Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Jordan,” I replied, taking a gulp of my water.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Jordan.” As we shook, the waiter returned with a tiny black tray on which her credit card rested. She signed the bill then stood up. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Good night.”

  Her advice left me with more questions than answers and considering my current state, I found myself unable to comprehend the true complexity of such a simple concept. Taking in a deep breath and exhaling, I watched her glide out of the restaurant in silence. Staring at the half-eaten sandwich, I realized I was no longer hungry and decided to head back to my room.

  Hurrying out the door, I nearly ran into a family of skiers still wiping powder off their jackets and gloves. They talked and laughed, the joy evident in their bright eyes, as I continued through the lobby and onto an awaiting elevator. When the doors opened on the second floor, I was greeted by the startling sound of people yelling. Looking around nervously, I saw the same crewmembers who nearly ran me over hours earlier shouting out orders as they set up cameras and lighting in a room near the elevator.

  Standing in the brightly-lit hallway was Roch Turner, looking annoyed. Beside him was someone I assumed came from the makeup department because she was touching up his television daughters’ faces. The girls were dressed in bright-colored parkas and black ski bibs. Roch wore a deep-red parka with a black collar that matched his black ski bib. When Roch noticed me exiting the elevator, he smiled. Ignoring a request of the makeup lady, he strode up to me.

  “Come to watch the magic?” he purred, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. I did my best not to gag again.

  “You mean the scene?”

  “No, I meant me.” He laughed arrogantly, pointing at his burly chest. “You know something? You’re kind of hot. How old are you?”

  Swallowing the bile in the back of my throat, I started walking toward my hotel room. “Not old enough,” I muttered with disgust as soon as I was out of earshot.

  As soon as I was inside my room, I threw my jacket on my bed and changed into a green t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. I glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand between the two beds and noticed it was nearly nine-thirty. It was still pretty early, but considering the events of the day, it felt like almost midnight. Heading back into the spacious living area, I decided to spend the remainder of the evening watching television.

  Every channel I tried had on some Thanksgiving special. Families gathered around tables and reflected on the blessings of the year. As I lay on the soft couch, I considered all that happened in my life over the past year. Besides traveling overseas for the first time, I also managed to get shot, proposed to, and become single again. The combination of these events was almost too unbelievable, yet there I lay, the unwilling recipient of the dark side of fate. My left shoulder throbbed as I thought about being held at gunpoint and shot when I tried to protect those I loved. A knock at the door brought me back to the moment and I crossed the room slowly, fearful I would see the plastic face of Roch Turner looming at me through the peephole.

  When I looked, there was no one there. I found myself believing I may have imagined the knock when I heard a second one and realized it was coming from the adjoining door to Alson and Jon’s room. Still slightly lightheaded from the drinks and exhaustion, I approached the door cautiously, debating if I should open it.

  Less than a moment later, I heard Jon’s voice. “Jordan? You awake?”

  I felt my heart race at the sound of his voice, which was a strange, unfamiliar feeling for me. My hand lingered above the doorknob as I considered the reason behind this unexpected call. A third knock startled me and I took a step back. I felt even more lightheaded as a million thoughts flooded my mind. Rubbing my temples, I sat on the arm of the couch and stared at the door. Never in our two-year friendship had I felt anything for Jon except gratitude and at times, exasperation. Now, overwhelmed by feelings that did not appear to be alcohol-related, I couldn’t even open the door. There was a fourth knock, followed by a loud sigh.

  “I can hear the television, Jordan. I don’t know . . . maybe you fell asleep . . . I guess I just wanted to . . . good night.”

  This statement was followed by the sound of the other door between our rooms shutting. I stared at my door, the television reflecting colorful figures upon the coffee table’s wooden surface while fighting off the darkness with its tiny, persistent glow. Still seated on the armrest, I threw myself backward on the plush cushions and stared up at the smooth, white ceiling. My reaction to my associate’s knocking was disturbing at best, but it was my overly-analytic nature that kept me glued to the couch as I considered every possible explanation for my strange behavior until I literally passed out. A loud thud brought me back to reality and I sat straight up, looking around in confusion.

  “Oww . . . that’s definitely gonna leave a mark,” Heather groaned as she hobbled into the room, turning on the blinding overhead lights. “Ever heard of leaving on a courtesy light, Jordan? I know you had a roommate once.”

  “Sorry,” I yawned, covering my eyes with my hands. “Could you turn on another light? That one is right in my eyes.”

  “There,” she replied, tossing her jacket on my face. “Better?”

  “Much. Thanks.” I laughed, throwing it on the coffee table. “Hey, what time is it?”

  “It’s almost two.”

  “In the morning?”

  “No, genius, in the afternoon. Yeah, it’s almost two in the morning. That was, like, the most painful shoot ever. I know the cast just got their scripts, but the lines weren’t difficult! Roch just wouldn’t focus. And those girls,” she groaned. “You would think between the two of them they could have managed to remember a few words. Actors! Anyway, how was your evening?”

  Sitting up slowly, I stretched. “I ate dinner at the restaurant downstairs and then came back here.”

