The silence that followed this statement was beyond awkward. I waited, feeling my heart rate increase, while Derek pondered my words. Slowly, a look of compassion crossed his face. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Huh?” I glanced around the concourse, confused.
“You don’t have family?”
“What? No!”
“Oh,” he avoided my gaze as he whispered, “Are you from . . . from a broken home?” The way he said it suggested I might have a terminal illness.
I thought long and hard about how to respond. Clearly, I was talking to a decent, intelligent guy who cared enough about our country to dedicate his life to its service. He was also a man who found great importance in family and pitied those who did not experience the glory of quality time spent with loved ones. The only suitable reasons to not be with family during the holidays, to him, were divorce or death. I could have played the sympathy card, agreeing to his broken home scenario to avoid any further awkwardness during our five-hour flight; however, that pesky little voice known as my conscience refused to let me entertain the thought for long.
“I’m not from a broken home. My parents have been married for thirty years.”
“So,” he furrowed his brow, trying to grasp what I was implying. “If your parents are married, why aren’t you going home for the holidays?”
I explained to him that my best friend couldn’t go home and since I was going home for Christmas, I didn’t think it would matter if I missed one Thanksgiving. The expression on his face mirrored that of a child being told there was no such thing as Santa Claus.
“I see,” he replied, crossing his arms uncomfortably. I felt an instant change in his demeanor. He now wanted nothing to do with me. I followed his gaze and saw a tall, thin girl with curly-black hair, brown eyes and horn-rimmed glasses wearing a green sweater, skinny blue jeans and brown boots motioning towards Derek. In her left hand was a coffee cup and even if I hadn’t spotted the familiar orange and pink logo, I would have known the scent of Dunkin’s delicious blend anywhere. Derek picked up his black backpack off the ground and slung it over his shoulder. Avoiding eye contact, he muttered, “Excuse me.”
As I watched him walk off, the speaker crackled again. Offering a manic giggle, Ginger chirped, “Goodness! We really should get that fixed. Anyway, the time has arrived you’ve all been waiting for! Can I get a drum roll please? No? All right, anyway, it’s time to begin boarding flight 213 non-stop to Phoenix! Hurray! I would like all first class passengers to come stand behind this red line in the carpet right here with your boarding passes in hand and we’ll get this party started!”
As Derek and the hipster girl with good taste in beverages that I assumed was his sister got in line behind several other passengers, Jon walked over to the chair next to mine. “Was that guy Amish? ‘Cause you just got shunned.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Seriously, what was that about?”
I glanced over at Derek. His sister was handing Ginger her ticket and he turned just as I looked. We made eye contact for a second before he turned away. Once again, I managed to drive a nice guy away.
“Nothing.”
Jon opened his mouth to respond, but shut it quickly. He crossed his arms and began staring at his phone again. As his disposition soured, I sighed. Something I had said offended him. Again.
“All right, everybody in zones one through three please step up to the red line with your tickets out,” Ginger sang.
Jon started walking towards Ginger, ignoring me. I followed him to the line which began forming near the gate’s door. Finally, my ticket was scanned and I met Jon on the Jet-Bridge. We stepped through the threshold onto the plane with the pilot and a brunette flight attendant flanking us and simultaneously offering, “Welcome!”
I smiled as we hurried past them, the sound of the plane’s air conditioning blasting noisily. Everyone in first class was already seated comfortably, which included Derek and his sister. I felt my heart rate increase as I attempted to avoid eye contact until we walked past them. All I needed was another uncomfortable shun. The line of passengers in front of us did not know my situation and thanks to a rather large woman trying to shove her gigantic red bag in the overhead compartment, we stopped right next to Derek’s seat. I found myself within inches of him and that in itself somehow embarrassed me. Although I was fairly certain he was avoiding eye contact as well, I sensed his sister was glaring at me. I swallowed hard, praying that the line would begin moving again.
Finally, it did and I rushed to get to my seat, running into Jon’s back when the line halted again a few moments later. He cried out in surprise and looked back at me. “We’re gonna be here for a while. No need to rush.”
We began shuffling along the tiny aisle again and I remained silent as Jon fought to squeeze past an elderly woman with blue hair who was sound asleep and refused to be roused for us to get to our seats including the window seat which Jon called as soon as we stepped aboard the plane. I knew I was in for a long flight when he cursed the woman under his breath and insisted Independence Airlines should remove corpses before take-off. I sighed deeply as soon as I sat down. Removing my thick parka, I placed it on my lap like a blanket and closed my eyes, praying for a quick, peaceful flight.
We finally arrived in Durango, Colorado at two-thirty in the afternoon. I turned on my cell phone and discovered I had four missed calls and voicemails. The first one informed us Heather would be waiting in short term parking on the first level. Jon and I hurried to the luggage carousel and waited for our bags.
