Vengeful Bounty

by Jillian Kidd

  “I see he’s a fan of my work,” Mrs. Newton said. “We’re going to be fast friends.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Really, though. Life’s too short. They’re all idiots. This guy had to be if he hurt you, of all people. You are a fantastic person, Miss Mina.”

  “Well, thanks.” It helped. But not enough.

  “Just come back and get him when you’re ready,” she said. “We’ll be just fine. Just go on home and defuse. Remember, life’s too short.”

  I nodded.

  I didn’t remember much of the ride back, either, other than the Metallica music blaring at levels that could not be good for my eardrums. I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex and sat there with my car running.

  Both hands gripping the top of my steering wheel, I stared up at my window, knowing Damon was good and gone for now, but that he'd be back. He wouldn’t return for a while, but he’d left that metaphorical door open, whether I liked it or not. He’d never seen me get angry like that. I didn’t let many people ever see that side of me because I wasn’t proud of it. But he deserved every millisecond of it. I was certain. I had no regrets.

  No, wait.

  I had one.

  One very large regret that was not answering my calls.

  I bit my lower lip to hold back tears until I tasted blood.

  On an impulse that surged through me stronger than the rage with which I’d attacked Damon, I punched the car in reverse.

  I floored the gas and actually drove as insanely as my brother, Colt.

  Away I sped from my apartment, onto the highway, and toward the ritzy neighborhood in uptown Dallas where Jackson resided.

  25

  I pulled up in front of the elaborate gate that separated me from Jackson’s grandiose home. Rolling down my car window, I pressed the call button and waited.

  “Hello?” said a wary, deep female voice over the speaker.

  My heart sank. Well, who the heck was that? I could turn around now. Speed out of there and not look back. But something told me to talk.

  “This is Mina Maxwell,” I said in the calmest, most polite tone I could muster. It still sounded distressed. “Is Jackson available?”

  “Mina!” said the woman, brightening immediately. “Jackson talks of you often! This is Holly Kincade—his mother. What a nice surprise!”

  My stomach fluttered. His mother. Whew! Wait—he’d been talking to his mother about me?

  “Yes, sorry to come unannounced,” I said, trying not to let it go to my head. “I don’t want to interrupt anything. I can come back.”

  “Not at all! I’m afraid he isn’t home right this instant, but he should be soon. He went out with DeMarcus for a late supper. Won’t you come up?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, the gate slowly swung open, revealing a large circle drive with tall oaks creating an arc above the circle drive. Stars twinkled in patches through the thick leaves as I drove under them and toward the long front porch. Jackson’s home was a fairly new one, sort of NeoVictorian style. I’d looked on it with artistic admiration as we’d driven away yesterday. Was it only yesterday that I’d woken up in that house’s lavish bed? The morning after he’d—ahem—seen me naked?

  Now was not the time to reminisce. A completely awful misunderstanding had taken place since then, and it needed to be cleared up. No, I wasn’t leaving until he knew the truth about that rat bastard Damon, even if I had to camp out all night. My hands itched to slap Damon’s face for what he’d done: forcing me to drive over here so late in the evening and make chit chat with Jackson’s mom when I had work to do. I should’ve shot Damon when I had the chance.

  A curvy woman with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail sat on a classic wooden rocking chair on the porch, which had a waist-high fence enclosing it. She waved at me as I parked my Honda and got out. Then she returned her focus on her handheld television. The glow of the screen lit her face. The only other lights were a few security lamps that lit up in the yard as I passed, and a set of lights right next to the front door.

  “Have a seat!” she said. “I just love rocking chairs, don’t you? They feel so homey.”

  I don’t usually feel pressure to make a good impression when I meet people. I figure, if I’m myself and someone doesn’t like me, too bad. But tonight I was all nerves as I joined Holly, sitting in the rocker next to her, hoping to high heaven that she’d find me acceptable.