  She rushed around the living area, organizing papers in her bag and plugging her laptop and phone into the awaiting wall chargers. Glancing at me sideways, she inquired, “Alone?”

  “Technically, no.” I frowned. “Your shrink joined me.”

  “Really?” Heather stopped mid-step and whirled around to face me, her eyes dancing. “That’s great! Isn’t she nice?”

  “She’s all right.” I shrugged. “I mean, she paid for my meal.”

  Heather walked over to the couch and sat beside me. “What’d y’all talk about?” Seconds later, she held up her hands. “Wait, sorry. I know that’s privileged.”

  “It’s not privileged.” I laughed. I hoped this response would mask my irritation at the thought that I needed emotional help. “It wasn’t therapy, Heather. It was just dinner.”

  “Oh,” she frowned. “Well, what’d you talk about?”

  I decided to withhold Rosalyn’s Sylvia Plath-esque anti-men monologue and told Heather that we just discussed the differences between psychology and psychiatry. I also decided to withhold the latest in my series of mishaps with the opposite sex because Heather’s proverbial plate was still overloaded and didn’t need my issues added to the mix. The details of my evening did little to entertain her and I watched her nod off twice during our chat.

  “Listen, we could both use some rest.” I yawned, stretching as I climbed to my feet. “Especially you. I can’t remember the last time you fell asleep sitting upright.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty tired,” she admitted, yawning loudly as she walked toward the bedroom. She paused in the doorway and faced me, suddenly alert. “Oh, I almost forgot. We’re shooting Alson’s big scene tomorrow at ten and I was wondering if you wanted to hit the slopes around eight-thirty? They don’t need me to prep the area or do any rewrites, so we could ski until around nine-forty. You in?”

  The thought of snow skiing with my best friend brought a smile to my face. “Definitely. Can’t wait.”r />
  She grinned as I followed her into the bedroom. She grabbed her toothbrush, a green t-shirt and gray sweatpants from her bag and headed for the bathroom. “Hey, is Jon coming, too? I’ve got his stuff in the living room with ours.”

  “Uh . . . probably not,” I muttered, swallowing a lump in my throat. “He’s not much of a morning person.”

  10

  “Wake up!”

  I blinked several times and looked around. Turning my head, I saw Heather standing in front of my bed wearing a black-and-white parka and a black ski bib. Her curly-brown hair fought against the confines of a black stocking hat. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

  “It’s seven forty-five. Get up.” She flipped the lights on. My eyes shut as the blinding white beams assaulted them and I groaned. “Oh, come on. It’s not that early.”

  “That’s your opinion,” I muttered, rolling onto my stomach and covering my head with a fluffy-white pillow.

  She grabbed the pillow. “I’m leaving in ten.”

  With that, she hurried out of the room but made sure to leave on the light. I rolled onto my back and groaned again, certain that she heard my complaints as I climbed out of the warm serenity of the bed and onto the cold, wooden floor. While searching through my suitcase, my shoulder began to throb.

  Sighing, I massaged it until I located a pair of white long johns, a light blue turtleneck and my black ski bib. When I collected my clothes, I rushed into the spa-like bathroom and turned the heater on. After a quick shower, I dried my hair, applied some make-up, and got dressed. I rushed out the room to find Heather grabbing her ski equipment.

  “Guess I made it.” I smiled smugly, zipping up my parka.

  “Actually, that took fifteen minutes.”

  “Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s still a record for me.”

  “Thank God you’re self-employed.” I shot her a dirty look as we carted the equipment to the hallway. Before locking the door, she paused. “How’s Jon gonna get his equipment if it’s locked in our room?”

  The elevator chimed as the doors opened and Tox appeared holding a steaming cup of coffee. He was dressed in an oversized black shirt, blue jeans, and royal-blue jacket. When he saw us struggling to lug our ski equipment towards the elevator, he sighed. Handing me his cup of coffee, he grabbed the equipment as if it weighed nothing.

  “You two really thought you’d make it up that steep mountain carting this?”

  “It isn’t that heavy.” Heather protested, a slight smile creeping across her lips. “But, if you want to spend your morning carrying ski equipment, hey, who am I to argue?”

  “Sure,” he snorted, heading towards the elevator again.

  “Oh, wait! What about Jon’s skis?”

  Tox shifted the poles and skis and reached in his pocket. He offered me an electronic key card. “Here. Those two bums are still asleep. Just stick the stuff in the living room. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

  I returned to our suite and grabbed his equipment. I hurried into their suite and as quietly as possible, leaned the skis and poles against the wall beside the couch. From the bedroom, I heard someone snoring loudly that I assumed was Alson. Not wanting to wake either up, I raced out the room and shut the door behind me a little too eagerly. Tox gave me a suspicious look when I handed him back the room key, but he said nothing as he lifted the equipment onto his massive shoulders and led the way to the elevators.

  As soon as we walked outside, icy winds enveloped me like frigid tendrils. I put on my thick, black gloves and pulled my blue stocking hat down over my ears. Tox’s act of valor was greatly appreciated as we fought our way up the steep incline to the resort’s ticket office. I found myself gasping for breath when we finally reached the office and slightly irritated that the three days a week I worked out at the gym did nothing to keep me from getting winded. When we stepped inside the small building, we each let out a deep sigh. Heather wiped her nose and laughed.

