by Huss, JA
Fingertips reach for me immediately, testing out the boundaries of my body. They flutter over my chest, trace down my ribs, and press against the taut muscles of my stomach.
I suck in air, hating myself for what I’m gonna do next.
Because I’m gonna fuck her.
I’m a dick for doing it because she’s weak right now. She’s depending on me and this feels like taking advantage of her.
And maybe it is.
But I want her and when was the last time I allowed myself to take something I wanted? When was the last time I didn’t put someone else first?
Besides, she wants me too.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Evangeline
I have to bite my lip and hold my breath to keep the sobs inside. And it’s not because I’m unhappy. I’m so relieved he didn’t walk out it overwhelms me. I’m not sure what to expect when I reach for him.
That’s a lie.
I know what I expect. I’m just hoping he disappoints me. Because I have conditioned myself to expect the worst in people. I expect to be treated badly. I expect to be left alone. I expect to be forgotten.
He doesn’t push me away, but he doesn’t take control either. When he doesn’t try to dominate me the way he has been since I arrived—I want to cry harder, not less.
I suck in a deep gulp of air instead.
Calm down, Evangeline.
But I can’t. The tantrum I threw downstairs is too fresh, the memories it brings back too raw, too humiliating for me to forgive myself.
So I concentrate on his body. The thump of his heart. The peaks and valleys of his ribs. The hard muscles of his stomach as he too takes a deep breath.
“I’m stuck,” I whisper, pressing my face into his shoulder and closing my eyes. “I’m stuck somewhere in the past and I can’t find my way out of it.”
He lets out that breath he was holding and slips his arm underneath me.
Does he feel sorry for me? Is this just a job to him? Am I something he has to put up with to get something he needs? Money, maybe?
God. That’s the story of my life.
I’m just everybody’s little golden opportunity.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Ixion
I stop the second she opens her mouth and says the words, “I’m stuck.”
I just stare at the ceiling, wondering how she knows me so well. Because I’m stuck too.
That’s not why you’re here, Ix.
No. I don’t even know why I’m here. Jordan, I guess. The past I’m stuck in. Just like this woman curling her body into mine in the dark.
When I slip my arm underneath her, she molds herself into the shape of me. On her side, head on my shoulder, fingers now clutching my bicep, like she can’t even think of letting go.
I have so many words that want to come out. Confessions of past transgressions. Grudges held close like something precious to be protected. Regrets that beg to be forgiven, but since I’m the one who needs to forgive, they stay with me. Like baggage, I guess. Whole suitcases overfilled with remorse and wishes for do-overs.
I weigh the value of letting go of the fantasy I’m cultivating and just… allowing myself to be me for once. Saying things I shouldn’t say. Letting them spill out like water over a bridge. Not flowing under and escaping, but flooding it until it’s impassable. Because so much water has already passed under that bridge and it never helped. Ever. So fuck it, right? Why not just flood the whole damn river? Bring it down. Fucking smash that goddamned bridge to pieces with a wall of water so high, my anger and resentment just go downstream like all the other garbage they’re traveling with.
“They never loved me,” she says, snapping me out of my insane analogy. Because if I blow up the bridge, I take her with me. “They only ever used me.”
I squint my eyes, still staring up at the ceiling, trying to pick up the pieces she’s scattering like breadcrumbs. Which is a horrible comparison, because the kids in that story are left in the woods to die by their wicked stepmother.
“My first memory is playing the violin.”
Ah. OK, I get it. She’s gonna puke out her feelings. Probably triggered by that hurricane of a meltdown she had earlier. I mean, what the fuck was that about? She lost her goddamned mind.
And you’re in bed with her right now.
So fucking what? She wants me here. Why not take what she’s offering?
“I don’t know how old I was.”
Jesus. I should just kiss her so she’ll stop talking. I should not let her tell me these things. I don’t care about any of it. I’d like to fuck her. And I’d like to get even with Jordan, but that’s it.
Except, rational me points out, you did ask her for her story yesterday. Practically ripped it out of her. And she sent that poem, which you read and discarded with no more thought given to what lies underneath than how it helps you play the game with Jordan.
In my defense, I did just read it again. Paying more attention this time.
“Maybe two,” she continues. “The violin didn’t magically appear in my life. My parents bought it. This tiny little thing that could only fit the fingers and hands of a toddler.”
I’m not a fucking therapist. I mean, this should be very obvious to any sane person. But apparently Evangeline Rolaine isn’t sane.
“And I didn’t know it then, but it was gonna save my life one day.”
I think about that for a second. Wondering if it’s figurative or literal.
“By the time I was eight I was a star. I had met kings, and princesses, and rock stars, and talk show hosts, and more members of Congress and local reporters than I could count.” She sighs. “And by the time I was ten…”
The silence that follows lingers for a long time.
If I was talking to her I might feel pressure to prod her along. And I am, in fact, pretty fucking curious about what happened by the time she was ten. So if I was talking to her, that prodding might even be genuine.
