“Yeah, I missed it already, but I’m not sweating it,” he muttered. Seeing my confused expression, he offered, “I was up against the casting director’s nephew.”
I held my arm and looked down. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. It wasn’t a good part anyway.”
A bright yellow cab pulled up to the curb. I ran over to the cab and jumped inside. The warmth of that junky car’s heater was welcoming. Before I knew it, Jon was leaning into the cab.
“Move over,” he ordered. I did so incredulously.
“What? You don’t have to come,” I protested. “I mean, what about your expensive bike? You were so worried about leaving it in the snow. Now you don't care?”
Sitting down in the cab, he turned toward the bike. He appeared to be thinking about it but shrugged. “Oh well. It wasn’t that expensive, and it’s not mine anyway.”
“What?
He slammed the car door and grinned. “It’s my brother’s bike. If it’s still there later, I’ll come get it.”
As the cab drove away, I muttered, “Remind me not to loan you anything—ever.”
Chapter 3
After an excruciating two-hour wait at the hospital, my arm was X-rayed, and the doctor confirmed my fears: I had a simple fracture. Since it was not severe, he had the nurse fit me for a short arm cast instead of a bulky, long arm cast.
“Your arm should be fine in about a month and a half,” he promised after my arm had been encased in malodorous plaster. The nurse also provided me with a blue and white cotton sling to hold it in place. Although with her winning smile and platinum-blond hair she swore to me the sling was free, I secretly suspected it would be billed to my insurance company later.
I was miserable. It wasn’t just the broken arm but also the fact that I was still on my parents’ insurance plan and knew that I would be hearing from them about this. Jon followed me out of the emergency room in silence. As I approached the awaiting cab, he stopped me.
“Listen,” he began. “I’m really sorry. It was a complete accident, but still . . .”
“It’s all right. I know it was an accident, but it’s just bad timing. I’m having enough trouble trying to start this business, and now I have to work with a broken arm. Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. Thanks for coming with me. I do appreciate it.”
As I walked toward the cab, he grabbed my good arm. “What business?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried. I asked you a question. What business are you starting?”
“You have to swear that you won’t laugh.”
A smile crept across his face, but he quickly hid it. “I swear.”
I looked at the idling cab and then back at him. “I have a private investigation firm.”
He bit his lip and tried to suppress a smile. It didn’t work. He started laughing and leaned forward to catch his breath. I took this opportunity to release myself from his grip and walked off, hoping to salvage the last remnants of my dignity. With just one foot inside the cab, he grabbed my shoulder. I jumped and banged my head into the roof of the cab.
“Ow!” I wailed, glaring at him. He held up his hands in defense but was still laughing. “You know something? You’re really bad for my health.”
“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’m sorry for laughing and the other stuff, too. Look, I think being a P.I. sounds really cool. Maybe I can help.”
“Miss? I can’t wait here all day. Are you going somewhere or not?” the gruff, middle-aged cabbie snapped.
“I – uh . . .”
Again, Jon pushed me over and climbed inside the cab. “Take us to the Faneuil Hall Marketplace.”
He closed the door and the cabbie obligingly drove away from the hospital.
“You know, this whole incident has cost me about five hours,” I complained, rubbing my aching head.
Jon straightened his scarf and smoothed out his coat before replying, “It’s cost me five hours, too.” I rolled my eyes.
“Doesn’t sound like you really had anything to do today.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know me at all. I have a lot going on,” he huffed, crossing his arms and looking out the window at the falling snow.
When the pain relievers took effect, I started to feel better. The snow continued to fall as night approached, and I found myself feeling hungry. I sighed, leaned against the car window, and closed my eyes. Ten minutes later the cab slowed down and pulled up to the curb. I opened my eyes and looked outside. Even though it was dark and snowing, I could tell we were across the street from the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Faneuil Hall is an historic landmark in Boston, which has been an active meeting hall and marketplace since 1742. The Marketplace is an equally popular destination where locals and tourists alike can eat, shop, and enjoy numerous events year-round.
Since moving to Boston, Faneuil Hall and its Marketplace have been two of my favorite places to loiter. In the midst of many high-rises in one of America’s greatest cities stands a monument that represents the excellence of America’s humble origins. Located in the heart of the Walking City, there is always something interesting going on no matter what time of year it may be. That night, however, I was less than enthusiastic about venturing there. I was cold, hungry, tired, and I had a broken arm. Unfortunately, I also didn’t have much energy to argue. I paid the cab fare without question and braced myself as I opened the car door. The wind did not disappoint me but welcomed me with its open, icy arms. I shivered violently and walked briskly toward the warmth of the market.
At my first opportunity, I raced across the street and didn’t look back until I was inside Quincy Market. I stopped by one vendor’s large assortment of local memorabilia, most of which was covered in four-leaf clovers and patriotic images. Moments later, Jon burst through the glass doors and glared at me as he struggled to catch his breath. His spiky black hair had lost some of its rigidity because of the melting white snowflakes, while his olive skin was bright red from windburn. He straightened his coat and stretched his neck as he approached me.
