Unwrapping Jordan Page 2

  He slid his pants up over his boxers while outside the dressing room in the Taglyan Complex on Vine Street, people chatted away.

  The venue had been amazing, top of the line, but the evening at the strip club had to be the cherry on top. Jordan pushed a few wayward strands away from his face, and hopped about as he slid on a sock.

  Last night marked a special occasion. The ending of an era. His thoughts drifted back to the bachelor party, far better than the stuffy wedding that was due to commence.

  The pounding music that had gone on for hours, the hookah, weed, cigar and cigarette smoke, nonstop beer and liquor that flooded his throat on a continuous basis had made for a time of total debauchery and amusing inebriation.

  He set those memories aside and tried to focus on the day at hand. It was important. No matter how he wished things were different, the facts were facts.

  His buddy was getting married.

  “All right, chop, chop!” the wedding coordinator called out.

  It wasn’t long before he and the rest of the groomsmen were lined up, waiting to wrap their arms around the bridesmaids dressed in flowing light blue gowns and escort them down the glossy white aisle. A woman dressed in beige with a blue flower in her dark hair sat at a piano singing her heart out, as if she, too, were in love. Love was definitely in the air. Or was it?

  The ceremony commenced, sickening him and elating him at the same time. His body ran hot and cold after months of pent up frustrations. Anger. Urges to employ violence repressed.

  The wedding was traditional and over the top. Jordan looked about, biting his tongue, something he seldom did. It’s all fairy tale shit. Make believe. None of this is real. He took notice of the grand chandeliers, the plastered smiles on so many faces. Soon, everyone was on their feet as the bride, Sasha, and her tall, notable father walked down the aisle. Sasha’s dark chestnut hair was pulled away from her angular face, exposing an elegant neck and highlighting sparkling ochre eyes. A priest clad in red, ivory and gold, looking much like the Pope, awaited, smiling upon the couple as if they were the epitome of hope and dreams. Fate yet to come.

  Jordan daydreamed throughout the entire damn ceremony. He heard Dennis and Sasha speaking, just as he had at the rehearsal, but it all sounded like gibberish. Complete, utter bullshit. Nevertheless, he knew how to play the role. Acting had become second nature recently.

  He smiled at the right moments, nodded, waved, threw on the charm as if on cue – but he wasn’t there. At least, not mentally. He looked at the bride, Sasha, a time or two, but she avoided eye contact. He smiled inwardly at that. Minute by minute rolled past like trickles of sweat as one awaited death. It felt like an eternity on top of an eternity, but it would all be over soon enough. Jordan hugged their mutual college buddies that crowded around to give congratulations after the ceremony and complimented the old matrons that smelled of gardenia and looked like a Botox commercial, telling them how lovely, youthful and beautiful they looked. He played with the obnoxious and quite bored children, the spawn of rich middle-aged fathers with immature, spoiled wives who cried about not getting little bratty Brad and Olivia into the best preschool in town because of an unfair and ghastly waiting list. After pretending to give a damn about the people around him, he and the rest were escorted into the reception area.

  The beautifications were over the fucking top, ad nauseum, and the party setup was proof that not one penny was spared. Clear balloons with flecks of gold inside dotted the space. In the center, a large, intricate ivory and gold cake with seven damn tiers sat on a table, with trays of gold cupcakes and a fountain with flowing wine close by. Chefs were serving prime rib, lobster, escargots and crab. Waiters marched about, chins up, offering assorted drinks as everyone got seated to feast on a meal that some would secretly purge in a nearby toilet soon thereafter. A few would be found in a closet snorting a line of coke while others would excitedly slink away to fuck a well-dressed stranger in the back of a Mercedes under the cloak of night.

  “We’d like to invite the best man, Jordan DeMarco, to give a toast to the gorgeous bride and handsome groom!” the host announced. The room erupted in applause as Jordan slowly stood from his seat. Smoothing his shirt down, he held up a flute filled with sparkling water.

  “Good evening, everyone. We’re here to celebrate these two wonderful people, Dennis Westermann, my great buddy for over twelve years, and his new, amazing wife, Sasha Loraine Westermann. Dennis and I know a lot about each other. Just as friends should.” People smiled, their eyes full of shimmery twinkles and faux concern. “We met as freshmen in college at UCLA. Roomed together. I was a kid from Boston, and he was from right here, in California. We were kids from two different walks of life, two different worlds some may even say, but we found a kindship in one another, and that became a strong bond.”

  Dennis looked up at him, beaming big and wide. Pride in his eyes.

  “I was here on a football scholarship, studying computer science, and my guy, Dennis here, finance. He’s definitely good with the numbers, ladies and gents, but apparently, not good enough. See, I guess he didn’t count on me finding out about his little secret.” Dennis’ grin slowly subsided. “Ya know, it was the strangest thing – that gut instinct kicked in, I guess you could say. I’m no finance major, but something just wasn’t adding up. So, I did a bit of investigating and guess what one plus one is? Apparently, it’s Dennis and Heidi, ladies and gentlemen. Two pieces of shit.”

