Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

“Relax,” I say, my eyes darting to the screen in front of me just in time to see her turn over in bed and stick her foot out from under the covers. She must be hot. “She was talking to the cameras.”

  “Crazy bitch,” he says. And not in a joking way, either.

  “Why the hell are you so antagonistic about her? Is there something I’m missing?”

  “Like I said,” Jordan explains. “She’s weird. And she’s not really my client. I’m just doing a favor for Lucinda.”

  “Your client?” I ask. “What’s that mean? You do this kind of thing often?”

  He laughs. “Need-to-know basis, Ixion. Just do your job.”

  “Are the others all being watched?” I ask. And then I quickly add, “Just asking in case you need me again.”

  “No one but Evangeline Rolaine has this stupid phobia. Most of them are just your run-of-the-mill sexually repressed thirty-somethings.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “So why me, Jordan? Why, after all these years, do you suddenly care?”

  He’s silent for a few moments. Then he clears his throat and says, “You know I never meant—”

  “Yeah.” I cut him off. “Sure. I know.”

  “Don’t be a dick. I got you out of jail. She never pressed charges.”

  No. She never did that. She did something much worse. “We’re not even,” I say back. “Not even close. And I never asked you for that favor.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Jordan whispers back.

  “What about me?”

  “Dude…” He exhales, lets the silence stretch again. “I chose you.”

  “Did you?” I laugh, my words hoarse and low.

  “You know I did. She didn’t really get hurt, ya know. She never loved you like that.”

  If he was here right now I’d knock his fucking teeth out for that comment. He has no idea what I lost when she left.

  “I made a mistake, OK?” Jordan says. “Everyone makes mistakes. But I fixed it as best I could. I never did it again.”

  “That’s funny,” I counter. “You’re still playing games with people.”

  “It’s not what you think, Ixion. Why do you always assume the worst of me?”

  “Because dude, that’s all you show me.”

  “Really?” he asks. And then he huffs out a breath of air that says he finds my remark incredible. “You never ask for anything, Ix. If you did I’d give it to you. You know that.”

  “I don’t ask because I don’t need anything.”

  “Well, then I guess it’s all gonna work out then, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, eyeing Evangeline as she tucks that foot back under the covers. She must be cold. “I guess it will.”

  “We good?” he asks.

  I say nothing. Because… good? Yeah, right. There’s no way we’re ever gonna be good again.

  “Why did you even fucking take the job then?” Jordan snaps. “I mean, you could’ve said no.”

  I shake my head and sigh. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Whatever,” he says. “Later.”

  I press end. But the call drops with three beeps, not silence. Which tells me he hung up before I did.

  “Whatever, indeed,” I say back to the dark room.

  Tomorrow is a new day. And Mr. Wells had better rest up for it. Because he’s about to become a major player in my game. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  Chapter Twenty-One - Evangeline

  Sleep was fitful and not the least bit restful. Usually when this happens it’s because I’m riddled with anxiety and can’t shake it off. My heart beats fast all night, even though I’m doing nothing but lying still in a bed. My whole body buzzes with some kind of pent-up charge that has nowhere to go. And my mind races with thoughts of dying. I make plans about calling 911 to ask for help, then revise and make plans to just let myself die alone.

  Thinking about it now—since that’s not what kept me up last night—it feels very sad.

  My heart wasn’t beating fast last night. My body wasn’t tingling with fear that I was dying.

  I was calm to the point of lethargy. Satisfied. Which makes me huff out a laugh under the covers. I want his cock inside me.

  Maybe tonight? Maybe he’ll come to me again?

  I try to think of what made him offer this… this bonus in the first place.

  Compliance, I decide. He wanted a story about me. Why I was here. And he wanted it to be personal. He liked my poem. He likes honest emotion, maybe. I gave him something real and he rewarded me.

  Maybe I’ll keep doing that?

  I swing my legs out of bed, eager to go downstairs to see if there’s another note waiting. If he’s got more demands. More ways in which I can please him.

  And when I get to the kitchen I can’t stop the smile even though I want to. My heart races as I walk over to the counter and pick up the notebook I was writing in yesterday.

  Evangeline,

  You want to know what I look like?

  I’m short. Overweight. Balding and with acne scars. Not to mention a patch over one eye. That’s why they call me X.

  I laugh. Because I felt his body last night. He’s not bald, he’s not overweight, and he’s not short. I might not know all the other details that go with those facts, but I don’t need to. I’m not even sure I want to.

  Anyway, I made a deal with you. You give me a story, I give you one back. So here goes.

  The last time I saw Augustine we were in a large conference room, sitting in executive wingback leather chairs, glaring at each other from opposite sides of the table, silent, as our lawyers argued the finer points of splitting assets and money.

  She had tears streaming down her face.

  We were friends long before we were lovers, but the heavy cloud of anger and sadness hanging over that room was about as far from friendship two people can get.

  I don’t blame her for any of it. She was a hundred percent innocent. She had no idea what really happened that night.

  And she’ll never really know all of it because that whole deal was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t kind of affair. Either way, I lose. So… whatever. Live and learn, I guess.

