Exposing Alix (15 page)

“After me, yes.”

“How many other siblings do you have?”

“Four.”

She thought about the pictures in the bedroom, and the homemade
quilt on the bed. “You must be very close.”

He gave a snort. “Right.”

Alix stared out the windshield, acutely aware of the
tension emanating from the large, male body beside her. They merged onto the
freeway, and she tried not to flinch, because suddenly they were surrounded by
traffic, cars and trucks coming from all sides at astonishing rates of speed.
The low-slung Mercedes seemed only a few inches from the ground, and each time
a giant SUV roared past, she closed her eyes.

“Don’t trust my driving?”

Alix tried to force her fingers from clawing the door
handle. “I’m a New Yorker turned Oregonian—the worst possible
combination. I don’t trust anyone’s driving.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror and executed a lane
change with the precision of an Indy 500 driver. “I thought New Yorkers had no
fear.”

“Just the crazy ones who actually learn how to drive.
Folks like me take the subway and let the cabbies do the driving.”

“You don’t know how to drive?” For the first time since
they’d gotten in the car, the hint of a smile curved around his mouth. “How are
you getting to and from your hotel?”

Alix scowled. “I can drive. I hate it, but I can drive.”

The smile widened. “Are you one of those people who goes
twenty miles under the speed limit and slows down for green lights just in case
they might change?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me about New York,” he said. “We’ve been working
together for almost two weeks, and I don’t know any more about you now than I
did when we met. Where did you grow up?”

“The Bronx. Brownsville. Harlem. I moved around a lot.”

“Your parents didn’t want to settle down?”

“My mother left me at the hospital where I was born. I
bounced around foster homes, mostly.”

“Oh.” He appeared to contemplate the information, shooting
quick glances at her as he continued to weave around the traffic. “That sounds
tough. I grew up in South Central, but at least it was all in one spot.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “There’s good and bad to
moving around. The good thing is, when things get really bad, you know they won’t
last forever.”

“That’s one way to look at it. So how did you end up
getting into photography? And don’t try to duck the question.” He gave her a
preemptory glare. “This time, I’m not giving up until I hear the answer.”

Alix laid her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
She wasn’t used to talking about herself, and the words seemed to stick in her
throat. She imagined the first camera she’d ever held, a gorgeous old Nikon
that weighed enough to leave a bruise around her neck when she wore it too long,
and let the memory propel her speech.

“We had a young, do-good teacher at my high school who got
a grant to run an elective art and media class and handpicked a few kids to
participate. I think she was probably related to someone in the business, because
she got some famous photographers and directors to donate their time. I had
pretty good grades and had taken a few art classes, so they put me in. Elias
did a section on photography, and Gunther did one on film.”

“I thought Gunther lived in LA—what was he doing in
New York?”

“He started in New York with theater and artsy stuff. He
didn’t move to LA and get into the movies until I went to college. I lived with
him for a few weeks before I moved into my own apartment my senior year.”

She didn’t mention that she’d moved in with Gunther after
she’d lost the baby, or that he’d helped her pay for that first apartment. Or
that she was grateful, every day of her life, for that do-good teacher.

A car cut in front of them. Without missing a beat, Ryker
slammed on the brakes, swerved, and narrowly missed a collision. Alix winced
and sank deeper into her seat. Subways might have their own problems, but at
least you didn’t have to worry about being turned into an accordion by some
three-ton SUV.

“So you took a class in high school—what happened
after that?” he asked.

“They decided I had some potential. Elias gave me a camera
and told me to pick out subjects I found interesting. There was a church across
the street from my house, and I had a habit of sneaking in and watching when
they had weddings. The priest started to recognize me. When he asked me what I
was doing there, I offered to take pictures at the ceremonies, if they’d let me
sit in the church. I did a few couples, and they liked my work. It snowballed
after that.”

“You photographed weddings. For Elias Laboznikov.” He
shook his head in amazement.

