Vengeful Bounty

by Jillian Kidd

  I relaxed a little, leaning back into the cushions of my couch as Rogue jumped into my lap. Mom curled a lip. She hated all things with four legs and fur. That is, unless she was wearing its pelt around her neck. I suppose animals were just too real for her, didn’t fit into her fake world. She didn’t even like the little frou-frou dogs that celebrities carried around in their purses. Maybe she got bitten as a kid. I wouldn’t know. She never talked much about her past, even when prodded. But ask her what great designer she was wearing today and she would talk for hours.

  I grabbed Rogue’s bone squeaker off the floor and tossed it into the kitchen. He chased after it as if his life depended on it. Little squeaks escaped the toy as he bit down into it and carried it back to me. I threw it again.

  “So Dad told me you were in town for a while?” I said.

  “Oh yes, dear. I was hoping we might get together for a little supper. Are you available tonight, love?”

  “Actually, I’m not. Tomorrow?”

  “Well, tomorrow I’m dining with Colt. I’d rather like some one-on-one time. How about Wednesday? Oh, and do you have any nice dresses? I’d like to take you out somewhere nice, and you can’t very well be looking like you do now if you’re going to meet my special someone!”

  “That’s fine.” I breathed deeply. In. And out. “I have a couple dresses. Don’t worry.”

  “Great! Someone will be there that I really, really want you to meet.”

  “What, the husband?”

  Her painted pink mouth opened in a gasp. “Husband? Why, no! We’re only engaged! I’m hurt you didn’t know that. But, no, he’ll be there, yes, but there’s someone else. At least you’ve let your hair grow out and remain its natural color. We might want to do something about your skin. When’s the last time you tanned, darling?”

  “I don’t tan, Mom. You know that.”

  I wanted to get off the phone. Now. My temper was flaring in that way that only Mother brought out. I wanted to throw something breakable—something good and glass that would shatter into a million dramatic pieces—at the TV screen, and then disappear from her life forever. But Dad’s face appeared in my mind’s eye, giving me that defeated old dog look, wanting me to make amends and at least stay in contact with the woman who gave me birth, because she was my mother and she loved me. Guilt is so annoying.

  “I suppose it’s your choice if you want to look like a pallid ghost,” she said, fingering the olive in her martini. She picked it up and sucked the liquid off its edges, then popped it into her mouth. “I can’t wait to see you. I—”

  The screen went into a dizzying blur as my mother dropped the phone on the floor. I suddenly had a great view of the ceiling, as well as the edge of Mom’s silver stilettos as she greeted a friend of hers in that high-pitched squeal that always made me wince. Her toenails were long and painted blue with silver confetti stars pasted on the tips. How much had that cost? Was it two, three, or four starving African villages she could have fed with the money she’d paid for that pedicure?

  The steady, calming whoosh of the fountain was much more audible at this angle. But I still made out the conversation at hand because Mom was talking loud enough for the next zip code to hear.

  “Hayley Boone!” she shrieked. “How aaaaare you?”

  “Lucille!” Haley hollered back. “You look faaaabulous!”

  They had a brief conversation about the hotel, then talked about what each other’s Man of the Moment was like in bed and, more importantly, how much money he made, and finally decided when and where they were going tonight to get drinks and catch up. Wonderful to know that there were carbon copies of my mother around here. Really heartwarming. So heartwarming that I needed an antacid.

  She at last returned to her one and only daughter, her bleach-bright smile lighting up the screen. She sipped another bit of her martini and let out a happy sigh.

  “Sorry about that, Mina,” she said. “I haven’t seen Haley since that party in ’51. Fancy meeting her here!”

  “Fancy that,” I said, throwing Rogue’s squeaker for the 100th time. It had gotten slippery from his mouth. Yum. “How many times do you think dogs will chase after a toy you throw before getting tired? I think my dog could go all day! Isn’t he the cutest?”

  Mom downed the rest of her drink in one big gulp, trying to hide her disgust. “Wednesday, then, is it?”

