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  I flip the switch on my turntable, pick up the bag, and gently remove the album from its plastic cover.

  I stare at it for a moment. Enchanted by the tiny grooves in the vinyl that hold music. It’s a small miracle in my eyes. I place the record on the turntable and make it turn, hesitating before placing the needle onto the edge—holding my breath, hoping I don’t accidentally scratch it—and then exhale and… there is music in my house. In my head. In my heart. In my body. In my fingers. I play the air the way I used to play my instrument, wondering if that joy I used to feel as a child will ever come back to me. Or if I’ll die up here in this tower, alone, empty, sad, and lonely.

  What are you afraid of?

  The question pops into my mind unwanted.

  It’s not a fair question. Not in my mind. I never asked for this fear. I never called to it the way some mad people do. I never courted it, loved it, held it close.

  I want more than anything to be the girl I was before they ruined me.

  But I can’t.

  It’s a sickness.

  It’s a disease—not just in my head, but a part of me. Of my brain.

  We will conquer your fear together.

  No, I don’t think we will, Dr. Chatwell.

  Some people are born tall. Some people are born short. Some people are born smart and some not. Some people are born with music in their fingers and some people are born to perform that art in front of people and make millions of dollars.

  I’m just not one of those people.

  I can’t even show my face in public. Not because of who I am. That’s not really my problem. No one knows who I am anymore. No one cares.

  No. The reason I’ve locked myself away in this penthouse is because I cannot stand to be looked at. I cannot stand to be watched. I cannot stand attention.

  And isn’t it ironic that my God-given talent—my only talent—is to play the violin? A talent that’s quite useless if there’s no one there to hear it.

  I don’t even own a violin. Haven’t even played since I sold the Stradivarius.

  So I play the air and wander back in time when it was all real. Before that first performance. When the music didn’t come with watchers. When the performance wasn’t about the money.

  When I was a child.

  I wish I was still that child.

  I go back in time and stay there. I forget who I am, where I’m at, and why I’m even alive at all.

  I drift in the blur of my own mind…

  Ten hours later I wake up naked in the middle of the living room, the record still turning, the needle stuck at the end, hopping to static. My eyes burn from all the tears that Mei Ling sucked out of me. My body is sore from the sobbing, my heart empty and my head pounding.

  I crawl over to my coat, discarded yesterday when I got home, and I pull out that card.

  I stare at it for several minutes, wondering what it would be like to conquer my fear with Dr. Lucinda Chatwell.

  It’s an elusive dream… but I find my phone in the other pocket anyway. I press the numbers on the card. And when the woman calling herself Dr. Chatwell answers, I say, “I’m afraid of watchers.”

  Chapter One - Jordan

  One year later…

  Walking past Turning Point Club is still hard. I really miss that place. Like… really miss that place. I thought I was OK with letting it go when I said no to Bric’s offer to take it off his hands and keep the whole thing going. But even though I’m a forward-thinking guy and all the things that would come with owning an establishment like that are bad news, I really miss that place.

  I like what I’m doing now. Which is… well, what to call my current line of business?

  It’s so goddamned innovative I’m not sure it has a label. I mean legally it has a name—Your Game—and just thinking about it makes me smile into the cold morning wind. But it’s just a shell corporation. A way to receive and distribute money.

  But if I had to put a name on it I’d call it a… a fantasy fulfillment service.

  Sounds about right.

  Which is why I don’t understand Lucinda’s call last night. Also why I’m walking past the defunct Turning Point and into Chella’s tea room this very moment.

  The door jingles when I open it. Not an annoying jingle like you might hear at a gas station or a dry cleaner. I’d call this more of a tinkling. Those teeny-tiny bells Bohemian women sometimes wear as anklets. Something like that. So it’s soft, and charming, and maybe even a little bit sexy.

