by JA Huss
“That’s the question you want answered so badly, is it? Why am I here? Because I’m tired, that’s why.”
“Of what?”
“Waiting.”
He pauses for a second, thinking that through, then says, “Was it worth it?”
“Was what worth it?”
“The thrill you got upstairs. That’s the real reason you’re here. So I hope that little tingle was worth it, because if you don’t play with me that’s all you’ll get. Probably for a long time, because you’ll run back to wherever it is you keep yourself and spend the rest of your life in hiding.”
“What is your problem? You’re mad because I was masturbating and you had to watch? Then I stopped and let me guess, you didn’t get off? Poor baby. Not my fault you took this stupid job.”
He’s silent for a little bit. Long enough for me to wonder if he misjudged me. If Lucinda told him to play with me like this, then my temper wouldn’t surprise him. She’s seen it enough over the past year to know that’s just part of me now. Like the color of my eyes.
“Why are you really here?” he finally asks again.
I huff out a half laugh. “Why are you here?”
“You tell me, I’ll tell you.”
Now it’s my turn to think. Maybe I should play? For a little bit, at least. Maybe I can get some answers out of him? A better picture of what he looks like. I’m not leaving, not tonight, anyway. So it would be nice to picture him as he watches. “How old are you?”
“Why?” This time his response is almost a laugh, and even though it’s combined with the static, it almost sounds real.
Yes. I like his laugh. “Because you want to picture me?” he asks. The intercom cooperates a little more now. Like he adjusted it. There’s still static, and his voice is still very much distorted, but I hear most of his words instead of disjointed pauses.
“Yes. You can see me but I can’t see you.”
“I’m here to watch you. You’re here to be watched.”
“Is that your turn-on?” I ask.
Another laugh. “In a way. But not the way you think.”
“Then how?”
“Write me your story,” he says. “And if it’s a good one I’ll give you one back. How’s that sound?”
“Just play your game?” I ask. “Lucinda did not sanction this. I could make you stop, ya know.”
“Then do that. If you want to be a quitter. You’re good at quitting, right? I expected as much. Believe me, I didn’t get my hopes up over you.”
Well, that’s a curious way to respond. Asshole. Psychopath. I think through my options as he remains silent, then say, “I’ll write a story for you.”
“Not just any story, I want to know why you’re here.”
“And if I give you that, then you give me what I want.”
“What’s that, then? What do you want?” I don’t know if it’s the fucking intercom or what, but his tone has gone dark, his voice deep. Maybe that’s called seductive? Maybe it’s called sinister? I’m not sure I can tell the difference.
I hesitate, thinking about how to put this without coming off as desperate.
“Evangeline?” he asks. “What do you want in return?”
“I want to go home,” I whisper. “Walk out of here feeling safe, and free, and not have to think about”—I swallow hard—“gloves, or hoods, or sunglasses. That’s what I want.”
“It’s not a very big ask,” he says, that darkness I heard just a moment ago gone now. “You just have to do the work, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But that doesn’t include telling you my personal story. It’s mine, OK? I have very little left of my old life. That story is pretty much it.”
“I offered myself up in return,” he says. And even though the intercom is skipping words again, making him sound like unreal and artificial, it’s the way he says it that has me intrigued. “Don’t you want to know what happened next?”
“Happened when?”
“After Jordan and I grew up. Do you think there’s no story there? I mean”—he laughs—“come on. I’m here, watching you. Cameras all over this fucking house on Jordan’s orders. There’s a very fucked-up story behind all that. Aren’t you a little bit curious, Evangeline? How filming women like you became our job?”
“Yes.” I say it automatically, heat pooling between my legs. What did they do? And what are they doing with me now?
“Want to know who we watched?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“What they did for us on camera? Do you like to picture that, Evangeline? Do you like to watch people?” The intercom is nearly all static. So much that I can barely make out his words.
“Better than the alternative,” I say softly, my focus on the empty swing out in the yard.
“OK,” he says. “Get the notebook, write your story, then leave it on the counter and go outside so I can read it. If you satisfy me, I’ll satisfy you.”
That last part comes out crystal-clear. Like it’s the only part of this conversation that matters.
“Why can’t I see you?”
“Because I make the rules.”
The crackling of the intercom speaker cuts off, the conversation over.
Dear Stranger. That’s how I begin my entry in the notebook.
I am here because…
God. I really don’t feel like telling personal things to someone I don’t know. Hell, I hate telling people I know things too. Not that I know a lot of people.
You’re procrastinating, Evangeline.
Yes, I am.
I am here because…
I let out a long breath and write…
I am here because I gave up a while back and… and I don’t want to give up anymore. This fear, which, as you so callously pointed out, will cause me to die alone, started back when I was about ten years old. My public debut started at the age of four. I was one of those special children. Prodigy. Gifted. Old soul. Call it whatever you want, that was me back then. I don’t play the violin. I am the violin. It’s part of me, like an arm or a hand.
