part of him that likes to listen. I see it, even if he doesn’t.
"Fuck you, Ellis," he snaps. It's the first time he's really used my name and it sends a chill down my spine. The sound of it coming out of his mouth, past those lips and through the air that drives me forward to place my hands on his desk and look him square in the eye.
"I'm here as your business consultant, and as your business consultant, I'm telling you you're strung too tight. You don't need to go over this budget again, and I don't know what kind of misdirected anxiety or grief this is, but if you don't learn to chill the fuck out, you're going to have a nervous breakdown and ruin your company."
He's clenching his jaw, staring up at me with acrimony, and I don't know why I'm tempting fate or poking the bear, but I lean in until our faces are only inches apart. So close I can feel his breath, smell his cologne—which he hasn't changed I notice. "But on a personal level, Nash, I'm telling you to cut your bullshit with me. I'm not going back down that road again with you, do you understand? You said it was water under the bridge, so believe me when I say..." I lean a little closer. "I have no desire to control you or own you, not anymore. So, get the fuck over yourself, you fucking brat."
He explodes out of his chair and throws his hands against my chest, the heat and anger in his eyes radiating from him like rays of sun. I don't throw my hands back at him, and I have no interest in brawling right here in his office like college kids, but I want to wrap my hands around his throat. Getting Nash angry is like blowing on the embers of a fire. So easily fired up, but I can tell he wants it. Nash loves to be angry.
It only took me three months with him in Amsterdam to figure that out.
"If you think I want to go back to the way things were, you're fucking crazy. Everything that happened between us was just another form of your manipulation."
"Okay, Nash," I respond, humor lacing my tone. This is what he does. He deflects responsibility, blame, guilt. He still blames me for what happened, for wanting what we did. For liking it.
"You had me right where you wanted me, didn't you? I told you I wasn’t into that, but you found a way to manipulate me into it."
"So, that's how you remember it? Because that's not exactly how it happened, Nash. You know that, right?"
"I remember it very clearly."
"And what do you remember? Do you remember me forcing you to your knees? Making you believe you wanted to suck my dick? Does any of that ring a bell or was that all my fault?"
"Shut the fuck up, Ellis." He looks like he's about to burst. There are veins popping along his forearms as he squeezes his hands into fists.
"You have your own warped memory of how things went down because you don't want to admit something about yourself—"
"I told you, I'm not fucking gay, Ellis. You think I'd have a problem admitting it if I was?"
I can't help the sardonic laugh that slips through my lips. “You think that’s all this is about. All it was ever about. You really have no idea, Nash.”
He’s staring at me, his brows pinched together as I turn and walk away, leaving him with those words. And I hope they keep him up all fucking night.
It's late but not late enough to sleep, so I decide to go for a walk instead. I can't be around Nash right now. I came here to work but also to hopefully settle this thing between us, to see what it was we left behind, and I meant what I said—I’m not going back down that road again.
I don’t like to admit Nash had an effect on me in Amsterdam, and the way things ended left me stunned for...well, years. Did I push him? Sure. At first it was fun, and I was intrigued by him and his fiery presence, but it wasn't long before it became something more serious. Something I couldn't walk away from. I found myself testing the waters, hoping for more, wanting things I had never wanted. And once I got a taste, it only got worse.