  “You’re late,” Chella calls from a couch in front of the window. I take off my scarf and coat, drape it over a large overstuffed chair as I pass by, and unbutton my suit coat as I walk over and join her. There’s no one else here, since it’s Tuesday, and she’s closed on Tuesdays.

  “You look lovely,” I say, lightly kissing her hand before I sit down.

  She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t bother hiding the smile. I charm the pants off Chella. Not literally. Anymore. Which makes me smile. “Why do you always keep me waiting? You know I’m obsessively punctual. And you’re the one who wanted to see me!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just I got a call from Lucinda last night asking for… a favor.”

  Chella lifts up her eyebrows. It’s a question mark. I know her well enough to decipher that expression. And she knows me well enough to let me continue without asking anymore. So she just pours me some tea and pushes the tiny pitcher of milk my way.

  I add the milk, take a sip, and then lean back into the couch cushions, wondering how much I can legally tell her and still get good advice. “Well, I’m asking for a friend, OK?”

  She smiles as she sips from her own tea cup. “OK.”

  “So this friend, he’s sorta known for… making arrangements for people.”

  “What kind of arrangements?” Chella asks.

  “Unusual ones,” I say, wishing I could say more. Tell her everything. Chella is a fantastic fucking listener. She’s not really my type as far as women go, but I think I like her better than Smith, Quin, and Bric combined. She doesn’t judge, for one. She’s so calm. And nothing I say ever surprises her. Chella is like everyone’s perfect best friend. She’s also highly discreet. If I tell her something in confidence, as long as I’m not hurting people, she won’t tell a soul. Not even Smith.

  “So is the problem the arrangements that need to be made?” Chella asks. “Or something else?”

  I think about this for a few seconds. “Both,” I finally decide. “I mean, he doesn’t usually make this kind of arrangement, if ya get my drift.”

  “I don’t.” Chella laughs. “But I can take a guess if you can’t say.”

  “My problem is… this friend usually does more of a fantasy-type thing and this new request is more of a… a medical-type thing.”

  “Hmmm,” Chella says. “Maybe you should ask Bric? He’s the doctor.”

  “He’s not a doctor,” I say. Fucking Bric and his useless medical degree. “He’s a fucking psychopath.”

  “Not so much anymore,” Chella says, blowing on her tea.

  Stupid Bric. “No, I don’t wanna ask Bric. I need your advice. You’re good at it. Bric…” I shake my head. “He can’t even make a good choice for himself, let alone give someone like me—I mean, my friend—good advice.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jordan. I know it’s you. Just tell me what you need. Do you want me to agree this is a good idea so you can feel better about it? Or back up your intuition and say don’t do it so you won’t feel guilty for turning someone away who needs help? Just tell me what you’re looking for so I know how to proceed.”

  Love how she always gets to the point. “I’m not sure. I mean, I can help this person. I have someone in mind who might even be perfect for it. But… should I help this person? And should I use the person I have in mind?” I sigh. “That’s the struggle I’m having.”

  “Well,” Chella says, taking another sip of her tea. “It’s all legal?”

  “Of course,” I say. �
��I’m a fuckin’ lawyer. I can’t be breaking the law.”

  “Does it involve sex?”

  “No.” I laugh. “That’s the problem. This is like a real… condition, or whatever. I mean, it’s a weird one for sure. But this is all on the up and up and someone we both know has prescribed a treatment and asked me to deliver it.”

  “Someone we know, huh?”

  I nod my head.

  “OK,” she says, taking a deep breath. “OK. I say do it then. She knows what she’s doing. We’ve both trusted her before, right?”

  “Which is why I came to you. I mean, you know her a lot better than I do. Me fucking her on her fortieth birthday while her husband watched doesn’t exactly qualify as knowing her. But yeah, generally, I think she’s got her shit together.”

  Chella goes quiet for a few seconds.

  “What?” I ask. “What’d I say?”

