Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “You may be safe, but Alson—”

  Yawning, I stood up and carried my bowl through the living room and into the kitchen. Placing it into the right basin of my double-sink, I reminded her, “You know that kid has, like, five million fans, right? You’d have the world’s teen population after you. And teenage girls are ruthless.”

  “Nothing they could do would be worse than seeing that kid every day!” When she stopped laughing, there was a pause and I could hear the sound of keys being tapped rapidly on a keyboard. She mumbled something to herself before saying, “Okay, I’ve really gotta go now. What time does your plane get in?”

  “One sec,” I grabbed the print copy of the e-mail confirmation with my flight’s itinerary. “It says . . . two-fifteen. I’m assuming that’s Mountain Time.”

  “All right, see you tomorrow!”

  “Can’t wait!” I laughed. “Good luck with the revisions. You’ll do great.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  As I hung up, I folded the printout before shoving it in my purse so I wouldn’t forget it the next morning. I texted Jon to remind him we had to be at Logan by no later than eight since the flight was for nine-thirty. Less than two minutes later, I received a text from Jon reminding me that he wasn’t a moron, that he would be there in plenty of time, and to get off his back. This is going to be a fun trip, I thought dryly, picturing Jon with his attitude larger than the New York skyline as being the worst travel companion imaginable.

  Jon Riché, albeit a great friend and business associate, has a flair for the dramatic. And that was putting it mildly. This trait fit his acting career perfectly; it didn’t however, lend itself to his day job and I often found myself soothing his ego or taming the occasional outburst. I wisely decided against inciting a text riot and instead hooked my phone to its charger before taking a hot shower and putting on my pink-flannel pajamas.

  Peeking through my living room blinds, I was pleased to see a clear-night sky free of the snow predicted by the weatherman. Having moved up north from southeastern Louisiana about seven years earlier, I still love snow and enjoy watching it fall. I still find snowflakes magical and enjoy seeing the world covered in a white, fluffy blanket. When Jon and I first met, he assumed my enthusiasm was a residual of spending eighteen years in a hot, humid climate. Two years into our friendship, I still get excited when it snows and he now attributes it to pure insanity. My enthusiasm over that evening’s lack of snow was because I was concerned if it snowed, our flight could be delayed and we would miss our connecting flight in Phoenix.

  The heater clicked on, blasting me with dry, hot air as I made my way over to the couch. I realized that the television was still on and muted from before my conversation with Heather. Ironically, I found myself watching a very young Roch Turner in an action movie. According to the guide, I was watching a 1970s Cold War thriller called Red Steel starring Roch and some actress named Nikole Leigh. The plot was as clichéd as the costumes were dated—Nikole Leigh was a Soviet agent hired to assassinate an American super spy played by Roch. Before killing him, she falls in love with his good looks and charm. Deciding to forgo patriotism in the name of love, she helps Roch escape and eventually break into the Kremlin.

  I groaned at the dialogue and campy music while laughing at the ultra-cheesy romantic scenes. As I watched Roch Turner, it became all too clear this man did not achieve stardom based solely on natural talent. Instead, it appeared his early success was due to the wavy-brown hair, puppy-dog eyes, and rock-hard abs he flashed so much you could make a drinking game out of it.

  Nikole Leigh, on the other hand, was clearly talented despite the rotten script. With silky-blonde hair, large green eyes, and a nineteen-inch waist, she was just as attractive as her co-star, if not more. The main difference between the two was her capability to act. She had the mysterious ability to transform terrible dialogue into something almost lyrical.

  Along with looks and talent, she possessed a third quality that can neither be bought nor taught—presence. Something about Nikole Leigh was intriguing and my inability to put my finger on it led me to want to learn more about her. I reached across the couch and grabbed my laptop. Quickly searching her name, I was shocked to discover she died a year after Red Steel was made from complications associated with the delivery of her daughter. Her list of credits included several guest spots on television shows and two other movies. Red Steel was, unfortunately, the eighteen-year-old’s first, and last, starring role.