But she never picks it back up. Her fingers begin wandering around on my chest again. Feeling my ribs like they are fascinating. And when she lowers them down to the waistband of my jeans, there’s a moment when I have an urge to stop her. To say, “Nah. Let’s just wait on that, OK?” Or, “You’ve had a rough day. How about we just go to sleep?”
But I can’t talk to her, so I can’t say any of that. And I’ve already decided to fuck her, and now she’s practically asking for it.
So… But… Fuck.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Evangeline
He stops me before I can get any further. His hand covers mine. Holds it still on the lower part of his stomach. “What?” I ask.
I want to take the blindfold off so badly. I want to see him. I want him to talk to me. And not over that static intercom, either. I want his unfiltered voice.
He slides my hand up to the middle of his stomach and keeps it there.
I sigh, because I can take a hint. He doesn’t want me. Last night was just a tactic. A way to make me stay.
Tonight, after my display downstairs this afternoon, well, I can read between the lines as well as anyone. Tonight he’s probably just thinking I’m crazy. And I need a babysitter. And—
His kiss surprises me. His lips are soft as they touch mine, his tongue sweet as it sweeps into my mouth.
But as soon as it begins, it ends.
He untangles himself from my embrace, gets up out of bed, and walks out.
I sit up, and for a half a second, my heart beats so fast I get dizzy.
That’s the only thing that stops me. The fear of a full-on anxiety attack. Because I want to run after him. I want to turn him around, look him in the eyes, see his face, and tell him to finish what he started.
I don’t bother with any of that.
I give up instead. Flop back onto the pillows, leave the blindfold in place because I decide I kinda like being blind. I’ve been unable to see anything past my fear for so long now, what’s the point?
“Fine,” I say. “Fine. I get it.”
I wake up with the sun. The blindfold is tangled in my long hair, my eyes are tired from yesterday’s tears, and the only thing I want is to go back to sleep.
The intercom speaker crackles like a warning, snapping me back to reality. I look over at it and wait.
So many seconds go by I almost think he’s not gonna say anything. But then—“He eats lunch at the Mile High Cafe next to the capitol building. Eleven forty-five every single day he’s in court. And every day this week he is. So…”
The crackling stops. Leaving me alone to figure that statement out.
My response is a laugh. “Downtown?” I ask the chandelier. “Are you fucking stupid? That’s… that’s like…” I don’t really know how far away it is. But just a few nights ago it was insurmountably far. “I might as well just go home if I’m gonna go to the fucking capitol building.”
“So go,” he says.
“Asshole.”
“You wanted to see him? That’s where he’ll be every day this week. Go. Don’t go. Fuck if I care. You’re just a job, Evangeline. I’m just a babysitter to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“That’s not what you are! You’re a watcher, not a sitter. I don’t need a goddamned sitter! You’re supposed to be helping me. You’re supposed to be—“
“I did help you,” he says, cutting me off. “I got you out of the house, in a public place, among more people than you’ve been in the middle of in a fucking decade. And then you came home and broke shit. Like a fucking kid. No, like a spoiled fucking kid. Go see him. Don’t go see him. I really don’t give a fuck. But don’t tell me I’m not trying to help you. Because I’m doing my best.”
The crackle cuts off and the silence returns to the room like a ghost haunting its childhood home.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Ixion
Watching her struggle with her decision for the next two hours would be kinda fun if it wasn’t so depressing.
She finds the notebook I left her on the kitchen counter and writes in it for a while, even though I never asked her for another story.
I think I’m way too involved in this thing right now.
But I’m really fucking hoping she goes to see Jordan. Because I need to get the hell out of this house for a while. This place might be huge. Way too big for one person and her stalker living in two spaces so far apart, they might as well have different addresses. But the walls are closing in on me. As someone who likes to bail at every opportunity and just… fucking leave everything behind, being forced to stay put in this goddamned room is starting to take its toll.
I get dressed, just in case she surprises me, and then pull up Jordan’s contact and press it.
“What now?” he asks. But he still answers on the first ring. Which kinda makes me smile.
“I’m fucking bored.”
He sighs. I can just picture him running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Ixion, I do not have time for you today. I have court in three minutes.”
“Wanna have lunch?”
He scoffs. “No. I gotta go.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why did you really come looking for me?”
“I don’t have time.”
“You know the answer,” I say. “So just say it.”
“Ix—“
“That was always your problem, ya know that? You want things and when you don’t get them, you tear the world apart.” Just like Evangeline, I want to add. But he won’t get it. And I can’t explain it. And fuck it.
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Fuck me.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye. Leaving me to stare at the phone as the call fades to the home screen.
They’re made for each other, I realize. Jordan and Evangeline. Both a couple of spoiled fucking rich people who think sadness is a badge of honor and chaos is something you hand out like spare change to a homeless person.
“How do I get there?”
