His Turn (The Turning Series Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  His Turn

  DESCRIPTION

  Chapter One - Bric

  Chapter Two - Nadia

  Chapter Three - Bric

  Chapter Four - Nadia

  Chapter Five - Bric

  Chapter Six - Nadia

  Chapter Seven - Bric

  Chapter Eight - Nadia

  Chapter Nine - Bric

  Chapter Ten - Nadia

  Chapter Eleven -Bric

  Chapter Twelve - Nadia

  Chapter Thirteen - Bric

  Chapter Fourteen - Nadia

  Chapter Fifteen - Bric

  Chapter Sixteen - Nadia

  Chapter Seventeen - Bric

  Chapter Eighteen - Nadia

  Chapter Nineteen - Bric

  Chapter Twenty - Nadia

  Chapter Twenty-One - Bric

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Nadia

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Bric

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Nadia

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Bric

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Nadia

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bric

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Nadia

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Bric

  Chapter Thirty - Nadia

  Chapter Thirty-One - Bric

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Nadia

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Bric

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Nadia

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Bric

  Epilogue - Jordan

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  About the Author

  By J A Huss

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Photo: Sara Eirew

  Copyright © 2017 by J. A. Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-944475-21-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DESCRIPTION

  I look her body up and down as I circle her.

  Mine?

  I smile a devious, deviant, I’m gonna make you sorry you ever started playing this game with me smile.

  And then I take her hand.

  I lead her to the elevator.

  We go up to my apartment.

  I tie her wrists together with rope.

  Raise her arms above her head.

  And chain her to the ceiling.

  It’s my turn.

  Chapter One - Bric

  There is nothingness… and then there is emptiness.

  I’m lying in bed trying to figure out which is which.

  Trying not to notice that the girl who was here last night is gone.

  She’s not the reason for my existential crisis. And it’s not Rochelle either. It’s Smith and Quin who have my wandering attention this morning.

  My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I want to ignore that buzzer pretty bad right now, but this day has priorities. I grab it, tab accept, and put it up to my ear. “Yes.”

  “Bric,” Margaret says. She’s my manager downstairs. “There’s a real-estate agent here to see you.”

  “Give him a table, offer him anything he wants off the menu, and tell him I’ll be right down.”

  “Got it,” Margaret says. She hangs up without saying goodbye, but I don’t take it personally. Margaret is the very first person I ever hired at the Club. She knows this place better than anyone except me. She might know me better than anyone except me as well.

  I drag myself out of bed, sighing, then shuffle around the room picking up my clothes and pulling on my pants.

  I leave the apartment and take the elevator down one floor to my own place. My shower is exactly two minutes long. I don’t shave, just finger-comb my hair and pull on a fresh suit.

  Lawton only waits fifteen minutes, tops, and he’s enjoying his complimentary breakfast when I slip into the booth, holding up a finger to signal the waitress I’d like coffee.

  “Bricman,” Lawton says. “I was beginning to think you stood me up.”

  “I need you, Lawton. Don’t be absurd. I don’t piss people off until I’m done using them.”

  Lawton laughs, like this is a joke, and continues eating. He’s in his prime. Twenty-eight years old. Built like a fucking MMA fighter, tall enough to be intimidating, wealthy enough to be confident, and good-looking. But he’s also smart enough to know how to rein all that in. Present himself as someone who is just another humble servant, ready to please.

  Of course, I’ve known him since he was sixteen. So I don’t fall for any of it. He’s not a Club member and we never meet here for business, but his office is being remodeled over the holiday and it’s as good a place as any.

  “So what now?” he asks, taking a sip of coffee.

  “I need to sell the loft.”

  He almost chokes, takes a second to recover, and then says, “Why? The market is down right now and you can still make a killing off short-term rentals.”

  “I’m done with it,” I reply, just as the waitress comes up with my coffee.

  “Oh,” Law says. “All right then.” He takes a moment to think, then says, “I’ll go over and take a look at the new improvements and then put together a listing. Should go live by the end of the week.”