But everything has a price. My gift is no exception. I was watched constantly. Not the way one usually watches a child. It’s different. And most people don’t understand it. But I don’t care. This fear I have comes from all the attention I was subjected to when I was young. It got to a point…
I stop and take a deep breath. I’m back in the ballroom, sitting on the couch facing the window, staring out at that stupid empty swing.
It got to a point where I couldn’t have people around me. It started with my staff. Managers and agents and lawyers. I refused to see them. I imagined all the things they thought about me in my head and… and I didn’t like it. Eventually, it spread to everyone, including my parents, and then one night I was in the studio recording a Christmas CD so my parents could afford to pay some of the monumental bills they racked up in my name, and I said, “I can’t do it anymore.”
I put my violin away and walked out in the middle of a song. They never did release that CD. The production company took my parents to court and they had to pay back the advance. Well, I had to pay it back. They were penniless and I was emancipated by the time that was settled.
And that was it. I never performed again.
But your question was, why am I here? Assuming you know that I’ve booked a comeback performance and that date is fast approaching, there’s another reason. I’m out of money. I need to make some fast if I want to maintain my lifestyle. And since playing the violin is the only skill I have, that’s my only option.
And now you owe me. So make sure your story is a good one, Mr. Stranger. Because if it’s not, I’ll be the one walking out on you.
Chapter Eighteen - Ixion
I watched her write. She stopped and started so many times, sighing with such frustration and angst that I assumed the story would have both those qualities to it.
It doesn’t.
Aside from the revelation that she’s booked a
comeback performance and needs money—I wasn’t aware, thank you very much, Miss Rolaine—there’s absolutely nothing of note in that story.
But she’s trying. So I’ll try back.
Dear Evangeline,
I like your name. It’s pretty and quite unusual. And I have an affinity for names like that, since I myself possess an unusual one as well.
But your story sucked.
Yes, this is me being gentle.
You tell me facts. No one cares about facts. Stories are good because of the emotion inside of them. And while you displayed a lot of external emotion as you wrote it, none of it came out on the page.
Try again.
“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
She screams it over and over again as she stomps around the house, spewing her anger at each and every camera.
“Now that is some display,” I say.
She whirls around to find the intercom on the wall behind her in the grand foyer. “Fuck you!”
“Come on now, Evangeline,” I say. “You can do better than that.”
“You owe me!” she seethes. “It’s your turn. And if you don’t give me something back, then fuck you!”
Her voice is distorted on the intercom, but I’ve got the microphones turned on too, so I’m actually listening through the headphones as I speak through the intercom.
I process that little bit of good fortune. She’s not getting my real voice but I get to see and hear her in perfect clarity. I get a lot more satisfaction out of that than I should. This intercom sucks, but now that I know she’s into talking, I’m gonna deny her as much as possible.
After I get her where I want her.
God, if this woman really was meant to be a gift from Jordan to make up for the fucked-up shit he did in the past… well, I might have to forgive him.
Because this isn’t me. This is all him. This is Jordan’s deal. The games, the women, being a player. But it’s always intrigued me. Not enough to join in. Fuck that. I’m just not into it. I do what I do for very different reasons than Jordan Wells.
But this is my job, right?
It’s a stretch, Ix, my inner voice says. Kind of a long one. But… he did put me here. With her. And she does have this very unusual problem.
“Quitting, huh?” I ask. “Typical.”
“Your game is stupid. I bet you never did anything with those cameras, did you? You and your boring friend, Jordan. You’re probably a bunch of fat, worthless, bearded guys who live in their parents’ basements and get off on animated porn!”
“Well.” I laugh into the intercom. “Now that’s more like it. Put that in your story.”
“You can shove that story up your ass,” she screams. “I bet this Jordan guy isn’t even real. You’re making all this up. Fucking liar!”
Wow. She is one angry woman when she gets going. “Would you like to meet him?” I ask.
She stops, mid-rant, finger pointing up at me via the camera, and lets out a long breath. “Who?”
“Jordan,” I say. “Would you like to see him? You don’t believe he’s real. He’s kinda hot. And this opinion is coming from another man. So, you know. Don’t discount that.”
“How?” she breathes.
“Trick him, of course.”
She smiles, but lowers her head so I only just barely catch it. “Trick him how?”
I shrug, even though she can’t see it. Because I hadn’t really planned this out. “Let me figure it out and I’ll get back to you. But until then, keep writing, Evangeline. I want something real from you.”
“When?” she demands. “When can I see him?”
“Soon.”
“Today.”
