Page 107 of His Turn

Chapter Twenty-Six - Nadia

“Nadia!” The yell stops me mid-step and makes me stumble. Mostly because the music is so loud, so Chris is yelling over it, and she scared the shit out of me.

I skip over to the stereo, press stop, and the small rehearsal room is silent except for my own heavy breathing. “What?” I say, leaning over, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath.

“You have a visitor,” Chris says. “It’s Jordan.”

My body stiffens as I straighten and look at her. “Tell him I’m busy.” I reach for the music, press play, and get back into my routine.

I’m spinning across the room in a long sequence of piqué turns, spotting at the door, when Jordan appears. My head spins, my eyes find him, I spin again, find him, spin—but now he’s crossed the room, directly in my path, blocking my way.

“What?” I yell over the music, panting and out of breath. “Can’t you see I’m practicing? Why do you bother me at work?”

He just stares at me, frowning, walks over to the stereo and shuts off the music.

“Well?” I ask again, quieter this time. “What do you need, Jordan? I’m busy.”

“What happened?” he asks. His voice is low, but not stern. And his frown, I now realize, is… sympathetic.

“With what?” I ask.

“You know with what, Nadia. Bric. The house. Everything. I went there last night and it was dark and empty. What the hell happened?”

I walk over to my water bottle, tip it over my mouth, and gulp. I look at him, all dressed up in that suit, and wonder what his angle is in all this. “It’s Wednesday,” I say. It’s an accusation and he knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was busy with—”

“I know,” I snap at him. “Your case. So busy with your case it took you three days to realize that the game was over. Just what the fuck, Jordan?”

He walks over to the studio door, looks out in the hallway to see if anyone is eavesdropping, then closes it to give us privacy. “I heard about Bric’s brother.”

“Good for you. But I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”

“He took you… home with him?” Jordan asks. “For a fucking funeral?”

“Yes,” I shrug.

“Why? How did that happen, Nadia?”

“What do you mean? He got the call, I wanted to be supportive—”

“Wait,” Jordan says, putting up a hand. “Supportive, Nadia. You don’t even know the guy. It’s a personal family moment. Why the fuck did he take you home with him?”

“Is this my fault?” I ask, thoroughly pissed off at this point. “Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“If the game is over, it’s over,” Jordan replies. “It’s no one’s fault. But I need to understand just how the fuck you got Bric to take you up to Montana.”

“Why?” I ask. “What difference does it make?”

“Because, Nadia, no one goes up to Montana to see Bric’s family. Chella has never met Bric’s family. Rochelle has never met Bric’s family. Shit, not even Smith or Quin have met Bric’s family.”

“Well”—I laugh—“I know why. Would you like to know why no one has ever met Bric’s family, Jordan?”

“No,” he says. And this time his voice isn’t sympathetic or low. It’s harsh, and mean, and loud. “I don’t. Because I know Bric well enough to understand whatever’s going on up there is private. And you shouldn’t have gone. He shouldn’t have taken you. So I want to know”—he’s crossed the room and is standing right in front of me now, his hands on my shoulders like he’s about to give me a good shake—“how the fuck you got him to take you up there.”

“First of all,” I say, backing off his grip on my shoulders and slapping at his arms, “no one makes Elias Bricman do anything. Let’s just get that out of the way right now. Second, I told you. I was only trying to be supportive. The call came in. You had already disappeared—no surprise there—and he was upset when he told me his brother had died and he needed to go to the funeral.”

“That’s not what happened,” Jordan growls. “And you know it. So either you tell me the truth or—”