Total Exposure Page 3

  That piece-of-shit asshole has the nerve to bail me out of jail? Some balls, right there. “I don’t owe him,” I say, managing a few steps towards the open cell door. “He owes me. And this unexpected favor isn’t enough to change that.”

  The sheriff just says, “Whatever you say.”

  He’s about as tall as me. About twice as old as me. And if I know Jordan, and I do—even though I haven’t talked to the dude in a pretty long time now—this here sheriff is more like me than he’ll ever admit. Anyone who owes Jordan a favor like this is not an upstanding citizen.

  “Welp,” the sheriff says. “He’s outside, cowboy. You can pick up your gun on the way out.”

  We go through the motions of unbooking me for crimes I have now never committed and the sheriff hands me a plastic bag with my leather jacket, my gun (still loaded), my phone (which says I have like ninety-one missed messages) and my wallet.

  “Have a nice day, son,” he calls as I shrug the jacket on and hit the door.

  “Back atcha, gramps.”

  Outside it’s a balmy thirty-seven degrees with a wind chill that makes it feel more like seventeen. But this is Northern Wyoming and it’s January, so I can’t complain.

  Jordan Wells is sitting inside the only car in the parking lot, which is actually the sheriff’s SUV, talking on the phone. He nods at me, then points to the passenger side, motioning me to get in. I spy a helicopter out in the nearby field, and the rotors begin to spin up for takeoff.

  Perfect. Because I just remembered I don’t have my fucking car and I don’t live in this two-horse town. I live thirty miles north in a one-horse town. So the ride home is a nice perk that makes Jordan’s visit a little more pleasant.

  I get in the truck, slam the door, and warm my already cold hands in the blast of heat coming from the dash.

  “Yup,” Jordan says into the phone. “Got him. I’ll be back in town tonight so… dinner and we’ll discuss?” He listens as the person on the other end talks, then says, “Mmm-hmm. Right. Perfect. See you then.”

  He looks down at the phone, sighs, and then trains that infamous stoic glare right on me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Why are you such a fuckup?”

  I shrug. “Just my natural talent, I guess. And no one called your ass begging for help, so this is all you, man.”

  “Well it cost me a favor I didn’t want to cash in, asshole. I need this fucking sheriff to play and now he doesn’t have to. Because you”—he points his fucking finger at me—“decided to get drunk and destroy a man’s brand new truck. You owe me, Ix. Seventy-five thousand fucking dollars plus a favor.”

  “Fuck that,” I say, reaching into my jacket for my pack of smokes. “I don’t need you to save me. I can pay my own debts, thank you.”

  Jordan eyes me. It’s a look that hides so much. But I can read his mind. He’s wondering… was that a jab at the past? Was it an innocent remark? What was it?

  He grabs the pack of smokes from my hand, opens the driver’s side window, and tosses them out. “You quit,” he says. “So remember that when you get to Denver.”

  “Fuck Denver too,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “I’m not going to Denver. I’ll go back in that fucking jail and take my chances before I go back to Denver.”

  “Well, unfortunately, Ix, that’s not an option. I need you in Denver for a job.”

  “Fucking job. What job?”

  “I’ll tell ya when you get there.” He shuts the truck off, pockets the keys, and opens his door, letting in a blast of Arctic air. “Call me when you get home and I’ll give you directions.”

  “What?” I ask. But he’s already slammed the door and is walking off towards his helicopter. I get out and jog to catch up. “You’re not leaving me here, dude. I don’t have a fucking car.”

  Jordan spins around, angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Because I’m not doing shit for you until you pay me back. So get your act together, Ix. This bad-boy attitude is way old.”

  He spins on his heel, adjusts his coat, and walks to the waiting helicopter.

  I stand there, pissed off and still a little drunk, watching as it lifts up and disappears into the darkening sky.

  “Asshole,” I say, the sound of spinning rotors fading.

  When I turn back to the sheriff’s station, I’m alone again. Just me, and the wind, and the cold.

  I shove my hands into my pockets and head for the road to hitch my way back home.