“You know, you really ought to consider slowing down a bit. Nothing is so important that you need to race like a gazelle to get there. Nothing at all.”
I stared back, undeterred. “It’s kind of cold outside if you haven’t noticed.”
He sighed and stared at himself in a novelty mirror. He tried to brush the rapidly melting snow out of his stiff locks and fix the weather damage. “Yeah, whatever.” He gave up trying to repair the impossible and walked toward The Colonnade. The Colonnade is the area of the Marketplace with more than thirty food stalls with culinary options from all over the world. I assumed Jon would stop in one of the more inexpensive establishments, but he surprised me as he walked through The Colonnade and took a left into Cheers.
“Cheers? I, uh, I don’t know if I can justify this place right now. I haven’t even gotten my first client yet.” I closed my eyes. Why did I just tell him that?
“I planned to treat you.”
“What? Why?”
He scratched his chin and crossed his arms. “Oh, I don’t know. I broke your arm, maybe? I just thought it would be a nice thing to do. Plus, I wanted to eat at Cheers tonight. Their burgers are awesome, and I feel like indulging since I’m not gonna get that role anyway. Come on, commiserate over a rotten day with me.”
That morning I had put my light-brown hair up in a ponytail. Through the course of the day’s events, most of the ponytail had come out. I brushed the hair out of my face and stared at him. “Well, I guess that’s the least you can do.”
I walked inside Cheers. The Cheers restaurant in South Quincy Market is not the original. The original restaurant is located on Beacon Street. I’ve been to both and would recommend either one highly
. But I’m digressing again. Our dinner was enjoyable, and I learned a great deal about Jon Riché. I discovered that he was twenty-two years old, and originally from Gloucester, Rhode Island. He majored in economics but dropped out of college after four semesters. His father, Edward, was a successful financial planner in Providence. His mother, Janice, passed away when he was a child from liver cancer. Both of his older brothers, Ted and Harvey, graduated with degrees in economics and worked for their father’s company. When Jon came to the realization that he didn’t want to do this, he dropped out of college to pursue his dream: acting.
“I didn’t want his life,” he explained as he sipped a soda and stared out the window. “Don’t get me wrong. He was ticked when I told him that I'd dropped out, but I knew that I was doing the right thing.”
“I know how you feel,” I replied, thinking of my own family situation. I crunched a piece of ice and waited until he returned to reality.
After a few moments, he shrugged. “So what about you? What’s your story? A girl P.I. is pretty unusual.”
A waitress walked by when he said this. She rolled her eyes and smirked. I ignored her and picked out another piece of ice from my glass.
“I don’t know. I guess I always wanted to try it, but it sounds like a ridiculous venture. I couldn’t find the job I wanted with my degree, so I decided that I should at least try. If it doesn’t work out . . . I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll move to Los Angeles. But I have to try,” I stated, staring at the remnants of my Caesar salad. “I wish I had better luck, though.”
“How have you been marketing yourself?”
“Well, I have a website, and I’m listed, you know, in the phone book. I’ve also posted ads online. It’s just not helping. Maybe people don’t need private investigators anymore.”
Jon smiled. “I wouldn’t say that. You shouldn’t give up hope. You’ve only started trying.”
“Yeah, but if I don’t get a client soon, I’m going to have to find another job to make money. I can’t just sit around and wait. I have to support myself.”
Jon lifted his glass and finished off his soda. “Would you consider hiring me as an assistant?” I stared at him blankly. He can’t be serious, I thought. This must be some kind of joke. I laughed. He raised an eyebrow and narrowed his green eyes. “What’s so funny?”
I stopped laughing. “You are kidding, right? I mean, why would I need an assistant? I don’t even have clients! I can’t pay you...”
He looked down at his empty plate and frowned. Sighing loudly, he answered, “Well, you wouldn’t have to pay me . . . at first. Let’s say I’ll be working off whatever that broken arm would cost.”
“The actual total or whatever I owe after insurance?”
He winked. “Whatever comes first.” He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
I stared at his outstretched hand and then looked into his eyes. I couldn’t understand why he was offering this, but I figured that a guy like Jonathan Riché had an angle for every situation and he must have concocted some crazy scheme, which would make me later regret this agreement. On the other hand, since he was offering to work for free, it wasn’t going to cost me anything. Deciding to live in the moment, I reached across the table and shook his hand. He grinned. At the time, this business arrangement seemed more like a joke to me than a serious deal. Little did I know how much one handshake would change the course of my entire life.
Chapter 4
After dinner, I left Cheers and headed straight home and crashed on my bed. Unfortunately, as I slept, I hit myself in the head several times with my cast. Not only did my arm hurt, but my head now hurt. I reluctantly climbed out of bed at three-forty in the morning to take one of the pain relievers the emergency room doctor had prescribed for me. I searched for twenty minutes before remembering that I had left the prescription bottle on the table at the restaurant. I knew that calling there would be pointless because it was closed. I only prayed that it had been found by a decent employee and not by some creep who would either sell the pills or search me out by my address, which was so conveniently located in the top-right corner of the bottle’s label.
