Jordan's Shadow

by T. R. Cupak

  A few weeks after the trip, an international colleague, Arthur Wellington, came to Austin to meet with my dad. The two men sat talking business in my father’s secondary office next to mine out in the wine processing facility. His main office, which is the more elaborate of the two, is on the second floor of the tasting room. The weekends are busy as fuck with drunken winos, so with the anticipation that the wine making staff, including myself, would be gone for the weekend, my father thought he would have more privacy in the office that adjoins mine. Little did he know there were another set of ears close by.

  Because crush was beginning the next day, I came in on a Sunday, going straight to my office to finish up some last-minute paperwork. In case you don’t know, crush is a winemaking process that introduces the pulp of the berry to the skins through a machine. It’s important to start crush when the grapes are right, otherwise you produce shit wine. We were starting crush earlier since the weather had been much warmer than the previous years and the fruit was ready to be picked and processed sooner than we anticipated. All I wanted to do was get in and get out undetected. I had plans with the guys and I didn’t want to get caught up in business talk, so I sat quietly going through my papers. I ignored the conversation happening next door, that is until I heard my father say something about how he couldn’t get some girl’s pussy out of his head. I thought for sure I heard him incorrectly since my dad, my mom’s husband, has always been a stellar community benefactor, and a faithful, caring man. Let’s not forget the fact that my father is heavyset and didn’t have the swagger a woman looks for in a man she wants to have sex with, that is except for my saint of a mother. That’s when the thought hits me that maybe she was a hooker that he paid for. That glimmer of hope that she was in fact a hooker would have been better than what really happened. Maybe then I could have forgiven his infidelity.

  I sat quietly listening to all the details of how these men did multiple lines of cocaine and how a man named Armen jacked off on numerous occasions to his “hot piece of ass” step-daughter. My father recalled the memory of the young girl returning to the house and each man agreeing that they all wanted the chance to fuck her until she couldn’t walk.

  At this point I really wanted to stop listening, but I was like one of those people who couldn’t turn away from a horrific car crash, so I continued to listen to the sordid events that occurred. They tied an innocent girl to her bed, each man taking their turn to do whatever they wanted, however they wanted, and getting off on the idea she was struggling to get free.

  What sounded like a high five echoed into the open hallway. It took everything I had to not to barge in on these fowl humans who were now gloating about rape.

  Arthur, the Aussie prick, went on to say he was getting hard just remembering how stimulating it was to double penetrate the girl even though his New York counterpart, Christian, was the lucky bastard that got to claim the girl’s ass. These vile sons of bitches even went back the next day but the girl had the brains to disappear.

  Who are these fuckers? Better yet, who the fuck is my father right now? That was all I could handle. I didn’t want to hear anymore. I left as quickly as I came in. That day destroyed my relationship with the man I thought was my dad. There was no hiding the hatred or disgust I felt towards him. I wanted the bastard to pay for what he did to the nameless girl and for what he had done behind my mother’s back.

  A few months after hearing the conversation that changed my life, my father cornered me in my office, asking why I was so hostile towards him. It got to the point to where we couldn’t be in the same room without a yelling match. So, I finally confronted the man I now hated. The revulsion I felt every time he would hug or kiss my unsuspecting mom made my skin crawl.

  Henry Knight was evil and the argument that followed my accusation was beyond boiling. I have never wanted to hit Henry, but I sure as fuck wanted to in that moment. In his pissed off frustration, the name of the victim flew from his mouth like it was poison. Lezleigh Fillmore. That was all I needed to right his wrong. Henry begged for my forgiveness. He even begged for my silence, but within seconds of his pleas he clutched his chest, an undeniable sign his heart was failing thanks to the unhealthy state he currently was in. The bastard died of a heart attack arguing with me. I could have called the paramedics. They probably would have made it in time to save his life, but I stood over his body watching the pain rake through him, enjoying every minute he begged for help as I’m sure Lezleigh begged for help too. Something dark and disturbing awoke inside of me while I relished in watching the life leave my wretched father’s body. As he struggled to breathe out his last plea for help, I kneeled down close to his ear telling him that he’s getting off way too easy and the other three men will pay for what they did to Lezleigh. Karma’s a bitch and I’m going to help her get her vengeance on the last three standing. Those fuckers won’t be so lucky to die of natural causes.

  Having a name allowed me to find Lezleigh Fillmore easier than if she were still a nameless victim. It had been almost a year since her attack and after inheriting the family business with Henry’s untimely, but very much welcomed death, I had more money than I knew what to do with, so I hired a private investigator to find her. I hoped to find a strong woman who didn’t let what had happened to her, break her. That’s not the girl I found. The longer I sat at the corner table in the small coffee shop with my baseball cap pulled down just far enough to hide my eyes, I struggled with whether or not to tell her who I was and how sorry I was for what she had been put through. But I could see the ghosts that haunted her clear as the blue sky in sunny Southern California and I didn’t want to be the one who gave her a mental breakdown where she worked. She was quiet, kept to herself other than the occasional “Here’s your drink” and “Have a nice day”. Approaching her here would be bad.

