by Huss, JA
“OK, so you know the rules.”
“One week’s worth of clothes. If I have to stay longer and I run out I can do laundry or go shopping.”
“In person,” Lucinda stresses. “Not online.”
I swallow hard, but I’m not going shopping. In one week I’ll be cured. I’m so sure of it, I force myself not to think about needing to stay longer. “Got it.”
“And you have groceries stocked in the fridge for a few days. But if you need anything else—”
“No deliveries,” I finish.
“Right.” She pauses, then says, “Take chances, Evangeline. That’s my best advice. When you think about leaving, pause and tell yourself, ‘Just one more night.’”
“OK,” I say. But this time it’s low, and soft, and barely audible.
“You’re going to do this,” Lucinda says. “You’re going to beat it.”
I nod my head, then say, “I will. I must.”
I imagine her smiling on the other end of the phone. She thinks I’m brave. She believes in me. Not just my talent—that’s easy to believe in once you see me play. But my spirit. “Call the number for the car service when you’re ready to go and I’ll see you soon.”
She hangs up.
I put my phone down and look at my suitcase. It’s packed with normal things. Things I wear around the house. Jeans. Yoga pants. Sweatshirts. T-shirts. I have my toiletries and my hair dryer.
It feels a little bit like the old me. Back when I was a kid and we’d travel all over the world. My passport was so full by the time I turned sixteen and needed a new one, it was nothing but a mess of indecipherable ink.
I don’t have a current passport these days. The last one expired a few months ago. And that makes me sad for a few moments. That I was so worldly and sophisticated once upon a time. And now I’m small and lonely.
“That’s why you’re doing this, Evangeline.” I give myself a pep talk. “And if you do it right and stick it out, in two weeks you’ll be that girl again. Only better. Because you won’t have your parents backstage waiting for their next opportunity.”
When the driver pulls up outside my building I roll my two suitcases outside, doing my best to blend in with the people. Trying not to stand out or be conspicuous in any way. Covered up in head to toe with outerwear. Gloves, long winter coat, scarf over my face, large, round sunglasses covering my eyes. It’s very cold and snow is falling like glittering dust. But it’s not enough to cover me and my heart starts beating wildly in my chest.
The driver must’ve been told not to make eye contact, because he’s wearing sunglasses too, and bows his head as he wordlessly takes my luggage and puts it in the trunk of the long, black town car.
I get in the backseat without waiting for him to open my door, and quickly shut myself up inside.
There’s a blackout screen between the front and back, and that, at least, is comforting. There’s almost nothing worse than a nosey driver glancing into his rearview trying to get a glimpse of me.
Twenty minutes later, after fighting afternoon traffic in downtown, we pass through a small restaurant and shopping district and arrive at a stately manor in what would probably be a very nice tree-lined street in the summer time.
There’s a tall, wrought-iron and brick wall surrounding the entire property. It’s got something akin to a small guardhouse off to the left, where a driver might interact with security if he were going to pull into the driveway, but my driver stops on the street and doesn’t attempt to pull in.
There’s no one in there anyway. Not anyone to help because it’s only me and my watcher until I decide to leave.
I wonder if he or she is spying on the car?
The driver gets out, but I wait until he’s got my luggage lined up on the sidewalk and he’s back in the front seat before I let myself out and close the door behind me.
He drives off, leaving me there alone. Standing in front of the gate, looking up at the imposing mansion, tiny silver snowflakes falling on my cheeks like slippery wet kisses.
I gather myself, eager to get inside before any of the neighbors see me, and pull my luggage through the thin layer of snow that’s collecting on the ground.
There’s a code to open the gate, which I use and pass through. And it closes back up automatically when I’m halfway up the front walk.
It’s an interesting Italianate-style mansion, stucco exterior painted a smooth moss-green. There are two ornamental wrought-iron balconies in front of the tall, second-story rounded windows, and another directly above the main door.
The house is probably almost a hundred years old. But everything seems well-kept and modernized on the outside. The grounds are manicured, even in the winter, and the long hedges of holly planted up against the perimeter wall have sharp edges defining their shape that say in no uncertain terms someone loves this place.
Even though the house is large and imposing, I am eager to get inside before I can notice anyone noticing me. If I can’t see the watchers, they’re not there, right?
It’s how I sell myself on going out at all these days. Dark or not. Bundled up or not. I need the illusion of being one hundred percent alone. Even though I realize it’s not possible to control the actions of others and there could’ve been fifteen people peeking through their front curtains as I got dropped off.
As long as I don’t see them, I’m fine.
Which is why I think this whole camera thing has a chance at working. My one saving grace is the exact thing being exploited here.
I key in the code to the front door and the automatic locks disengage. My hand is shaking as I push the front door open, pull my suitcases inside, and close it behind me.
I let out a long breath of anxiety-filled air and look around. My heart is thumping in my chest so loud, I swear I can hear it echo off the tall foyer ceiling.