  I let out a long breath. And it’s not a sigh of relief.

  “But do you want to tell me why?” Law says. “I mean… when we last talked you were moving in there full-time.”

  “With Rochelle and Quin,” I say.

  Law just cocks his head a little, not understanding.

  “We broke up,” I say.

  “Oh,” he says. “OK. I get it. No need for lengthy explanations.” He takes his attention back to his omelet.

  This is one reason I like Law. He’s a little bit like Smith. Only cares about himself. Not interested in the messy details. Just the facts, ma’am.

  Or… how Smith used to be. Before Chella. And even though I really love Chella, every day since I got the results of that paternity test back have been filled with thoughts of what if? What if Rochelle never left? What if we never met Chella? Smith never fell in love. Quin never got what he wanted.

  I’d be a lot happier.

  “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.”

  “Care for what?” I ask.

  “Well.” Jordan snickers. “You.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “I wasn’t looking for a fuck last night anyway. I only did it because she was there.”

  “Did she say anything when she left?” Jordan asks.

  “I dunno. I was sleeping. I don’t even know when she left. Just woke up this morning and she was gone.”

  “Huh,” Jordan says again.

  “Would you stop it with your silent judging? Who cares? I don’t want her. She’s yours anyway.”

  “Well,” Jordan says. “I was thinking, you know. We could bring her in on the game.”

  “Fuck that. She’s boring.”

  “Boring?” Jordan’s laugh is practically a guffaw now. “Well, I have a lot of words to describe Nadia, but boring is definitely not one of them. She’s fucking amazing. Fights back like nobody’s business.” He leans in, looking around to see who’s at the tables nearby, then whispers, “And she cries the most beautiful tears when I fuck her throat. Fucking make-up runs down her cheeks. Eyes on me the entire time. She’s all, ‘Yes, sir. Do it harder. Yes, sir, I want more.’ God, I get hard just thinking about it.”

  I admit… I have trouble picturing that. “I thought you told me she was a top?”

  “Was.” Jordan chuckles. “But that whole time you were busy with Rochelle and Quin I was training her. I told you that.”

  “It was only a couple weeks,” I say, doubting.

  “She liked it, Bric. Well,” he says, taking a moment to think. “She liked it with me, anyway. Maybe she just doesn’t like you?”

  I’m done here. “I gotta go,” I say, standing. “I got things to do today.” I take out my wallet, throw down a fifty, and say, “Order whatever you want. Breakfast’s on me,” as I turn away.

  “So we’re still on for tonight?” Jordan calls after me.

  But I don’t even know what he’s talking about, so I don’t bother answering. I have nothing planned for today, let alone tonight. But I don’t want to have a conversation about how a girl I don’t even care about prefers Jordan over me.

  I go up to the second-floor elevator, take it back up to my apartment, undress, and crawl back into bed.

  There is nothingness… and then there is emptiness.

  I’m still trying to figure out the difference.

  Chapter Two - Nadia

  My feet are killing me and my nipples are sore from the clamps Jordan’s friend used on me last night. My ass still stings when I sit down from the slaps, and my thighs tremble even though all I’m doing is walking around the classroom, pointing out imperfections in form.

  “Point your toes,” I say to the room filled with little girls. They are at the barre, left feet turned out, ankles already hurting as they stretch their right arms over their right legs propped up on the barre. “Keep your body straight, Kallie. And hold for one. Two. Three. Don’t bend your knees, Jessica. And other side.”

  There are seven nine-and ten-year-old wannabe ballerinas in my morning class. They wear pink tights, light-blue leotards, and pink slippers. They all have their hair pulled tightly back into buns, strained, serious expressions on their faces, and their young muscles tremble as we progress through warm-up.

  By the time they are nine, they know most of them will fail. They watch each other with an even more critical eye than I do. They assess their peers, then self-assess, then reassess.

  Maybe one of these seven girls will make it. Maybe.

