Page 8 of Total Exposure

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 this 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.