something when I call you Elias.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You soften a little. You’re a frowner. Did you know that?”
Am I? “No,” I say. “I haven’t.”
“Well, you are. And when I call you Elias you soften. You like it. So I use it when it’s appropriate.”
“And how do I look when you call me Bric?”
“Like a predator,” she says, refocusing her attention back to the food. “Bric is hungry for something. Elias is already satisfied.”
Jesus Christ.
“How does Jordan look when you call him Jordan?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He’s Jordan, that’s all. He’s got no secret side to him.”
“Does that disappoint you?” I ask.
“Not in the least,” she says, putting her fork down, daintily pressing the napkin to the corners of her mouth, and placing it on top of her plate. She only ate a small portion of the fish and half the asparagus. So I guess she never forgets she’s a ballerina. “Jordan is just…” She laughs.
“Just what?” I ask. She’s got a power in her. She commands attention. And it’s not the new sexy dress or the hair. Or even her fresh face, devoid of all that dark make-up. It’s inside her.
“He’s good,” she says.
“Do you think you deserve him?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re not good,” I say. “No one who plays a game like this is good. He’s not good either. I know him better than you.”
“Then why is he good to me?” she asks. Her eyes are bright with mischief. She knows the answer to that question just as much as I do.
“He likes you,” I say. Because I don’t care.
“He does like me. And I like him. But mostly,” she says, leaning forward in her chair—leaning across the table, like she’s about to share a secret with me—“mostly I just like to play with him, you know. The way you like to play with me.”
“So you’re pretending to like him?”
She leans back in her chair, the secret over, her voice a little louder now. “I like him enough. I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t. But he’s kind of easy, don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
She huffs some air. Like I’m amusing her. “He’s not quite,” she says, lowering her voice again, sharing another secret, “the player you are, Bric.”
“So this is all a game. And if he gets hurt? Fuck him, right?”
“We’re all going to get hurt, Elias. I don’t think that’s a secret.”
Chapter Twelve - Nadia
Bric was done with me after that last comment. He took me home, walked me to my door, said goodbye. It was all very cold and very predictable.
But I smiled when I closed the door and leaned back into it. I smiled as I got ready for bed. Brushed my teeth, set my alarm, and crawled under the covers.
I might even have smiled in my dreams.
I’m not smiling now.
Cold is not a word I’d use to describe Jordan, even though he’s mostly predictable. But he was neither cold nor predictable today, because I haven’t seen him. He didn’t show up at lunch to make it up to me, as promised. I was waiting too, my attention half on my little would-be ballerinas, half on the sounds coming from the lobby.
I was straining to hear the phone. A call telling me to come outside. Or the busy-body whispering of the parents as he entered the school, looking for me.
But it never happened.
And I cannot, for the life of me, remember the last time I was stood up.
What they did for me—to me—it was nice. It felt really good. And the shower after—Jordan asking me if it was enough or did I need another fuck. I regret not letting him take me again.
The dress is pretty. It’s hanging on the door. Blue silk. Light and airy. Too light and airy for winter. But I didn’t care. I was only outside briefly when Bric took me home.
And my hair was done up so well, I almost wanted to go to work with it this morning. Of course, I slept on it, so couldn’t. I took it down and put it back up in the typical bun ubiquitous to all polished dancers.
I look at the phone, now that it’s night and almost all chances of Jordan making it up to me are gone, and consider calling him.
“Don’t do it,” I tell myself. “Don’t fall for their games.”
Because that’s what this is.
Show me a nice time. Make my body throb from their touch. Make me dream about their hands, easing the aches from my legs and my feet and my shoulders.
And then walk away. Isn’t that what they all do?
My phone rings in my hand. It startles me and I drop it onto the fluffy white down comforter.
But it’s not Jordan. Or even Bric. It’s not a number I recognize, but the area code is. New York.
I send it to voicemail. I blocked him the other day but obviously I’ll need to change the number.
So what are they doing? I have been asking myself this question all evening. Were they playing last night just to get control? Are they done with me? Have they walked out? Are they waiting for me to call them?
What? What do they want?
They want me to submit, I know this. They spelled it out. Jordan was upfront when we started playing our little game. And Bric, well. He’s made his conditions clear.
He was angry when he found out I lied to him about the phone sex. Was angry when he realized I was controlling him.
But instead of doing the predictable—teaching me a good lesson with nipple clamps, or a good spanking over his knee, or chaining me to the fucking ceiling like he did Christmas night… he switched it up, didn’t he?