  Jordan Wells can fuck off.

  “So here’s the deal,” I tell the girl on the phone as I run my fingers through my now-wet hair. That shower felt good. Like the best shower in my entire life. I’m currently sitting on my bed in my one-room house on the edge of Washaki Ten, Wyoming, sucking on a smoke, and doing my best to placate the angry woman on the other end of the phone because I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about. “I’m fucking sorry, OK? I just need to come by your place and get my car. And my keys,” I add. Because she’s got those too.

  “Fuck you, Ix. Just fuck you. I told you not to get involved.”

  I sigh and pinch the space between my eyes, then stop. Because that’s a Jordan gesture if ever there was one and I haven’t done that in years. Dude’s back in my life for five minutes and I’m already picking up his mannerisms. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night and… whatever happened.”

  “You’re such a dick.”

  I don’t even remember what happened. This girl just called me up yelling like I ruined her life or something. But how much of a life can one man ruin in one night? And you’d think I’d have some sort of recollection of that, right?

  I didn’t really have ninety-one missed messages. It was only forty-seven. And most of those were from Jordan. Dude must’ve been looking for me about that job he’s got lined up and that’s how he figured out I was in jail.

  The other fifteen or so were from this girl. My caller ID says her name is Rachel. Sounds a little mean, if you ask me. And not in a hot way, either. So I called her back and she’s been yelling at me for—I look at the clock on the side table next to my bed—eight and a half minutes. And the only reason I’m still talking to her is because one of those almost incoherent sentences in her long rant mentioned my car and the fact that she was gonna throw my keys in the river.

  “I just need the car, Rachel.”

  “I’m not Rachel,” she snaps. “That’s my sister, you asshole. You broke my phone, remember?”

  Oh.

  “The caller ID…” But I trail off. Because if the caller ID said Rachel, I’ve obviously been talking to her, right? Yeah, losing battle, this one. “Fuck it. Either give me your address so I can come get my car or leave it somewhere and text me the location, or whatever. Because—”

  She hangs up.

  I consider how much I really need that car back and decide she can have it. I don’t care. I got a bike sitting six feet in front of me. And yeah, it’s gonna be a helluva cold ride to wherever I decide to go next. But ya know what? I’m tired of this place anyway. Losing the car is a lucky break. Now I don’t have to worry about the logistics of getting my bike outta this crap-ass town and into a new crap-ass town.

  My phone rings in my hand and I have a moment of hope it’s Rachel’s sister coming to her senses about my car and maybe I won’t have to ride the bike in sub-freezing weather…

  But no such luck. It’s Jordan.

  “What?” I say, answering it.

  “You’re coming to Denver,” he says. Like it’s a command. Like I actually take commands.

  “You think so?”

  “It’s a good job, Ixion. And it’ll give you… direction for once.” He’s a lot calmer than he was yesterday. But that’s Jordan for you. He’s all act, ya know. Everything’s a game to him. If he’s pissed it’s for a reason. If he’s calm, also for a reason. There’s not a true emotion in that heart of his. Not one. Just an act.

  “Fuck you,” I say, bl
owing out the smoke from my cig.

  “Are you smoking? You better not show up smoking.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout that,” I say. “I’m not showing up at all. I don’t need your charity, Jordan. I can pay my own bills. In fact, I’ll cut ya a check for the seventy-five grand and send it—”

  “I don’t need the money back,” he says. “I need you.”

  I barely contain a laugh. “Why?”

  “I can’t talk on the phone.”

  I almost choke on my smoke. “You never fucking change, do you?”

  “That’s not why. Be at my office tomorrow at noon. Talk then.”

  The line cuts and I just stare at the dead screen for a few seconds.

  Asshole.

  I decide tomorrow is a long way off and I’m not gonna ride my damn bike to Denver anyway, so hardly matters. I suck down the rest of my smoke in darkness, put it out, then rip the towel off my waist and get in bed naked.

  Sleep is probably the only part of my day that makes sense anymore.

  It eludes me.