Once I retrieved mine and Jon located his, we headed through the automatic glass doors leading to short term parking. Crisp, frosty air accosted us the moment we stepped outside and I took my first breath of mountain air in nearly four years. Although it blended with the nauseating smell of car exhaust, I was still thrilled to be in Colorado again. A car horn honked and we turned towards the sound, searching for Heather’s rental in a sea of automobiles. Another honk drew my attention to several SUVs parked near an idling black limousine. It took me several moments to notice Heather’s face leaning out of the far-back window of the limo.
“No way.”
“Is that your friend in the limo? Sweet.”
The chauffeur exited the vehicle and walked swiftly to the back, opening the door for Heather. She hopped out and rushed over to me. After we hugged, I glanced back at the limousine. “How’d you swing this? I can’t believe I’m being picked up in a limo!”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” She crossed her arms nonchalantly. “All head writers of hit television shows travel by limo.”
“Hey! Getting hungry over here!”
At first, I could have sworn the annoying, disembodied male voice that echoed through the parking garage belonged to my assistant, Jon Riché. I realized quickly by the look on Heather’s face that this was not the voice of my own personal pain, but Heather’s tumultuous, teenaged tribulation. We turned toward the limo and saw a figure emerge from the shadows.
As soon as the light hit his face, I knew in an instant to whom it belonged. Standing mere feet away from me was one of the most publicized and televised actors of the past two years. He was on magazine covers, movie posters, and iTunes. His synthesized, hip-hop remake of the 60s classic, “My Girl,” was on almost every radio station. It was Alson Andrews, teen dream, and I knew instantly that our vacation had already hit a discordant note.
7
I would be lying if I said seeing Alson Andrews in person did not leave me a little star struck. At five-eight, he was shorter than I imagined, but his height deficiency was offset by wavy-brown hair, hazel eyes and full lips. He wore a black-and-white parka, dark blue designer jeans, and bright white tennis shoes. Extensive model training had perfected his pout and he crossed his arms, glaring at Heather. From behind him, I noticed another hea
d pop out of the limo.
“Alson, get in the car,” a large man with a blond goatee and thick neck snapped. “You’re gonna cause another riot. Remember Tokyo?”
Alson did not acknowledge the man, but instead stared at me. His frown morphed into his famous smile as he approached. “I’m Alson.”
“Uh, hi.” I glanced at Heather before accepting his hand. “Jordan.”
“Jordan, huh? I like that. It’s . . . different.”
“Alson’s different too.”
“His name sucks,” Jon muttered, staring out at a row of cars.
“Who’s this guy?” Alson demanded, his eyes filled with anger. “I don’t like him.”
“Believe me,” Jon replied, staring at Alson. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Heather and I stepped between them, trying to calm down our respective divas. I saw the large man climb out of the limo and he rushed to Alson’s side. Jon might have been taller than Alson, bigger than Alson, but Alson had one undeniable advantage, a burly bodyguard.
Heather held up her hands. “Come on, guys! It’s been a long day and the table-read tonight will make it even longer so let’s go. Alson, get in the limo. Now.”
Alson’s age became apparent when he furrowed his brow. “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re just a stupid writer.”
Heather breathed through her nose and her blue eyes flashed. It was a look I had seen many times in our twenty-something years of friendship. “Alson—”
Alson got in Heather’s face, taunting her. “What? What’re you gonna do?”
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “I’ll call your mother.”
He backed up, defensively. He cursed beneath his breath, walking past the bodyguard to the limo door, which the chauffeur still held open. Climbing in, he popped his head out. “Hey, Jordan! Come sit by me.”
Heather groaned as we hurried to the idling vehicle. A family of four walked out with their luggage and stared at the limo and then us, quizzically. Luckily, they had not spotted Alson, otherwise, we might have had a bad situation on our hands. Inside the limo, I was impressed by how roomy it was. Ten people could easily fit inside and the black-leather bench seats were adjustable. Seats occupied the front, the back, and the left walls. On the right wall was a faux-wooden counter with a sink, a stocked mini-fridge, the controls for the air-conditioning and surround-sound satellite radio.
Heather sat between Alson and me, much to his frustration. This did not stop him from trying to talk to me for the duration as if Heather weren’t there. While Alson’s antics annoyed me, they enraged Jon. Soon, the two of them were talking over each other, fighting to be heard above the other. This childish game seemed to further irritate Heather and she began massaging her temples.
In an attempt to ease the tension, I asked, “So where’re we staying?”
“Paix du Rockies. It’s some resort Nancy found. It’s in the mountains just outside of Durango. None of the other resorts are anywhere near it and it’s gated. Nancy picked it for the seclusion. It’s easier to film when there are less people.”
“Stupid choice,” Alson scoffed. “Should’ve gone to Vail.”
“Alson,” Heather took a deep breath. “You know Vail wouldn’t work. There are too many tourists and it would cost too much to film there.”
Alson rolled his eyes and imitated her. I felt a sudden and strong desire to slap him. The only two things that helped me curb this urge were the thoughts of Heather losing her job and of Tox, Alson’s bodyguard, beating the crap out of me. Trying to lighten the mood, I put my arm through Heather’s and grinned.
“I think Pow whatever sounds great.”
