by JA Huss
“I dunno.” I shrug. “I bought the house on foreclosure last year. These old historic mansions almost never come up for sale so I snatched it up because… fuck, I have no idea why I bought that stupid house. None. Just… an impulse buy, I guess.”
Ixion laughs. “A seven-million-dollar impulse?”
“I didn’t want anyone else to have it.”
He laughs louder. Because spending seven million dollars just to get something no one else has is so… me.
“But if you’re interested in buying it, I’m definitely selling. It was a dumb idea. And I’m house-poor now and I hate it.”
“Well, I don’t know, man. It might be too big, ya know?”
“Tell me about it. I live in the fucking office. And I sold all the furniture so the whole place is empty.”
“You sold everything?” Ix asks.
“Yeah.”
“What about the photos?”
“I boxed them up and sent them over to Lawton’s office. What he did with them, I have no clue. Why?”
Ixion chews his cheek for a second, thinking. “Evangeline is just obsessed. Wants to know who they are. You don’t know anything?”
“No. The bank owned the house when I bought it. Their name wasn’t on any of the papers.”
“Huh. Well, I guess I’ll have to look into it.”
“Why’s she want to know this stuff?” I ask.
“Well,” Ixion says, then stops, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “She was slightly obsessed with the family, ya know? The whole fantasy that place kinda encapsulates. I mean the house is goddamned gorgeous. And the gardens, in the backyard and next door. It’s just very… perfect. She’s fixated on the reason why that family left everything behind. Like, at first she thought it was like a summer home. Like maybe they lived somewhere else in the winters. But then she found out you actually owned the house, which blew that theory out of the water. So every day she’s got some crazy made-up story about who these people are and where they went.”
“Wow,” I say, unsure what to think about all that. “She’s definitely got one of those obsessive personalities, doesn’t she?”
Ixion smiles, like this is just one of those quirks he loves about her. “Just a little bit. But I have another question for you. Since we’re here.”
“Shoot,” I say, kinda loving this interaction with Ixion. It feels like maybe we turned a corner. That the past is the past and now we’re… I dunno. We’ve forged a new, different kind of relationship.
“What the fuck are you doing with Augustine?”
“Shit, man.” I sigh, shaking my head. “I don’t know. She’s all up in my face. Wants me to help her and Alexander…” I shrug. Because I don’t really know how to explain this.
“Wants you to help them do what?”
“Like… fix their marriage? I swear, Ixion, I’m not playing here, but I feel very much like I’m playing a game. They have turned into a couple of very fucked-up people.”
“And a part of you wonders if you’re to blame?” Ix asks.
And the funny thing is… I don’t think he meant that to be mean. I seriously think he just said it because he really thinks that’s what’s on my mind. “No.” I huff. “Look, OK. So I lied a little back in LA. So I set you and her up just to piss off Alexander and break them apart. I get it. I was a dick. I’ve apologized. I walked away, left them alone, started over, tried to make good, changed my ways, blah, blah, blah. And they got married, and moved on, and separated, and got back together. Whatever. It’s their life. Whatever this is they’re into now has nothing to do with me.”
“Wow,” Ixion says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a little bit defensive, dude.”
I lean in, my elbows on the table, and look him straight in the eyes. “They are a couple of fucked-up people, OK? And yeah, OK, so are we. Fine. We’re all a little fucked up. But the shit they want me to do with them, Ixion. It’s fuckin’ weird.”
“Weird how?” he asks, leaning forward again.
I’m not sure I should even try to explain it. At least to him. I should call Lucinda and get her opinion. She’s the therapist who set up Evangeline’s “treatment” and the whole reason why Ixion and Evangeline are together.
“Just tell me,” he says. “I’ve already seen the weird and the ugly with you guys.”
“Don’t classify me with them. I mean, OK, I’ve got my weird and ugly side too. But don’t classify me with them.”
“Shit, must be serious.”
I sigh, then ease forward again so now we’re both leaning forward on the table. “Have you ever heard of… people… or like… a fetish where people…”
“Just fucking spit it out,” Ix says.
“Where people get off on fighting each other?”
His head does that taken-aback thing and he frowns. “Fight? Like… argue?”
“No,” I say. “Not like argue. Like slapping and shit?” And then he’s about to say something and I already know what he’s going to say, so I put up a hand to stop him. “No, not like a dominant-submissive thing, either. Because that’s not the dynamic. There’s no top or bottom. It’s like equal top and bottom at all times.”
“Like… they get off on hitting each other?” He’s squinting his eyes.
I nod. “Yeah. She wants him to slap her, but he wants her to hit him back. And he refuses to engage anymore because… I dunno, he lost control once and so never again. So he stopped fucking her, I guess. Only gets her off other ways. And now they want me to join them so I can control Alexander while they play this fucking fight game with each other.”
“Wow,” Ix says, leaning back in his chair.
“Right?”
He makes this little whistle noise. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
“I think so too. But I’m gonna ask Lucinda about it. Because, get this. Fucking Augustine owns the old Turning Point Club building and I want to buy it and reopen the club, but she won’t sell it to me unless I give this whole sexual moderator thing a try for three weeks.”
