Page 43 of His Turn

Mmmm-hmmm. I guess he does. “Well, the parties are business,” I say, trying to keep this whole night from going bad to worse.

She raises one eyebrow at me. “All the parties are business? Even New Year’s Eve?”

“No,” I say. “I’m talking about what I do, Nadia. Not how I play. The parties are all about—” But I just don’t care enough to explain. And I don’t want to bring Smith into this conversation. “It’s just a job. Not as interesting as yours. How did you get to Denver? You’re not from here, right?”

She stops eating and gently wipes her mouth with her napkin. Takes a sip of wine. “It’s my dream job. I mean, of course, I’d love to be dancing in New York. Or London. Lots of other places. But I’m young, so this is a really good break for me.”

“How did it happen?” I ask. “Did you come audition?”

“No, actually,” she says, her brows furrowing just a little bit. “I was invited.”

“You must be some dancer,” I say.

“I’m good,” she says. “Good enough for an invitation to dance for Mountain. You should come see me some time.”

“The next show is…” I search my memory for the spring schedule. “Romeo and Juliet. Are you Juliet?”

“No.” She laughs. “But I’m Rosaline.” She seems proud of this.

“A good part,” I say. “For someone new to the company. I bet you already have enemies over there for getting that part.”

She huffs at me and squints her eyes. “I’m not the kind of girl who makes enemies, Elias.”

“Are we back to Elias?” I feel like I have this conversation about my name a lot. They never know what to call me. As Bric, I’m the master. As Elias I’m the pseudo-boyfriend. It’s confusing, even for me.

“I’ve noticed something when I call you Elias.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“You soften a little. You’re a frowner. Did you know that?”

Am I? “No,” I say. “I haven’t.”

“Well, you are. And when I call you Elias you soften. You like it. So I use it when it’s appropriate.”

“And how do I look when you call me Bric?”

“Like a predator,” she says, refocusing her attention back to the food. “Bric is hungry for something. Elias is already satisfied.”

Jesus Christ.

“How does Jordan look when you call him Jordan?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He’s Jordan, that’s all. He’s got no secret side to him.”

“Does that disappoint you?” I ask.

“Not in the least,” she says, putting her fork down, daintily pressing the napkin to the corners of her mouth, and placing it on top of her plate. She only ate a small portion of the fish and half the asparagus. So I guess she never forgets she’s a ballerina. “Jordan is just…” She laughs.

“Just what?” I ask. She’s got a power in her. She commands attention. And it’s not the new sexy dress or the hair. Or even her fresh face, devoid of all that dark make-up. It’s inside her.

“He’s good,” she says.

“Do you think you deserve him?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re not good,” I say. “No one who plays a game like this is good. He’s not good either. I know him better than you.”

“Then why is he good to me?” she asks. Her eyes are bright with mischief. She knows the answer to that question just as much as I do.

“He likes you,” I say. Because I don’t care.

“He does like me. And I like him. But mostly,” she says, leaning forward in her chair—leaning across the table, like she’s about to share a secret with me—“mostly I just like to play with him, you know. The way you like to play with me.”

“So you’re pretending to like him?”

She leans back in her chair, the secret over, her voice a little louder now. “I like him enough. I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t. But he’s kind of easy, don’t you think?”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

She huffs some air. Like I’m amusing her. “He’s not quite,” she says, lowering her voice again, sharing another secret, “the player you are, Bric.”

“So this is all a game. And if he gets hurt? Fuck him, right?”

“We’re all going to get hurt, Elias. I don’t think that’s a secret.”