  I didn’t put on any sort of act. Just smiled and said:

  “It’s really nice to meet you. Your son’s a good friend of mine.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, her full lips spreading in a knowing smile. She had to be 50—the slight wrinkles and hint of silver she didn’t try to cover with hair dye gave me a clue—but she was still a very pretty woman. “Good friend. He thinks so, too.”

  Her eyes were a darker blue than Jackson’s, more navy than sky. Still, I wondered where Jackson had gotten his height. This woman didn’t look much taller than 5’2”. Jackson hadn’t ever said much about his father, only that he didn’t know the man and didn’t care to. His mother had gotten pregnant, and when the mystery dad found out, he had disappeared off the face of the Earth. Kincade was Holly’s maiden name. She didn’t think Jackson’s father deserved to pass his name on. I totally agreed with her. Looking at her, I wondered what Jackson’s dad had been like. Had he been secretive like Damon, leading Holly on year after year until she got pregnant? Or was it a quick fling with a kindred spirit, a beautiful mistake that ended up bringing someone infinitely special into this world? Perhaps I’d have time to ask her one day, but not now. Now, I was doing all I could not to burst out of my chair and go hunt Jackson down. Pretty sure he hated my guts right now. Would he make a scene when he returned? Would he listen to me?

  “Lean over here, look at this,” Holly said. “He was on The Lana Dickenson Show, Live yesterday. I’m watching the performance.”

  Not since Oprah Winfrey had anyone scored higher ratings than Lana Dickenson. I peered down at the screen as Lana showed her audience a clip of Jackson’s latest music video. The electronic beats mixed in with flashes of piano and violin and guitar actually made me want to tap my foot. Now, this wasn’t that bad. I had trouble understanding what his electronically distorted voice was singing, however, because the video itself distracted me: he was under a slow motion waterfall with some woman, kissing down her neck one minute; and the next, he was on some Irish highlands with a sword, fighting off some computer generated evil spirit. It was wild. I knew the woman under the waterfall was an actress, but I felt my blood heat in jealousy. Ahem. And heat in lust—the video showed just enough of his body in spastic flashes of film that he was supposed to appear naked.

  I felt myself gulp and tried to get a grip.

  “Hmm,” I said. That damn beat was catchy, though. “Can you turn it up a little?”

  Holly increased the volume, but the video clip switched to a view of Jackson sitting on the famous guest couch, smiling at Lana as she flirtatiously asked him about his latest songs, his love life (which he avoided jokingly), and what his plans were for the future. He spoke of music, of his latest charity donations, and of how much he appreciated his fans.

  He got up from the seat, to the cheering of hundreds of crazed females in the audience, and sat at a piano as Lana announced this to be the premier of a brand new song he’d written, one which was breaking him out of the “pop” mold, and sending him into “new grounds of hybrid music genres, mixing the synthetic beats he’s known for with his classical background.” Apparently, Jackson had an incredible voice, which to my slight embarrassment I’d been too snooty to listen to, assuming I wouldn’t like it. Surprise, surprise. I guess that’s what happens when you assume anything. Fans and critics had encouraged him to use his voice and talent for songwriting, instead of following what the record labels wanted (like only dance floor hits), so on his newest album, out this month, he’d taken complete control of the songs.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,”
the host proudly said, “Jackson Kincade, singing ‘Just Friends!’”

  Wild applause. It died down and the house lights went low. A spotlight cast Jackson in a cool bluish glow. Pity the screen was so small. I had to squint to see anything. But when his fingers pressed the keys of the piano, I detected a familiar melody—the same song he’d been playing in his music room yesterday morning before I’d come in and interrupted.

  He started to sing in a voice so smooth I felt the hairs on my arms raise, “I know we’re just—”

  The screen flashed a LOW BATTERY sign and started to beep.

  “Oh, this stupid thing!” Holly said. “I need to go charge it. I swear the portables aren’t what they used to be. Can’t get a decent one for anything these days. Be right back, Mina.”

  She went inside the house.