“Thanks, but, F.Y.I., it’s Paix, not Pow. It’s French for peace, not kung fu.”
“I’d like to teach you some French.” Alson winked at me.
“Just keep it up,” Heather threatened as she waved her phone again. “I’m sure your mother would love to have me interrupt her trip to that spa in Palm Springs.”
“Fine! Damn, you have no sense of humor.”
“I’m not paid to have a sense of humor,” she retorted. “And watch your mouth. You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Bite me.”
Suddenly, the window separating the back of the limo from the front seat rolled down and I saw the driver staring back at us through the rear-view mirror. A thin, middle-aged man with a prominent Adam’s apple and a long face, he looked like the cartoon version of Washington Irving’s beloved misfit, Ichabod Crane, if he had spent his life at the beach instead of in upstate New York.
“Uh, miss? We’re almost to the resort. Do I need to show anything to security at the main gate?”
I glanced out the left window as we passed a retail outlet modeled after pueblo homes tucked into the side of a massive mountain. Heather dug around in her bag until she found a folded sheet of paper with resort information on it. Grabbing the paper, she stood up and walked to the front of the vehicle. Handing the chauffeur the paper, she said, “Show them this.”
He nodded once. “Yes, miss.”
A frightening thought crossed my mind as we approached a dark, cavernous tunnel carved out of the mountain. “Hey, there aren’t any switchbacks here, are there? I mean, there’s no way a limo could make those sharp turns.”
The driver shook his head. “No, miss. Not here.”
As we entered the heart of the mountain, with a crescent-shaped cement wall as our only protection from a hypothetical avalanche and a thin beam of lights providing the only illumination, I sensed Jon’s body tensing up beside me. As far as I knew, Jon had never been out west, a fact I found amusing considering his desire to become a famous actor. While Heather and I chatted, he stared out the window, enthralled by the majesty of the mountain range surrounding Durango. His interest transformed into a silent, wide-eyed panic as we drove into the mountain.
Just as quickly as we plunged into the dark abyss we emerged, sunlight pouring through the darkly-tinted windows. Five minutes later, we pulled up to a security gate beside a large boulder with the words “Paix du Rockies” chiseled into its smooth face.
“Nice,” Alson grinned, rolling down his window. “Looks like this place has some sweet trails.”
“Alson!” Heather hissed, “Close the window!”
“What? No!”
“I’m not kidding. Do it now.”
Watching her expression change so suddenly, I glanced around, expecting to see a herd of wild dogs or elk approaching the limo. Instead, I saw the driver conversing with the security guard. That’s when the first flash went off. Paparazzi. Unbeknownst to us, a herd of the worst kind of creatures had settled near the entrance of the resort when word got out Schooling Dad would be filming there.
They swarmed around the limo, flashes of light exploding in rapid succession as they began to yell Alson’s name. In their haste to get a close up of America’s favorite teen star, several photographers began shoving each other, which resulted in a violent brawl that caused the vehicle to rock. Alson was still grinning when Heather shoved him aside and Tox closed the window. The security guard quickly ushered us inside and we breathed a collective sigh of relief as the driver pulled up to the entrance of the hotel’s lobby.
Alson pumped his fists into the air. “Man, what a rush!”
“I can’t believe you!” Heather exclaimed. “You caused another riot!”
“Whatever,” Alson rolled his eyes. “Those weren’t fans like in Tokyo. Just a couple of paps. Hope I looked okay. My right side isn’t my best angle.”
While I tried to convince Heather that she shouldn’t murder the star of her show, the chauffeur opened the door. We climbed out, eager to get away from Alson and survey the area. In a word, it was gorgeous. The hotel was only four stories tall, but it stretched out along the base of t
he mountain with a strong yet understated architectural presence.
Glancing back down the road to the gated entrance, I was amazed at what a steep incline we ascended. Whoever designed the resort laid it out in such a manner that the incline was gradual instead of harsh. To the left of the hotel was a parking lot replete with trucks, trailers and studio equipment. To the right of the hotel was an asphalt walkway which led to the nearest of several ski lifts. From a distance, I could make out a handful of skiers and snowboarders making their way down the mountain in silent serenity.
“That’s the crew,” Heather explained, pointing toward the people on the mountain. “One of the perks. Since they had to get here Sunday to set up, Nancy offered to let them ski for free until we start shooting tomorrow. So, what do you think?”
“It’s amazing, Heather. Absolutely beautiful. What do you think, Jon?”
Jon’s cheeks were red and his hands were buried deep in his coat pockets. “Cold. Really cold. Can we go inside?”
Heather grinned at me. “You said this guy is from Rhode Island? Where’s that thick Northern blood I’ve heard so much about?”
Jon frowned. “First of all, people get cold regardless of where they’re from and second, this is a lot colder than Boston. It must be zero degrees out here!”
The chauffeur awkwardly stacked our misshapen assortment of luggage on a gold-framed rolling cart. “Actually, it’s about minus ten right now.”
“Uh huh, see? It’s literally freezing. I’m going inside.”
Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 6