━ SHIVERING GOLD.

Jordan Delaney. Forty. Investigative Journalist. Room 122. ❝ A woman's life is nine parts mess to one part magic [...] and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be messiest of all. ❞ ― George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings

[buckys]

[jordelaney]

( VOICEMAIL ): It's me 'em, well once you asked me what my favourite holiday tradition was; well, my family didn't have many, if any. But there was this one year, my father played first chair at the Royal Opera House's production of The Nutcracker. I was absolutely enthralled by the whole performance, I wanted to be Clara or the Sugar Plum Princess. Anyways, I left two tickets under your door, take who you like. Jordan, I hope you find as much joy, or some semblance of it that I did as a child.

     Phone pressed against her ear, Jordan listened to Ursula’s recorded voice, somehow sounding simultaneously delicate and strong as she explained the tradition of The Nutcracker, the memories evocative of childhood, and that she had slid two tickets to the production under the redhead’s door with a genuine wish for joy.  Jordan’s feet stilled, bringing her to an abrupt stop in the corridor.  She stared down the way, searching for some sort of sign of the gift, peeking out from under her door, but the blonde had been crafty enough to slide it all the way through.  Somewhere, stored in the great memory bank of her mind, she had known that tidbit about Ursula’s father; that he was an excellent musician, a concertmaster in his company, but the revelation of her love of the classic ballet was new.

In typical Ursula style, she signed off vaguely and without the closure of a proper goodbye.  Just like her, Jordan thought as she lowered the screen for her review, thumb already pressing the nine button ⏤ “Your message will be saved for seven days.”  She didn’t wait for the automated bot to complete its message before hanging up her inbox.  There was no real reason she had chosen to save the voicemail.  Out of habit, perhaps, but could she still use that excuse?  It had been some time since she and Ursula had made a show of leaving messages for one another, and she’d used the ones she’d banked in the past just to hear the blonde’s voice, once their relationship for all intents and purposes had become a thing of the past.

As promised, the tickets were where Ursula has said they’d be, lying on the floor immediately inside the doorway to Jordan’s room, tucked into a pristine white envelope.  Printed on the front was her old lover’s handwriting, beautiful as ever, cursive loops spelling out the recipient’s name: Jordan.  Inside, two tickets for the Christmas Eve performance of The Nutcracker, put on by the Nevada Ballet Theatre,  Jordan wasn’t sure what she would do with two tickets.  The only “friend” that she had that was worthy of taking along was Juanes, maybe, but he’d certainly have plans with his son.  The last thing she wanted to do was bring a stranger along for a two-hour performance, but she dreaded the thought of going alone, the ticket laid to waste, the empty seat next to her a glaring reminder throughout the ballet’s runtime.

Sighing, Jordan closed the door behind her, fastened the locks, and opened up the thread of messages sent between her and Ursula, ready to begin composing a new text:

( Today at 7:02 PM  )   

Thank you for the Nutcracker tickets. As much as I’d like to use them, I’m afraid I would be distracted by the empty seat. Would you care to join me? Or do you have plans?

[jordelaney]

MAX

When the secret bottle he kept stored away in a drawer of his desk was empty, Max often went in search of his fix when his body began to ache for it. This afternoon, like many before it and the many that would follow this day, there was the usual surprise on how he’d emptied the bottle of whiskey so quickly. Hadn’t he just bought this bottle? Did he just crack the seal open the day before? Max, like many alcoholics, was ignorant to the severity of his own problem. He mainlined, usually kept things steady and wasn’t always in need of a drink. Yet bottle after bottle would be emptied, and on an afternoon like this one, with a dusting of snow covering the ground, he closed up shop in his desperation and headed to the bar. People liked pawn shops, but they weren’t necessarily the place to shop for gifts for the holiday, so the slow but steady stream of clientele would just have to wait or find another shop.

Entering the bar, there was no looking around at the already familiar settings. There was no seeing whom was there occupying a seat somewhere, he didn’t care. There was no real such thing as a social hour to Max. Most people didn’t even attempt to last long in conversation with him, he was grumpy and usually offered looks that conveyed his lack of desire to hear a word that came out of a person’s mouth. Then there was the issue with pretty women, they barely got a look these days, as giving up the sauce for a few days to get laid just really wasn’t worth it so much of the time. When he sunk into the seat next to red top, he ordered a tumbler of whiskey and told the bartender to keep the bottle close by. There were definitely going to be refills. He wasn’t much of a heavy smoker, only had a cigarette or two on occasion these days, but today felt like a needed day and he pulled the pack free of his pocket and couldn’t seem to locate his lighter. “Ahh fuck,” he mumbled. “You got a light, Red?” Max asked, cigarette perched between his lips.

     Mild irritation flared in Jordan’s chest.  She didn’t care for comments or nicknames related to her hair, even if they were intended in a complimentary fashion ⏤ especially from men.  Every name in the book had been tossed her way growing up, from Ginge to Firecrotch, and she was well-primed to dish it right back to whoever was serving it up.  She also didn’t care for the man’s intent on smoking inside the bar, something evocative of an old spaghetti Western film, where a cowboy would push through the saloon doors, sidle up to the bar, request a whiskey and light up on the spot.  Glaring over at her new companion, she lifted her glass to her lips and uttered over the rim:  “No, I don’t. I don’t smoke.”  Polishing off the last mouthful of the draft beer in her glass, she lifted her fingers in a signal to the bartender and requested another drink, switching to something harder: a double single malt scotch, neat.  Now was as good a time as any to switch over from the cheap beer, now that she had a slight buzz going and was now joined by someone who thought himself a modern Marlboro Man.  “New in town? Or have you just woken up from a coma?”  Jordan looked over his face, noting the cigarette snug between his lips and the long, blonde lashes that lined blue eyes.  “Smoking in bars serving food has been illegal for around ten years now.”