  I, however, leaned back in my rocker and let what I just saw register in my brain. The Lana Dickenson Show. Wow, Jackson was really big in the music industry to make it on her show. Had I been so enclosed in my own little world that I hadn’t realized just how well known my friend was? And the way the fans screamed. Those girls would’ve given their right arm for a mere wink from the guy. And that music video. I’d never seen Jackson like that before. Sure, it was an act, but I was used to the laughing, goofy, happy Jackson that joked about everything. Not the sexy, adventurous showman I’d just seen on that little screen. But it was quickly dawning on me: out there in reality, according to the rest of the world, he was larger than life—and actually pretty talented—and I’d had him right at my fingertips this entire time. I took a deep breath and pursed my lips, blowing the air out, barely believing who he was. I wanted to go inside my head and ponder for a while. Let it all soak in. But I didn’t have time because Jackson’s car pulled up out front of the gate.

  Another car tailed him, paparazzi hanging out the windows like fools. Their cameras emitted bolts of lightning-bright flashes as the men tried to snap some decent pictures of Jackson for their next magazine. Another vehicle followed the paparazzi, a jeep filled with screaming girls. They sped around the side, screamed, “I love you, Jackson!” and sped off in a fit of laughter.

  DeMarcus got out of the car and served as a human shield as Jackson typed in the code to open the gate and drove in. But what neither DeMarcus nor Jackson saw was the one paparazzi fool that sneaked inside the gate, having come from out of nowhere on foot. The car of cameramen drove away in disappointment, but the one rogue remained, creeping closer and closer to the house, using the front yard’s giant tree trunks as hiding places.

  As DeMarcus got back in the car and rode with Jackson toward the front porch, I stood from my chair and reached in the back of my pants for the laser gun I now kept on me at all times.

  My eyes followed the furtive shadow as it tried to make its way to the abode, if only to make a decent paycheck by getting a great shot of the famous musician. What a jerk. Jackson and DeMarcus got out of the car, but I didn’t greet them. Instead, I aimed the gun and shot at the sneaky cameraman.

  A spray of sparks illuminated the spot in front of the paparazzi guy’s feet, and he let out a shriek. I ran to him, dashing across the freshly cut lawn, and tripped him just as he thought he might try to scale the wall.

  On his back, he looked up at me; he was a young guy, barely into his twenties. He had a chubby face and wide brown eyes. I was willing to bet he didn’t have a girlfriend.

  “What do you think you’re doing in here?” I asked.

  He looked up at me, blabbering something about being innocent. Then his eyes darted over to the side and he reached for his camera he’d dropped during his fall (they never give up). I kicked it out of his hand and asked him again what he was doing on someone’s private property late at night.

  “I’m sorry!” he said, finally. “I’m just doing my job!”

  “Yes, you are,” I said. “Get up, and get your sorry ass out of here.”

  He rolled over and pushed himself up from the grass. Then he ran for the gate.

  Jackson, who had been watching, used his remote control to open it. The man ran out, his legs a step ahead of the rest of his chunky body. As soon as he was gone, I heard laughter from the porch. I turned back toward the house and tucked my gun away, heading for Jackson and DeMarcus, who were trying to compose themselves. I stopped at the foot of the short set of steps.

  “Shoot, man,” DeMarcus said, punching Jackson on the shoulder. “You don’t need me! Hire this gal!”

  Jackson shook his head, smiling, though the joy in his eyes quickly transformed into wariness. This was not going to be easy.

  “How you doin’, Mina?” DeMarcus asked.

  “I’m okay, you?”

  “Doin’ fine, doin’ fine.” He turned to Jackson. “Listen, I’m gonna get outta here. You take care, man. Call if you need anything.”

  “I will,” Jackson said. “Later, DeMarcus.”

  The faithful bodyguard got in his hummer, which was parked on the side of the house where nobody could see from the front, and made his exit.

  A little peek of brown hair appeared in the diamond window of the front door, but seeing us, Holly chose to stay inside.

  So then it was just Jackson and I.