  Lezleigh Fillmore legally changed her name to Jordan Smith right after her eighteenth birthday, which was a good idea. I’m sure she was either hiding from her step-father or trying to forget who she was in any way she possibly could. Trying to do something like changing your name while still a minor, would have triggered her whereabouts.

  She’s a smart one.

  I visited the coffee shop every time I came to California even though it was hours out of the way from where my meetings took place. I was drawn to the broken girl, which meant I had to see her as often as my schedule would permit. Jordan consumed my every thought. I was able to fulfill my addiction to her for a few months; that is until one day when I arrived at the coffee shop and she wasn’t there. I made nice with the cashier while she unabashedly ogled me, and bluntly offered to “take care of me” in the restroom if I was game. This particular young lady wasn’t why I was here. I wanted Jordan. I politely declined her offer, and then asked where the usual barista was. The cashier’s demeanor changed with my question. She rolled her eyes and knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with me, but even in her reluctance she informed me that Jordan quit two weeks prior without notice or forwarding information.

  Panic set in quickly. I had to find her. My vow to right my father’s wrong was not going to be broken by this minor setback. I had no real plan for this detour. As selfish as this may sound, the only thing I needed was Jordan in order to heal my own conscience, so I called my private investigator to help find her, again. Thankfully she didn’t move far from her previous apartment, but that’s not what threw me. When the private investigator told me what her new occupation was, I was floored. No, it completely derailed me. How the fuck does someone who was brutally raped, closed off from the world, and scared of her own shadow, become a fucking escort?

  “Drugs, man,” the private investigator said, as if he were reading my mind.

  Now that I own three prosperous wineries, plus two vineyards in Texas, and my newly acquired winery in California, I knew I couldn’t watch after Jordan alone, so I asked Monte to move to Studio City, California. He would live close enough to keep eyes on my obsession. He made sure she was safe a
nd sent me daily updates when I couldn’t be there in person.

  Three and half years ago I finally found my balls. I messaged her from a fake email account, hiring her, only to talk to her. There was one problem, I didn’t want her to see me. My build may be nothing like Henry’s, but I do have his blue eyes, nose, and golden-brown hair. The subconscious mind is a tricky thing and I didn’t want to leave chance to anything when it came to Jordan. I hired a speech coach to hide my Texan drawl and provided Jordan with a blindfold. Monte gave her a bullshit reason for secrecy so she wouldn’t freak the fuck out about being blindfolded. Oddly, this intrigued her enough to play along.

  That evening was spent talking and eating dinner with the girl I knew so much about and clearly not enough. It was never enough when it came to Jordan. She fascinated me. The second meeting was the first one I sent Monte with a dress and designer shoes I bought for her to wear during our date. I knew she came from money, but currently had very little now. I wanted to give her things she would have had if she didn’t leave her old life. Slowly I was beginning to feel better about how we were connected.

  By the third meeting I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to touch her, but I needed her to tell me she wanted me to. I wasn’t going to do anything this girl didn’t ask for. Apparently, she was feeling the same as I did. She wanted me just as much as I wanted her, at least that’s what I told myself.

  “Sir, although I enjoy our conversations and the incredible food, but I need to know, is there something wrong with me? I mean, you know, why you haven’t touched me yet?” The question stumbled out of her mouth. I could sense the hesitance in her tone. Jordan was afraid to ask me the question. I never wanted Jordan to be afraid of me, ever.

  “Miss Smith, you are beautiful, intelligent, and funny, but I want you to want this. I may be paying for your services but that doesn’t allow me the right to do as I please,” I answer honestly.

  Jordan’s harmonious laugh catches me off guard. It wasn’t a nervous laugh which put me at ease. I made a mental note that her laugh was a sound I wanted to hear more often.

  “How do you know I’m beautiful? I could look like Sloth from the movie “The Goonies” under this this blindfold.” Her quick wit has her challenging my comment of her being beautiful.

  “I highly doubt that,” I say with a smile on my face, hoping she can hear the smile since she is restricted from seeing it.

  I knew what she looked like. I’ve stalked her for years. I knew her past still haunted her and the darkness that my father unleashed within me desperately wanted to help Jordan get past her demons. I wanted her to get her sweet revenge. “Dexter” was a show I watched religiously and believed in what he stood for; what he did to manage the darkness within himself. After watching my father die and loving every second, even if it wasn’t by my own two hands, I imagined it was. I envisioned it was my very own hands strangling the life out of him. I needed to share in Jordan’s revenge. I wanted her to make each man who was still alive, feel the pain and horror she felt that night. I wanted her to savor every ounce of pain she inflicted upon them.

  Eye for an eye.

  And if all of that wasn’t enough to show you how fucked up I am; I hacked her email account to control who contacts her. I delete any prospects that wanted to have sex with her. Jordan’s only other clients that I allow her to sleep with are my two best friends who happen to be married. What’s really twisted is that I actually like their wives, and they love their wives; that’s why I knew I could trust that they wouldn’t fall for her. They don’t know who she is to me and have never asked why I pay for her time, so I don’t give them any information about her. Jordan is mine. She is my precious.

