Total Exposure Read online

  Contents

  Total Exposure

  DESCRIPTION

  Prologue - Evangeline

  Chapter One - Jordan

  Chapter Two - Ixion

  Chapter Three - Evangeline

  Chapter Four - Ixion

  Chapter Five - Jordan

  Chapter Six - Evangeline

  Chapter Seven - Ixion

  Chapter Eight - Evangeline

  Chapter Nine - Ixion

  Chapter Ten - Evangeline

  Chapter Eleven -Bric

  Chapter Twelve - Jordan

  Chapter Thirteen - Evangeline

  Chapter Fourteen - Ixion

  Chapter Fifteen - Evangeline

  Chapter Sixteen - Ixion

  Chapter Seventeen - Evangeline

  Chapter Eighteen - Ixion

  Chapter Nineteen - Evangeline

  Chapter Twenty - Ixion

  Chapter Twenty-One - Evangeline

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Ixion

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Evangeline

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Ixion

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Evangeline

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Ixion

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Evangeline

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Ixion

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Evangeline

  Chapter Thirty - Ixion

  Chapter Thirty-One - Evangeline

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Ixion

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Evangeline

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Ixion

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Evangeline

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Ixion

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Evangeline

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Ixion

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Evangeline

  Chapter Forty - Ixion

  Chapter Forty-One - Evangeline

  Chapter Forty-Two - Ixion

  Chapter Forty-Three - Evangeline

  Chapter Forty-Four - Ixion

  Chapter Forty-Five - Evangeline

  Chapter Forty-Six - Ixion

  Chapter Forty-Seven - Evangeline

  Chapter Forty-Eight - Ixion

  Chapter Forty-Nine - Evangeline

  Epilogue - Jordan

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  About the Author

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Photo: Sara Eirew

  Cover Design: JA Huss

  Copyright © 2017 by J. A. Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-944475-34-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DESCRIPTION

  Not everyone needs a master.

  Not everyone needs to really live, either.

  Some people are content to be a participant in the game of life.

  Others want to play for real.

  If you want to play for real, come to me, lovely.

  I’ll give you that little push you need.

  I’ll open your mind, and your world, and soul.

  Lay you bare. Let you feel the heat of my stare.

  Take you places you’ve never been before.

  Your body is my chessboard, sweets.

  And if you give in to me, and you play, you might even win.

  It’s just… your prize might not be what you went looking for.

  Prologue - Evangeline

  I like winter because I can wear a scarf that covers my face. January is my favorite month. When the cold threatens to overtake most people I go outside, covered up from head to toe, and… live. Free from stares of strangers. Secure in the notion that I am alone and unnoticed in the city of people who are way too consumed with getting back inside to be bothered about me.

  The one among many who needs to get back out.

  This feeling is called many things. But I have my own name for it. It’s the blur of movement. A flock of starlings forming a mass of collaborative beauty in the sky. The rush of traffic on a freeway. Headlights passing by like time. The swirl of stars overhead that remind you, every time you look up, that you don’t matter.

  It’s anonymity. Or obscurity.

  The blur. I’m part of the blur.

  Secluded in the isolation of being nobody.

  It’s not just a fantasy of mine. This is the world I live in so completely that today is the first day I’ve left my penthouse apartment to venture outside in almost six weeks. This is my day because it’s January and I can cover up from head to toe and live the fantasy for real.

  For once. I hope tomorrow is just like today.

  People think Denver is nothing but snow. I wish it were true, but it’s not. Three hundred days of sunshine every year. Yes, it snows, and yes, there are a few weeks’ worth of days like this every winter. Days when the wind is strong, and the snow falls sideways, and covering every inch of skin is normal behavior.

  But it’s not enough when such days are your only key to the outside world.

  I spend my summers locked inside with the AC set as low as it will go, wearing sweatpants, and fingerless gloves, and hoodies. If I can muster up the will to leave my sanctuary, I wear a hat, and sunglasses, and long sleeves—though the blouse is usually billowy and thin because of the heat.

  Even then, it’s too hot to be outside like that. So I don’t walk in the park, or go to street festivals down below on the 16th Street Mall, or eat on one of the patios of the numerous trendy restaurants.

  I just watch the blur from above, wishing for winter. I have a large terrace that wraps around my corner apartment where I can be myself in the summer. So I do get out, just not… out.

  Like now.

  I breathe in the frigid air, not even minding that the wind blows down my throat, doing its best to suffocate me even through my scarf.

  Maybe I want to be suffocated? Did the wind ever think of that?

  There is no one on the mall with me today, though it’s noon on a weekday and the shops are open. We’re not going to get enough snow to shut things down. Just enough to keep the world frightened and hidden away. And it feels good. That they’re the ones hiding and I’m the one out.