  I allowed him a short stare-down. I deserved a dirty look or two after being so rude to him when he’d saved me that night in the rain. I cautiously stepped up onto the porch with him. He looked great in his silver button-down shirt and black slacks lined with sporadic zippers. He rubbed the back of his neck, a few of his fingernails painted a glam-pop black and silver.

  “You called at the wrong time, earlier,” I said.

  He held up his hand. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “You don’t have to explain anything.” His voice was tired, defeated. “I understand. I mean, I know you two have a history. I always knew there was a chance he’d come back, and he did. And now you can resume your relationship.” He smiled, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I could tell he had a problem with me calling you. And I, ah, I understand how he’d feel. I’d be protective, too. So don’t let me get in the way.”

  Oh, how gorgeous he looked when he was angry. It was like his entire body emanated testosterone, his eyes the lightest shade of day, though it was a dark starry night.

  “You’re not in the way,” I said.

  “Okay, I get it.” He shrugged. “I’m the friend on the side. Now that Damon’s back, I figure I won’t be seeing you much, and that’s fair.”

  “Would you let me talk for two damn minutes? Two minutes.” I held up two fingers. “And then you’ll really understand.”

  He sighed, looking off into the yard. “Okay, sure. Go for it.”

  I narrowed my eyes and put my hands on my hips. “Damon and I are through.”

  There it was—a physical sign. He was wavering. It was in the way he brought his total attention to me, though he’d been brooding, looking out into the lawn before. I had him now.

  “He came to my apartment unwelcomed,” I said.

  Then I proceeded to tell him everything, in two minutes, from finding out about Damon’s other woman, to blasting the remote control with my gun as I screamed for Damon to get out of my apartment.

  He blinked. Fidgeting, he cleared his throat.

  “Really?” he said.

  “Really.”

  A smile crept to his face. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Now I was smiling. “Don’t be so happy about it, for goodness sake. I was in love with the asshole, and he completely burned me!”

  “Well, for that I am sorry,” he said sincerely. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  And I was okay. Ending it with Damon had hurt, yes. But it had been like pulling out a toxic thorn I’d kept embedded in my flesh for far too long. Painful, but necessary.

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay,” I said quietly. “It’s actually not as difficult as I thought it would be. I guess I saw it coming a long time ago; I just didn’
t want to let go.”

  “I think that’s—common. Not downplaying your feelings in any way, of course. I’d never do that.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  He pressed the tip of one of the rocking chair’s crescent beams, and the seat went back and forth, back and forth.

  Then he stopped.

  He glanced at me, playfully, and said, “Wait here for a second, would you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just one second.”

  He went inside the house.

  I allowed myself a sigh of relief while he was away. Everything was back to normal now. Or was it? There was so much that was unspoken between us; the air was thick with it. Where were we going, he and I? I had a feeling he was waiting for me to tell him. Problem was, I didn’t know what I wanted to happen. Did I want to pursue a real relationship with him? Did I want to start exploring options of casual dating and/or sex? Or did I want to keep things as just friends?

  He came out of the house, closing the door behind him. He held his hands behind his back.

  “Let me see your hand,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “No questions. Hand.”

  “Fine, pushy.” I cracked a side grin. “Here.”

  I opened my right palm face up and held it out in front of him. He pulled out a long, thin plastic ticket from behind him and gave it to me.

  “Come to my concert this weekend,” he said. “Front row ticket.”

  “You know what?” I asked, amused by the rainbow colors that undulated across the ticket’s surface as I moved it to different angles. “I actually heard some of your music tonight. And it wasn’t bad.”

  “It wasn’t bad?” He put his hand over his heart. “Well, saints be praised! I can die in peace now! Mina says my music isn’t bad.”

  “I know. I must be ill.”

  “Must be.”

  After only a few seconds of enduring the intense and rascally way he was looking at me, my feet shuffled away, carrying me toward my car. I was such a chicken.

  “Thanks for the ticket,” I said, sliding it in my back pocket. “I just might show up.”