[jordelaney]

     Dozens of bottles lined the shelves behind the bar-top, each one comparing and contrasting its neighbors, a visual cacophony comprised of a colorful variety of glass and labels.  Wish You Were Beer wasn’t the finest establishment in the city, but class wasn’t Jordan’s priority.  It was proximity — down the street, within walking distance of the motel — and crowd — easier to fade into, and hopefully, with lower moral standards.  Las Vegas was a weird place, not that she needed to live in the modern world’s equivalent of Wonderland to know just how deep the rabbit hole went.  The bar was in excess of a few things: kitschy artwork, garish trinkets, and tasteless neon signs scattered throughout the room.  She had to tell herself again and again: This will do.

Or at least it would after a few drinks. Jordan sat at the counter nursing her second pint of cheap domestic draft beer, snug in one of the few sweaters she’d discovered at the bottom of her suitcase.  Winter in Nevada was preferable to that of the state in which she had previously resided (Virginia), but the temperature had dipped down low enough for a recent dusting of snow: a remarkable sight, but a nuisance all the same.  And so a sweater was a necessity, at the very least, to keep her warm on the walk over.  The alcohol would help warm her on the way back.  The bar was quiet for a Saturday afternoon, all but empty save for the drifters scattered down the counter and group of twenty-somethings playing pool.  On the jukebox in the corner was some old country singer crooning about his long lost love — predictable and, unfortunately, relatable, but the volume wasn’t high enough to drown out the scrape of the stool next to her as a newcomer sat themselves to her right.

[ursula-atwell-deactivated201801]

ROMANCE IN F MINOR

[jordelaney]

ursula

     She felt as though she was wandering through a peculiar dream she conceptualized long ago. As if she was Alice, falling through the rabbit hole and completely impotent to stop such flooding movements. She watched herself; herself with Jordan from a third person’s view, (an outer body experience if you will) and realized how absurd she must look – how obvious the longing must seem. “Does it ever stop? The wanting you.” Ursula’s mind countered, her study fixating on the crimson lips that belonged to her dining companion. She was suddenly keenly aware of how those lips used to embrace every inch of her skin, leaving traces of that very lip colour on the canvas of her body. 

     “Oh yes, it’s actually turned into quite a circus – no, an actual circus since arriving here in Vegas,” she mused aloud. “I get a top hat and everything.” This time she was bantering, her eyes flickering to the other patrons in the room. An easy, carefree laugh spilt from the lawyer’s lips, letting it settle on the open plain of silence. “No ‘em, though I do think some of my coworkers are clowns.” She retorted, the end of her sentence being cut off by the rim of her glass. When the waiter came over, Ursula knew Jordan would take the reins on this. “See you haven’t lost your good taste,” she replied, watching the waiter carve a beeline for the kitchen. The two had shared numerous bottles of wine that centred around their tremulous encounters – in fact, Ursula still had the first bottle they ever shared together. She napped it when Jordan was in the bathroom, (for memento sake of course) but now it was left to collect dust in the back of her closet. 

     Ursula smiled, that crisp cut smile that looked as if it could hold afloat a sinking ship in blatant turmoil. The very smile that graced her lips every time her company had to retreat and rethink, their original plan fleeting. “Oh yes, I remember how I used to dance for you–” She teased, her eyes daring the woman, baiting her into their little game of cat and mouse. It was often a power struggle within the confines of their relationship. That’s how their dynamic worked, in fact, that is why they worked at all. Whilst Jordan’s attention seemed occupied by another, (a fact Ursula obviously did not miss, but didn’t feel the need to comment on, or even let on that it affected her int he slightest), her focus was on the wristwatch that carefully hung from Jordan’s wrist. She thought she caught a glimpse of it in the parking lot, thought it was a phantom vision, but no, it was there. She remembered gifting it to lover in their former years, a warmth filling her heart at the very sight of it. 

     “Imagining I’ve run off with some tall, dark, beautiful stranger?” She mused aloud, acutely aware of the woman’s “nonchalant” segway into the topic of the lawyer’s love life. “To a church in Las Vegas are you? I must say, I thought you knew me better. I hate Vegas weddings, they’re god awful and tacky. I wouldn’t dare subject myself to that humiliation. Or that of my fiancée’s.” She rolled her eyes in a light-hearted manner, the holier-than-thou-because-I’m-English look dancing across her features. “But yes, work, you know I’ve always been married to my job, something you know about.” Ursula was never damaged because for whatever reason Jordan always placed something above her. Her job, her fear of commitment, she wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew she admired the woman’s dedication to her occupation and for that, she would never be wounded. 

     Out of the corner of her eye, Ursula saw a gentleman place himself on the piano bench, his lithe fingertips resting on the ivory keys. The beginning of the piano playing in the backdrop to people’s intimate conversations hummed an unceremonious tune – Billie Holiday was it? Ursula instantly wanted to laugh at herself, a self-loathing tune to her own foolish ways, for she knew exactly who it was. She didn’t even have to ask for she was quite certain of the romantic refrains that loomed in the air. It was a record quite familiar to the couple, no not couple, pair, duo? “May I have this dance?” Ursula asked, her voice low and inviting, like a woman calling her lover home. Her hand was outstretched as they sat, glowering over a bottle of wine and perhaps it was the alcohol, but Ursula felt the need to be incredibly close. To feel their bodies pressed together in unison as they swayed to the music. The almost, grim music saturated the room with a thick tension which could be cut with a knife at any given moment. “I’m A Fool To Want You,” and damn it, she was. How fucking poetic, almost like the soundtrack to a film noir. An overly-romantic and terribly naive notion for there was no great mystery to life, there was no fairytale ending. Despite the melancholic melody buzzing in her ear, Ursula smiled, raising her glass to mirror Jordan’s. “To reunions.” 