In the center of the ceiling is a shimmering chandelier that reflects sunlight coming through the arched window over the door in just the right way so that tiny dew-drop shapes dance across the upper walls like a light show.
It’s mesmerizing. And beautiful.
But that’s when I see it.
A flame-shaped black lightbulb in a chandelier filled with white ones.
A camera, made to look like a lightbulb. With a small blinking red light piercing through the shiny opaque lens.
“Hello,” I say, surprising myself with my own voice. My brain catches up with the implications of what I just did and my heart beats erratically at my audacity. Sweat beads on my brow and heat consumes my body as I realize—actually understand for the first time—that someone I don’t know will be watching my every move until I say stop.
I can’t do this. I cannot.
Breathe. I hear Lucinda’s calming voice in my head.
But I’m already gasping. I turn, ready to flee back into the safe world I’ve made for myself, and realize there’s no car out there to take me home. Leaving would be worse than staying.
Breathe.
The powder room. My one sanctuary in this house. The only place where there’s no cameras.
I open the closest door and find an office. The next is a coat closet. The next is another closet. I rush into the main living area, stunned by how big this place is. By the size of the windows and the knowledge that some stranger is watching me right now as I lose my shit. This has my head spinning and the only sound in my ears is the loud, thump-thump-thump-thump of my own terrified heartbeat.
I whirl around, desperate to find the powder room, because that’s my only escape. I’m stuck here until dark. Because the thought of going outside in the light and finding help… and that’s hours and hours away and there’s no possible way I can stay here and let this watcher watch me. Especially now, when I’m freaking out.
There’s a hallway, and many, many rooms. But I see the bathroom. I run for it, practically throw myself inside, and slam the door shut. I don’t even turn on the light. Just press my back against the wall, slide down until I’m s
itting on my butt, and wrap my arms around my legs.
This was the dumbest idea ever. What the fuck was I thinking? Where the hell do I get off wanting more out of life? When people are starving all over the world, and children are homeless on the streets, and there’s like… millions of women who fear for their lives in their own homes? And I’m not talking about my stupid fear. But their very real fear. And people dying, and sick, and hurting, and I’m just… just afraid of what amounts to faces pointed in my general direction.
This makes me selfish, and ungrateful, and stupid.
So very, very stupid for coming here and wanting… more.
Chapter Seven - Ixion
Her panic attack—because that’s what it is—alarms me. For a few seconds I’m glued to the screen, unable to stop watching. But then I’m running for the door, an overwhelming urge to reassure overtaking all the rules Jordan gave me.
I stop myself just in time. My finger is hovering over the first number on the keypad lock. I’m ready to leave the secret room and go find her. Help her.
Breathe.
So I do. I inhale deeply, let the swirling, conflicting emotions settle with my racing heart, and think this through as I let it out.
She’s here for a reason.
She hates people looking at her and that fear has made her life a living hell. Turned her large world into one that’s now so small, she barely has room to breathe.
I can’t relate to it. Honestly just can’t.
As a child, my world started small and only got bigger with each passing day. At first that’s because of the family I was born into. We went everywhere together.
But even after I was kicked out of the family with only my trust fund to rely on—I know, poor me—my world expanded, it never shrank.
I go everywhere alone now. Never staying too long in one place. I get a job, not unlike this one, and I go do it. Then I leave, or stay, or leave.
The road, I decide, is my home now. The vast never-ending road that leads to nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Now I’m at the point where there’s no end to my boundaries. I own things, but aside from that bike over at Jordan’s house, they’re all things I’m willing to walk away from when my world needs a little more expanding.
Like the car back up in Wyoming, for instance. It’s a nice car. About six years old. But it’s not a great car. It’s not my dream car. It’s just… a fucking… thing. A replaceable thing. So walking away when I felt the need to cut my losses was just normal for me because the amount of effort it would take to get that car back just wasn’t worth it.
That would involve a conversation. An explanation too. Not to mention some self-reflection, since I don’t actually remember what the fuck happened that night.
And fuck that. Not many people in this world get a conversation out of me, let alone an explanation. And I am in no mood to do any sort of self-reflection at the moment.
But I can put myself into Evangeline’s mindset and wonder how debilitating it would be if I couldn’t bear to leave the fucking house. How would it feel if I wasn’t able to walk out on people? How would I ever get any peace if I couldn’t leave it all behind?
Like it or not, she’s stuck here now. I cannot imagine she will muster up the courage to walk back out that door and find her way home after this little psycho display. I just can’t. Because that means her world gets bigger instead of smaller. Even if it’s just for a few hours. It means she has to go out into it, deal with it, submit to it.
I back away from the door, run my fingers through my hair, and then walk over to my chair and sit. Force myself to wait her out.
I stalked her a little the past few days. But only online. Which is a damn shame. Because I also hunted down all the video I could find on her childhood performances and was mesmerized by her talent. And she’s pretty to look at. Not the kind of woman I normally feel attracted to—too prim. Too uptight. Too fearful.
