Page 2 of His Turn

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” Law asks, throwing his napkin on his plate. “Oh, wait.” He laughs. “Never mind. I forgot. You don’t do Christmas. Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Sure,” I say, as he pushes back from the table and gets to his feet.

“Good. I did as well. OK, gotta run, Bric. But I’ll call you in a few days and give you an update.”

He turns to leave before I can even bother responding, and I wonder if his life is as perfect as it seems. Lawton Ayers was a kid with a brain and not much else when I took him under my wing twelve years ago. I have a scholarship fund at the private high school I attended here in Denver. Law was just one among hundreds of kids who wanted that spot back when he was a junior in high school. He’d been in the foster system for two years by that time. Absent father, drug-addicted mother, and kicked out of every public high school he went to.

But his SSAT scores were perfect. He was brilliant in a way only one born with brilliance can be. So he made the shortlist of candidates and we ended up having a one-on-one.

Cocky doesn’t even come close to describing him back then. But I knew he had potential. He got the scholarship. And when he graduated, he got more than a scholarship. I became his sponsor.

And look at him now. Made his first million two years ago and well on his way to real-estate domination.

See? This is what I tell myself on days like this. See what I did? I made him.

But the thing that really kinda pisses me off about Lawton Ayers is that he comes off so damn satisfied. I just want to smack that self-assured smile off his face, wrap my hands around his throat, and shake the truth out of him.

No one is that fucking satisfied at twenty-eight coming from a place like he did. No one gets over shit that easy.

“Hey.”

I pull myself out of my fascination with Lawton’s personal demons and find Jordan grabbing the seat Law just vacated.

“What’s up?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

“You look deep in thought,” Jordan says. “Still thinking about her, huh?”

“Who?” I ask, defensive. I wasn’t thinking about Rochelle. Fuck him for even—

“Nadia,” Jordan says, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Who the fuck is Nadia?” I ask. But I’m relieved he didn’t say Rochelle. Even though I wasn’t thinking about her.

“My present last night.” Jordan laughs.

“Oh,” I say. “Her.”

“What the fuck do you mean, Oh, her? She’s fucking amazing, right?”

“I guess,” I say, taking another sip of coffee.

“You didn’t like her? What she’d do? Mouth off? I fucking told her not to talk to you, goddammit.”

I wave my hand at him. “No, she didn’t talk.” I laugh. “She didn’t make a single fucking sound.”

“Explain,” Jordan says. His forehead is all scrunched up, like this is the most unbelievable puzzle that needs solving.

“What part of she didn’t make a sound needs explaining? She didn’t talk. She didn’t do anything but submit.”

Jordan laughs. “And? That’s your thing, right? Shut up and submit.”

“Yeah, but I like a little screaming and a lot of moaning. She didn’t even cry.”

Jordan stares at me for a few seconds. “Huh.”

“Huh, what?” I ask.

“That’s weird. She’s fucking perfect with me. Her moans are so loud I usually have to gag her. I guess she didn’t care for it.”