  “Sounds fabulous, Mother. Where will we meet?”

  “Oh, why, I don’t know! I think I’ll get some suggestions from Haley.”

  “But, Mom, you’ve lived in Dallas. You know your way around here.”

  She laughed. “Yes, but dear, times change! There might be someplace new I hadn’t heard of. I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Hugs and kisses, darling!” She planted a wet smooch on her phone, leaving a massive pinkish mark that blurred her face. “So good to talk to you! Love you! Byyyyee!”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  Nothing had ever felt so good as ending that transmission. Peace and quiet alighted on the room like an old friend.

  I tossed Rogue’s squeaker one more time, then got up in a burst of adrenaline. It was almost 4 p.m. There was laundry, a run to the grocery store, a walk if possible, and I needed to wash my hair. My hair that Mom was so glad I had grown out.

  I stared at the blank screen, allowing my nerves some cooling time.

  As the frustration of talking with the woman who gave me birth seeped out of my system, the unease of my Roberto nightmare crept back in.

  There was a part of me that wanted to disregard the dream as subconscious bull crap. I’d feel safer and more empowered that way. But another wiser part of me knew never to shrug off a dream lightly—especially a recurring one.

  My dreams have always been vivid, even the ones I had as a young child. And more times than I can recall, they proved to be important warnings. I’d started paying more attention to the classic dream symbols of danger: snakes, towers, scorpions, rats. Not all of my dreams have been negative, however. Some have shown me insight into myself, desires, needs. The imagery and bizarre storylines weave around different truths that I couldn’t grasp in my waking hours.

  The hard part was figuring out exactly what the dream meant.

  Obviously my intuition was trying to tell me that Roberto was dangerous.

  Did I need to go after him? Or did I need to avoid him at all costs?

  I’d take the middle ground and keep watch out for him. That seemed a good compromise. Simply being aware of danger often helped me avoid it. When the oblivious lamb thinks it’s safe and doesn’t sense the predator in the tall grasses—that is when it becomes prey. I’d keep my eyes and ears open and try not to worry, because worrying killed awareness like a clanging metal bell in a quiet meditation room.

  My body ached in the way that only sleeping completely crooked could make it ache. I stretched out the kinks as best as I could. While I started a load of laundry, I turned on the Bounty Hunter Channel and looked for any new faces and/or notices of recent tip-off’s.

  I didn’t care if I had to travel to other states. I had gotten lucky with my last couple of catches. They’d been really close to home. And living in a big city provided that for you a lot of the time.

  Rogue and I had been all over the US, however. He was a great traveling dog, didn’t pee in the car, and generally slept while we were on the road. The last spot we “vacationed” for a couple weeks was in the suburbs of San Francisco, California. Beautiful place. A middle-aged Vietnamese woman rented out a little cottage with a great view of the Golden Gate Bridge. During our stay, I’d managed to hit all the great museums by day, but by night I was wearing a brown wig and sporting fake tattoos as I made myself a regular in one of the skuzziest downtown bars of the city.

  That particular time, I’d been going after a woman—Shawneese Richards. She headed an illegal drug operation that focused on snaring teenage boys. She had a group of good-looking gals that would scout out the boy
s at parties and get them hooked on an updated version of Heroin called “Hero-Inside.” Basically, it made the user feel like Superman, but one had to keep the supply flowing or the ground he walked on started to feel like Kryptonite.

  I passed a couple of tests, and then I was brought before Shawneese to become one of her recruiters. By that time, I had found out everything from her blood type to where she was staying in hiding. Quite by accident, I ended up spotting her vehicle weaving around the road one very late night, so I followed her to a gas station, where she had to take a piss. When she came out, she met me and the barrel of my gun. She sobered up fast enough, but she tried to run. Stupid move. I shot her in the foot. That particular paycheck had allowed me to put down some deposits on my apartment.

  But from the looks of it, there weren’t any tips or any new Fish that I could find right now. Just as well. It was also highly unusual for me to catch two baddies so close together. A bounty hunter went months at a time with nothing. I’d had to eat ramen noodles for weeks on end before finally making a catch and getting paid.