  She huffs out a laugh. “God, that night…” She closes her eyes, waits a few beats, then opens them again. “That night of her birthday… that was the first time I went to Turning Point. I was just thinking about how much has changed since then.”

  “Fuck, I forgot about that. You were there. Shit,” I say, running a hand through my hair as I picture Chella walking down the stairs hanging on Smith Baldwin’s arm, already in the game, even if she didn’t know it yet.

  Lucinda—the woman we’re both pretending not to talk about right now—wanted Smith as her choice that night. But he was otherwise occupied, so she picked me. The new guy at the club. And that decision right there changed everything in my life.

  A single moment has power like that.

  “You OK?” Chella asks when my silence fills the room.

  “Yeah, sure. Just thinking, ya know. How things can change so fast.”

  “So who did you have in mind?”

  “What?”

  “You said you might have the perfect guy for the job but that was also part of the problem. Who is it?”

  “Oh.” I sigh. “I don’t know if you remember him from when we were kids, but Ixion Vanir?”

  “Rings my bell, but not sure why.”

  “We were friends, remember? You’ve seen him a bunch of times, but it’s been like twenty years or something. He doesn’t come to Denver much.”

  “Ixion. That kid you were always attached to at the hip in grade school?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “You’re still friends?”

  “Well… sorta? Maybe?” But I give in and admit the truth. “Not really. But I wish we were.”

  “So why would he help you?”

  “Normally I don’t think he would. But he’s been drifting for a while now. In and out of trouble for years. He needs a change, I think. This might be a good change.”

  That’s not really the reason. I mean, it is. It’s all true. But there’s more to it than that. Things I don’t want to get into now.

  “If he’s always in trouble, then why’s he so perfect?” she asks. “I mean, what’s he got that you think you need?”

  God, that’s a loaded question. “He has a very specific skillset. Something this job requires. And not many others would take the job. It’s kinda fucking weird.”

  Chella laughs. “Everything you do is weird, Jordan. So what the fuck is going on?”

  “I swear to God, it’s not sex!” I laugh. “It’s weird because… well the woman involved is weird, and her problem is weird, and of course, there’s the whole privacy thing. She’s sorta… famous. Used to be, anyway. And I need someone who can keep a secret. Not blab their fucking traps off to the media and shit, ya know?”

  “And Ixion, the drifting troublemaker, is your man?” She’s still laughing.

  “Believe it or not, yes. He is.” I sigh again. “He’s kept a secret of mine for a long time now.”

  “You,” she says, one eyebrow raised, “have a secret?”

  I nod. Swallow down that memory. “Yeah. Never said a word. I would’ve been…” But I can’t even say it. So instead I say, “I would’ve been in a lot of trouble otherwise. He kinda saved my ass.”

  “But he doesn’t talk to you now?”

  “Not much. No.” Not ever is the more appropriate answer. “But I wouldn’t mind changing that.”

  “And this is an excuse to bring him back into your life?”

  “Not like that, Chella. I don’t want to fuck the guy. I just… we were friends, ya know? And… and I wish we still were. Plus, there was this other person involved and I miss her.”

  “He’s with her? This woman you miss?”

  “No,” I say, frustrated at trying to put all this shit into words. “No, forget about her. I just want him.”

  Chella smiles and leans back into the couch cushions. “Well, then what else is there to discuss? The request is legitimate. You have the right man for the job. And you get to help someone and make up for past mistakes with an old friend. I say do it.”

  Relief rushes through me.

  “But you didn’t need my advice, did you?” She pauses to see if I’ll cop to what she’s insinuating. But I don’t, so she goes on. “You just wanted someone to agree with the decision you already made. Regardless of the potential fallout, you want to do this, don’t you?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  “Mostly for Ixion, right?”

  I nod again. “That’s right.”

  “Then why are you so nervous about it?”

  Why indeed. But I know why. “Because moments can change your life.”

  “And you think this might be one of them?”