  I’m new here at the Mountain Ballet. They barely know me. But none of them are new. All of them have been in the Mountain Ballet School since they were five years old. All of them understand the rigors of ballet training. All of them dream, and stress, and hope, and pray that one day they will be like me.

  The rest of the class proceeds as usual. This is a special holiday camp for the most promising level-three students. And they will work hard. It’s my job to push them just enough to make them rethink their choices. So I do.

  These seven will not quit until some outside force requires them to. They move away. Their parents get divorced and can no longer afford us. They get sick or injured.

  “Excuse me? Nadia?” Chris, the teenager who runs the reception desk, whisper-yells over the classical music. “You have a phone call. He says it’s urgent.”

  I sigh, looking at the clock. We have five minutes left. I know it’s Jordan on the phone. He does this on purpose to make me leave my class and obey him. I want to punch him in the face.

  But I also want to keep seeing him. “Can you cool them down, Chris? Thank you.” I don’t wait for her answer. She, too, has dreams of being me. I entered the Mountain Ballet as a demi-soloist, but she is only junior company. I outrank her. She will not complain.

  “This is Nadia,” I say into the phone, smiling at parents in the lobby waiting to pick up their children.

  “Nadia,” Jordan says. I take a seat at the reception desk so the parents can no longer see me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say demurely. It makes me sick to call him that. But I can’t stop myself. This… relationship we have has progressed to a point I don’t completely understand. I’m compelled to do it.

  “I’m in the parking lot. Join me immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  He hangs up. I stand, smile, straighten my black ballet skirt, and walk around the front of the desk. More smiling for the parents, then through the back door and out into the parking lot. Jordan’s black BMW is idling. He’s checking his phone. I run to the car, cringing at the thought of my black slippers getting wet from the snow, and get in.

  “I had breakfast with Mr. Bricman this morning.”

  Oh, shit.

  “He says you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

  I say nothing. It wasn’t a question.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” Jordan asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He rubs a hand acros
s his jaw. He hasn’t shaved today and the stubble turns me on. “Well, Elias Bricman didn’t feel you did. I had high hopes for you, Nadia. And when we started this, I made it very clear what kind of woman we were interested in. I don’t want you, Nadia. I want you and him. Do you understand?”

  I have to stop myself from swallowing hard. He’s going to do something about this later. Something that terrifies and excites me at the same time. “Yes, sir.”

  “So we’re going to try again tonight. And if you want to be around tomorrow, you had better make him happy. Now get out.”

  I open the door and stand up.

  “And Nadia,” he says, leaning over into the passenger seat so he can see my face. “Do not disappoint me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He reaches for the inside handle of the door and yanks it closed, ripping it from my hand.

  He doesn’t screech the tires when he pulls away, but I can tell he’s angry with me.

  I turn, my feet already soaked from the snow, my slippers already ruined, and wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself as I go back inside.

  This hour’s classes are over, Chris is back at the desk, and the lobby is filled with the pre-ballet students in the half-day camp.

  My students are at lunch. Our classes won’t begin again for another hour. So I go to the break room and sit with my new friends, pretend to eat the low-calorie lunch I brought from home, just like everyone else, and lose myself in my thoughts.

  I don’t understand how I got here. All the parts that involve here are included. I don’t understand how I got this position, or the apartment I’m living in, or the man who just left.

  I don’t understand any of it, but I can map it out quite clearly.

  Matthew, one of the guys at my table, says something that makes everyone laugh, so I laugh with them before returning to my thoughts.

  I am not a shoddy dancer. I am not undisciplined. I am not lazy, and I do not take anything for granted. I worked hard to get where I am. I worked hard to pay for ballet classes back in New York. I deserve this. This, meaning my career. I earned it.

  But the offer to dance with Mountain Ballet was unexpected. I was rising in the corps back in New York. I would’ve made demi-soloist eventually if I had stayed. But it would’ve meant at least three more years of corps work. And three more years is a long time in the dance world. I would be twenty-six.