  According to a movie database, she was born and raised in Long Island, New York, where she began a modeling career at fifteen and subsequently moved with her mother to Los Angeles in the hopes of developing a successful acting career. The Internet may have offered scant facts about Nikole Leigh, but there was a plethora of photographs available. From black and white to color, Nikole Leigh’s presence was just as visible in photographs as it was on film. As I scrolled through a litany of modeling shots, her eyes suggested a tempest was buried beneath a surface masked by playful innocence.

  “Don’t let your tears flow,” she insisted passionately from the screen. I glanced up and saw Roch and Nikole embracing while the KGB closed in on them. Slowly, a crescendo of brass arose as Roch and Nikole fought gallantly to their deaths. The credits began and I glanced at the clock. It was ten.

  “What garbage,” I laughed aloud, grinning at the thought of meeting Roch Turner the next afternoon. I turned off the television and stretched. Yawning, I walked into my bedroom. After doing one more double-check, I was satisfied I had not forgotten anything. I got ready for bed before climbing beneath my heavy, down comforter and closing my eyes. Sighing contentedly, I thought with excitement about seeing Heather for the first time in six months, skiing in the Rockies, and watching a hit sitcom being filmed. This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever, I thought happily, pushing images of Rick from my mind.

  As I succumbed to the tranquility of slumber, eagerly awaiting a much-needed vacation, I had no idea of the depth and complexity of the situation in which I would soon be enmeshed. I had no idea of the sheer magnitude of the vendetta in which I would find myself, a senseless dispute which began years before my own birth. If I had, I would have ripped my flight itinerary up into a million tiny pieces and stayed in the warm haven of my bed.

  6

  The persistent buzz of my alarm clock ushered in the arrival of a new day. As is common the night before a trip, I had a restless evening marked by time spent staring at my white-bladed ceiling fan. Groaning, I threw one of my down-alternative pillows at the alarm clock. My aim was surprisingly accurate. The clock sailed off my wooden nightstand onto the beige carpet with a thud. Unfortunately, my attack failed to quiet the electronic beast and from beneath the pillow, I still heard the alarm continue to chime triumphantly.

  “Dammit,” I groaned, kicking my covers off and sitting up. I retrieved the pillow and was greeted by the alarm’s crescendo as it loudly proclaimed its freedom from the fluffy, cloth prison. Muttering far worse expletives, I ripped the black cord from the wall and was at once rewarded with silence.

  My victory was short-lived. I realized in horror that in my sleep, I’d hit the snooze button at least four times. I was now twenty minutes behind schedule. I flew around the apartment, somehow managing to get ready in ten minutes. Zipping my parka, I checked to make sure everything was locked and turned off before grabbing my luggage and racing for the door.

  The streets were unusually crowded for a Tuesday morning and I had a difficult time squeezing onto the subway. I found an open spot between a well-dressed businessman screaming into his blue-tooth headpiece and a middle-aged woman muttering angrily about the current price of gasoline. I was very grateful to transfer from the Green Line to the Blue Line at Government Center and discovered this subway was only half-full. Finding a seat open next to a group of tourists, I closed my eyes.

  Someo
ne tapped my arm. I opened my eyes to see a robust man with rosy cheeks, Coke-bottle glasses, and a serious perspiration problem. “This is the stop for Logan, miss. I had a feeling . . . because of your luggage . . . you must be headed for the airport, too.”

  I glanced around the car in confusion. The number of patrons had decreased dramatically with only the group of tourists remaining. I blinked, confused. “This isn’t Aquarium Station?”

  The man buttoned his charcoal-gray wool coat and pulled out the extended handle on his rolling luggage. “No, miss. We passed that a little while ago.”