“You say that as if there’s something wrong with wedding
pictures. I photographed people who happened to be at a wedding. They were
incredible subjects. There aren’t many times in people’s lives when their
emotions are so close to the surface.”

“How about funerals? Did you sneak into those too?”

Alix snorted. “When you grow up the way I did, you don’t
need to search out misery. Joy and love, on the other hand, are a little harder
to find.”

“I suppose. And the sex? When did that come in?”

She paused, trying to decide how to answer the question.
Over the years, she’d found people fell into two general camps when it came to
hearing about her work. The first group, which was by far the largest, really
just wanted to hear about the movies. They didn’t care about the philosophy
behind them. The second group was interested in the philosophy but didn’t
necessarily appreciate the work itself.

Ryker reached over and patted her leg. “You’re doing very
well,” he said. “Just keep talking. It isn’t so hard now, is it?”

Alix blushed, the warmth of his hand on her leg making it
difficult to speak. Somehow, she had the feeling Ryker didn’t fall into either
camp. He seemed more interested in
her
than the photos or the movies.
That was something entirely new.

“By the time I graduated from high school, I had made a
little business for myself. I got a scholarship to college and paid for living
expenses by photographing weddings. And then I had this idea that people might
pay me to go on part of their honeymoon with them. I mentioned it to Gunther.
He talked to some actors who loved the idea. It was a pretty good gig—I’d
take pictures of them on location somewhere, and then I’d leak the pictures to
the press over a couple of weeks while they went elsewhere. It gave them some
privacy, and I got to travel and take pictures. One of the couples asked me to
film them having sex. They were a particularly uninhibited pair and yet truly
loved each other. I said yes and was completely fascinated with what I saw.”

“Fascinated. That’s a good word,” Ryker said dryly.

She tamped down the flare of defensive anger. “We’re never
allowed to watch people having sex because it’s the most intimate act two
people can share. Yet it’s that very intimacy that makes it beautiful. I’ve
found no better way to get at such pure, raw emotion than photographing couples
making love. When filmed right, sex can be one of the most beautiful things in
the world.”

“You’ll forgive me, but
Candy Fever
wasn’t just a
love story.”

“Of course it wasn’t. My movies and my photographs are
different. Gunther suggested I try directing after I got my MFA. He knew my
heart was in photography, but he also knew I had crushing student loans and no
way of paying them back.”

“So the sex films really
were
about the money.”

“They were R-rated movies,” she said. “I’d hardly call
them sex films.”

“But you know that’s why people went to see them.” For
once, the familiar criticism seemed motivated by a sense of curiosity. Slowly,
her increasing defensiveness started to fade.

“Men like to watch. Women want to believe in love. I tried
to give them both what they wanted.”

“And based on the numbers, you succeeded.”

She inclined her head in agreement. “I made enough money
to pay back some debts. That’s all I wanted.”

“When did you become Alix Z?”

“I started calling myself Alix when I went to college.
‘Alix Z’ happened when I moved to LA to make movies with Gunther.”

“But you’re Daisy when you’re home in Oregon?”

She sighed. “I’m Daisy when I don’t want to answer
questions about Alix Z. Speaking of which, can we change the subject? And don’t
we need to get a bottle of wine?”

He slapped his forehead. “Thank goodness you’re here. I
think you just saved me from certain death at the hands of my sister. There’s a
liquor store a few blocks from her house. We’ll stop on the way.”

Ryker slipped in a CD and Norah Jones’s smooth, silky
voice filled the space around them. They talked about nothing for a while—movies
they liked and directors they didn’t, and then drove in a silence that now felt
companionable, not strained. Alix relaxed enough to loosen her hold on the door
and stop flinching every time they changed lanes.

As they exited the freeway, it was as if the quiet Malibu beach
had never existed. The roads were packed with cars, windows down, music
blaring. The signs and billboards were in Spanish, the trees few and far
between. Without the ocean breeze, the air was hot and still.

“So, does your whole family live in Boyle Heights?” asked
Alix.