  The time has come to finally start putting some part of a plan into motion. I contacted my trusty private investigator to hunt down two of the three remaining men that raped Jordan. The Australian was someone I had to keep doing business with since he was tied to my father’s winery. Thank fuck I only had to see him in person a handful of times; each time it took everything bit of control not to go Joe Pesci on his ass, stabbing him in the neck repeatedly with the pen I death gripped during our meetings. Her bastard of a step-father, Armen, was easy to find since he still lived in the House of Horror. Christian was a little more difficult to locate at first. The man couldn’t stay put; that is until he finally settled down with his new bride in upstate New York. I’ve been keeping tabs on all of them ever since.

  Tonight, my intentions are to reveal my true identity. Tonight, I want Jordan to know she’s not alone anymore, that she has one true friend, even though she’s so much more than that; she’s my precious. Tonight, I hope she can find it in her heart to trust me once I confess the truth about who I am. Tonight, I hope she doesn’t hate me.

  Chapter Three

  Jordan

  I have been anxiously pacing back and forth in my tiny apartment ever since Monte dropped me off. Currently, I have an abundance of Xanax, Valium, and OxyContin, mixed with a few martinis flowing through my blood stream. I wanted to calm my crazy ass down. Fuck—anyone else would be in a self-induced coma with all of that shit coursing through their system, but not me. Sadly, it takes a hell of a lot more than my current “cocktail” to take this girl down.

  My mind is a scrambled mess of confusion; it keeps returning back to trying to figure out how he knows his secret name I made up for him. Why does he want to come to my shitty ass apartment? The bigger question is why does he still want me? He can afford someone prettier, stable, and undamaged. Fuck, he probably doesn’t need anyone at all. Like I said before, The Shadow is most likely married with the picture-perfect wife and family, that’s why I’m blindfolded. He’s known. A public figure of sorts. I’m just a fucked in the head escort with a dark past that rears its ugly head at the most inopportune time.

  I have contemplated leaving for the night, staying at a nearby motel. I’m too afraid of what he has to say. I know I shouldn’t be this freaked out considering I’m only his whore and the fact that Monte handed me my special blindfold with the request that his boss wants me to only be wearing my blindfold and nothing else. Fucking hell, all I am doing at this point is driving myself insane with one crazy thought after another.

  Suck it up, J. You can do this. You can strip down naked, baring all for his viewing pleasure, place the blindfold over your eyes, and sit on your used, two-person couch, all for the man you don’t want to lose.

  After my brief internal pep-talk, for a fleeting moment, I had finally convinced myself he still wants me. He wouldn’t come here if he didn’t want me, would he? Yes, he would come here if he didn’t want me. He probably thinks I’m crazy as fuck, which, if I’m being honest with myself, isn’t too far from the truth. That’s exactly what it is. The man who owns me in every possible way doesn’t want me anymore. I’m being tossed to the curb like unwanted garbage.

  “Fuck!” I yell out frustrated with my erratic thoughts. My mind is all over the place. I walk back into my bathroom, swinging open the medicine cabinet, and debate which pills I will ingest next. I need to calm the fuck down and it’s pretty fucking obvious that what I’ve already taken hasn’t helped me one bit.

  I glance at the clock to see that he will be here in an hour. I have an hour to get my shit together or take off. Decision made. I am one-hundred percent coward. I slam the cabinet shut, go to my bedroom closet, grab my duffle bag and begin shoving clothes along with my clutch that still contains the medication from last night, into the bag. I turn to my weathered dresser, throwing underwear, bras, and god only knows whatever random shit I happened to fit into the same bag. I quickly zip the duffle and sling it over my shoulder. I slide my feet into flip flops, stalk towards the front door, grabbing the keys off of the breakfast bar, and swing open the door running smack into Monte’s concrete frame. The force pushes me back into my apartment, nearly causing me to fall on my ass.

  “Miss Smith, I had a feeling you would try to run. It is in your best interest that you go back
inside, have another drink, maybe with a Valium, and prepare yourself as Boss requested. Once you’re ready then set that ass of yours on that pathetic excuse of a couch and wait as you were instructed.” Monte’s stern request has me retreating slowly, dropping my duffle bag to the floor in defeat.

  “Monte, I’m scared,” I admit out loud.

  “Scared of what? He won’t hurt you, Jordan. You should know that by now.”

  I’m a little thrown that Monte is calling me by my first name when he usually addresses me as Miss Smith. Actually, he did it earlier today too. Is he trying to help calm me or show me that I can trust him? All I know is that it’s not something I’m used to. Since I really don’t know how to respond I just go with the first thing that pops into my feeble mind, “I’m not afraid he will hurt me physically, I’m afraid he has the power to hurt me emotionally,” I whisper out my pathetic confession.

  I stand in my living room, frozen. Monte bends down to pick up my discarded bag, and walks back to my bedroom, dropping the duffle onto the bed. I hear his footsteps coming back towards me. Monte goes to the kitchen, grabs the vodka from the freezer, and proceeds to make me another martini, extra dirty, just how I like it.

  “Here,” he says handing me what looks like another Valium along with the cocktail he just made. I take both from Monte’s beefy hands, popping the pill into my mouth, and then guzzle down the martini like it was a shot.