“Not today. He’s smart. He’ll know. But if we do this right, believe me, we can get some really good shit out of that guy.”
She has to piece that last sentence together. The intercom is fucking up my delivery. But a few seconds of thought have her huffing out a small laugh. “Do you hate him? For what he did to your family?”
I’m speechless. But only for a moment. “He didn’t do anything to my family.”
“No?” Evangeline asks. “I disagree. I think that’s your story, Mr. Stranger. That’s what you’re hiding. He fucked your family up, didn’t he?”
“Do you want to see him or not?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I smile. Because she’s tipping her hand right now. And I’m figuring her out far faster than she can fight it. “Then write your story and go upstairs. It’s late. I’ll have something for you up there to get you through the night.”
“Where are you?” she asks, looking at all the cameras in the ballroom in quick succession.
“Close,” I say.
She shivers. I see it. I want to feel that sensation the next time she does it. But… Control, Ixion. That’s what’s needed right now.
“Will you be waiting for me upstairs?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not in person. But I’ll be watching.”
Chapter Nineteen - Evangeline
What the fuck does he want from me? Some kind of emotional breakdown? I scoff. Literally scoff. Because that’s never gonna happen. I might be afraid of some stupid things in this world, but I am not a coward. How dare he call me that?
He has no clue who he’s dealing with. I have played for queens and kings. I have played for rock stars and opera singers. I have played for presidents and ruling heads of criminal organizations.
I am no coward.
I grab the notebook and pen from the kitchen and then settle on the window-facing couch back in the ballroom and think.
He wants a personal story about why I’m here.
Fine. Let’s see what he thinks about this.
Have you ever felt like a number?
Just a number on a line, at a time
when no one else is there to see you stumble?
Anonymous child with preposterous guile
and an innocence that wants to take you under?
I scribble the words down. Furiously fast. Trying to get them out and get this over with.
Well, I have.
That was me.
Dressed up pretty.
Rolling waves of ribbon lace
and lights above me on the stage.
And then the nothing.
The great big nothing
as you walk away and try your best
to burn the joy you’ll never know
like a brand on your mind
echoing like a cheer
to the fear
of being everything you will ever be
at the age of eight.
I am just a number.
That’s why I’m here.
Take that, stranger. Mr. X. Whoever you are. You want something from me? You want words that have meaning? There they are.
I get up, clutching the notebook with both hands, leaving the pen behind like a murder weapon, and take it to the kitchen.
Stare at it.
Change my mind sixteen or eighty-three times.
Then feel the heat of anger well up inside me and turn my back on it.
On all of it.
I go upstairs—and not because he told me to, either. I go because this day is over now and I’m tired. So fucking exhausted, climbing up to the master bedroom on the third floor almost wipes me out.
I left the house today, I remind myself as I make it to the top and stand in front of the closed double doors. It was only the backyard, but I left. And yesterday I was hedging my bets on even staying here at all.
I count that as a win as I reach for the doorknobs and push the door in.
The nightlight is on next to the bed. Moon glow dances across the ceiling in fuzzy approximations of stars.
I let out a breath, feeling a sense of calm and relief that I haven’t felt in… I have no idea. Decades, I think.
And it strikes me as so strange—that being up here in some other couple’s bedroom, being virtually stalked by a stranger who has very un
orthodox ideas of what his job is here, is calming.
How is that possible? How does it even make sense?
That’s when I see the note on the pillow.
I walk over and pick it up. The paper is different this time. Thicker. Special. But the handwriting is the same sharp printing, and my name is the same, and the little e decoration underneath.
I look up at the nearest camera. “Why are you doing this?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look around for an intercom and find it behind one of the double doors.
I press the button to speak—“Are you there?”—and startle when I hear my question echo through other rooms.
Nothing but silence in return.
So I look down at the note in my hand and wonder what’s next. Should I even open it?
It’s a stupid question. I almost rip it apart trying to open it.
Congratulations, it says. Just a few more commands to follow and then you can close your eyes and dream about tomorrow.
Look up at the camera. Take your clothes off.
Slowly. Never breaking eye contact.
Get in bed naked. There’s a blindfold under the pillow. Put it on. Lie still.
If you do that I’ll come say good night.
But you have to promise not to peek, Evangeline. You have to stay in the dark and let me do whatever I want.
I let out another breath, but this time nothing about me is calm. My heart is galloping inside my chest. My head is pounding with excitement as blood rushes to my brain. And my stomach flutters with some foreign feeling I might never have felt before.
Reaching for the nearest wall, I bow my head and breathe through the spell this stranger has cast.
What to do?
I’m practically panting, imagining what following this order will do to my life.
Will everything unravel?
Or is this… experience just what I need to put myself back together?
It makes no sense. I realize that. It’s nothing but a request for sex.