“Just about. My stepfather Emilio didn’t want to stay in
our old house after my mother passed away. He moved the family about a year
after she died. Rosalia was fifteen, and she basically took over running the
place. She married when she was twenty and has two little kids now, but she
stayed close enough to my father and the other kids to keep an eye on them.
Eduardo has an apartment with some buddies a couple miles away. Maria and
Hector still live with Emilio.”

He sounded clinical, as though he were describing someone
else’s family. The sound of his voice sent a chill over Alix. “Do you miss it?
You’re pretty far from the family.”

“I was always pretty far from the family.” He rubbed his
face and brushed back a few strands of hair. He did not look at her as he
spoke. They stopped at a streetlight, and the car vibrated quietly underneath
them.

The space felt charged again. “How old were you when your
mother married Emilio?”

“I was ten. Rosalia was born when I was eleven.”

“So you must have something in common.” Alix groped for
something helpful to say. “You grew up in the same neighborhood, didn’t you?
And went to the same schools?”

“My mother sent me to private schools and refused to teach
me Spanish. Contrary to what the tabloids may report, she was the one who
called me Ryker.”

“Wait a minute,” Alix said, confused. “I thought your real
name was Ricardo.”

“It is.” He gave a chilly smile. “My grandfather died
right before I was born, and my mother felt obligated to name me after him. But
the last thing she wanted was for me to sound like all the other Mexican kids
in South Central. So she called me Ryker. If she could have turned my skin
white, she would have.”

“Why does everyone think you changed your name when you
started making movies?”

“When she met Emilio, everything changed. They were all
about Latin pride and respecting your heritage, and suddenly, I was Ricardo
again. Of course, by then, I wasn’t interested in re-assimilating.” He drummed
his fingers on the gearshift impatiently until the light changed. “As soon as I
moved out, I went back to calling myself Ryker. It just happened that at the
same time, I started getting work in Hollywood.”

Alix felt like a window into the darkness that surrounded
Ryker had suddenly been opened. “But surely you—”

“I don’t fit in,” he said flatly. “I haven’t for a long
time. I’m not Mexican enough or Catholic enough. Emilio thinks I’m debauched,
and Rosalia thinks I’ve deserted the family. You’re walking into a time bomb,
Alix. I probably shouldn’t have brought you, but I did, and you deserve to
know. Don’t expect any huggy-kissy family nonsense. They’re decent folks, I
suppose, but they don’t understand my life, and I don’t understand theirs. We
go, we suffer in silence, and then we leave. That’s how it is.”

#

Ryker pulled into the driveway of a small craftsman-style
house framed by a wide front porch with just a hint of a sag in the middle and
a tiny scrap of mostly dead grass. Alix took a deep breath, screwed up her
courage, and dropped her heavy glasses into her purse. Then, trying to avoid
Ryker’s stare, she slipped on a layer of lip gloss, pulled her hair from its
heavy ponytail and brushed it out, long and thick around her shoulders.

He stared at her, shaking his head. “I never know what
you’ll do next, do you know that?”

She ignored him. After a long pause, he walked around the
car, opened her door, and extended his hand. Alix forced a pleasant, empty
expression on her face. He put his hand at her elbow, gently guiding her toward
the front door. The skirt hung just below her waist, and Alix straightened it
as she walked and then adjusted the tank top that threatened to spill off one
shoulder.

The front yard was littered with baby gear: a stroller,
brightly colored ride-on car, plastic balls, and a variety of action figures.
As Ryker and Alix walked up the driveway, a tiny boy of four or five with a mop
of jet-black hair and a determined look in his eyes sped past them.

“Hola, Tío Ricardo!” he called, never quite making eye
contact as he rounded the corner of the yard and spun on one foot, keeping his
gaze pinned on the front door.

“English please, Emilio!” called a young woman as she
walked onto the porch, rubbing a bowl with a striped dishtowel. She had long,
dark hair held back from her forehead by a white headband. A white apron
covered a navy shirtwaist dress with white piping around the collar and cuffs.
She looked for all the world like a Latina Donna Reed.