Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI) Page 4

  He turned on a campy sixties’ tune one would expect to hear in a James Bond movie. He then slid into the kitchen and grabbed my good hand. He proceeded to twirl me with the beat and forced me to dance. I managed to push him off and use his own arm against him by forcing it behind his back. He cried out in surprise.

  “What are you, nuts?” He yelled over the steady drumbeat and saxophone harmony.

  Still holding his arm behind his back, I retorted, “I’m not the one who showed up here unannounced and tried to dance with someone who's in extreme pain!”

  “I came to bring you your pain pills, you psycho!” I immediately released him, and he grabbed his arm and rubbed it. “Geez, that really hurt. You've got some grip on you . . .”

  “Sorry. Now what did you say? You have my pain medication? Where?”

  He motioned toward his overcoat. “In the pocket. I left after you, and the waiter caught up with me and said you forgot them. I just wanted to bring them to you. I figured you might need them.”

  I walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room. I then picked up his overcoat and felt in the outer pockets. Inside the front-right pocket was my prescription, just like he said. I put the coat down and hurried back into the kitchen. Jon had moved away from the entrance to the room and was sitting on the counter next to the sinks. He had his arms crossed, his brow furrowed, and one of the most intense pouts I had ever seen. A man with these emotional mood swings was perfect for the dramatic arts. I put the bottle down on the counter and grabbed a glass from the oak cabinets. After I poured myself a glass of water and took one of the chalky-white pills, I looked over at him. He was sitting in the same position with the same expression plastered on his face.

  “Okay, okay,” I exclaimed over the latest sixties’ hit. “I’m sorry. You did a really nice thing, and I overreacted. To be honest, I didn’t get much sleep last night, and my arm won't stop hurting. I was just a little bit concerned when you showed up at my apartment at eight in the morning when I just met you yesterday. Thank you for returning my pills.”

  He effortlessly slid off the counter and crossed the tile floor to where I stood. “Apology accepted. Guess I should've realized that a mysterious, gorgeous guy like me might surprise a sheltered Southern girl like yourself, but I am a man of my word. I am here because I said I would work as your assistant. Returning your pills to you should count as about thirty dollars off my tab.”

  “Thirty bucks? How did you figure that?”

  “Well,” he grinned, “I picked them up last night and brought them home with me. That’s about one hour of work. I came over here this morning and returned them to you. Taking into account subway fare and time to get here, that’s an additional hour and a half.”

  “So that’s two and a half hours. Where does the other half an hour come into play?” I demanded, crossing my arms and trying not to reveal that I found this entire situation humorous.

  “The other half an hour," he replied, articulating each word slowly, "is for the pain and physical suffering you inflicted upon me. You almost broke my arm just now.”

  I could no longer hide my smile. “Almost and did are two very different things, but I’ll concede to thirty.”

  He returned the smile. “Good. Now that you’ve had your pharmaceutical fix, what’s on the agenda today, boss?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Because I’m not very successful with this on my own, I have no clue what I’m going to need an assistant for right now. I guess we can go by the office, and maybe you can help me brainstorm different techniques for marketing my business better.”

  His grin widened, and he clapped his hands together like a mad scientist. “Excellent! But first, I can't work without some liquid encouragement.”

  “What? You need alcohol at eight-thirty in the morning? Maybe we need to reconsider this agreement . . .”

  “Not alcohol, ding dong. Coffee. I need coffee. The first thing you’ll want to know about me is that I am literally a zombie in the morning before I’ve had my coffee. The fact that I found your place without it is quite miraculous. Does your office have a coffee maker? If not, you may want to consider buying one. It will greatly improve my work performance.”

  “Work performance? Wait–who’s the assistant here? Sounds like you’re giving me orders.”

  “Not orders. More like helpful suggestions.” He winked and headed back into the living room. Another psychedelic song was blaring loudly from my television’s speakers. Finally unable to take the dissonant sounds and brass instruments any longer, I charged into my living room and switched the television off. He frowned.

  “Do you ever have any fun?”

  “Yes, I have fun. But wearing go-go boots and doing the twist aren’t really my ideas of fun.” Clicking his tongue, he sat down in my recliner.

  “You need to relax more. It might help clear your mind so that you can work better, too.”

  I was about to protest when I heard my cell phone ringing in my bedroom. As I ran out of the room, I heard him call after me, “While you’re in there, you might want to brush your hair or shower or something. I do have standards about whom I’m seen in public with.”

  I groaned as I heard him turn the television back on and the music return. I partially closed the bedroom door and grabbed my phone off the nightstand next to my queen-size bed with a frame that matched. Caller ID displayed Heather’s name. Great. I had forgotten to call her back. The fact that she was calling at six-fifty Pacific Time, meant she must have been annoyed or something was wrong. Heather never willingly woke up before eight. I unplugged the phone from its charger and answered the call.

  “Hello?”

  “You didn’t call me back last night.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I sighed. “I had an awful afternoon after we got off the phone.”