  I’d be fine for now, and speaking of the cash flow, I really needed to spend some of it on some necessities. Rogue needed food and I needed toiletries.

  I tossed my washed clothes into the drier, then left Rogue asleep in his little bed as I sped to the grocery store. No worries about being late for dinner with Jackson. I still had plenty of time.

  * * *

  “Jenny, I can’t talk right now, I’m already running late!” I said to the TV monitor as I ran in front of it, attempting to put on high heel shoes and brush my teeth at the same time.

  “Oh, fine,” she said. “But you had better tell me how it goes tonight!”

  “I will, I will.”

  I’d pulled the sides of my hair back into sparkling clips. I donned a little black dress Mom would’ve been proud of. For heaven’s sake, I had some fashion sense. So what if it happened to be eclectic? Little black dress here, plaid scarf there. I had no intention of wearing anything like my black dress to meet her. For one, it was one of my favorite treasures that I’d actually spent a little money on, and I wasn’t going to wear it around her to be tarnished by her vibes. I would find something really artistic and gaudy from a thrift store for her. Who knew? I might even make her throw up on herself. I’d make sure to bring a camera just in case.

  “You know, you are the luckiest woman in the world, and you don’t even know it,” Jenny said. She crossed her arms over the cute little blue tank top she wore. “You just don’t even have a clue!”

  I laughed, finding the hole in my right ear then sliding the sharp tip of the diamond earring through it.

  “Whatever you say, Jen,” I said. “He’s just Jackson.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “Gotta go, my friend! I’ll call you later!”

  “I hate you so much, you lucky bitch!”

  Grinning, I winked at her and ended the transmission.

  Gosh, what was everyone’s big deal? Jackson was just Jackson. They acted like he was some sort of god.

  I grabbed my keys and touched up my deep red lipstick.

  Yes, he was famous. And yes, he was good-looking. But Jackson was not my type. I lived too dangerous of a life to be into famous singers. Into them like that, at least. Plus, I didn’t want to drop an atomic bomb on a perfectly good friendship. Seemed to me that when men and women crossed over into the romantic realm, women opened themselves to unbelievable vulnerability and men felt they could trample all over those little feminine hearts. At least at a distance, men couldn’t hurt me.

  Then again…

  Just where the hell was Damon, anyway?

  Don’t let him rent space in your head, Mina, I thought. Evict him.

  “Bye, Rogue,” I said. He sat at my feet, looking up at me as if I were leaving him forever. “You be a good boy, and Mommy will be back after while.”

  I leaned down and gave his chin a good scratch.

  Before I left my apartment, I hesitated, shining red eyes in the dark recesses of my dream memories. I stared at the closed door of my weapon closet.

  Sometimes I had to remind myself that I did live a dangerous life. One filled with sharp-toothed monsters.

  I opened the closet, grabbed my Pixie laser gun, and put it in my black sequin handbag.

  Just in case.

  10

  Reunion Tower in Dallas had recently been modified into a Sky Café, meaning it was one of twenty-five or so restaurants on the planet that lifted off the ground, into the sky, and hovered above the clouds, giving the ultimate view to its patrons. The globe-shaped dining hall originally sat at the top of a sky scraping hotel when it wasn’t floating, and I normally would have taken the elevator up to it right before lift-off at 5:00 p.m., but Jackson’s and my later meeting time (not to mention my penchant for being late for our meetings in general) resulted in my having to take a mini shuttle from the hotel.

  I confirmed my reservation with the receptionist, and a gentleman led me to the shuttles. He pointed me to one in the middle, and I climbed into the seat in the center of the disc that could hold up to four people. Once securely in place with double-strap seatbelts crossing my chest, a glass bubble slid behind me from a slit in the craft and over the top of me, connecting in the front of the flying saucer. A man’s voice came in over a small speaker:

  “All items secure?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said.