     To say that the energy at the table was charged would be an understatement.  It had been some time since Jordan had sat opposite Ursula, and the passing months did nothing to diminish the woman’s exquisite features, evocative of old Hollywood glamour.  A modern day Grace Kelly sat across from her, as poised as ever, her expression neutral until the delivery of witticisms about her work, which sparked a pleasant glittering in the blonde’s brilliant blue eyes — a sight unseen for quite some time.  “Every circus needs its ringleader,”  Jordan commented, her own eyes alight with mischief at her companion’s mention of dancing.  Those had been the days, hadn’t they?  Intimate moments shared in front of the hearth in Jordan’s apartment, scored by classical compositions that, in Ursula’s company, somehow seemed to border on erotic.  “I remember it, too — fondly.”  It was as bold of an admission as the attorney would glean from her, at least until the ordered wine entered her system.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”  Not after the last relationship update you sprung on me.  The words hung in Jordan’s mind but she didn’t dare utter them, lest she ruin the night before so much as an appetizer could be ordered.  For as long as her mind was clear, her focus not yet muddled with wine, she would behave.  “But I do recall that: your marriage to your work. One of our defining similarities.”  She wanted to ask about the absence of her engagement ring and the email she had received a year prior, but couldn’t find a way to word the inquiry without seeming aggressive about the topic — the irony, as a journalist, as someone who had made a living and a name off of the ability to expertly excise information from a subject.  

Jordan drank deeply from her glass, needing the fortitude that would come with the pricey cabernet.  It was an expense that she was mindful of, but willing to indulge in.  After all, what luxuries had she afforded herself since the move to Las Vegas?  Her accommodation was on the lower end of the spectrum, and she had a savings account at her disposal, not that she intended to drain the funds she considered to be her nest egg.  Oh, how she’d made lofty goals when she was younger, mapping out the future with such detail that in retrospect, it was less of a plan and more of a finely-tuned dream, comprised of what-ifs and should-have-beens.  The intrinsically heteronormative standards imparted on her from a young age had formed the foundation for her musings on marriage, which naturally led to the thought of children.  But motherhood felt as far away as ever now, at the age of forty, with no clear plan beyond the time she had carved out to chart her return to the world of high-stakes journalism.

Her meandering thoughts were pulled back into the present, back to one of the few women in her life that she had ever pondered a future with.  It wasn’t the time to entertain thoughts from the past — no, she had enough to contend with in the here and now.  The notes of a familiar song had filled the room, originating from the piano stationed toward the center of the restaurant.  I'm a fool to want you.  Pity me, I need you.  She exhaled slowly and stared across the table at Ursula, sensing that the blonde was also struck by the nostalgia of the old tune.  “I’ve missed this,”  Jordan said simply, her fingers dancing along the stem of her wine glass.  I’ve missed you.  The words went unspoken, once again.  “I wasn’t sure if I would hear from you again, or see you. So this is a welcome surprise — but a surprise, nonetheless.”

[suhaib93]

[jordelaney]

juanes

He had zero experience when it came to wild animals. Unless one counted the roosters that he had to cage whenever they were let out on the farm, but that had been ages ago. Not to mention that common sense basically said that this was nothing like that. Not to mention that he still didn’t understand how this – these animals managed to make their way into her bedroom. “Did you just leave your door wide open?” The idea along caused great surprise from him. She lived in Virginia – hell she was well versed in the cities where the crime rate where higher than 50% and where the idea of leaving something unlocked was the start of a terrible 60 minutes episode. Perhaps she was drunk? Didn’t ever journalist hit their prime early on and then turn into that stupid fisherman in that stupid book about the old man and the sea? Or was that the title? – Anyway, the point was that they started to lose control over reality and just kept chasing the next “big story” or whatever. Perhaps he shouldn’t be too harsh – he wasn’t doing any better per say. 

While familiar faces brought normal people great joy around this time, it brought Juanes stomach pain. Perhaps even a couple of ulcers that he was not looking forward to getting. Not that he was actually getting any. His doctor was just worrying too much – or perhaps needed money and wanted to run a play on Juanes to use his insurance to the max. After all, Juanes just went whenever Mateo got sick. He figured it was best to kill two birds with one stone.  Hearing her reply he was unable to deny the slight smile that came across his features. He didn’t like people – hell he didn’t enjoy most people and within the first three tries, people usually left him alone but not Jordan. She had taken a fucking bulldozer and annoyed the living fuck out of him. Quantico could learn a thing or two from her – apparently annoying your enemies did get results. 

“Old age does strange things to males,” he joked, not believing the words coming out of his mouth, “You know what they say. Our mind starts going into a puddle and we start falling apart. Alright.” He figured that he could leave her behind but that would only risk running into someone he disliked twice as high, not to mention he was intrigued to figure out how she was doing. He followed her knowing better than try to lead. His entire macho days were over – actually, they had been over from early on. His mother had made sure of that. If there was anything that his mother had managed to teach him and his younger brother was to get rid of the machismo that tended to run twice as hard in their culture. His mother had even managed his father to leave his old ways and theories – from early on Juanes saw the change. His father went from demanding food to being done and his mother to be quiet to standing behind his mother.  

