The Player (Chicago Bratva 8)

I pick up the acoustic guitar and play a blues riff that’s been stuck in my head for days now. It occurs to me that Nikolai didn’t say Nadia was coming. Just that I was supposed to wait here. It could be her brother coming to kick my ass.

This is starting to feel like too much.

I set the guitar down and walk to the door, only to open it and find Nadia standing there.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Hi.” She’s in an oatmeal sweater that falls off one shoulder and a pair of black leggings with neat rows of rips down the sides.

I resist the urge to gather her in my arms and kiss her senseless. I’d decided not to let things get sexual with Nadia, and they went astray when I abandoned that plan. So back to Plan A. We’re friends. Just. Friends.

I’m here as her friend to check on her.

“Flynn, I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I thought I was going to panic again, and I didn’t want to bother or embarrass you.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Bother? No, Nadia, no. It wouldn’t be a bother. Or an embarrassment.”

She flushes. We’re still standing in the doorway to the studio, and it feels like a metaphor. We’re teetering between two options–being friends or more than friends.

“What is a bother is not having your phone number, so I could make sure I hadn’t fucked up.” I tip her chin up when she doesn’t meet my eye. “Did I fuck up, Nadia? I swear to Christ, I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

Her lips part, and her pupils dilate. “Wh-why not?”

I let out a short bark of laughter and then realize I painted myself into a corner. I don’t want to say that she seems like she needs a friend more than a ride on my dick. I don’t want to say anything at all that would sound like I think there’s something wrong or less-than with her.

I pick up her hand and bring her fingers to my lips. “Because I like you, Nadia.”

She pulls her fingers back. “You don’t screw the girls you like?”

I grin. “I always like the girls I screw. It’s just that I don’t usually continue things longer than that. I don’t do relationships. And I wanted to know you for longer.”

“Oh.” The syllable has a surprised wonder to it, and she sort of falls into my space, so I have no option but to wrap my arms around her. I inhale her sweet butterscotch scent, my dick thickening at her closeness.

Her hands come to my chest, and she looks up at me. “I came down here to ask you to have sex with me.”

“What?” This girl confuses the hell out of me.

“Something bad happened to me, Flynn, but being around you makes me feel… better.” Her words tumble out in a rush like she wants to say them before she chickens out. Or maybe she wants to continue before I can react. “And everyone’s telling me to stay away from you because of what you just said–because you’re a player. You don’t stick around. But I feel like you might be exactly what I need to get over my…thing.”

Something lodges in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I haven't decoded everything she said yet because I got caught on the words, something bad happened to me.

It’s not social anxiety. It’s trauma. No wonder everyone is so protective of her.

And how fucking brave of her to come to me and ask for what she needs.

Who am I to deny her anything at all?

Except I can hear the alarm bells going off. There’s a trap in here somewhere. A mistake I’m about to make. I just can’t quite figure it out.

“You want to have sex with me to get over your trauma?”

She looks relieved that I understand. “Yes. Just sex, okay? I know you don’t want a girlfriend. We could be friends, you know? What do they say here? Friends with benefits?”

I should be overjoyed. This is exactly the kind of scenario that works for me. No pressure, no strings.

Why do I hate it so much?

“You could still have sex with other girls. With Cadence?”

I frown and give a quick shake of my head.

“Right,” she says knowingly. “You already had her, didn’t you?”

Fuck. This already feels complicated.

She searches my face. “Will you do it?”

All I can do is nod. Of course, I’ll do it. I’m incapable of denying this sweet, brave, beautiful girl anything she asks me for.

But the warning bells are still ringing. They’re telling me something’s wrong about this. Something won’t work.

I just can’t untangle what it is.

Nadia

Awkward.

This is so awkward. I mean, what did I think would happen when I pitch a guy on having friend-sex with me on a Sunday morning in an empty music studio? It’s not exactly a romantic location or time.