Page 100 of His Turn

“You’re not in a very good position to bargain,” he huffs. Laughs, actually.

“I’m in the perfect position. What we had last night was pretty great. You think so. And so does Jordan. ‘We’ve got something good here,’ remember? Well, I hope you find it again. I really do. Because it’s very clear to me that the two of you need this way more than I do. And I’m the only one invested. You guys come and go as you please. Treat me nice when you want something. Well, fuck that. I don’t need this shit. I’m not even submissive, for fuck’s sake. I quit.”

I drag a sweatshirt over my head, pull on a pair of leggings, and then step into a pair of winter boots because they’re the only thing in front of me at the moment.

When I turn, he’s blocking the doorway. Like for real. Physically blocking the doorway with his body. His palms flat against the doorjamb like a stop gate.

“Just stay,” he says, his tone less irritated. More conciliatory. “I just need to take care of this stuff at home and I can’t bring you with me because…”

I wait, but he just stops. Looks at the floor. “Because?”

He looks up and in this moment, he does give me something real. It’s hurt I see in his ink-blue eyes. Pain. Maybe even regret. His brother is dead. I get that. I should not be making this worse for him. But an opportunity is an opportunity. And seeing Elias Bricman in a vulnerable situation can’t come along often. I might never have another chance to get inside that fucked-up mind of his.

“Because?” I ask again.

“Because I don’t share that life with people in this one.”

I shrug. “OK. Your call.” I grab my coat and purse, but when I try to push past him, he doesn’t give in.

“If you stay,” he says—calm, voice low, all irritation gone—“I’ll tell you more about me when I get home.”

“No,” I say, ready to stomp my foot like a child. “No,” I say again. “I want to go with you. Am I a secret? Is that it? I won’t embarrass you. I won’t say anything inappropriate. I just want to know you… Elias.”

I admit, I have to force myself to spit out his real name. But I’m getting to him. He stares down at me with… confusion. Probably grief. And more than a little vulnerability.

“OK,” he whispers behind me. “You can come.”

I’m not sure what I’m expecting after he gives in. Instructions, maybe? Don’t embarrass me. Don’t talk about our arrangement. Keep Jordan out of it. Don’t mention the five-million-dollar house I just bought yesterday. Stuff like that. Stuff everyone wants to hide from their family when they’ve been living a life of debauchery a thousand miles from home.

But all he does is pack up a garment bag. Filling it with two suits. One blue, one black. “I’ll put your dress in here with my suits,” he says.

I have no idea what a funeral is like in the dead of Montana winter, but I’m going to assume it involves a black dress. The only ones I have almost seem inappropriately pretty. So I choose the plainest one, and offer it over to his outstretched hand.

We stare at each other for a moment. Eye to eye. I see questions in his. I wonder what he sees in mine?

But then he turns away to pack up my dress. “Hurry. It’s going to take a while to get where we need to go. They’re having the service on the ranch but the funeral is in town.”

“Ranch?” I say, picturing this in my head as I look out the window. It’s too dark to see anything, but I have an idea of what winter in Montana looks like. Closed roads comes to mind.

“We’re not going to stay at the ranch, don’t worry.”

“Then where are we gonna stay?”

“Just pack, Nadia.” It could’ve been sharp and dismissive, but it doesn’t come out that way. It comes out… sad. With a long sigh. And a frown.

OK. He’s taking me to meet his parents. He’s letting me beyond his walls. And isn’t this what I was after? When they asked what I wanted from this? Wasn’t this my whole plan from the very beginning? I won. So I should win gracefully.

“Here,” he adds a few seconds later, opening up a suitcase on the rumpled bed. “We’ll just take one bag. Put your other stuff in here with mine.”

I do. And it’s all very intimate. Packing with him, I mean. Our clothes in there, together. Toothbrushes. His shaving kit. My underwear and hairbrush.

He closes the case and drops it on the floor. Looks at me. “Ready?”

“Do we have a flight?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I’m going to take you downstairs and—” He stops to drag a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I forgot. We’re not at the Club.”

What does that mean?