So there he was, sitting right in front of the red hair female, “This feels too familiar – except I don’t actually hate you.” Hearing her SparkNotes version he laughed, as his thumb grazed his nose looking down at the table before his eyes laid back on hers. “Ah, I am sure you have more to say – like what is this new story about?” Leaning back he figured it was only fair to give something, “I’m a chef – line cook – at the Grille actually. Mateo is five now, tends to take more of my time and that’s all.” Oh how he knew she would love to know about the notes and the threats he was getting, but that was not here or there. “Mateo told me yesterday that Tinder could help me.” 

     The faint smile that touched the man’s features was enough for Jordan.  After all, she knew him well enough to know that earning a smile from him was an undertaking — something of an urban legend — and she wasn’t about to take the expression, however brief, for granted.  Juanes Esteban had a reputation that preceded him.  Around the offices of the department he managed, his word was gospel; the agents that reported to him did so reverently, ready to jump at a moment’s notice to pursue his directives.  Anyone with that kind of power had a story, they always did, which is why she had overstayed her welcome in the hallways of the floor the unit occupied to snoop around, but the agents were too well trained to let her get further than the break room without an escort. There hadn’t been a doubt in her mind then that it had been under his orders for them not to let her stray, just as there wasn’t a doubt in her mind now that he had news for her. Whether he was prepared to part with it remained to be seen, but she wouldn’t put it past him. Juanes was notoriously secretive — not that it had ever stopped her from prying in the past or would stop her now.

His words would have been a blow to someone with less confidence, but they were water off a duck's back to Jordan.  “I’ll take that as a compliment,”  she quipped, as a waitress approached and filled their empty mugs with fresh coffee. The brunette offered them menus and she took one with the promise of placing an order later on, when she was ready. For the time being, she only wanted to nurse the cup of java and speak with her old friend. “Come on now, you know better. A journalist never divulges her leads.” Her tight-lipped response would come back to bite her, she figured, when she asked after his whereabouts in the time separating their last encounter and the present, but it was a risk she was willing to take. They both had time to spare, anyway. Pale eyebrows knit together in a mixture of confusion and disbelief at the mention of his son and the infamous dating app.  “What does a five year old know about Tinder? Maybe you should be keeping a closer eye on the little one.”  Her lips curved in an amused smirk as she slid her saucer closer to her and plucked the cup from its porcelain holder.  “At the risk of sounding like my father,”  she added with a visible shudder,  “kids are growing up so much faster than we did. Remember that? The ‘good ol’ days’?” Blowing lightly on the liquid to cool it down, she attempted a sip to test the temperature before she took a proper drink. The coffee at the Grille wasn’t the best she’d ever had, but it would do in a pinch. It regularly did. “In all seriousness, I’m glad you’re keeping busy, between the work and Mateo. Five’s an... interesting time, isn’t it?"

[jordelaney]

kara

“A penguin? Really?” The redhead shook her head as she refilled the man’s coffee cup. “I believe you’ve had way too much to drink and should think about getting a cab home, no amount of coffee is going to sober you up tonight,” she said as she leaned back up. Kara turned to walk away when a hand found its way to her ass. The young woman instantly smacked it away, “hands off the merchandise pal,” she told the drunk man and moved back to the bar quickly. “Well I’ve had enough of that for one day, I’ll be so happy when my shift is over,” she huffed out to one of the other waitresses who assured her that she would finish looking after the drunk man if she took the new one that just came in. “Sure thing Deb,” Kara saluted the older waitress and grabbed her writing pad from her apron before moving over to the table, “Howdy, my name’s Kara and I’ll be your server tonight, what can I get for you? Clam chowder is the special for the night.”

    It could have been anything.  Maybe it was the poor sleep she’d had earlier that morning, maybe it was the overly cheerful Christmas music droning on in the diner, or maybe Mercury was in fucking retrograde.  Whatever the reason for Jordan’s foul mood, she knew she was not eager to deal with niceties, genuine or not.  Which is why she hadn’t bothered to offer the waitress that had approached her booth and set a menu in front of her even the slightest hint of a smile.  She hadn’t even looked up to acknowledge the woman hovering at the end of her table, speaking to her as she retrieved her laptop from the case on the bench next to her and opened it, the screen illuminating with the standard greeting.  There was mention of clam chowder, but the journalist wasn’t ready to order food just yet.  She had come to the diner in the late evening hour seeking a change of scenery to work, but determined not to stray too far from the motel property.

“I’ll have coffee to start,”  Jordan said sharply, her gaze fixed on her screen.  She typed her password in quickly, slender fingers moving across the keyboard with ease, and opened her inbox.  A number of emails had populated upon the device’s automatic connection to the diner’s wifi, and she immediately set to work clearing through the clutter, selecting all of the obvious spam messages to be sent to the trash folder before attempting a second sweep to remove irrelevant pitches from publicists.  From the corner of her eye she couldl see the waitress still standing right in the same spot, planted where she’d been when she’d first approached.  Lifting her eyes to the redhead, Jordan asked dryly:  “Did I not speak loudly enough? Coffee.”

[jordelaney]

juanes

Las Vegas was known for its spirit of being – peculiar, but a peacock? That was extreme even by the city’s standard. And though Juanes hated reporters and the media, he felt like they had long lost their prestige. Now it was mostly about who had a real ass and who was pregnant or not. Even the political stories tended to be heavily one-sided and it wasn’t about telling the people the truth but rather giving people what they wanted. If someone actually dug deeper and got Juanes to truly admit he didn’t know if that was necessary the media’s fault or rather people for becoming so damn soft and not demanding the truth. Then again that one movie had gotten it right – perhaps people could not handle the truth. “I was thinking we just move it into the lobby and let them take care of it. After all, they are getting paid to take care of the hotel so all we would be doing is making them earn their wages.” 