  “Really?” she replied, skeptically. “Awful like the store ran out of your favorite conditioner or awful like a trainee at the salon butchered your hair?”

  “The latter,” I admitted. “I kind of broke my left arm.”

  “Kind of or did? Jordan, I’ve never in my life heard of anyone kind of breaking her arm.”

  “Okay, fine. I did break my arm. But it’s just a simple fracture, and it shouldn’t take too long to heal.” I heard her sighing on the other end and knew she was shaking her head. “Look, it wasn’t my fault!”

  “Okay,” she replied slowly, like an adult talking to an obstinate toddler. I hated when she did that. “Whose fault was it, then, if not yours?”

  I proceeded to tell her about Jon and the entire incident. I withheld the part about him showing up in the morning with my medication because I knew having him here was inappropriate, and I didn’t feel like being lectured about that, too. I just wanted to get some coffee, a chocolate-glazed donut, and go to the office. I was just about ready to hang up when Jon conveniently yelled at me from the living room.

  “You ready yet? I’m tired of watching your television. Your selection sucks! You might want to call your satellite provider about that.”

  Heather gasped, and I shut my eyes tightly. “Jordan, who was that? Is that guy over there?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “I can’t believe you! He didn’t spend the night, did he?”

  “What? No! I swear. Okay, here’s the part I didn’t mention. After dinner, we left, separately, and I kind of forgot my prescription on the table. The waiter gave it to him, and he brought it over this morning. I swear. Nothing happened.”

  She was silent for a while before replying. “Look, I understand that he broke your arm accidentally and wants to make amends by working for you or whatever, but you’re alone there. I don’t think it’s wise for you to let some guy you don’t know come over to your place. Come on, Jordan, you’re smarter than that.”

  “I
didn’t invite him over,” I snapped. “He just showed up. He was returning my medicine.”

  “But you still let him inside,” she said pointedly. I grumbled under my breath and ran my hand through my hair. It got stuck halfway through in a tangled mess. I walked into my bathroom, which was contiguous to the left wall of my bedroom and turned on the light. I gazed at the atrocity on top of my head. Even though I had slept on the recliner for most of the evening, my hair had managed to become quite a knot-infused disaster area. Holding my phone limply in my left hand, I attempted to brush out the knots with my right. This morning was off to a really bad start. “Jordan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you doing? Are you fixing your hair?”

  “Maybe,” I replied, desperately attempting to pull the brush through a particularly tough patch.

  “Focus, please!”

  I had managed to remove most of the knots. I once again resembled myself. Then, I turned on the faucet and washed my face. Heather lectured me for a good five minutes during which time, I managed to apply my makeup with only one hand. Thank God he broke my left arm, I thought grimly.

  When my makeup was finally on properly, I interrupted, “Heather, you’re completely right. I should not have let a strange man into my place. But look, I feel like this guy is trustworthy, although he is a bit of a prima donna. I think I am a decent judge of character. He’s offering to help me get started with my company for free. Right now, especially with a broken arm, I can’t turn that down. And, because I am alone here as you pointed out, it’s kind of nice to have someone to talk to again.”

  “You’ve got me,” she replied.

  “I know that, and I love you for it. I also have friends from Brown, but I can’t afford to keep driving to Providence all the time when I’m not earning any money. I promise you that I’ll be cautious. I’m taking care of myself, okay?”

  “All right, all right," she relented. "But if anything happens to you, I’m going to kill whatever is left—even if that means flying out of LAX to get there.”

  I laughed. “Thanks Heather. I promise I’ll keep you posted on how things are going.”

  “You’d better.”

  “I’ve got to get going, but thanks for the call and the concern.”

  “No problem. I need to get ready anyway. It’s about seven-ten here, and I don’t want to get stuck in LA traffic on the way to the studio.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, later. Hey, wait, Jordan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What'd your parents say? Not about Jon but about your arm.”

  I closed my eyes. “I kind of haven’t told them yet.”

  “Again with the kind of? Did you kind of hit your head when you fell, too? Your dad is going to go ballistic. You had better call them. I’m assuming you used their insurance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then call them as soon as you get off the phone with me. I’m serious, Jordan. I know your parents. They will be livid if they find out because of a medical bill from some Boston hospital instead of from you.”

  I stared at myself in the mirror. I focused on my cast. She was absolutely right, as usual. I did need to call my parents. They weren’t bad people. They loved me and cared for me and continued to provide for me even though I was going against all their wishes with the choices I had made. I owed it to them to let them know what happened to spare them any unnecessary concern.

  “All right. I promise I’ll call them.”

  “Right after you get off the phone with me?” Heather pressed. She was unrelenting.

  “Well, maybe not the exact second that I end this call, but I promise I will call them very soon.”

  “Whatever, Jordan. It’s your funeral. All I’m saying is I would not want to be you if your father finds out without first hearing from you.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be me, either, if that happened,” I laughed.