  Dennis’ eyes grew big and glossed over. His lips parted, but no words escaped.

  “Jordan, give us the mic. I think you’ve had too much to drink,” the host stated, a stiff smile on her face and worry in her eyes.

  “Yeah, I’ve definitely had too much to drink, but ya know what they say: Drunks speak the truth. Dennis here formed a brand-new equation, people, where I was subtracted, but he added my lady. So, let’s look at the new math. Your beloved groom, son, friend, good folk, the guy I helped out of too many jams to count, fucked my gotdamn girlfriend!”

  The crowd went wild as people began to yell, groan, and stare at one another.

  “Jordan!” Dennis yelled as he jumped to his feet, lunging towards the microphone to snatch it from his grasp. Jordan dashed out of the way, pushing the bastard back with a hard shove to his chest, making him stumble, only to be caught by one of the groomsmen before he tumbled to the floor. Still clinging to the mic, Jordan went to stand in the middle of the room.

  “Yeah, isn’t life grand, everyone? Five months ago, this guy,” he pointed in the direction of Dennis who was now flanked by two of their mutual friends, “went to my home when I was out of town, and snuggled up with my now ex-girlfriend, Heidi, as she talked shit about me. Instead of walking away, or just telling her that he wanted no part of that, he—Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” He snatched his arm from a man who’d saddled up, trying to coax him to give up the microphone. “He crawled right into our bed. I’ve got cameras, Dennis.” He glared at the man, and now they both looked as if they were out for each other’s blood. “Lots ’nd lots of cameras. One outside the front door, the living room… the bedroom. Bet you weren’t counting on that.” He winked at him then turned away.

  “Can you imagine what I felt like, all the way in Tampa, Florida, holed up in a hotel room after a long, grueling, boring ass three day conference on phone virus protection software upgrades? How I felt when I went to check the camera I had installed at my home because of my suspicions, and I see you jumpin’ up and down on Heidi like you’re a fucking jackrabbit?” The room erupted once again with curses and pleas for him to stop.

  “Cut his mic!” someone yelled.

  “I suspected something was up. That’s why I did it, ya see? Never in these twelve fuckin’ years of knowing you, Dennis, did I think you’d do something this fuckin’ slimy to me… Until recently. The guy who had ya back when everyone else failed you.” He laughed mirthlessly. “But then it clicked.” Jordan tapped his temple and nodded. “Something was wrong. Things ha
d changed between us. I saw how you’d look at her, my lady, the woman you knew I cared about, and the way you two would give each other the eye…” Dennis hung his head. “So yeah, I’ve been drinking pretty much non-stop this week, boys ’nd girls. “I had to think about this all the way from Florida, back to L.A. At first I figured I’d just shoot ’em, but then I thought, nah, I have to play this differently. Be more strategic. Get true revenge that doesn’t require me doing any time.

  “So, I came up with a plan. I got back home and didn’t tell Heidi the reason I was moving out. I made it seem like she was too good for me, like I just needed some time to get my head on straight. Then I followed up with the break-up call. The whole, ‘It’s me, not you’ bit. You two took me for a fool. Heidi is gone, but Dennis remained… Ya thought you were smarter than me, could move different from me, but ya can’t. I’m not fucking stupid. I was born with intelligence you could only dream of. My knowledge didn’t come from no school book, it came from hard knocks. But guess what, friend?” He scratched the back of his ear then grinned. “Payback is a bitch. I slept with your woman. Sasha. I fucked the livin’ shit outta your bride after I found out what you did. How’s it feel?!” The crowd roared, and two men approached him with swift speed, their faces stern. He looked in Sasha’s direction, and he could see her trembling and shaking her head, as if to deny the truth of his words.

  “That’s enough, Jordan!” Dennis’ father yelled, pulling at his jacket.

  “Oh, it’s not nearly enough.” Jordan snatched himself away, trying desperately to avoid a physical confrontation, lest he end up in jail for the night. “That son of yours got what’s comin’ to him,” he spat, “and if you fuckin’ touch me again, you enabling son of a bitch, you’ll lose a finger, and then your whole fucking hand! I bite, motherfucker. Ya got your son outta all sorts of legal troubles growin’ up, but no amount of money will make this shit go away. I’m not one of you.” He glared around the room, his eyes narrowing on the crowd. “My people move different. Eye for a fuckin’ eye until the entire gotdamn room is blind!”

  The two men stopped in their tracks.

  “And Dennis, if you think I’m lying about giving Sasha what she came for, guess what? She’s got a birthmark on her stomach that’s shaped like a strawberry, right?” He smiled at the guy who was now so red in the face, it looked as if his head was about to explode. “Yeah… and her pussy has a landing strip.” He sneered. “Oh, and just in case you’re still not convinced, her left eye blinks all crazy and spastic like when she cums. It’s insane.” He cackled.