I sat in my recliner and leaned back. Although the pain was not severe, it was bad enough that I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. I reached over and grabbed the remote control off the end table and turned on the television. It greeted me with a bright, glowing image of an electric food processor. A short man with a bad toupee stuffed a tomato, a green pepper, and a sliced onion into the plastic contraption. He turned it on and smiled idiotically as the metal blades annihilated the vegetables.
I groaned and changed the channel. The next program was not much better. It offered a glimpse of paradise: timeshares on Oahu, Honolulu, and Maui. Although I often dreamed about going there, I had no intentions of deluding myself or torturing myself in the early hours of the morning with unrealistic dreams. Changing the channel yet again, I found a classic movie starring Cary Grant. I put the remote down and got comfortable. At some point during the movie, I fell asleep. The sound of my doorbell woke me from a deep sleep. I sat straight up and looked around. I was disoriented. The sun was shining through the cracks in my blinds, announcing that morning had arrived. When I heard the doorbell ringing again, I was brought to my senses. I climbed out of the chair and headed toward the front door.
I always slept in a T-shirt and sweatpants so I was not concerned about appearance as I crossed the apartment and stared through the peephole. On the other side of the door stood Jon Riché. I was both surprised and alarmed to see him there. We left the restaurant separately, and I had not given him my address. Still, there he was, standing outside my door. He rang my doorbell for a third time. I sighed and opened it. He looked at my ensemble with disgust.
“Do you really dress like that?” he asked, motioning toward my makeshift sleepwear.
“Do you really dress like that?” I retorted, pointing to his single breasted, four-button brown overcoat, green-and blue-striped sweater, and khaki pants. He gave me a dirty look and pushed past me before I had time to argue. I complained as I closed the door but did not engage the lock. I needed an easy escape if this guy turned out to be a complete psycho. Hopefully, my background in martial arts and my new arm protection would be enough. He walked down the short hallway, past the kitchen, and into my living room.
“Not bad,” he commented.
“Was that a compliment?” I inquired, rolling my eyes. He turned toward me.
“Yes,” he replied earnestly. He proceeded to take off his overcoat and carefully drape it across one of my dining room chairs. He then sat down on my leather couch and looked up at me. His hair was perfect this morning.
“Look, I don’t know how you found my apartment or why you’re even here, but you’re starting to creep me out. I’m still in pain and really tired so could you please leave?”
He picked up the remote control and turned on the television. “We made an arrangement last night. I work for you now. Since I don’t know where your office is . . . you do have an office, right?” I tried to cross my arms. The cast prevented me from doing this, so I simply nodded. “Good. Since I don’t know where your office is, I decided to meet you here. I thought we could go together.”
I walked across the room and stood in front of the television to block his view. “How did you find out where I lived? I never gave you my address. Did you follow me home last night?”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Please. Why would I do that? You’ve got a bit of an ego. May want to work on that. It's not an attractive quality.”
My mouth dropped. This guy must be kidding. “I have an ego? Really? Well, what would you expect if someone you just met dropped by your home unannounced when you never even gave him your address? Kind of stalker-esque, right?” I tensed my face as a wave of pain from my arm washed over me. “Ow!”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Hmm . . . I don't know. Maybe it's the fact you broke my arm, and I'm in excruciating pain right now. I forgot the painkillers at the restaurant, if you must know, and it’s too early to call them to pick it up. I guess I’ll just have to pop a couple of aspirin and hope that they'll help.”
He motioned for me to move away from the television because I was blocking his view. I did so, but only because I was going to get some aspirin.
“Where are you going?” he called, without looking away from the television. A rerun of a reality show was on and I could hear obnoxious yelling accompanied by mood music.
“I’m getting something for my pain!”
“Then why not use that pain medication from the hospital?”
Dumbfounded, I called back, “I forgot it at Cheers. Didn’t I just say that? I hope it'll be there when I go by this morning.” I found a half-empty bottle of aspirin. Because I don’t take medicine very often, I was not even sure how long I had had it. I checked for an expiration date.
“It’s not at Cheers,” he answered. “Hey, do you have any movie channels? Nothing good's on right now.”
I slammed the bottle down on the counter in exasperation, taking a deep breath to calm my suddenly frayed nerves. “What? What do you mean it’s not at Cheers? Did I leave them somewhere else? And sorry, I can’t afford the movie channels right now. Luxuries like that require steady income . . .”
“Oh. Hmm. You did leave it at Cheers. What about XM music channels? You have any of those?”
“Ugh. I don't know. Maybe. Try the channels in the eight hundreds,” I groaned. “If I left it at Cheers, why're you saying it’s not there?”
Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI) Page 3