  “Have a good flight, and thank you for choosing Sky Café.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  The control tower guided me at stunning speed up and away from the Metroplex, and the city became smaller and smaller until it looked like a mere miniature of the real thing. Soft ascending electronic music played as a woman recited the same advertisement about Reunion Tower in English, Spanish, Vietnamese, etc. Soon I was above the cumulous clouds, which looked like a white fluffy carpet. Up above my head the restaurant hovered, rotating ever-so-slightly. The bottom of the café, thoroughly lit with blue and white lights, opened up a circle just wide enough for my craft to fit into. Once inside, the airlock hissed and clicked. I waited in a small, dark room, and then the clear dome around me slid open like a corvette top. A triangular door opened, and a smiling hostess greeted me from behind an onyx podium. Behind her, waiters bustled to rush meals to tables, ambient techno music played, and well-dressed people laughed, drank, and ate. Bright fiery beams of the setting sun poured in through the wall windows and bathed everyone in their glow.

  “Mina Maxwell,” I said to the hostess. “I’m supposed to be meeting—”

  “Of course!” she said. “Right over there, ma’am.”

  She pointed to my two-o’clock and I thanked her, then headed to the table facing the window to which she’d referred. I passed curving onyx seats and tables with elegantly folded white napkins, and then stepped down into the outer rim and toward the back of two heads.

  One was large, bald, and chocolate colored. The other was a structured mess of shiny black tresses mixed with sleek blue streaks. I knew without a doubt who that was. Jackson had this uncanny way of styling his hair so that it looked mussed, as if he’d just stepped away from a good romp in bed, yet the layers of it managed to fall in artistic perfection against his face and forehead. The touch of blue was new, but it—and the way he sat with one foot propped up against the empty chair next to him and his arm lazily slung atop it—was just so very Jackson Kincade. I smiled.

  His bodyguard, DeMarcus Ward, was his friend from high school. Think of an army tank, and you’ve got his body type. He made a good guard because he scared most people away by simply standing in the vicinity and looking like the impenetrable fortress he was. But in truth, he was as sweet as a puppy and one of the most polite people I’d ever met.

  “I hope you didn’t start without me,” I said, walking into their line of vision.

  Both stood up, Jackson dramatically pulling back his jacket sleeve and checking his watch, DeMarcus smiling a toothy
grin and extending a hand.

  “Hey, hey, Miss Maxwell,” DeMarcus said. “How goes it wichoo?”

  I took his hand, or rather allowed his massive palm to engulf mine. “It goes well, DeMarcus, you?”

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

  Jackson crossed his arms, his eyes hidden behind dark sun shades. His smile was a stunning flash of teeth and dimples. It was always refreshingly warm and welcoming, always sincere, a contagious smile.

  “You better not complain, DeMarcus,” he said. “You get paid better than I do.”

  “Whatevah!” DeMarcus said, his barrel chest vibrating with a deep laugh. “But I’ll let you kids be. Need anything, jus holla. I’ll be ova at the bar. Mina, you look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

  He patted me gently on the back and stepped up onto the first level platform. Jackson’s head slowly tipped down and then up as he took in the sight of me. He let out a low whistle.

  “He’s right,” he said. “You do look nice. I’m flattered.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You look great, too. It’s good seeing you.”

  His open black suit jacket had subtle dark gray pin stripes and matched his pants. Jackson wasn’t rail-thin, as some music stars tended to be. He was tall, around 6 feet tall; his weight was what I’d call healthy. A little athletic, maybe—though I couldn’t be sure. I’d only seen him decked out in layers of clothes. The silver shirt beneath the jacket shone with its top two buttons open to reveal part of his tanned chest. He wore a silver chain with a dark blue peace sign and a green globe on the end of it. His fingernails were painted black. He wore thick black boots.

  “Are you going to lose the shades, famous big-shot, or do I not get the privilege of looking at your eyes tonight?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. “You might see my tears of frustration at your constant tardiness. Twenty-three minutes and seventeen seconds late.”

  “Oh, good grief!” I laughed. “I really tried to be on time tonight. The day just got away from me.”