  “Whatever. Take care of yourself.”

  “Yes, mother,” I quipped. We ended the call, and I walked back into the bedroom. I could hear the television blaring something that sounded like a morning talk show. I closed my bedroom door all the way and locked it. I grabbed a T-shirt; a long-sleeved, blue cotton sweater; and a pair of blue jeans from my closet. I got dressed remarkably fast for only having use of one arm and sat on the edge of my bed to put on my socks. Finally, I picked up the sling and put it inside my purse. Once I was dressed, I grabbed my cell phone off the bed and my purse from the floor beside it. I unlocked the door and walked out into the living room. Jon was still watching television.

  “Took long enough.”

  I frowned at him. “It might not have taken me so long if I could use both of my arms.”

  He looked at me, and I saw that he was actually blushing. He attempted to play it off. “Yeah, well, guess it didn’t take that long then.”

  I walked toward the entryway and stepped into my shoes. I rarely ever tied or untied them–I found it a lot easier just to step into them. Since I was having trouble using my left arm, this was actually very convenient. Once my shoes were securely on my feet, I walked back toward the living room. Jon was still in my recliner.

  “Are you ready to go, or do you want to start paying my electric bill, too?”

  He jumped up and turned off the television. Grabbing his coat off the chair, he passed me and walked to the door. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he stated. Pointing to the bottle of pills on the kitchen counter, he inquired, “Aren’t you gonna take those with you?”

  I grabbed my coat off the rack by the door and walked back into the kitchen. I put the bottle in my coat pocket as I put it on. Jon walked out of the apartment first, and I turned off the lights and locked the door. We walked down the hall to the elevators in silence. One of my neighbors, whose name eluded me at the time, passed us and gave an inquisitive look. Jon noticed my expression as I pushed the call button.

  “What? What’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s nothing,” I muttered.

  “Seriously. How can we work together if you won’t talk to me?”

  I nervously clutched the plaster cast and looked down the hall in the direction the elderly woman had traveled. “It’s nothing, really. I just always feel like that woman is studying me. She’s creepy.”

  “So what? She’s nosy. Who cares?”

  “I don’t know. I just never liked the idea that she was so interested in my life.”

  He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall next to the elevator doors. “You’re from New Orleans, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have any family here?”

  “Well, not in Massachusetts.”

  “Stop being technical. Do you have any family that she might know?”

  “No.”

  “Have you done anything you are ashamed of?”

  “No.”

  “Does she even know your name?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  The elevator beeped, and the doors opened. We walked inside, and he pushed the button for the ground floor. “Then quit looking for things to be worried about.”

  Chapter 5

  After leaving my apartment, we took the Green Line from Newton Center to Fenway and got off near the ballpark. Jon followed me about two blocks to my office. It was another cold, winter morning, and Jon spent the majority of our walk complaining about the weather.

  “You know, it’s ridiculous how cold it is right now,” he snapped. He had his hands in his coat pockets and a frown on his face. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I still hate the winter. Why on earth would someone from Southeast Louisiana leave a nice, warm place like that for a freezing place like this? I don’t get it.”

  “I don�
��t like the humidity or the summers there,” I replied as we jaywalked across the street to reach my building. It was an eight-story concrete structure with approximately forty offices. Mine was conveniently located on the sixth floor. I had a key card to unlock the front doors, but during normal business hours they were open. I opened one of the glass doors and walked inside. Jon entered behind me and quickly closed it. The snow had stopped during the night, but the cold temperatures allowed enough to remain to be treacherous. A large part of the ground floor of this building was an open lobby with elevators on opposing walls and a large desk in the center. Above the desk was a glass-encased blackboard that listed all of the companies with offices inside the building along with their locations. Behind the desk sat an elderly man named Bob Warren. The amount of teeth in his mouth barely surpassed the strands of hair on his head, but he was one of the nicest men I had ever met. “Good morning, Bob!”

  He looked in my direction and smiled. “Jordan! How are ya?” He looked at Jon suspiciously. “Who’s this?”

  I motioned toward Jon and replied, “This is Jon Riché. I hired him yesterday. He’s my assistant.”

  Bob looked even more suspicious when I revealed this information. I took off my coat, and his gaze fell upon my cast. “What happened?”

  I eyed Jon nervously. “Just an accident yesterday. It’s not a bad break. The doctor said I should be fine in a month and a half or so.”

  Without another word, his expression hardened as he glared at Jon with accusing eyes. Jon ignored him and pointed to the sign above his head. “So your office is on the sixth floor?” I nodded. He headed toward the elevators farthest away from Bob. “Then let’s go. We have work to do.”

  I followed him, and Bob called out, “You know my number, Jordan. Call me if you need anything.”

  I turned back, nodded, and smiled appreciatively. Jon held his judgment until we were in the elevator and the doors had closed. “What’s with you and old men? I’m not accustomed to feeling threatened when I’m hanging out with a girl.”