  I stood up, looking around. Apparently, I’d dozed off between Government Center and Airport Station. I thanked the man before grabbing my bag and rushing off just as the intercom beeped and the automatic doors began closing. After being awkwardly frisked by an uber-zealous airport security guard twenty minutes later, I finally reached the right concourse and began searching for both the gate and my travel companion.

  I found Jon sitting uncomfortably in a chair with a deflated cushion, looking irritated. When we made eye contact, he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He was in one of his moods. It was going to be a very long flight.

  Taking a deep breath, I shifted my purse on my shoulder and approached, smiling. “Good morning!”

  “What’s so good about it?”

  I chose an empty seat in the row across from him. “Well, we’re alive. That’s good.”

  “Setting the bar kinda low, aren’t we?”

  Refusing to allow his sour disposition to ruin my first real vacation in three years, I retaliated, “What do you have to be mad about? We’re going skiing in Colorado. I’d say that’s reason to be cheerful.”

  “Hmph.” His brow furrowed as he glared at the ceiling to floor windows overlooking the tarmac. “Maybe your family’s cool with this, but my dad gave me hell. And a creepy guy at the security checkpoint frisked me. Felt like I got a public colonoscopy. Then someone who resembled Godzilla in drag propositioned me. So,” he scowled at me, “it hasn’t been a great morning.”

  “Ugh, sorry.”

  Jon pretended to be staring at the planes taking off, but I knew otherwise. He did not have an ideal childhood. His mother died of cancer when he was young and his father raised him. He wanted Jon to follow in his footsteps and get a degree in economics and join his company just like Jon’s two older brothers.

  Unfortunately, Jon always seemed to march to the beat of a different drummer. He tried college, but quickly grew bored, opting instead to drop out to pursue his dream. Acting. While it was definitely crazy for someone to give up a free college education and guaranteed job for a pipe dream, as a girl following her own dream, I could understand why he had to give it a shot. I may have understood his passion, but his father didn’t, and took every opportunity to belittle Jon over his life choices.

  I discovered as our friendship deepened that, although Jon always had a quick comeback, beneath his cool exterior was a sensitive guy who desperately longed for the support and approval of his only parent. I attempted to cheer him up by recounting my own misadventures that fall morning, but like Jon said, it’s hard to top a public colonoscopy and early morning proposition. As we sat there, more people approached our gate. I noticed an elderly couple grinning like newlyweds, a family of six singing Christmas carols, a Marine talking to someone on his cell phone, and a middle-aged man fooling with his Michael Kors watch anxiously. Jon continued to brood while I looked around.

  “Great. More snow,” he muttered, groaning so loudly the Marine, who took a seat three chairs away from me, glanced over.

  I followed Jon’s gaze to the giant windows and watched white flakes fall gracefully upon the tarmac. I mirrored his frown, hoping that if we were in for a storm, it would hold off until after we were above the clouds. The pop and crackle of a speaker caught my attention. I turned to see a young, female attendant holding the microphone and standing behind the counter, offering a manic grin. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cropped just below her chin and her green eyes surveyed the crowd with a disturbing interest.

  “Good morning, everybody!” she screamed into the microphone. Although people looked up, no one replied. A comic frown replaced her smile. “Oh, come on, sleepyheads! It’s not that early. I said, good morning, everybody!”

  In an attempt to spare us more torture, the Marine repeated the sentiment politely. Moments later an adorable toddler with curly-black hair and big-brown eyes screamed good morning to the Marine. The attendant clapped her hands, causing the sound to echo into her microphone.

  “Good morning everyone from all of us here at Independence Airlines where you are free to fly comfortably and affordably! Your non-stop flight to Phoenix will begin boarding in ten minutes. I would like to remind all of you that you cannot bring outside food or drink on the plane so hurry up and finish that coffee, mister!” She pointed at an anxious-looking man with a shaved head and red goatee. He frowned. Tilting her head and grinning, she continued, “My name is Ginger and I’ll be one of your flight attendants. We’ll begin boarding first class. From all of us at Independence Airlines, thank you for flying and Happy Thanksgiving!”

