Bitter Retribution (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Right,” she stammered, biting her lip. “Uh, Jordan, ready to go?”

  “Let’s do this,” I grinned, glancing at Tox. He winked at me as he handed us our skis and poles. “Thanks for the help.”

  “No problem,” he nodded. “Have fun being suicidal.”

  “Absolutely,” I laughed.

  We watched in silence as he trekked down the incline, careful to walk sideways to avoid rolling down it and becoming a living snowball. As soon as he was out of earshot, Heather muttered, “Geez, why’d he get an attitude? It was just a question.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, shifting the poles in my arms and hooking the wrist straps to the skis to create a makeshift handle as we headed towards the chair lift. “But he’s a bodyguard, Heather. He’s probably just as tired as you are of acting like Alson’s babysitter.”

  “What’d you two talk about?” Heather asked, stopping a few yards from the lift line.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shoved her ski poles into the thick powder and leaned against them for support. Carefully pushing the front of her boot into the toe piece, she shook her head. “I mean that suicide quip. What was that about?”

  “I don’t know . . . nothing really. Just about his job and what a pain Alson is.”

  “I could’ve told you that. In fact, I have told you that.” As soon as we secured our boots to the heel pieces, we slowly shuffled towards the line, kicking up clouds of white, powdery snow in our wake.

  Although the lift line to the mountain’s peak was pretty short considering it was a holiday week, it had doubled since the moment I first saw it twenty minutes earlier. We made small talk as we inched towards the front. Because lift chairs can only hold about three people, I wasn’t surprised when the ski resort employee called a person from the single rider’s line to join us moments before the automatic chair arrived. Seconds later, we were airborne and pulled the steel bar down to secure ourselves as we floated to the top of the mountain.

  I found myself in the worst seat on the lift, the middle one, between my best friend and a good-looking stranger with wavy-brown hair and sparkling-green eyes. I was surprised when Heather leaned forward and smiled at the guy.

  “Shouldn’t you be working right now?” She lifted her sunglasses to reveal a raised eyebrow. Suddenly, they both burst out laughing. “Jordan, this is Trip. He’s one of the show’s runners and our resident stuntman. He likes to be tortured . . . a lot.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he nodded, offering up a dimpled smile. “I couldn’t be happier than when a million different people are ordering me around the set at the same time. But Heather’s my favorite person to be tortured by.”

  “Whenever we need a stunt double for Alson, we use Trip because they look similar, at least from a distance.”

  “I resemble like the hottest teen star on the planet,” Trip laughed. “Whoo-hoo!”

  “From a distance,” Heather repeated, still grinning. “Anyway, we rarely have stunt scenes because this is a sound stage sitcom, but sometimes . . . hey, you remember the episode where Alson was competing in a surfing competition?” I nodded and she pointed at Trip. “That was Trip. He’s an amazing surfer whereas Alson couldn’t even figure out how to stay on the board for five seconds.”

  “Stay on the board? He didn’t even want to get in the water!” Trip exclaimed. “Remember? He said salt water would dry out his skin! They filmed his close-ups on set in Studio City.”

  “That’s pretty lame,” I agreed. “Wait a minute. Didn’t he win a teen award for best surfer last year?”

  “You know something? You’re right.” Trip nodded, his eyes widening. Thrusting his fists towards the heavens in mock anger, he lamented, “It should’ve been me! I should have won that award! Oh well. That’s show biz for ya.”

  I glanced down and noticed a snowboarder dressed in solid blue speeding across the mountainside. He crossed beneath the lift before falling backwards and sitting in the snow. From a distance, it appeared he was reaching inside his coat for something. Seconds later, a skier collided with him because he had decided to take a break in the middle of the path. They exchanged heated words before the snowboarder jumped up and sailed down the hill.

  “Tips up!” Trip called over the howling winds. I realized we were almost to the drop-off point and adjusted myself in the chair, collecting my poles in my right hand and leaning forward. Exiting the chair lift has always been my least favorite part of the skiing experience. Due in large part to my lack of coordination, I never manage to plant my skis properly during the mere seconds you have between hopping off the chair and getting safely away from the lift. I almost always either fall down or get smacked in the butt by the automatic chair. As funny as that sounds, it actually hurts. A lot. A bruised butt does not lend itself to a fun vacation. Also, I have been known to take an unfortunate bystander or two out with me. This turned out to be one of those occasions.

  As the schmuck in the center, I didn’t have an armrest to guide me off the chair like Heather and Trip. They made their exits smoothly, but I knew the second my skis touched the snow I was in trouble. I attempted to turn to the right and follow Trip at a distance. Unfortunately, my mind didn’t relay that message to my feet and in slow motion, I saw my skis slide beneath Trip’s as we hit the curve.

  His wavy hair bounced as he glanced back at me in surprise. Just as quickly, I saw resolve in his eyes and using his poles, he managed to regain his balance before we toppled over and I sighed with gratitude. Unfortunately, the skiers on the next chair were not as apt and they collided with us, causing me to fall on top of Trip. He looked up at me and laughed. “I like you, but we’ve just met. And I’m sorry, but I’m not that kind of guy.”

