Page 64 of His Turn

Chapter Eighteen - Nadia

When I wake up I’m alone in bed.

I turn over, my body aching badly. But I ignore it. I’m so used to it.

“Jordan?” I whisper to the empty room. My eyes are still adjusting to the light when I shift my gaze over to the clock on the side table. Four thirty-seven. Jesus Christ, I slept all day.

I can hear banging in other parts of the apartment.

I’m at Turning Point Club, I remind myself. Bric’s apartment.

There’s food in the air and my stomach rumbles from the emptiness. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and all the memories of last night come rushing back with the blood to my head. Which makes me dizzy.

What a crazy night.

But I smile. Because I liked it. It wasn’t anything like I imagined, and yet… it’s everything I’ve come to expect from this crazy world Jordan has pulled me into.

I wander over to the closet to look for clothes. It’s a huge closet filled with suits. Black, charcoal gray, blue. And a whole rack of crisp shirts. His ties are all hung on a long rack and each pair of shoes has a home in a cubby.

Elias Bricman is a neat freak.

I feel the sleeves of the shirts, choose a white one, and slip it off the hanger. It’s cool and soft against my skin and my fingers find a small embroidered monogram on the stiffly starched cuff.

TPC.

Turning Point Club. So not his initials.

Why, I wonder? Why would he have that monogrammed on his shirt? It’s like this is his uniform. I wonder what he wears when he’s not in uniform?

And then I wonder why I care. He’s not the reason I’m playing this game. Jordan is. He’s the one who brought me in. He’s the one I trust. Bric is just another player as far as I’m concerned.

And last night… God. It was fun, but now all the feelings I had when I realized what they’d done—the mind fuck—the emotions come back to me.

I felt really stupid last night.

But then they were nice, weren’t they? They took care of me. Aftercare, Jordan said. Tie me to the bed if I tried to leave before they were done.

That was unexpected. Not something I have participated in before. Not like that, anyway. Jordan doesn’t push me that hard when we’re together. He doesn’t really fuck with my head. Yes, we have our little game-playing moments. I resist, he punishes me, I give in, repeat. But last night was something very, very different.

I don’t bother buttoning the shirt, just let it hang open as I back out of the closet and walk to the door. I listen for a moment. More sounds of cooking. The aroma more pronounced. My hunger gets the better of me until I open the door and walk out into the long hallway that leads to the main room.

The dark hardwood floors are cool against my bare feet and I can hear music now too. Classical music. Music I recognize and love. In fact, this song he’s playing was a warm-up song for my class last week.

I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow. Teaching the kids is fun for a little bit, but I’m definitely ready to get back into my routine. Long days, long hours, hard training.

The living room has obviously been professionally decorated for a bachelor. Everything is monochromatic gray, black, white. The couch and chairs are all dark gray leather with silver nail-head trim, the coffee table is a brushed stainless-steel rectangle, and the lamps on the coordinating end tables are chrome.

Sexy, I guess. For a man’s place.

“Hey,” Bric says.

I look up and find him in the kitchen holding a spatula. He’s wearing an apron that has a buffed-out cartoon man screen-printed on the front.

“Hey yourself,” I say. “What’s going on out here?” When he turns his back to me I can’t stop the snicker. “What the hell are you wearing?”

He looks over his shoulder and winks, then goes back to hovering over the stove. What he’s wearing is that apron and nothing else. His tight ass is clearly visible and accented by the apron strings fluttering against his butt cheeks as he moves.

“Like it?” he asks, pushing some bacon around on the griddle.