And there it was – the familiarity. It was remarkable to see a person remember what they always knew but hadn’t been in the first reach. If Jordan wouldn’t have recall who he was, he would’ve felt a pang of disappointment, but just a pang. There were bigger problems out in the world to be solved, and bigger concerns in Juanes’s life – for example what the fuck to get a five-year-old for Christmas. Last year he had gone terribly wrong and gotten Mateo a drum set and for the past 365 days, he was reminded of what a terrible mistake that had been every morning at seven am. The Q word was one that automatically generated the wince response that was clearly evident. “I think we should just stick with you first. After all, I did ask first – and yes I know that is a ten-year-old response, but I am sure that is a journalistic principle.” He was never a sharer when it came to information about himself, that had managed to put a stop to things. That was probably why his background checks always came up empty. “Sounds like a plan. Nowhere to go now, I do have an appointment at four.” If he was late one more time for Mateo he was positive that his nanny was going to quit right then and there. “I work here.” He offered that tidbit, “Around here,” he corrected himself, not at the motel. That was a clarification he felt he had to do.

     “How do you suppose we manage that? Wrangling it out and down to the office?”  Jordan’s mind raced with possibilities.  She could spare a pillowcase if it meant being able to trap the bird, but she disliked the prospect of spending her morning trying to ensnare the creature in a trap.  Juanes had a point: there were people in the employ of the motel that were being paid to tend to such incidences, however bizarre this particular one was.  She eyed the man, trying to determine whether or not they were equipped to manage the first portion of the task, capturing the peacock inside, but her mind was lost to nostalgia, to earlier days, when the pair was contending with monsters quite unlike the feathered beast that was currently stalking around her room.  He had greyed a bit, his dark hair peppered with strands of white, which she attributed to the combination of wrangling a child and the circumstances that had led him here.

Not much else had seemed to have changed.  Juanes was still as difficult to get information from as he had been back in Quantico, always armed to the teeth with his standard responses to questions, his steely facade revealing little.  It had always been a motivator for Jordan to press harder, to identify weaknesses in his armor and lead him into a clever trap.  But Juanes frequently went toe-to-toe with the worst of humanity, or at least the metropolitan area, and as a result, was not so easy to crack — still, the redhead persisted, and the work had garnered spoils worthy of returning to her editor. 

“Not your sharpest retort,”  Jordan said, offering a small smile with her needling.  “But I’ll allow it. Let’s head over so I can report this mess, then we’ll talk.”  The wording around his employment struck her as odd, evasive, but she would reserve her judgment until they had a dose of caffeine.  Nodding, she led the way across the parking lot to the front office, ducking in to notify the woman behind the desk of the status of her room — and demand a resolution within the time it would take her to return from coffee — before she rejoined Juanes and the pair stepped into the diner.  He showed little interest is where the pair sat, and so she ushered him to the far booth, where she knew they would go unbothered, assuming the waitresses got the hint to leave them be. 

Settling into the bench opposite him she sighed lightly.  “Where to begin? You might’ve seen my fall from grace. I got canned from The Post. Tried my best to hack it around on The Hill, but outlets aren’t keen to touch someone fired for ethical misconduct, so...”  Her manicured fingernails drummed impatiently against the tabletop.  “Here I am. Working on a new story. Not much else to report. I suspect you have far more to share than I do.”

[jordelaney]

lennonades:

↷ closed starter for @jordandelaney

No offense to the Starlite Motel, but Lennon needed to get away. While she appreciated the hideaway spot, there were some luxuries that she had yet to cut out of her system, and that included expertly prepared coffee. Added to that yearning, her introduction to the motel had been rocky to say the least. Thus far she’s been greeted with tales of wild animals roaming the motel, rumored lengthy power outages, and vehicle break-ins just to name a few. What had she gotten herself into? Craving for some form of normalcy, Lennon made it her duty to have breakfast anywhere else but at the pepto-bismol hued establishment. In the daylight, the building basically lit up the area. If it wasn’t for its stylish appearance, she’d have questioned who chose the overly-vivid color palette. 

Thanks to Yelp she found a cafe worth trying. As the taxi transported her there, Lennon stared out the window watching early morning Las Vegas. It’s almost as if the city never slept, which she should have expected seeing as 24 hour entertainment seems to be its niche. Traffic didn’t take as long as Lennon anticipated for the taxi to maneuver, and pretty soon Leoné Café came into view. The reviews were right, it did look like a slice of Italy against the bustling backdrop of Las Vegas. The early morning crowd filled up the cafe. Initially she intended to grab and go, so that she could wander around for a bit, but the ambiance begged her to stay and enjoy. Unfortunately the only free spaces were at tables already occupied by others. Lennon chose the one she figured wouldn’t want to engage in conversation. 

The redhead appeared so immersed in her work that Lennon almost didn’t want to disturb her. “Excuse me,” Lennon spoke as she approached. In one hand she held the bagged croissant sandwich and in the other the cup of Caffe Breve. “I’m sorry to bother you. Is this seat free? May I join you?”