Evangeline’s question snaps me back to the job. She’s looking up at the grand foyer camera, standing in the middle of the stairs so she’s more or less eye level.
There’s no intercom in the foyer. Which is weird, I think. But whatever. Not my stupid design. So when I press the button and talk to her, it comes from every speaker in the house. The closest must be the office, because her head darts in that direction.
“There’s a computer down in the basement office. Pull up a fucking map.”
“Dick,” she says. “You know what? The only reason I’m going is to get away from you.”
“I’ll be there too, Evangeline. You can’t get rid of me.”
“Watching,” she snaps. “Like a creepy stalker.”
“Yup,” I say.
I follow her on camera as she finds the basement stairs, descends, and then wanders around looking at the games and the TV, then finally settles in front of the computer and starts typing. A few minutes later she’s printing something and then she snatches it up and stomps up the stairs, leaving the notebook behind.
I should follow her on the cameras, but I don’t. I’m too busy wondering what she wrote in that notebook instead. I want to grab it, but I can’t.
Movement on the camera catches my eye. Evangeline is walking back down the grand foyer stairs, completely dressed. I’m talking hat, gloves, coat, sunglasses, scarf. The whole deal.
Then more movement as one of my monitors picks up a cab pulling up in front of the house.
But I smile at her tenacity. Her grit. Her gumption. Her balls.
So I get up, put on my coat, and follow her out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Evangeline
There’s a moment as I get in the cab, right after I hand the driver the printout with the address of my destination, when I wonder, should I just go home? I don’t need my things inside the house. I didn’t bring much. Wouldn’t even miss that stuff.
But then I picture my sad life. The emptiness of it all. The loneliness. How desperate I was for a change last week and how I seem to be on a new path this week. And decide… not yet.
Not yet.
I can leave any time I want. Walk out, go back—or even just walk out and go forward. This isn’t a chance to escape. It’s an opportunity to grow. And now that I know there’s a computer in the basement—how the fuck did I not know there was a basement? God, I’m so oblivious to the world around me—and now that I know I can call a cab any time I want…
Well, the urgency to find a way out of this messy plan seems to have dissipated.
I might even have hope.
Not the hope of dreams. I already had that when I agreed to this crazy scheme. But real hope. The dream of playing my violin again, of playing in front of an audience, of making money again, and being whole again, and letting go of the past and living again. Well, that’s something quite different than actually taking steps towards that goal. Dreams are just that. Wishes.
But getting this cab feels like an accomplishment.
And yes, that’s sad. Most people wouldn’t see this as an act of courage.
But I do.
And anyway, I’m intrigued. I want to see this Jordan again. He was very attractive. I want to know more about this game he’s playing with me. Why he’s playing it. And even though X said I wasn’t allowed to talk to him, who gives a fuck what X wants? This isn’t about him, this is about me.
So I’ve already decided that if I see Jordan today, I’m talking to him. He’s not gonna slip away like he did yesterday. I’m gonna ask him just what the fuck he’s doing. I’m gonna ask him if Lucinda gave him permission to put X in that house. If they know what he’s doing with me.
I have decided to take control.
So there. Take that, Mr. X.
Far too soon the cab pulls up to a curb and stops.
“Twelve seventy-five,” the driver says. I hold up my credit card, ready to hand it over, but he says, “Y
ou have to use the machine.” He nods his head at the thing mounted on the back of the headrest.
I fumble with that for longer than seems appropriate. But the device seems to be made for idiots and has been programmed to walk even the most clueless people through the act of paying for a cab ride, so about a minute later, I manage to conclude the transaction.
And then it’s time to get out.
It occurs to me then… I don’t have a way to get back. Jesus, I don’t even know if I remember the address.
“Lady,” the driver says. “You need to get out now.”
I nod at him, take a deep breath, and open the cab door to the bustle of the strange city I’ve called home for almost ten years.
The second I close the door, the cab pulls away and I become just another person in his past.
I stare up at the sign. Mile High Cafe. There are a ton of people coming and going, all of them wearing business attire. Men in expensive suits, women in professional dresses. All ages, but mostly middle-aged. The courthouse is nearby. I can see the golden dome of the capitol building from where I stand. So these people probably all have an intimate relationship with the city that feels like a stranger to me.
“Don’t wuss out now, Evangeline,” I mutter under my breath. “You’re already here. Just go inside.”
It’s a confident statement. Like going inside is so easy. Like going inside is normal. Something I do every day. Just go inside.
But none of that is true. And even though my head is trying to trick my body, my body isn’t listening, because I’m suddenly breathing too fast, and my heart is beating too fast, and the whole world is moving too fast.
“How many?” the woman asks. “Just one?”
I realize the bustle of the crowd has pushed me into the door of the cafe and the woman asking me how many is actually the hostess. “Yes,” I manage to spit out. “Just one.”
She scans the room. Every table is full, and I feel stupid all of a sudden. Like… how did I not anticipate that the restaurant would be filled to capacity when it’s lunchtime?