Page 9 of Total Exposure

Motherfucker.

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.