“Hmmm,” Ix says.
I sigh. But I feel a lot better telling this shit to Ix. Feels good, actually. To talk to him like a friend again and not have all the animosity between us.
“What happened to them?” Ixion asks.
“I dunno,” I say. “But they make me feel responsible.”
“That’s bullshit. You walked away eight years ago. What they did with all that time between then and now is all on them. I mean, look, I had a pretty rough several years too. But it wasn’t you who did that to me.”
It’s the first time he’s ever hinted that he might be able to forgive me. So I stay quiet and let him talk.
“I mean… yeah. I did a lot of stupid shit and I was sad, but my sadness had nothing to do with you. And even though it didn’t feel like I moved on, I did move on, Jordan. Maybe what I was doing wasn’t like… a proper future or anything. But it was honest. Ya know?”
“I get it,” I say. “And I’m so fucking sorry, man. I really—”
“You had nothing to do with the death of my family,” he says, interrupting me.
Even though I’ve been waiting years for this confession from him, hearing it now… it fucking hurts.
“You didn’t kill them. It was a stupid car accident. And if it’s anyone’s fault, it was that person who hit them.”
“But they died thinking you were some really fucked-up creep and that part was all my fault. You took the fucking blame for me, Ixion. And I never deserved your protection like that. I never earned it.”
He does a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s in the past, man. Where it belongs. So just leave it there. I’m fine. I’m actually pretty fucking happy these days. And if you hadn’t flown up to Wyoming and pulled my ass out of jail that day and told me to get my shit together because I was needed, I’d still be a worthless piece of shit. That job you gave me watching Evangeline was the very best-case scenario as far as the whole where-is-Ixion’s-life-going scenario
is concerned.”
He reaches across the table, grabs my hair and pulls me close to him.
I am too startled—too afraid—to breathe.
He bumps his forehead to mine, then retreats. “It could’ve gone a million ways, ya know?”
What does that mean? I wonder. Like he’d have been into a threesome with me and Augustine if they didn’t start that professional relationship together with the production company? Or… if Alexander wasn’t in the picture? If it was just the three of us, and not the four of us? Or—
“Don’t waste your time, Jordan,” Ix says. “It doesn’t matter what it could’ve been. This is just what it is now. And it’s good, ya know? It’s just fine.”
I reach over and grip his shoulder. “I will never forget what you did for me, Ixion.”
“I’m calling it even.” And then he smiles, stands up, and says, “Don’t let them drag you into the past, Jordan. If you want to play their little game then reinvent it. Play on your own terms. Don’t let them ruin what you’ve got going. Because you built something good here, brother. I’m proud of you.”
And with that, the conversation is over.
Because he gets up and walks out.
Play the game if I want. But play it on my own terms.
In other words, be the goddamned game master.
My next stop is Lucinda. She’s not your typical psychiatrist at all. For one thing, she’s got this little side business going called What Are You Afraid Of? She fixes people’s fears and most of her games—no, they’re not games, I decide—most of her patients are cured with sex therapy. Not all of them, but Lucinda maintains that almost all our hang-ups go back to some kind of sexual dysfunction.
I was sort of a silent partner in that little business with her. Just a front man. She had these business cards printed up. They were the size and thickness of a drink coaster you’d find in Oaklee Ryan’s Bronco Brews bar, with fancy engraved lettering, and all they said on the front was What Are You Afraid Of? On the back she had her contact info and one small sentence. We will conquer your fear together.
I dropped the cards off to local businesses and paid them a flat fee to keep a stack next to their cash registers.
That’s how Evangeline found her. I don’t really know the whole Total Exposure story, because I didn’t really start that game. I just set it up for Lucinda. She asked me to set up the “game” after Evangeline made contact asking for help getting over her completely debilitating fear of being watched by people. I guess that stemmed from the fact that she was a violin child prodigy and her parents dragged her all over the world as a kid making her perform like a circus dog.
Anyway, Lucinda is a sexual fetish expert in my opinion. She’s the one who’ll understand what this fight shit is all about.
I call ahead, of course. Sometimes she sees patients at the hospital and she’s real busy, but she says she can fit me in, so I go over to her offices and take a seat in her small, private outer lobby to wait for her closed door to open.
You don’t knock. She buzzes you in from her office and then you wait until she’s ready to see you. Kinda pretentious, but whatever. It’s her system and I respect it.
After about five minutes she opens her door, says a few soft words to the patient leaving, and waits for the lobby door to close before she looks at me and says, “Come in, Jordan.”
I follow her in, take a seat in a chair in front of her desk and wait for her to sit at her desk.
“So what’s going on?” she says.
“You know Augustine and Alexander are back.”
“Yup. Are they talking to you yet?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say.
“Great,” she says, beaming a smile at me.
“Uh, no. Not great. You see… they’re having marriage problems and for whatever reason they figure bringing me in is the cure.”
“OK,” Lucinda says, steepling her fingers under her chin, like she’s thinking hard about this. “Not conventional,” she says, and lets out a small laugh. “But I don’t judge.”