  My face flushed and my shoulder throbbed in agony as I scrambled to my feet. Heather skied over. When she wouldn’t stop laughing, I felt the strong urge to strangle her. “Thanks, Heather. Would it have killed you to help us?”

  “Yeah, no. Sorry, Jordan, but I wish you could’ve seen your face.” She giggled. “That was priceless. Why is the camera crew never around when you need them?”

  “I’m fine, really. Thanks for asking,” I replied, wiping powder off my ski bib. Trip tapped my arm.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I think we’d better move unless we want a repeat performance.” With that, he and Heather skied off. I made sure my boots were secure in the bindings before hurrying to the far side of the clearing to meet up with them. As soon as I was safely away from the lift, I glanced around.

  The majesty of nature can humble a person if you simply stop and let the experience overtake you. There is no question in my mind why poets and musicians have written about the beauty of the Rocky Mountains. At thirteen thousand feet, I was able to survey several mountain peaks with ease and was so grateful for the opportunity to have that experience.

  “Are you finished drooling over nature, city girl?” Heather called.

  Looking around, I realized both she and Trip were standing a few yards away near a large wooden signpost that pointed skiers and snowboarders in the direction of the various trails. The names of the trails were colored green, blue, or black depending on their severity. I would consider myself an intermediate skier, having skied about half a dozen times in my life. Green trails were always a safe bet and I even felt comfortable taking on most blues, but I had never tried black trails. Even if I skied every day for the rest of my life, I probably would not attempt black diamond trails. Then again, considering my profession, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

  Based on where he stood, I sensed Trip must be inherently suicidal as he kept eyeing a black trail called “Defiance.” He lifted his poles in the air and clapped them together, his bright eyes wide with excitement. Motioned towards the trail, he asked, “You girls ready?”

  Heather and I exchanged a sarcastic glance. “No thanks,”
she replied, heading towards a blue trail called “Haven.”

  When I followed her, he sputtered in protest, “What? Why not?”

  “I’ve already broken enough bones, thanks. I’m not looking to add another one to the list,” I replied.

  “Your loss!” He called before bending his knees and shooting off down the mountainside. I shook my head in disbelief before turning back to Heather. She was on her cell phone and groaned before hanging up. Muttering under her breath, she began texting at a rapid rate. After she sent the message, she looked up at me and sighed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Two guesses.”

  “Alson?”

  “The little twerp should be up by now but he’s not answering his stupid phone. The scene we’re filming this morning is his big scene and I just have this bad feeling something is going to go wrong.”

  I could tell from her furrowed brow that she was already stressed out about Alson and it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. I took the phone from her. “Nothing’s gonna go wrong. Stop worrying. You agreed to keep an eye on him for your friend, not be his mother. Come on, Heather! We’re in Colorado! Together! When was the last time we actually got to hang out, really hang out? Quit worrying! Alson’s fine and everything’s going to be fine.”

  She stared at me for several moments before a smile slowly crept across her lips. “You’re right. We’ve earned this. It’s hard to believe how much more stress comes with this job. I’m just going to need a little time to adjust.”

  With that, we skied over to the trail and began our descent. Little did I know just how sharp Heather’s instincts were and that in about an hour’s time, one small action would change the lives of so many people and add to everyone’s stress levels exponentially.

  11

  Paix du Rockies was the most luxurious resort I’d ever stayed at. Period. It offered ski trails that were almost as amazing as its breathtaking views. Heather and I spent an hour sailing down its trails, encountering few other skiers or snowboarders. When we made our way to the chair lift for the fourth time, we skied right up with no wait.

  Laughing in disbelief at our good fortune, I said, “You know this is gonna totally spoil skiing for me, right? I’ll never stay at a place like this again.”

  “It’ll spoil it for me, too.” She grinned. “I couldn’t afford this place in a million years.”

  “Whatever. Heather, you’re head writer of the number one comedy in the nation! I can’t pick up a magazine or go online without seeing your show somewhere.”

  “You know, when I first took this job, I was just an unemployed college grad desperate to make it as a screen writer,” she admitted as the chair lift began to climb skyward. “Now that I’m here . . . now that I’m actually the head writer and everything falls on me . . . well, the doubts I’ve always had about the show’s premise . . . they’re becoming harder to ignore.”

  She paused, leaning back and looking skyward.

  “It was supposed to be this heartwarming comedy about a father reuniting with his daughters at a time when they all needed help. Flash forward five episodes, Alson skyrockets and the show’s suddenly about some goofy rich kid and the father/daughter storyline is shelved. I just don’t see it becoming anything more than a vehicle for Alson Andrews and that bothers me. It really bothers me.”

  I stared down at my ski poles in silence, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts.

  Finally, she glanced at me sideways and said, “Really? You have no opinion on this?”

  “Oh, I have an opinion. I wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical statement or an open-ended comment.”

  “Jordan!”