  Now get dressed. You’re leaving the house today. Wear whatever you want. Cover up as much as you need to. But be ready at eleven thirty. I’ll have instructions waiting for you.

  X

  Well.

  That was not what I expected.

  Augustine? Who the hell is Augustine? His wife? Did they get a divorce? Sure sounds like it. But there’s a lot more to this story than he just told, that’s for sure. What happened to her? He did something, obviously. And what’s this got to do with Jordan and their little camera game?

  “Hurry up and get ready.” The crackle of the intercom mixes with his words and makes me jump. “You’re going out.”

  Out. Which I can only presume means… not the backyard. I look up at the nearest camera and say, “Isn’t it a little soon for that? I mean I’ve only been here two days. I don’t think—”

  The intercom crackles with static. I wait for his voice. Hold my breath for several seconds. But it just goes dead again.

  “I can only assume,” I say, “that was you telling me ‘too bad.’”

  I stare down at his familiar handwriting on the note.

  So… does this mean I will indeed meet the infamous Jordan today? Is that his plan? Will X send me somewhere so I can… watch him?

  Am I a voyeur too?

  Yes. I think I am. Because… because I’m going to get ready and do this. I’m going out.

  I look down to hide my smile, because it sends a thrill up my spine. I don’t even know why. I don’t understand any of this. Nothing I’m doing at this house makes any sense at all. But the whole watching part. It’s exhilarating for some reason.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a chance to be the watcher. I was always the watched. I love standing at my window at home. Looking down on the people used to make me feel left out and sad, so I d
idn’t stay there long. But it was interesting in a way I never realized. I was always so consumed with what I was missing, never understanding that watching had something to offer as well.

  And now?

  I’m being watched. Constantly. With no way out unless I give up and leave. The thought of missing my comeback performance has been—so far—enough to keep me here. But it’s not going to be enough. Switching places though… watching might be enough to make me see this through.

  If I give my watcher what he wants—total access to me, twenty-four seven—he’ll give me what I want. I didn’t realize it until he made his offer, but does that matter? What I’m going to do today—spy on someone, unaware of my watching eyes—is like a gift. And there might be another reward at the end of my day. Like last night.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, taking the note with me as I head back upstairs. “I think this might be just what I need.”

  I shower, dress in black slacks, a white shirt, and a black blazer. And then I bundle up in my coat, gloves, scarf, hat, and sunglasses. It’s a chilly twenty-three degrees today, cold enough to warrant covering up all the exposed parts of my body. But it’s not snowing. So still, I struggle with the idea of leaving the house. My instructions waiting downstairs are the only reason I’ve decided to go through with this.

  There’s a note on the counter when I enter the kitchen at exactly eleven thirty. There’s a pamphlet as well.

  I open the note and hold my breath as I read.

  Evangeline,

  The Denver Botanic Gardens is directly next door. I’ve left you a map to help find your way. Find the Tropical Conservatory. Grab a coffee at the cafe as you pass by. Inside the tropical greenhouse there’s a treehouse. Go to the top and look down until you see a bench with a bright orange bush blooming next to it. Wait there. Jordan takes his Sunday coffee in that spot every weekend. Do not approach him, talk to him, or get his attention in any way.

  Just watch.

  I’ll be watching you watch him.

  And if you do everything the way I told you, I’ll leave the blindfold under your pillow again.

  X

  I let out the breath I was holding and reach for the map. There’s an X on it, indicating the house I’m in now. Apparently, this is some historic district and all the houses around me are equally as impressive as this one. X has actually drawn a dotted line, telling me exactly where to go.

  I’m hot, too bundled up to be inside for long, so I go for the front door before I can think too hard about what I’m going to do.

  Once outside, the cold feels good. It’s overcast and there’s a sharp wind that burns the exposed parts of my cheeks just below my sunglasses. But when I walk out the front gate and look at the map, then look left, I realize I am living next door to the Denver Botanic Gardens.

  It’s mere steps away. An old, weathered, dark concrete path leads into a canopy of bare trees that sway with the wind and bring me out into—I look down at my pamphlet—the Ellipse, an ornamental garden that is mostly covered in a thin layer of snow. But a bright tower of yellow glass and many smaller orange glass orbs decorate the centerpiece.

  Which kinda blows me away, because I live next door and I never even knew this place was here. Granted, it’s only been two days, but most people—normal people—would take notice of where they are in the fucking city.

  And I missed it.

  But I miss almost everything, don’t I?

  I continue along the pre-marked route, which is a straight pathway that leads to the greenhouses, but stop about halfway to gape at the pyramid building off to my left.

  Once again I’m stuck by my ignorance. That such a beautiful building is so close—If I ever bothered to look out the window, I could probably see it from the upstairs master bedroom, and I never knew.

  It makes me wonder how many other things I’ve missed out on because I was too afraid to step out my front door? Or look out a goddamned window?

  The wind picks up and reminds me that I’m outside in the dead of winter, so I continue along the path at a brisk pace, heading towards the greenhouse.