“That’s not even the half of it,” I say. “They have a really weird fetish. One I’ve never heard of.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“It doesn’t have a name as far as I know. But they get off on… like… fighting each other.”
“Like S&M-type stuff?”
“No. This is the confusing part. There’s no top and no bottom. Neither of them is in charge. So it’s not S&M and it’s got nothing to do with dominant-submissive stuff either. It’s just… fighting turns them on. Like he slaps her face, but instead of wanting her to take it, he wants her to hit him back.”
“Hmmm,” Lucinda says.
“Weird, right?”
“Well… maybe. I think the way it’s manifesting is… interesting. I’ve never heard of that one either. However, their relationship problem-solving—while unorthodox—is mature. They see a problem and think they have a solution.” Lucinda shrugs. “It makes sense.”
“But what is it? This Fight Club shit?”
“It’s not about the fighting, Jordan. It’s the push-pull dynamic. The adrenaline and dopamine release that occurs when they feel the excitement of… violence, I guess. Which is slightly disturbing. But I think it falls over on the ‘normal’ side of things. It’s chemical, that’s all.”
“So listen. The reason they want me is because apparently Alexander is afraid of losing control in these fights. Or possibly had lost control at one point and hurt Augustine. So now he’s afraid he’ll do it again and he refuses to fuck her. Like at all, Lucinda. Last night, when I was there as their… buffer, I guess… that was the first time he’s fucked her in years. And we did her together.”
“Hmmm,” she says again. “This is a complicated one. But they have come up with a clever defense mechanism to protect each other. So they have a good chance of surviving.”
“Should I play this out with them?” I ask.
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then why do you need my advice?”
So I explain the part about the building and how I want it back, as well as how Augustine is holding it over my head.
“Sexual blackmail,” Lucinda says. “That’s not right.”
“No,” I say. “It sucks.”
“So you can’t walk away but you don’t want to participate either?”
“Correct,” I say.
“Well,” she says. “It wouldn’t be the strangest game we ever played, would it?”
“What?” I smile.
“You came here for help. Do you want it? Or not?”
“You think we should play a game with them? Take their power away and give them what they want at the same time?”
“Why not? I think we can make everyone happy in the end. You get your building, they keep their marriage together, and no one gets hurt.”
I agree and we spend the afternoon coming up with their treatment.
But those words echo in my head.
No one gets hurt.
They don’t ring true.
Because when you play a game like this everyone gets hurt. It’s the only way past the roadblock. It’s the only way forward. You have to rip it all apart and put it back together again.
And that always hurts.
My phone is oddly silent the rest of the afternoon. Which can only mean one thing.
I’ve overplayed my reluctant participant card and now they’re angry at me. Gonna wait me out and make me go to them. They’ve laid all their cards on the table and now it’s my turn.
Which is also bullshit. No one puts all their cards on the table. They always hold something back
I leave work early and text Alexander as I walk to my car.
Drinks at my house tonight. Eight-thirty.
The title notification says delivered, then changes to read. I check the screen one more time as I get in my car, just to see if he’ll reply, but he doesn’t.
I don’t care if he answer
s me. I don’t even care if they show up. If they suddenly decide, Yeah, we’ve had enough of Jordan’s bullshit, I’d be pretty OK with that.
But that’s not how it’s gonna go. You don’t upend your whole life for a gamble like this and then suddenly pull out at the last second.
You fuck that bitch hard and come inside her before you finish.
I make three stops on the way, and when I finally get home I make an effort.
Candles. Dozens of them. Pillars, not tapers, because even though I know I own some fancy fucking candelabras, I have no clue where they are at this moment.
Wine for Augustine. Good stuff. A 2007 Sequoia Grove Cambium that comes in a beautiful black bottle with gold lettering.
And of course, a nice whiskey called Hedonism Quindecimus for Alexander and me. Chosen for the label (though it does taste nice too) because it features a very detailed illustration of a dark-haired woman.
And the name. Because… hedonism.
That’s pretty much what this whole game is all about. The pursuit of pleasure and sensual self-indulgence.
I change into a fresh suit. Not one I wear to court, even for the most important trials. But one I wear to… things. A gallery opening. A new ballet. The symphony.
Because this is a performance. This entire setup has always been an act, but up until now it has been their act.
No more.
I find a playlist called Deep Dark Moods that has about forty songs you can fuck to and stream that through the speakers hidden in the ceiling.
Talking with Lucinda this afternoon has given me a whole new perspective. A new goal to aim for. A new possible outcome.
And, of course, a plan.
A plan, I have found, can fix almost anything in life. A good plan can turn a shitty outcome into an opportunity. And a great plan can turn your whole life around.
This plan might be spectacular.
I take a seat at the desk, one ankle propped up on one knee, and sip from my cut-crystal glass of Hedonism as Portishead pours out of the speakers like smooth waves of velvet.
The gate opens and my eyes are trained on the driveway as I peer through the window. They’re late—almost twenty-five minutes—but they show.