  “I forgot it takes a while to get used to breathing at this altitude.”

  “It doesn’t help wearing these clunky things,” I added, nodding down at the giant and unflattering ski boots. “They always cut into the front of my ankles no matter how thick my socks are.”

  Heather nodded as she trudged up to a waist-level wooden counter. Three women in their early twenties stood there assisting other guests. As soon as one guest walked away, the girl with black pigtails on the far left side of the counter motioned at Heather. Heather stepped forward, speaking with the girl quietly. The girl nodded several times before producing two tags from her drawer. Heather pulled out her credit card. At this, I shuffled over as fast as the plastic monstrosities binding my feet would allow.

  “What’re you doing?” I demanded, grabbing hold of the counter for support when I almost lost my balance.

  “One moment,” she offered, rolling her eyes. “Jordan, I’m paying for you. I just got a nice bonus and a huge raise so I felt like celebrating.”

  “Celebrating is one thing.” I pulled out my credit card and offered it to the employee, who looked more than a little uncomfortable to be in the middle of our dispute. “I can pay for myself.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this argument,” she shook her head in disbelief. “This has nothing to do with finances! It’s just . . . you’ve been going through a tough time and I wanted to something nice for you, all right? So . . . let me!”

  I took a step back, startled by her outburst. Hoping to avoid another embarrassing scene, I shuffled back toward the door and walked outside, careful to hold the handrail as I climbed down the warped wooden steps. Through the sea of faces, I spotted Tox standing near the dining lodge. When he made eye contact, he took a sip of coffee and then asked, “Get your lift tickets?”

  “Heather’s, uh, getting them,” I mumbled, glancing back at the office. “You ski?”

  “Not a chance,” he replied with a deep, bellowing laugh. “Strapping a couple sticks to my feet and then throwing myself down a mountainside ain’t my idea of fun. That’s suicidal. You gotta be messed up in the head to do that.”

  “Speaking of suicidal, tell me – how did you end up as Alson Andrews’ bodyguard?”

  “Nice.” He laughed again. Pausing to finish his coffee, the smile faded as he stared out into space. “I kinda fell into it. I was working out at this L.A. gym, trying to prep for a strongman competition, when David, that’s Alson’s agent, he approaches me with a crazy job offer. Said he wanted me to protect the most famous kid on Earth. Said the pay was good, but his client was an annoying little punk with a really bad attitude. Told me straight up that he just needed someone who could put up with a brat who had as big a wallet as he did an ego. I took the job.”

  “It’s funny. He’s everywhere, but none of this negative stuff is ever leaked. It’s like the media wants to give him this immaculate image or something.”

  “Yeah,” Tox nodded, crumpling the plastic cup and tossing it into a nearby trashcan. “A good relationship with the press helps, but a great publicist can fix almost anything. So far, Alson’s never done anything really stupid. At least, not yet.”

  A group of eight exited the dining lodge laughing loudly. They grabbed their skis and snowboards from a wooden rack and hoisting them over their shoulders, hiked up the remainder of the incline to the nearest chair lift which had a remarkably-short line. I figured this small crowd must have been due to the production of Schooling Dad. A quick gust of wind forced me to shiver and my teeth to chatter. “Is there anything you’re afraid might come out? You know, press wise?”

  “No,” Tox barked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. To be honest, there’s a couple of things that could blow his image. His bad attitude, which you know about, and his drinking, and then the girls.”

  “I saw him last night,” I nodded. �
�He definitely likes to have a good time. He’s eighteen, isn’t he? No one ever cards him?”

  “Would you card Alson Andrews?” When I didn’t respond, he shook his head. “Kid’s famous. Everybody wants their fifteen seconds of fame and Alson? That kid’s got twenty years’ worth. Nobody tells Alson Andrews no.”

  “Like girls?”

  “Girlie, don’t even get me started,” Tox snorted. “I’m thirty-six and I don’t get the kind of time that boy does with women. And when I say women, I mean women. Not teenyboppers. I’m talking certified cougars.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Kid has good taste,” he added. “He’s an idiot, but he has good taste.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He had a girlfriend until a couple months ago. Sweet thing. Actress. Just starting out.”

  “What happened?”

  “Guess he got bored,” Tox shrugged.

  Just then, Heather appeared with a three-day lift ticket in hand. I accepted it, deciding the best response would be a simple smile. Securing it to the zipper of my parka, I asked, “Now what?”

  “Now we ski. I only have, like, an hour and a half, if I’m lucky, before I have to be at the base of the Solace trail,” she glanced at Tox. “Do you know if Alson is up yet?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Sorry,” Heather muttered, her face turning a bright-red hue despite its already wind-burned appearance. “I just thought . . . maybe he called you or something . . . never mind. Can you make sure he’s on set for filming?”

  “Don’t I always?” Tox retorted, crossing his massive arms, which caused the fabric of his jacket to scream in synthetic protest.