But she’s young, slender, and from what I just saw of her as she entered the house, she might have nice tits.
OK, that’s all kinda shallow. But I did think about her talent first, so I’m not gonna beat myself up for being a normal thirty-one-year-old man.
Especially when I’m never gonna get the chance to talk to this woman. Jordan’s contract specifically stated that I will not talk to her. Ever. Even when this is all over. So it’s pointless to think about her body, or her face, or her tits, or her fuckin’ talent, for God’s sake. She doesn’t even play anymore.
So I’m not. Thinking about any of that. I’m just thinking about her mind. And how sad she is, and how lonely she must be.
I had a small moment of hope when she entered the house, looked up and found the camera that looked like a black lightbulb, and greeted me with a “Hello.” Maybe three seconds of hope that this might not be a totally fucked-up assignment. That she’s more normal than she appears, or maybe it’s all an act.
But then her absolute panic over what amounts to a one-sided greeting, nothing even close to a fucking conversation, wiped all that hope away.
It’s not an act.
She’s crazy.
However, I do relate to her lack of enthusiasm for talking to people. I could care less if I talk to anyone. But it’s not fear stopping me. It’s just…I’m kind of an asshole and I prefer my own company.
That makes me smile, but then I remember she’s got herself locked in the bathroom.
I fish out my phone and call Jordan. Because I’m just not sure what to do. Am I her fucking therapy? Does this little display of mental illness qualify as an emergency? Does she need a doctor? Will she try to kill herself?
And most importantly, what are my legal obligations in this little job? If she does hurt herself, will I be responsible? Implicated in some sort of… crime?
I have enough of those on my record, I really don’t want to add another over a girl I don’t even know.
“Yeah,” Jordan says, picking up the call.
“Dude, what’s the deal with this woman?”
“She’s there then?”
“Yeah, she’s here… but she kinda freaked out and now’s she locked in the bathroom you told me didn’t need cameras.”
“Define freaked out.”
“Full-on fucking panic attack, man. I’m not kidding. She came in, looked around a little, spotted the camera in the foyer chandelier, and then said ‘Hello’ to me.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is she fucking went crazy after that. Racing around the house looking for the bathroom, I guess. Now she’s locked in there doing what-the-fuck-ever and I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“I’ll call you back,” Jordan says. “And whatever you do, do not leave that room. Got me?”
“Yeah,” I say.
But he’s already ended the call.
I sigh and lean back in my chair, wondering if I made a mistake in taking this job. I don’t need the money, so why bother?
But I know why I bother.
People think money is all you need in life. And yeah, it’s nice to have money. It’s even better to have so much you never have to think about it. Or anything, if you so choose. Which is how I deal with it most of the time.
But every once in a while I’ll meet someone, or hear something, and then…
Don’t fucking go there, Ixion.
So I’m lucky, I guess. I have more money than I can ever spend. Sick reality, I get it. Puts me squarely into a subset of the human population called grotesquely rich. But I don’t squander it. Unless you call walking away from a six-year-old Jeep Grand Cherokee squandering. Which some might.
But I’ll make up for that. Send that chick the title or something. Let her keep it. Sell it, whatever.
I’m just… trying my best to stay unattached and make the most of the life I have. That’s just about my only aspiration. Live this fucking life like it’s the only one you get. Spend it all because you can’t take it with you. A
nd never stop moving. The past might catch up if you stop moving.
My motto is faltering today, because against my better judgment, I find this Evangeline woman interesting.
What happened to her? Why did she just disappear like that? Did she do something? Did someone make her disappear? Was she forced out?
Normally I keep this caring shit to a minimum. It comes at a price, but I can’t help myself. It’s just intriguing. I want to know the answers to all those questions. Not to mention how she got mixed up with Jordan. It makes no sense at all. Because Jordan doesn’t gravitate to the kind of women I do, and I have a feeling Evangeline Rolaine is more my type than his.
“So was Augustine.”
My comment surprises me. Where the fuck did that come from? I have not so much as thought her name in seven years, let alone spoken it out loud.
Why did it have to end that way?
Stop fucking thinking about her. Now!
I know why.
My phone buzzes, so I answer it, happy to end the internal struggle I’ve been avoiding for seven years. “Yeah.”
“OK, I talked to her doctor and she says leave her alone. She has strict instructions to leave the house if she wants out of the treatment. So if she’s still in the house, she’s still in treatment.”
“So if she leaves, I call you?”
“Yes,” Jordan says. “If she leaves, call me and let me know what she’s doing. Then you follow her. Discreetly. If she leaves and calls her doctor. I’ll call you and then the treatment is over and you can just… fucking come over here and get your money, I guess. Job’s over. Got it?”
He says ‘got it’ like this is some super-simple shit to process. It’s not. So, “No, man. I don’t got it. Just what the fuck have you gotten me into?”
“Your job is simple, OK? You watch her. That’s it.”
“And if something bad happens? I’m just supposed to ignore it?”
“Yes.”
“What if she tries to kill herself?”