  I stop at the cafe as instructed and force myself to stand in line for a coffee. I’m sweating and not because it’s too warm in here. There’s too many people coming and going for the cafe to be anything other than tepid in temperature.

  The people are the problem. It’s not enough to realize what I’m missing by letting my fear dictate my life. My body responds the way it always does. With racing heart, shortness of breath, and the panic inside me building and building—

  “Can I help you?” a young woman asks me when the person in front of me in line vacates her counter spot.

  I don’t even know what to order. I haven’t been inside a cafe in… well, ever. Not as an adult. Not ordering coffee. I drink it at home, but I make it in one of those automatic machines by the cup.

  “Ma’am?” the woman asks, lifting her eyebrows at my silence.

  “Um…err…” I hate myself for stammering like an idiot. “Just a coffee,” I say.

  “Size?” she asks.

  “Small,” I offer.

  “We don’t have small,” she says. “We have medium, large, and extra-large.”

  “Well, that’s dumb,” I say without thinking.

  “So stupid, right?” she says, half laughing in a dry, ironic tone. “I mean, just call it a small.” She rolls her eyes and I find myself smiling. “So small medium it is. What’s your name?”

  “My name?” I ask.

  She picks up a cup and a black marker and says. “So I can put your name on your cup. I’m only allowed to take orders. Those geniuses back there fill up the cups.” And then she snickers at her joke as she side-eyes her co-workers.

  “Angela,” I say, giving the name I use for Dan at Mott’s.

  “OK, Angela. Pick it up over there in like two seconds.” She nods her head to the end of the counter and says, “Can I help you?” to the next customer.

  I move aside quickly, baffled at the entire interaction.

  My heart is galloping inside my chest. Which is ridiculous. She was a perfectly nice woman. Harmless in every way. And she was helpful and didn’t make me feel stupid for not understanding how things work in the Botanic Gardens Cafe.

  It’s only then that I realize I had an actual conversation with a stranger. And I didn’t die.

  I force down a small chuckle at my own ridiculousness, just as a large man with a beard yells, “Angela!”

  He doesn’t even wait for me to come take my coffee. Just leaves it there on the counter and goes back to his work.

  I slip in between a chatting couple, bumping them to reach my coffee, then almost panic again when the man looks at me with a disapproving glare.

  Coffee in hand, I duck out quick and go back into the wind and the cold.

  I like it better.

  But the greenhouse is attached to the cafe. And the entrance I’m supposed to use, according to X, is the first one I come to.

  I exhale, wondering if I’m up for this. I mean, that back there was good, but ended badly. And who knows how many people are inside the greenhouse? Probably a ton because it’s winter.

  I should’ve thought this through a little better before I agreed.

  But then X’s words are in my mind.

  If you do everything the way I told you, I’ll reward you tonight.

  What does that mean? He’ll touch me again?

  Wetness pools between my legs at the thought.

  What if he fucks me?

  What if he doesn’t? is my automatic counter-answer.

  Which is enough to get my feet moving again. I head for the door, reaching for the handle, when it pops open and a family comes rushing out. Small children brush past me as a father follows, yelling at his kids, while his wife is left to maneuver the stroller through the already shutting door, alone.

  I stand there, unable to move, as she manages to get her stroller out, glaring at me for not helping her at the sa
me time.

  I swallow hard, duck my head, and slip inside. Embarrassed, ashamed, and wishing I’d never come here at all.

  “You’re being stupid, Evangeline,” I mutter to myself. She was obviously overwhelmed and only wanted a little help. And I stood there like an idiot and just watched. She probably thinks I’m a horrible person.

  I look over my shoulder, wondering if I should apologize, but there’s a crowd of people coming in behind me and I just need to get away.

  Blindly rushing forward, I escape them only to encounter another crowd. Jesus. It’s the middle of the fucking winter. Can’t these people find some other public attraction to frequent?

  Treehouse, Evangeline. I take deep breaths as I look up. The ceiling is glass—of course, since it’s a greenhouse. But there are trees in here. It reminds me of the jungles in Thailand. I played violin at a birthday party for the youngest royal princess. And later she—middle-aged at the time, so not quite the image of a princess one might conjure up—took me into the royal gardens for a chat about tigers. I was obsessed with tigers after a trip to India when I was seven.

  Nostalgia washes over me with the memories. I used to be so… outgoing. Social. Normal. What happened to me?

  Lucinda has asked me this question many times since I made that first phone call asking for help. But I never had an answer. It was just… everything, I guess. I just got fed up. That’s the answer I give Lucinda every time she asks. That Thai princess was part of it, probably. Playing at her party changed me somehow. It wasn’t enough to manifest at the time. But it accumulated over the years. Slowly, my fame, my talent, and my young age poisoned me. Like a dripping faucet that drives you crazy.

  I went crazy.

  I’ve come to terms with it. And I didn’t realize it at the time. Even a few months ago, crazy was a place other people went.

  The treehouse is hard to miss. It’s a large structure looming overhead, parts of it peeking out through palm fronds. And there must be a million ways to get up there, because the steps I ascend are almost empty.

  Once at the top I walk along the railing, looking down, searching for the bench next to a large orange bush blooming with flowers.