  Sleep, I mean.

  Because I’m thinking about Jordan all goddamned night. I haven’t seen him in a very long time. Don’t even know how many years. Maybe seven? Eight? Somewhere around there. And that last night we were together runs through my head like a fucking movie on repeat.

  If I never talked to the guy again I’d be fine. Shit, I haven’t even thought about him. Like at all. Just… moving on, right? Doing my thing. Being me.

  But him showing up like that? The cryptic nature of his motives, and the fact that we’ve got that history together, well, it fucks with my head more than I’d like to admit.

  And that’s why, at five AM, I push the bike out into the blowing cold wearing almost every article of clothing I own, and get on the highway heading south.

  It takes me seven fucking hours to get to Denver. There’s no snow or ice, and the sun is out for most of the ride, so that’s a lucky break. But sun hardly matters when it’s twenty-three degrees and you’re on a bike going eighty on the fucking freeway.

  I go because I can’t not go.

  The memories, the questions, the way it all ended.

  You know how there’s some people who drift in and out of your life and you like them and all, but you don’t have a reason to look them up and talk? Or go see them?

  And then there are some people you had a really hard time letting go. But eventually you do let go, and then one day there they are again, and it’s like… it’s like no moments passed at all since the last time you spoke. Like they’ve always just been there, even though they weren’t. They were.

  That’s what kept me awake all night.

  I could’ve just stayed up in Wyoming doing my thing and being me. But it didn’t take much self-reflection to come to the conclusion that I’m doing a whole lot of nothing. Not to mention being me isn’t as much fun as it once was.

  If it ever was.

  Maybe I should be somebody else?

  By the time I walk into Jordan’s swank office in downtown, I’m pissed off that I talked myself into doing this, tired as fuck, and so cold I might never get warm again.

  “What the fuck are you wearing?” Jordan says, eyeing my leathers.

  “What every goddamned biker wears,” I snap. He’s wearing a goddamned suit that looks like it costs as much as that car I left back at Rachel’s sister’s house.

  “You rode your bike down here?”

  “Long. Story.” I close my eyes to signal that I’m not in the mood to tell said story, and he takes the hint. Because he knows me just as well as I know him. “Why the hell am I here?”

  He stares at me. Looks me up and down. A whole scenario flashes in my mind in the time it takes him to reach down to pick something up off his desk, where he says, I found her. Or, She found me. Or, You wanna go to dinner with us? Because we’ve got reservations at the Grant. And he means her and him, as in the whole thing about us that made us an us in the first place.

  But of course, he doesn’t say anything like that. He says, “Here’s the job,” waving a large yellow envelope, handing it to me. “Everything’s in there. Just…” He sighs and pinches the space between his eyes—stupid fucking Jordan gesture—like I’m the one on his last nerve, and not the other way around. “Just do it, OK? And be super fucking discreet. This is all anonymous. You do not show your face. You do not make any sort of contact. It’s strictly surveillance. Got it?”

  I rip the envelope open and take a peek. Two keys, two bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills, which should be twenty thousand dollars, and some paperwork. “Is it legal?” I ask, taking out the stack of papers.

  It’s a dossier—female. Mid-twenties. Dark hair and gray eyes—for one Evangeline Rolaine.

  “Of course it’s legal. Why does everybody always ask me that? I’m a goddamned lawyer, everything I do is legal.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh, reading the woman’s short bio on the top page. “You’re a goddamned lawyer, all right. Why does this name sound familiar?”

  Jordan eyes me, waiting to see if I’ll take that first comment any further, and decides I won’t—and he’s right. Because after the morning I’ve had, I can’t think of a single reason I need to rehash the past too. “She was famous once upon a time.”

  “Child prodigy,” I say slowly, reading her bio at the same time. “Yeah, I remember this chick. She was all over the TV when she was a kid.”

  “Right. And then she wasn’t. It’s your job to watch her. That’s it. Just watch her. You got it?”

  “Watch her do what?” I ask, flipping through the pictures.

  “Just… everything. Nothing specific.”

