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. And 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?”
“She won’t.”
“How the fuck do you know that? She’s mentally unstable, Jordan. I can’t just let her hurt herself. I can’t—”
“You’re not,” he says. “She’s under the care of a very well-respected psychiatrist. This treatment was planned for a long time. We know what we’re doing.”
“We?” I ask. “We? You’re not a fucking doctor.”
“Correct,” Jordan says. “I’m just the partner who arranges her treatments.”
I open my mouth to say something. Like, What kinda fuckin’ game are you playing now? Or, Who the fuck would trust your twisted mind with people who need mental guidance? Because both of those questions are valid.
But the call drops. Like… three this-convo-is-over beeps hit me like a goddamned slap in the face.
A flash of movement on the monitor makes me look up.
Evangeline Rolaine has opened the bathroom door.