     The Shooting Star Grille served its purpose as a fast and easy option for bottomless coffee and enough work space to house her laptop and paperwork.  But over time, Jordan had grown weary of its steady din, the Christmas playlist that remained unchanged nearly three weeks into the month, and the same smiling waitresses that were all too eager for small talk.  She needed a change of scenery, and that is precisely what Leoné Café offered.  It was a high-rated coffeehouse-cum-bistro, tucked in a dated brick building, and apart from the shift in ambiance, from roadside greasy spoon to polished café, it had a comprehensive drink list, which was more than the Grille could say.

Jordan was occupying one of the tables toward the back of the establishment, determined to keep her screen from the glare of sunlight streaming through the front windows.  The shop was bustling, the morning’s siren’s call for caffeine drawing a steady stream of customers through the doors.  With her earbuds in, she was able to tune out the more obnoxious conversations around her in favor of the enchanting piano driving Brahms’ “3 Intermezzi, Op. 117” in e-flat major.  Next to her laptop sat two of her notebooks, a half-empty mug containing a simple latte and a plate that bore crumbs as the only evidence evidence of the chocolate croissant that had been hastily consumed.

She was in the middle of scanning the morning news when a figure approached the table, the voice drowned out by the third Intermezzo’s rising crescendo in her ears.  Her glaze flickered up from her screen to clock the hovering patron before returning to her screen to mute the music.  But one glance was all she needed. Her finger stabbed at the pause button on her keyboard and she stared at the byline on the article she had been reading for a moment, allowing herself a breath before she looked back up at the young woman standing in front of her.  It was another ghost from her past:  Piers Steinbeck’s darling daughter, who had impeccable timing, showing up in the same city as Ursula in a matter of days.  

(Jordan wasn’t a big believer in coincidences.)

“Lennon Steinbeck,”  she drawled, carefully enunciating each syllable, ice blue eyes aimed at the young woman as she removed the buds from her ears.  “You’re a long way from home. Please, have a seat.”

[ursula-atwell-deactivated201801]

ROMANCE IN F MINOR

[jordelaney]

ursula

     Almost an hour late, if this had been anyone else, Ursula would’ve left well within the ten to fifteen-minute limit. But this wasn’t just “anyone”, this was Jordan and Ursula’s profession did her justice when it came to reading people, almost as if they had their whole story was inked across their face. Some were painfully oblivious to it, but careful hues drank their visage in, (notable signs such as the unsteadiness of their eye line when they lied) and processed it with minuscule consideration. Jordan was no different, however, she was more challenging, there was no denying that obvious factor. Perhaps that is why Ursula was so enamoured with her in the Windy City, the thrill of the chase as one might say. And maybe a part of Ursula still didn’t know who she was or just what she was getting at – but despite the lack of an inference, she still detected every move. 

     When the redhead finally did appear, a charismatic smiled etched its way across her porcelain features, her gaze holding steady. “Of course not, I know how busy your job can be,” she replied coolly. “I hope you had a good day?” The lawyer added, her mind briefly wondering what big lead Jordan had been chasing to lead her here. Crossing her legs pristinely, Ursula flagged over to the waiter. The man was prompt, though his features overly friendly, chagrining something in the blonde. But if any annoyance had occurred, she certainly didn’t let it show. She was going to get through this dinner in a civilized manner. “Shall we order something to drink?” She asked as if she didn’t just suck down two gin martinis. A glass of water with a trace of crescent colour hung loosely on the rim to balance out the alcohol she had formerly consumed. Though the English rose could hold her alcohol with the best of then, she wanted her mind to be in an immaculate condition, not wanting to miss a single beat.  

     “So what brings you to Las Vegas? Certainly, not a piece on the wonderful dancers the Caesar has?” She inquired, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow. She sat there, in the same outfit she was wearing previously – a Burberry pencil skirt printed with the signature preppy plaid, a pristine, unpigmented button-up shirt and black blazer, though that had been discarded to the back of her chair. The lawyer’s feet were clad in five-inch stilettos, midnight black, Christian Louboutin – though not entirely practical, and discreetly uncomfortable, Ursula had spent years of her life in heels so she was used to it. She remembered her first court case, she wore a smart pair of slacks and the sexist judge “suggested” she wear a skirt next time she was in his court. She used to wear heels for the ailing pleasure of the male population that dominated her field, but now the resounding echo of her heels sweeping the marble floors was a big fuck you to anyone who got in her way. Her hair was down in soft waves around her face, the light from the candle centred on the table illuminating the golden locks and her makeup, minimal. Sans the slight lipgloss that highlighted her lips. She was never much for a face full of makeup, blush and mascara usually doing the trick, perhaps some concealer to bury the bags under her eyes. Other than that, she looked relatively underdressed compared to Jordan, who again, always looked like she stepped out of a Prada advertisement. She was simple… beautiful. But Ursula wasn’t about to admit that, even if the opinion wasn’t a closely-guarded secret. She was sure the way her eyes lingered gave her up. 

     Ursula, ever the professional, remained neutral as Jordan delivered her greeting, as if she were hearing the opposition’s opening arguments in court.  The blonde’s gaze was steady and blue eyes met across the table adorned with a spotless white tablecloth (just begging to be soiled), almost quietly, wordlessly offering a challenge to the other to be the first to break.  But they wouldn’t — not yet, at least.  “Mm,”  Jordan nodded,  “it was eventful. Though I’m sure you understand that better than anyone. I trust you’re still running the show in legal?”  

Before she could utter another word, the waiter Ursula had flagged down appeared at their table, prepared to take their order for drinks.  Jordan didn’t hazard even a glance in the direction of the wine list perched at the edge of their table before turning to the attending man.  Oh, how she wished she could knock back a bourbon or two before delving into the forthcoming conversation.  She would have to settle for wine, which had long been the centerpiece of their encounters.  “Yes, we’ll have a bottle of your Mt. Brave cabernet sauvignon to start. Thank you.”  And just like that, she dismissed him, turning her attention back on the blonde seated across from her.