  “Why am I watching her? Someone after her or something?”

  “You don’t need to know why. You just need to take that money, buy the fucking equipment, go to that address, put up the fucking cameras, and then when she gets there, you watch her.”

  “Where’s the home base?” I ask, looking at the blueprint of the house, trying to wrap my head around why he’s asking me to do this shit.

  “In the basement. There’s a lock on the door and a separate entrance that leads to a gate. You do not ride that fucking bike to this job, you got me? She’ll hear you and the whole fucking point of this is that she never hears you. OK?”

  “So I’m spying on her and she doesn’t know it?” My laugh is loud. Because… “That’s some creepy shit, dude.”

  Jordan sucks in a breath of air. It’s cautious, that inhale. It’s long too. And it’s filled with all the things that we left unsaid between us after college. “She knows,” Jordan finally says. Carefully. Like he’s picking his way through a minefield. “Just… just fucking do what I tell you. You’ve got a week to get set up and then a few weeks of surveillance, tops. Then I’ll pay you.”

  “I don’t need the money, asshole. You know that’s not why I’m here.”

  I hear the unasked question. He hears it too. Then why are you here?

  But he knows why.

  “I’ll pay you anyway,” Jordan says, ignoring what wasn’t said. And then his tone softens. “You just need to slow down, man. I mean it. You can’t live like this much longer. It’s gonna catch up with you.”

  “I don’t have a car,” I say, changing the subject back to business as I stuff the paperwork back into the envelope. “Hence the fucking leathers and the winter ride.”

  He looks at me. Not the way he has been, or the way he used to, but something different. “Why are you such a fuckup?” he finally says. But that’s not the question he’s asking. What he’s really asking is, What happened to you?

  I shrug. “Just natural talent, I guess.”

  He goes to his desk drawer, finds a set of keys, and throws them to me. I catch them one-handed. “Take mine. Leave your bike here. I’ll ride it home and keep it for you.”

  “Home, huh?” I ask, looking down at the handwriting on the front of the envelope. “Where’s home these days?”

 
“Same place.”

  I look up at him. “Really?”

  He nods, then shrugs. “I like it there, what can I say?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I used to like it there too.”

  His eyes lock with mine. “I’m sorry, OK?”

  I shrug. “This car might make up for it,” I say, tossing the keys of his BMW up and down in my palm.

  “Don’t crash my fucking car,” he starts.

  “Crash?” I snort, cutting him off, playing down the moment where we said absolutely nothing and everything all at the same time. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but the feelings in this room make me want to get the fuck out and stay the fuck put at the same time. “I’m not gonna crash shit. Where is it?”

  “Over in the 16th and Lawrence parking garage. Level one. Space sixteen. Just click the alarm and you’ll find it.”

  I have a million things to say before I leave and none of them sound right.

  So I say nothing.

  He sighs. Heavily. “Look, man, I know—”

  But I cut him off. “Don’t get weird on me, asshole. I’ll do the job. I’ll even take your stupid money. But then you owe me again, got it?”

  He puts his hands up. Surrendering to my terms. “Fine. I owe you. Again.”

  We hold each other’s gaze for longer than we should. It’s a knowing gaze. Filled with ugly things in a shared past. And regrets. And all the things we should’ve said and never did.

  I turn away first, heading for the door.

  And we won’t say them now, either. I’m gonna make sure of it.

  “Hey, Ix,” Jordan calls after me.

  “What?” I say, my hand on the door handle, staring down at it, refusing to look back. Ready to get the fuck out of here.

  “It’s nice to see you again. Thanks for coming.”

  I swallow, then nod. “Yeah. No problem.”

  After I grab the car I head over to the electronics warehouse and buy the equipment, spending all of Jordan’s money. The house I’m supposed to rig up is huge. Proper fucking mansion is what it is. Cheeseman Park Historic District, which is pretty swank. Seven bedrooms, two media rooms, two offices, three living rooms, two kitchens, a game room, a library, and a ballroom that is now a formal living area, according to the blueprints.