Page 136 of The Storm

I open my mouth because I have some choice words to say about him trying to boss me around.

“Please,” he says.

I blink. Next thing I know he’s shutting the door behind me. I honestly don’t know how that happened.

A few seconds later he pulls out of the parking space and onto the street.

I turn my head and look out into the darkness. The rest of the drive is quiet, and I zone out while I fume. He parks the car in an underground garage, and we get out, and only then do I look around at the unfamiliar surroundings. And then I’m being marched into an elevator. Nick pushes the top button and leans against the wall while the doors slide shut.

“Did you move in the time I was gone?” I ask.

“No.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m going to feed you dinner. Soak up some of the alcohol.”

“I’m not hungry.” The elevator doors open into a round atrium that looks less like the entrance to an apartment and more like the lobby of someone who probably owns a yacht.

Warm, muted light reflects off a chandelier made out of hanging glass rods. The floor beneath our feet is black marble. One entire curved wall is glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, revealing the city below.

There are absurdly large plants in matte gray stone pots and abstract art on the walls.

I stare.

Then I stare harder.

“Um, Nicholas? What the fuck is this place?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“It’s an apartment.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m getting a cult headquarters vibe. Is this where you tell me you’re into scientology now?”

He snorts out a laugh, and I whip my head around to look at him. I’m startled enough by the display of amusement that I forget I’m not supposed to be here, and before I know it, I’mfollowing him inside the apartment. An apartment that opens when he scans his fingerprint. The fuck?

Inside, the place gets worse. There’s another… atrium? Hallway? Lobby? A curved staircase winds upward along the wall. Everything in here is glass and steel and gleaming surfaces.

He walks me past the entrance into a living area—hardwood floors, walls of glass, a freaking fireplace, and enough couches to seat the population of a small town—and ends up turning the corner to a kitchen large enough that it would probably fit my San Francisco apartment and still have room left over.

I forget my internal commentary on the surroundings because there’s a man sitting in the kitchen, so I come to an awkward stop.

Nick walks past him to the other side of the counter with familiar ease.

The guy watches me with open curiosity, a tall glass of something green and chunky in front of him.

“The famous Indy,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” I say faintly.

The next thought is fast and sickening. And ugly.

This guy. Nick. This apartment. This kitchen. Where Nick seems to be so at home.

Oh.

Oh…

Oh, no.

Fuckingfuck!

Am I… am I meeting his boyfriend?