  I walk briskly down the mall, past the art gallery. One of the few places I actually do like to visit. Especially early in the morning when no one else has time and I have plenty. A coffee shop, a Mexican restaurant that won’t open for a few more hours, and then Mott’s is right there. The used book and vinyl store. I got a call last night from Dan, the owner and one of the few people I consider an acquaintance. He found the recording I’ve been searching for.

  Mei Ling Chao. Age thirteen. Live performance number seventy-one. 1959 in British-controlled Hong Kong.

  I push through the doors and the heat overtakes me. People always overreact with the heat during a blizzard. Which I hate because keeping a scarf wrapped around your face indoors with a furnace set on seventy-five is more suffocating to me than the wind blowing down my throat.

  “There she is,” Dan says. He’s bent down behind the counter, so I can’t see him until he stands up holding a stack of used books that were probably donated overnight and now he’s got to sort through them.

  “I got your message,” I say, breathless, but not because of the cold or the wind. “Are you sure this is it?”

  He looks at me from over the top of his wire-frame glasses and sets his stack of books down on the glass countertop that protects all sorts of semi-valuable trinkets. “RCA Victor.”

  I breathe out. A huge sigh of relief because yes, that’s all he needed to say. There are many copies of this particular recording of Mei Ling Chao, but the one produced by RCA Victor is the real deal.


  I need the real deal.

  “That’s the one,” I say, my heart racing with excitement.

  “Why are you so interested in this one?” he asks.

  It’s a loaded question. He knows nothing about me. Not my real name. Not where I live. Not even my email. He has one contact number for me and it’s a digital number that reroutes to my cell phone.

  “I collect,” I say. “I told you that.”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking me up and down. I haven’t been in here in a long time. Not since early fall when I purchased the very first recording of Anne Akiki Meyers. It was raining that day. An unusually cold day that kept people inside. So I was bundled up in a plastic slicker wearing an overly large hat that was dripping water on his decades-old industrial gray carpet. “But it’s a very… unusual collection. First and last recordings of child violin prodigies. I’ve never met anyone who collected those.”

  “Well, maybe people are boring,” I say, forcing a small laugh. “I like to buck the trends.”

  Dan stares at me for a few more seconds, considering my answer. “Right. But you’ve bought every modern-day female violin prodigy I can get my hands on.”

  “That’s what most collectors do, Dan. We buy them all.”

  “Except… you haven’t bought them all, have you, Angela?”

  “I’m well on my way.”

  “So let me guess who’s next on your list.”

  “Evangeline Rolaine,” I say, beating him to the obvious answer. “I have her first. But if you can find the last recording of Ms. Rolaine, I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”

  He eyes me for a moment, which is more thoughtful consideration than I can handle. But I resist the urge to check my scarf or fidget my feet. So I wait a few seconds and then say, “Can I see the record?”

  Dan does a shrug with his hands, like he gives up, and then holds up one finger and says, “Be right back.”

  I watch him make his way through the numerous shelves of books and stacks of vinyl records, but he doesn’t look back and I take that as a good sign.

  He doesn’t know it’s me. He might guess, but that’s his business. I am not Evangeline Rolaine because she doesn’t exist anymore.

  I busy myself looking at trinkets in the glass case as I listen for his returning footsteps. And that’s when my eyes rest upon a stack of cards near the old cash register.

  “‘What are you afraid of?’” I say, reading the only sentence on the top card.

  I pick it up and study the calligraphy. It’s bold and dark, rising up from the thick paper the way one might print up a fancy business card. But it’s square, the size of a drink coaster you might find in a fancy bar.

  I turn it over in my hand and read the back.

  Dr. Lucinda Chatwell, M.D., Ph.D., ABPN Board Certified.

  And then in a very fancy script, in very tiny letters, it says, “We will conquer your fear together.” And a phone number.

  “Here we go,” Dan says, so close he startles me. I push the card into my pocket and calm my racing heart as he makes his way around the counter and places the plastic-covered album on the glass. “Mei Ling Chao. Last live performance at age thirteen. 1959. Hong Kong.” He smiles at me as he carefully removes the record from the cover and says, “RCA Victor,” as he presents it for my inspection.

  The picture of the dog with his ear to the phonograph makes me want to pee my pants with excitement. I actually laugh at that thought.

  Which must surprise Dan, because he says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Yes,” I breathe. “Wrap it up. And how much do I owe you?”

  Dan adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Seven thousand and fifty-two dollars.”

  “Wow,” I say. “She’s worth a lot.”

  “She is. You still want it?” he asks. “I know I quoted you four and change. But you have no idea what I had to do to get my hands on this.”

  “How did you get it?” I ask. I don’t usually talk so much when I come in, but I’ve been searching for this recording for… hell, since I was fifteen. Twelve years.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Dan whispers, leaning his elbows on the glass so he can get closer to me. “But a friend of a friend actually knows her.”

  “Really?” I breathe.