Raising her hands to signal surrender, Jordan grinned knowingly.  “You know I can’t resist the lure of a woman who can dance.”  Her hands fell to the table, placed gently on the tabletop as she settled back in her seat, hitching her leg over her knee.  If she knew the attorney as well as she believed she did, the woman would also have her leg crossed, and there was never enough room under a table for the both of them — that she was counting on.   “I’m here for a story. Got a tip that I’m working out. ‘Fool me once,’ and all that.”  There had been an effort on Jordan’s part to incite a smidgen of jealousy in her companion, making a show of assessing the hostess, but she was helpless to avoid falling back into old patterns, admiring Ursula from across the table.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. In Vegas.”  Her gaze drifted down to Ursula’s hands, to the ring finger conspicuously naked — something she had clocked earlier in the parking lot.  “I take it was business that brought you here, and not love?”

The dim lighting brought her back to dinners shared in Chicago and D.C., conversation and lingering stares traded over expensive French wines and rich chocolate desserts.  Jordan’s wandering hands always playing dangerously along the hem of Ursula’s skirts and dresses, her fingertips ghosting along the thin stockings lining the blonde’s legs.  She swallowed thickly, recalling memories of past mealtime tortures, her thoughts interrupted by the return of their waiter, armed with the requested bottle of vino.  They went through the motions of uncorking, tasting, confirming the bottle, and it was only when the well-dressed waiter disappeared again with the request for time to review the menu that Jordan lifted her glass, a smirk playing on her lips.  “To reunions.”  

[jordelaney]

       ━━━   ❝  Tell  my  heart  you  won’t  hurt  it.  ❞

[ursula-atwell-deactivated201801]

ROMANCE IN F MINOR

[jordelaney]

ursula

     Glancing down at the business card – a foreign notion between so-called “friends”. Nonetheless, a smile graced Ursula’s lips as she slipped the card into her pocket. “Will do,” and with that – exit character, stage right. Getting into her car, Ursula’s eyes drifted to the redhead through the rear-view mirror, her hands struggling to find the seat belt. She stayed silent, the only sound coming from her corrupted lungs. In and out, in and out – the way she memorized Jordan’s. Finally starting her car, dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she waved over at her former companion. 

     The message, “The Capital Grille, nine,” was sent via text message, shortly after noon. Staring at her phone screen, the words, though her own, seemed to burn in the back of her mind, echoing through her senses and hinting at a mixture of disdain and embarrassment. When she become so, self-aware? “Get a grip Atwell,” she coached herself before turning the phone on silent. “Board meeting, five minutes.” A woman announced, poking her head into the lawyer’s office.

     When she got to the restaurant, an almost steady nervousness washed over the lawyer, her hands fidgeting at her side. She couldn’t remember the last time she let her nerves get the better of her. Was it law school – her first court case? These impermanent examples showed that human interaction had never frightened the woman for she had always been comfortable in her own skin. But this, this was different, but why? How? Her gaze dropped down to the knife, catching a glimpse of her appearance before she grabbed a compact from her purse. Studying her reflection, a hint of vexation appeared, this emotion only signifying by the furrow of her eyebrows. 

     Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she could’ve gone home, changed her clothes, but she feared she would run into Jordan, make things even more awkward.. Plus the meeting that encaptured the lawyer went on a little too long and she was nothing, if not prompt. “Ma’am?” The waiter asked, his presence looming over the woman. “Are you waiting for one more?” He asked. Ocean blue hues shot from her watch to the door, “yes she’ll come–” I hope, the woman added. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them and then took a sip of her water. Her movements were mechanical and restless, the feeling of minutes crawling by. 9:17.

     The Capital Grille.  It was a restaurant chain vaguely familiar to Jordan from her time in Chicago — one that, after a brief Google search to ascertain its whereabouts and offerings, she was certain she had dined at in a past life.  It was a more upscale establishment compared to the buffets that lined the Strip, refined enough to have a dress code requiring something more formal than shorts and sandals — a real feat in the desert city.  It was also a steakhouse, and so a little extra research into the menu was required.  She was happy to know that the restaurant had an extensive, winning selection of wine, something she knew Ursula had taken into consideration when selecting the venue to host their formal reunion.

As the day wore on, it became increasingly clear to Jordan that if she would have to deploy a few choice tactics in order to reclaim the dominance she had lost during her earlier encounter with Ursula.  She had replayed the conversation over in her head, noting with each analysis just how desperate she had come off.  That wouldn’t do — not for her first sit-down conversation with the woman in what seemed like an eternity.  And so she conspired to use one of the oldest tricks in the book: she would show up late, making Ursula wait as a power play, a subtle form of deference.

The process of getting ready for the evening provided her with enough work to fill the time leading up to the time Ursula had texted her.  She was meticulous and leisurely with each step, lingering in the shower to wash her hair and shave her legs, and taking extra care when it came to drying and styling her hair, applying make-up, and picking out what to wear.  When she was satisfied with her appearance, she took the scenic route to the restaurant along back roads, patiently allowing other drivers to merge ahead of her as she drove the speed limit.  It was well after nine o’clock when she arrived at The Capital Grille and handed her keys over to the valet.  Good things are worth waiting for, she thought to herself as she stepped inside the front doors and smoothed down the front of her blouse.  She had opted to go with a structure look — an ivory silk blouse, paired with a midnight black blazer and matching slacks — and rounded it out with soft curls, a set of modest heels, and a swipe of deep red lipstick.