  I glanced around. During her speech, about twenty more people showed up, giving us a grand total of fifty-three passengers. Jon, thoroughly bored, occupied his time by scuffing his blue-and-white Nikes across the thin, gray carpet and staring at his cell phone. Outside, the snow continued to fall. With nothing else to do, I reverted to an old game my college roommate Katie and I enjoyed when we were bored, people watching.

  As I stared up and down the concourse, I noticed people heading to different gates and concourses at varying speeds and intervals. A tall, handsome African American man walked past our gate briskly, talking on his cell phone in French. Three brunette teenagers skipped along, arms intertwined, singing a current pop song while laughing hysterically. A short, middle-aged man ambled along, talking with a teenaged boy twice his size I decided was his son. After a little while, I found myself feeling like I was being watched. I turned to see the Marine staring at me with an amused expression.

  “Bored?” he asked in a silky baritone voice. Even though he was seated, I could tell he wasn’t inordinately tall, maybe five-ten at the most, with short black hair that met military regulations and big blue eyes. What he lacked in height he made up for in sheer muscle mass. He was dressed in a military t-shirt with the motto “Semper Fi,” faded blue jeans and tennis shoes. Although he wasn’t really gorgeous, he was definitely attractive.

  “Not really.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “People watching.”

  “People watching?” he repeated, his thin lips curling up into a slight smile.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty interesting. Sometimes.”

  “Are you a psych major?”

  I blinked, surprised. “Well, yeah. How’d you know that?”

  Grinning, he scratched his right eyebrow. “Just call it intuition.”

  “Really?” I raised an eyebrow.

  He laughed and crossed his massive arms. “No, not really. I’m Derek, by the way.”

  “Jordan.”

  “Jordan? You don’t often hear of girls named Jordan. It’s a nice name.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Hoping to steer the conversation away from me, I asked, “So how’d you know my major? Did you study psych?”

  “Me? Oh, no. I’m not that smart. My sister’s a sophomore at Boston College and that’s her major. She psycho-analyzes me every time I’m on leave. Actually, it’s not all that bad. Psychology 101 was the only time she ever told me I was certifiable.” He glanced at Jon, who was still staring at his phone with a frown plastered on his face. “Your brother sure looks happy.”

  I eyed Jon sideways. “He’s not my brother.”

  Derek’s face flushed. “I’m so
rry. I didn’t mean to suggest you and your boyfriend looked alike.”

  “Boyfriend?” I laughed. “One hundred percent no.”

  Derek raised his eyebrows. “Cousin?”

  “Friend,” I laughed. “You don’t have any girlfriends? I mean, you know, friends that are girls?”

  He scratched the back of his thick neck, still flushed. “Well, yeah. I guess I assumed since you two were traveling together—”

  “Right,” I nodded, sneaking a glance at Jon. I knew he was listening to every word.

  “Maybe I should go back to school and take some psychology classes. I suck at people watching.”

  “Four more years of college for observational skills?” I shook my head. “No way. What’s your major?”

  “Biology,” he replied sheepishly. “You’re talking to a card-carrying nerd.”

  “Nice,” I nodded. Running my fingers through my auburn tresses, they naturally found a knot. I yanked them out, hoping he didn’t notice. “Well, Derek, the biology major, why’re you headed to Phoenix?”

  “I’m on leave and took the train up here to meet my sister. And we’re flying home for Thanksgiving.” His eyes lit up. “Are you from Phoenix, too?”

  I knew that my face must have flushed as I sat beside one of America’s heroes and he, clearly a family man, was asking if I was going home, too. I feared his reaction when I admitted I was blowing off my family for the slopes. “Um, no. I’m from New Orleans. I’m going skiing.”

  “So your family goes skiing for the holidays?”

  I heard Jon snicker. Clearing my throat, I replied, “No, I’m . . . going to meet my best friend and we’re going skiing. In Colorado.”