  “Yeah.” He nods, leaning in a little closer, like we’re sharing a secret. There’s no one in here, so it intrigues me enough to lean forward, getting as close to him as I’ve been to… well, anyone since I withdrew into my own world as a teenager. “She’s broke,” he says. “Living in a senior center somewhere in Oregon. She had this and a few others she was holding on to. But she sold it to him for six grand.” He leans back up like the secret is over. “Which is why I had to charge you seven plus.”

  “Is she… ill?” I ask. I don’t give two flying fucks about the price of the recording. But her health…

  “Dying,” Dan says, doing his thing at the cash register. “Cancer, I think.”

  “Oh,” I say, my excitement deflating. “That’s… that’s too bad.”

  “Yeah,” Dan says. “How do ya wanna pay?”

  “Right,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my envelope of cash and placing it on the counter. I knew he was gonna charge me more than he quoted. He always does. So I always come prepared because the thought of leaving here without it, then having to wait for another cold, snowy day to come back… Not gonna happen. I brought eleven thousand with me. “Gonna take me a second to count it all out.”

  “No rush,” Dan says.

  So I count out seven thousand-plus dollars and then push the bills towards him. “Double-check to make sure it’s all there.”

  My eyes drift over to the stack of cards next to the register. What are you afraid of?

  “What are these?” I ask.

  Dan ignores me for a second as he finishes his counting and then laughs. “Some guy came in here last summer and paid me a thousand dollars to keep a stack of those on the counter at all times. I have no clue, never called the number, but he says he’ll be back every now and then to check on them, and if they’re there, he’ll give me another grand. So I keep ’em up.”

  “Do people take them?” I ask, picking one up to pretend I haven’t already read it.

  “Sure. Lots of people. He’s been in here a few times to restock. I’ve made like three grand off the guy already. So fuck it, right? Free money.”

  “Yeah,” I say, putting the card down and carefully rearranging the stack. “Fuck it.”

  Dan puts my purchase in a plastic drawstring bag that says Mott’s Used Collectables on it, and then slides it across the counter. “So… Evangeline Rolaine then?”

  “What?”

  “Your next request,” he says with a smirk. “If anyone can find Evangeline, it’s yours truly.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Good luck with that. If you find it, please call me first.” I grab my bag and turn to leave, acutely aware that I’ve been in here far too long and said way too much.

  “I’ll do that, Angela,” Dan calls after me.

  But I’m already back out into the blissful whiteout so his words are just an echo in my head.

  When I get back to my penthouse I rip off my coat and scarf, burning up inside from a combination of too many layers and the desire to hear the famous last recording of Mei Ling.

  She was only two when her parents put her on stage for the first time. They did it for the same reasons most parents of child musical prodigies do it. Pride. That’s always a factor. Some of them, and Mei Ling’s parents were among those, also do it for fame and fortune. A way to lift an entire family out of poverty.

  That’s why my parents did it.

  I was four, not two. But what’s the difference between four and two, really? I was way too young to understand anything other than I was doing something that came naturally, something that I understood, something that I loved.

  It wasn’t until I was ten that I started realizing how much I’d been used.
And it took a few more years, four to be exact, before I… well… let it drive me crazy. When the money ran thin, about the time I was thirteen, we were staying with friends. They weren’t really friends. They were just rich people who wanted me to play at their parties.

  By fifteen I was too old to wow crowds with my youth even at stupid rich-people parties. Fifteen-year-old violinists aren’t special. They might not be typical at that skill level, but the oddity is long gone.

  The money went with the fame. My parents had bought houses and cars. They’d hired housekeepers and drivers. We had parties until the very last cent was spent. Huge parties with me at the center.

  That’s when I’d really had enough. I’d been traveling my whole life, never had a real home, or real friends, or any of the things most teenagers take for granted. Even very poor kids had more of a life than I did.

  So I rebelled.

  And then the court battles began. I begged a judge for emancipation. Presented my case as methodically as I could, and came out of it free, but utterly alone.

  I only had one thing left. One thing my parents didn’t sell, one thing they didn’t get to keep when I left. A rare violin gifted to me by an heiress after a concert when I was only eight years old. I sold the Stradivarius for nineteen million dollars at auction when I was sixteen.

  I’ve been living off that violin for more than eleven years now. The money isn’t gone, but there’s not a lot left. I don’t work. I don’t perform. Can’t perform, I remind myself. And that’s not my fault. It’s a sickness. A mental one, yes. But still, a debilitating sickness that I have no control over.

  That’s my story. I don’t need to stick to it because it’s true.

  This penthouse was my first purchase. Bought back during the housing crash. I practically stole it from its original owner for a mere three million dollars.

  Still, that’s a lot of money. Especially when half of what I earned off the Stradivarius went to taxes and ten percent went to the auction house.

  I can’t really afford this Mei Ling recording. But why live if you can’t have one extravagant pleasure to brighten your day?

  So fuck it. Just like Dan said. Just fuck it.