  “Right,” I nodded, brushing my hair back and pulling the sock hat down over my ears. “Here’s the thing. You’re overlooking something.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You’re the head writer! If you don’t like the direction the show’s taking, change it. Fix it. I was at the table-read yesterday. That story you wrote was ten times better than this entire season.”

  “You do know I wrote parts of those other episodes, right?” she replied, shivering as a gust of wind blasted us.

  “That doesn’t count.” I shook my head, then pointed at her. “You were given a plot and you fleshed it out. It wasn’t your work. In less than three days, you created an amazing story for a show famous for its . . . its sophomoric humor.”

  “Nice word.” She kicked her skis together to knock off some of the snow which had accumulated on them.

  “I know, right?” I grinned. “Sophomoric is one of those fun words to throw out there, but people don’t take the time to, you know, think before speaking so—”

  “You’re digressing,” she interrupted.

  “Right. Sorry. Okay, like I was saying, this week’s episode is going to be brilliant. The writing’s fantastic and if those actors step up and act, even just a little, they could bring this show to a whole new level.”

  “I don’t know,” she muttered, shaking her head. “There’s an old saying about how if something isn’t broken . . . I doubt Nancy’ll want to test the waters and possibly alienate a loyal fan base just because—”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “Well,” she wrinkled her nose, frowning. “No.”

  “It won’t kill you to ask.”

  “In Hollywood, you never know,” she mumbled.

  I shot her a skeptical look.

  “I’ll ask, but it’ll have to wait ‘til we’re back in L.A. This would be the worst time to pitch anything to her. We’re all under enough stress trying to throw this dumb episode together. She was thrilled when Dr. Rosie actually volunteered to come with us just in case . . . oh, hey, toes up!”

  As soon as we managed to exit the lift, this time without me toppling over, we decided to hit “Haven” again. Pausing near the weathered, wooden signpost, Heather glanced at the clock on her cell phone.

  “What time is it?” I asked, wiping my runny nose on my sleeve. The simple action, followed by a morning of using countless arm muscles I had not used in years made my arm pain so unbearable that I grabbed it. I tried to play it off, but Heather noticed.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just my arm.”

  “You would get yourself shot during a hostage negotiation.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I frowned. “Can you tell me the time now?”

  “It’s about nine thirty. We should probably ski right over to Serenity, that’s the trail where we’re filming. I just received a text from the production manager suggesting I get there a little bit earlier,” she trailed off as she read the message on the phone. “He doesn’t say why exactly. If Alson—”

  “No, do not mention that name! We have time for one more trail before you have to work. No shop talk till then, got it?”

  She nodded, but I could still see anxiety building in her eyes. We took that last trail slowly, pausing at times to talk about insignificant things and delay the inevitable. I tried to make her laugh and relieve some of her tension, but the effort was futile. Heather had shifted into work mode and her mind was elsewhere. Finally, halfway down the mountain we picked up speed, skiing swiftly and in silence.

  I followed her to a wooded area where the powder was ankle deep. Gliding slowly through the snow-covered brush, an opening appeared and we found ourselves at the base of a steep hill, covered in moguls. It was then that I noticed a group of people dressed in black parkas and ski bibs wearing headsets and rushing around setting up lights, cameras and other technical equipment I couldn’t identify. In the midst of the group I spotted Trip, drinking coffee and joking with someone I assumed was a sound guy.

  A middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks noticed Heather and rushed over to us, wheezing when he finally stopped. Wiping sweat off his b
row, he gasped, “Alson ain’t here.”

  “What?” Heather screeched, her eyes wide as she surveyed the set in horror. “Well – well . . . ugh! Where is he?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the man snapped back, coughing into his gloved hand. “We’ve been calling his cell and his room, but there’s no answer.”

  Heather muttered under her breath as she pulled off her sock hat and scratched the back of her head, staring down at the snow. Looking up, her eyes were filled with terror when she stammered, “Does . . . does Nancy know?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the man nodded, wiping his bright-red nose. “She’s beyond ticked, she’s . . . I don’t think there’s a word for it. She sent a runner to look for him, but, you know, there’s time constraints. She decided to have Trip stand in for the scene and then throw Alson in for close ups later.”

  I watched as Trip zipped up a black-and-gold parka. Someone applied make-up to his face. Groaning, Heather skied over to catch up with Nancy while I stood there in awkward silence staring at the floor manager. With nothing else to do, I moved to the nearest grove of trees and watched as the television crew expertly handled an unexpected hitch in their plans.

  Within fifteen minutes, the lighting was up, the microphones were secured and the cameraman was positioned on the dolly, ready to begin filming. After the prop crew exchanged Trip’s skis for the pair Alson would later wear, he took the nearest chairlift to the top and waited for his cue.

  As soon as filming began, I watched Trip slowly make his way down the mountain, carving turns like a true professional. It was uncanny. With sunglasses on, Trip was a dead ringer for Alson Andrews. He grinned as he hit moguls head-on. He became airborne, sunbeams breaking through the treetops and shining down upon his radiant face as he nailed yet another landing.