The restaurant was dimly-lit and busy even for the late dining hour, giving credence to the notion that Las Vegas was as restless as the tourism brochures implied.  Jordan followed the hostess down the aisle separating the bar from the seated area and through a maze of tables to where Ursula was seated, awaiting her arrival.  The row of clocks above the kitchen window were set to timezones in various international cities — the one marked Las Vegas had indicated the time as she’d passed: 9:44 p.m.  And not a moment too soon.  The redhead offered her thanks to the young woman before seeing her off, careful to allow her to gaze linger on the retreating figure for a beat before turning to address her dinner companion, who appeared to have come straight from the office.  “Sorry for the delay,”  Jordan offered as she pulled out the chair opposite of the blonde.  They were tucked away in the back of the restaurant, hidden from the boisterous bar area and bustling kitchen in an intimate alcove.  An unlikely coincidence.  “I had a last-minute call and traffic was a real bitch. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”  She watched Ursula’s face, searching for even the smallest hint of annoyance, knowing full well that punctuation was one of the attorney’s strongest suits.

[jordelaney]

juanes

The male had just finished dropping off Mateo off. He was starting to make his way to work, one would think that after a whole year and some days that he would be used to not having to be in a suit and having a tie choke his neck but till this day he felt underdressed. Though the reality was far from that. He was probably too dressed to go be a line chef at the grille. If his father could see him right now the old man would have a heart attack, which was why everyone back home was under the assumption that he was living it up in LA as a big shot FBI director, it was easier to keep up that facade than, to be honest with his father – and his mother. God his mother would do the whole guilt trip shit that she was excellent at doing. It was a skill that he knew that it was going to be a damn shame when she passed over and no one got her damn skills cause he was sure none of his sisters managed to get that amazing personality trait – or was it a character trait? 

The male was ready to start his day but was stopped as he saw the woman in front of him. At first, he hesitated to even talk to her, around this motel you never knew what you were going to get. You had the classic thugs and then the sex workers – and every now and then the lost souls that were just passing by. One could never be certain and with Mateo needing him, Juanes started to take precautions that he hadn’t before. Not to mention that with his past he always found himself reaching for his holster – or where his holster had once been. He needed to update his carry permit soon. Being without a gun made him feel naked. Then once he locked eye contact with the ginger he was refreshed with her name – it had been a while since he had seen someone from his life of Virginia. Even though he had stayed in the state after leaving the FBI he had changed houses – neighborhoods and everything. It was best to operate under a ghost protocol. 

“A peacock?” He repeated, just to make sure that both of them were operating on the same page and concepts.  “I don’t think there is a zoo around here. I would know cause my son would be dragging me there every day. But perhaps one of the visitors that have checked in has a strange pet.” He wasn’t someone that would join someone’s misery or uneasiness, rather he gave solutions and explanations. The time in the FBI had taught him that much when he had been in the service. Hell, that felt like ages ago if he was completely honest. “I can perhaps go to your room and help you get the animal out of your room? I believe that Jimmy – the guy that runs this establishment is not here at the moment. What are you doing around here?” He asked, hoping that she too remembered him. 

 “Perhaps get you a cup of coffee – you look like you have been up all night. I hope you at least figured out whatever that was keeping you up. Hope this story is worth the bags that you are giving yourself, Jordan” Was it terrible that right now he was envious of her weary eyes? God, he missed having red eyes whenever he had gotten a vanilla case file and would stay up all night to figure out it out. To be able to predict the next move of whoever he was hunting down. Fatherhood clearly was not his first choice role, but it wasn’t the worst. So there he stood waiting for Jordan to decide the next move.

     “Yes, a peacock.”  Jordan wondered if this is what it felt like to have a nervous breakdown.  She had waded through her own share of crises in school, and in subsequent periods over the course of her career, but perhaps it made sense for her to experience the mother of all breakdowns now, after the dust had settled.  Lifted from her thoughts by the man’s subsequent questions, she looked over him and tried to figure out why it was that his voice, and the particular cadence of it, was so familiar to her.  She groped around in her memories in an effort to remember a name, a place, anything.  “Even if we got it out, where would we keep it? It has to belong to someone — an irresponsible someone, but someone nonetheless.”

His inquiry about her reason for being ‘around here’ is what helped her fill in the blanks, along with the information about his son.  Juanes Esteban.  It had to have been close to a year, if not longer, since she last saw him at the Bureau’s offices in Virginia.  “The better question,”  she said, cocking her head to the side,  “is what you’re doing this far from Quantico.”  His offer for coffee was kind, but there was no ignoring the elephant in the room — or rather, the peacock.  As much as she liked the idea of catching up with the old contact of hers, she couldn’t ignore the more pressing issue of removing the offending animal.  “Maybe we can grab one now, at the diner. I should head that way to figure out who I can report this to, anyway — sounds like you know more about this place than I do, and I could use the extra help. Unless you have somewhere to be.”

[jordelaney]

How many serious relationships have you had?

     “Depends on how you define ‘serious.’  If we’re talking about monogamous relationships lasting longer than, I don’t know, six months?  Then my best estimate would be two, maybe three.  I’m not entirely sure that I’m ‘serious relationship’ material by most standards.”

[jordelaney]

give us the deets

     “What about me makes you think I’m the kiss and tell type?”

[jordelaney]

We who is we? The First Lady?

     “I should have known that my vagueness would inspire such a follow-up.  No, not the First Lady, clearly, but someone I would say was equally as special to me.”