  “I dunno, Chella. I just want this, right? I want to make things right between us, but it could go the other way.”

  “And then you lose what you’ve already lost.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess that’s the bottom line. I lost a lot in that… incident between Ix and me. And I don’t want to make it worse.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “OK. I get it. But making decisions based on fear isn’t normally part of your modus operandi, Jordan. And as someone who did make decisions based on fear before I took that leap of faith that night you fucked Lucinda on her birthday, I’d have to say… nothing lost is gained.”

  “That’s not how that saying goes.” I chuckle.

  “I know,” she says, shrugging. “I made that up when I was a kid overseas with my mom. If you lose something, like one of your favorite shoes, for instance, and you go looking for that shoe, but you don’t find it… well, you already lost what you don’t have. So if you lose again you break even, Jordan. You don’t lose it again. Failing twice at the same thing is free. Doesn’t cost you anything.”

  I nod. And we talk a little after that as we drink our tea and eat scones.

  But I leave there disagreeing with her final thoughts on my dilemma.

  It’s possible to lose the same thing twice and the cost is definitely not free. I know. I’ve been there before.

  I lost more than Ixion when he took the fall for me seven years ago. I lost the other person involved. Losing both of them might as well’ve been everything. So getting half of them back, then losing him again… Well, that sounds like a very good excuse to get drunk and never sober up if you ask me.

  I take out my phone and press Lucinda’s contact.

  “Please tell me your answer is yes,” she says. “Do not leave me hanging here, Jordan. She needs help and she needs it right now.”

  “God, this chick must be a mess,” I say back, not answering her question.

  “Jordan,” she presses.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “But I gotta get this guy and he’s… he’s been out of contact for a while. So she’s gonna have to wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Few weeks at least.”

  “She has a concert in six weeks. She needs to be ready. She needs to—”

  “I understand that,” I say, cutting her off as I pinch the bridge of my nose, staving off a headache. “But this isn’t normal, OK? This is weird. And I need th
is guy. Plus we gotta get it all set up. So she’s gonna have to deal until it’s done.”

  Lucinda sighs on the other end of the phone. “OK. I can wait. But this guy? He’ll do it?”

  “Yes,” I say. Not sure. Highly unlikely unless I go in with a plan. No, he’s never gonna agree no matter what I do. “Yes,” I reiterate. “He’ll do it.”

  If I play it right. You don’t beg Ixion Vanir for anything, let alone a favor. He does it, or doesn’t do it, based on what kind of fucked-up mood he’s in when you ask for said favor.

  Nothing lost is gained, my ass.

  Ix can still take a lot away from me. And even though he hasn’t done that—yet—that doesn’t mean he won’t.

  And I gotta ask myself the same question Chella did. What does he have that I think I need?

  So. Much.

  Chapter Two - Ixion

  An overly loud buzzer snaps me out of the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in years, but the clanking of the jail-cell door brings me back to reality. Real fast.

  “Ixion Vanir,” the sheriff calls. Like there’s anyone else in this fucking jail. “That’s some name you got there. And some lawyer as well.”

  I sit up, rubbing my eyes, wishing I didn’t get so drunk last night.

  “Took him two days, but he did it.”

  Make that two nights ago. Since I’ve apparently been unconscious for a while.

  I stand up, wobble because I might still be a little drunk, and shoot the sheriff with my finger. “He’s the best.”

  “Don’t I know it, cowboy. I owe him a favor, which is why you’re getting out today. I don’t know what makes you so special aside from that ridiculous name you’ve got. But he’s managed to persuade me to erase the fact you took a baseball bat to Drake Metcaff’s pick-up. I guess you owe him now too.”

  “Wait,” I say, blinking the blur away and opening my eyes wider so I can, like, participate in what’s happening and catch up with the conversation. “Who we talkin’ about again?”

  “Who else,” the sheriff says. “Jordan Wells.”

  Fuck.

  Fucker.

  Motherfucker.