Oh, Elias Bricman. I have you now, honey. You want to be special? I can make you feel special. I can fuck with your head just as much as you can fuck with mine.
I grab my phone and press his contact number.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hello, Nadia.”
“Hello… Elias.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Perfect,” I say. “But…” I pause. Count the seconds until he gives in and has to ask.
“But? What?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For those slaps. And being difficult earlier. I know I apologized already, but I don’t think it was sincere enough. So I’d like to try again.”
If he were here in front of me, I’d see that eyebrow shoot up his forehead in surprise. But he’s not. So I just imagine it instead.
“I’m not sure if I believe you more now, or then,” Bric says.
“And I just want to say goodnight. And thank you,” I add. It’s a nice touch. “For the great New Year’s Eve experience. I haven’t talked to Jordan yet but he’ll probably come for lunch tomorrow so I’ll tell him then.”
“He’s busy tomorrow,” Bric says.
“Oh,” I say, adding in a wistful sigh.
“He called me a little while ago and told me to tell you he won’t be around this week. But we’re gonna house-hunt without him.”
I roll my eyes. House-hunt. Jesus Christ.
“What time do you get home tomorrow?”
“Well,” I say softly. “The camp stuff is over now, so I have rehearsals until two.”
“So you’re off at two now?”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound regretful. Not because of class, but because now he’ll want to dominate my days as well as my nights
“Perfect. Be down in your lobby at three. Wear something classy and make sure you’re smiling.”
He hangs up.
I just stare at the phone. I’m so pissed off for a few seconds, my hand shakes. But I take a few deep breaths, picture my plan in my head, and let it all out.
Elias Bricman wants me to be the slave of his dreams? Wants to own me? Dominate me? Make me submit?
I can do that. If it gets me the payout at the end, I can most definitely do that.
“Nadia?” Chris says the second I walk through the door of the company.
“Yes?” I say, anxious to get to class. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed pushing my body beyond its limits. Making it bend to my will.
“This was just delivered.” She’s holding out a large yellow envelope.
“Who’s it from?” I ask, reaching for it.
“Elias Bricman,” she says through her smirk. “Are you dating him? I thought you were dating that Jordan guy? I like him. He’s fucking hot. But Elias Bricman. Jesus, Nadia. Tell me how you do it.”
“Do what?” I ask, staring down at the envelope. He put his fucking name on it. And I recall that one conversation we had. The one where I warned him about the gossip that would start circulating if people from the company saw us together.
That dick. He did this on purpose. I want to be owned. He used my own words against me. Dick.
“How do you get all these deviant men to like you?”
I drag my eyes off the envelope and meet her gaze. “He’s helping me find a house, Chris. That’s all.”
“But you live in a company apartment. Why do you need a house?”
I want to tell her to mind her own fucking business. And I would. If this was last week. But I can’t, because this is today. And Bricman has a picture that will change people’s perceptions of me. “Oh, I just want to make sure people who need that apartment more than I do can live there.” It’s a stupid excuse because I make no money as a dancer, and my rank of demi has only slightly better pay than the other girls in the corps. But it makes me look generous. Magnanimous.
“So sweet of you,” Chris says. I’m not sure she’s buying it because I’m naturally bitchy and she’s caught on to that fact. But it gets me through her questions.
“Gotta run,” I say. “If you know anyone who needs that apartment, you can tell them I’m moving out soon.”
I don’t wait for her answer, just take my envelope to the locker room and dump my bag. I’m a few minutes early, people chatting as they adjust their clothes, slip on their shoes. Whatever. So I rip open the envelope and peek inside.
“What’s that?”
“Jesus, Matthew. Way to sneak up on a girl.” He’s leaning over my shoulder to get a look at my envelope.
And lucky me. It’s nothing kinky or threatening. It’s just real-estate brochures. “Just house-hunting stuff,” I say.
“Lemme see!” he says, grabbing the envelope out of my hands. “What the…” He holds the brochures in his hand and I’m immediately sorry I mentioned the house hunt.
Because those brochures are for multi-million-dollar mansions in Cherry Creek. The swankiest neighborhood in the entire city.
“You…” He shakes his head. “You can’t afford these houses.”
“I know.” I laugh. “Don’t be stupid. It’s for my dad. He’s buying a house.”
My dad? Oh, my God.
“Oh,” Matthew says, hand on hip. Pursed lips on face. “So you’re moving in with him? Chris just told me you’re vacating the apartment. I think I’ll apply for it.”
“You should,” I say brightly as I take the envelope back and stuff it in my locker.
“Elias Bricman though,” Matthew says, rubbing his chin in a gesture that says he doesn’t believe a fucking word I’m saying. “I didn’t know he’s a real-estate agent.”
“I think he owns houses there.” I leave it at that. Just grab my water bottle and go to class.
But the whole time I’m dancing I’m also thinking.
Nice move, Bricman. I have to hand it to him. He’s definitely playing his A-game with me. He’s got everyone talking about me, he’s got my full attention, and he’s picking me up at three. Smiling. And wearing something classy.
We take a break at eleven forty-five and I head straight for my locker, grab the envelope, and retreat to a stall in the bathroom.
The brochures are glossy and sleek. The houses are huge and pretentious.
The note is direct.
Nadia—
Choose three and text me before noon so I can set up the appointments.
Elias.
Shit. I only have like eight minutes to meet his demands. I shuffle through dozens of brochures. Randomly choose three, take pictures, text.
Done.
Take that, asshole.
The rest of my day goes as planned. I work hard. I sweat my ass off. I make my body ache and my feet hurt, until everything goes numb. I am berated repeatedly by the ballet mistress, but we all know if she’s not berating you on technique, or style, or lack thereof, she’s not seeing you. And we all want to be seen.
At two, I’m exhausted, but high on dancing endorphins. When I get to my apartment I have forty minutes to turn myself into something classy for the monster I’m… dating.
At two fifty-five I’m in the lobby wearing a cream-colored pencil sweater dress, a pair of tan leather knee-high boots, and a cape. And I have an ostentatious bag on my arm that Jordan got me the first real date we went on.
At exactly three o’clock Bric pulls up in his silver BMW.
I wait in the lobby, our eyes meet, and I can almost see him roll his eyes as he gets out of the car and comes inside to greet me.
Because I will not run out to his stupid car and get in like a teenager. If he thinks I will allow him to treat me like some cheap drive-up whore, he’s wrong.
“Miss Wolfe,” he says, checking out my choice of outfit as he offers me his arm.
“Mr. Bricman,” I say back.
He leads me to the car, where the valet is already opening the door. I slide into the soft leather seats and then he’s inside with me, hand on the gear shift. Car moving forward.
“Do you approve?” I ask.
He glances at me and nods. “Very nice.”
“I’m classy enough for you?”