  Sasha got up and raced out of the room, holding her belly as if she were about to vomit. “Well, that detail you may not know about, Dennis, considering what she said about you in the sack. Heidi probably thought you were a disappointment, too. She messed up her entire relationship with me, for ten minutes of bad cock with you, but it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? Regret is always two years too late. But revenge is always right on time. And now, ladies and gents, I’m done. Enjoy the rest of your miserable lives. Bon fucking appétit.” He tossed the microphone on the floor, and stormed out…

  CHAPTER TWO

  Look What the Cat Dragged In

  Gone were the frothy beach waves of the Pacific Ocean, swaying palm trees, and warm weather of Los Angeles. In their place were towering snow banks piled high along thick cemented sidewalks and thoroughfares, shoved to the sides of roads with a layer of sludge and muck. Thick coats swallowed humans, their hands jammed in woven and leather gloves and feet snug in thick-soled boots. A sense of trepidation and relief consumed him. Jordan was back home. Boston.

  He lit a cigarette and cracked the window of the rental car. It had been a long time since he’d been home. Fingers wrapped firmly around the steering wheel. His heated grip strangled the leather casing as he drew closer to his old stomping grounds. His mind began to race with washed-out memories. The watery recollections alternated between blurry pixels to stark clarity and contrast, crashing within his skull, demanding to be seen. Everything he drove past seemed to poke a memory, bring it forward. Images long forgotten. Sure, he’d returned for his grandfather’s big birthday bash about five years prior, but he’d been in and out, practically running to the airport, refusing to delve deeper than the surface. This time was different. As he drove along, he noticed a woman who looked like his mother when she was in her late thirties.

  Mom had been born and raised in the North End, and Grandpa had never left. The North End was a small neighborhood, a segment also known as ‘Little Italy,’ the oldest neighborhood in Boston. Full of Italian families, yet there were other people from various ethnicities who lived there, too, though at times they seemed to exist only in the shadows. When he was a kid, back in the day, it seemed everyone knew each other there. They had a real sense of community. Jordan spent so much time with his grandparents in the North End, he’d become a familiar face, too. Yet, he and his sister, Jennifer, actually grew up in Dorchester with their parents. Dorchester had an entirely different vibe.

  Dad was a boilermaker, and mom an office manager for a glass and plate making company. He drew on his cigarette, then set it down in the car ashtray. Rihanna’s, ‘Same Ol’ Mistakes’ played on full blast from the radio. He neared his grandfather’s old row house, then searched about for a parking spot. The snow crunched beneath the tires as he rolled slowly down the less plowed terrain. He’d forgotten about that sound, and how much he’d missed it. After driving around a bit searching for a place to stop, he spotted one near a closed pastry shop, and after a little fancy hand and footwork finagling, he maneuvered the black Chevrolet Cruze into the tight space.

  Moments later, he was knocking on Grandpa’s door. It swung open and a rush of heat kissed his pores. The smell of cigarettes crept towards him, and there in the midst of it all stood the tall gangly old man with a pot belly, stogie hanging out of his mouth and wild dark brown hair, the roots stark white. Grandpa slowly slipped the cigar from his mouth and sneered at him – his customary expression. Even when the man was happy, he’d frown. Jordan crossed his hands, tilted his head to the side, and smirked at the old guy.

  “Ya gonna invite me in or just let me freeze to death? I called ya to tell you I was stopping by.”

  “Freeze to death? Ha! This is a heatwave compared to last week. Your blood has gotten too thin. And besides, I haven’t seen ya in five years, and that was only for thirty seconds!” the old timer yelled before pulling him inside like some louse. Jordan shook free from Grandpa’s grip then gathered him in a bear hug. The smell of Ivory soap and hair gel encircled him. Grandpa was stiff, then quickly yielded, his hot flesh warming his skin.

  “You have it a hundred degrees in here. Geez, man!” Jordan removed his coat and scarf, tossing them on the sunken-in brown couch. The television was on low, featuring some old black and white movie. Looked like ‘Odds Against Tomorrow.’ Funny how he knew so much about classic movies after hanging around his grandparents so much.

  “Well you should be used to the heat. Demon.” The old man plopped down in his La-Z-Boy, chuckling hard. “Ya mother didn’t say you saw her yet… I just spoke with ’er an hour ago. Trust me, she woulda shouted it from the rooftops.”

  “Nah, it was quicker to stop by here first. She’s already making pumpkin pies early for Thanksgiving. Ma doesn’t even like pumpkin pie. Anyway, that’s not until a week from now but she says she sells ’em.”

  “Yeah, she makes good pies. Has her mother’s touch. Ya just got into town?”

  “Mmm hmmm.” He grunted and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  The old man got to his feet with pep in his step and made his way into the kitchen. He could hear him opening cabinets, then the refrigerator. Grandpa didn’t ask if you were hungry or thirsty. You better just take whatever he gave and not complain.

  “I know ya call me every week, and we do that FaceTime crap every now and again, I appreciate it, but I’m a little in shock as I look at cha. How much you’ve changed.�
�� Melancholy coated his words. “I know you’re busy, but you really need to come home more, Jordan. One day we’ll be gone… won’t be anyone here. I wish I hadda paid more attention to my mother when she was alive. God rest ’er soul.” Jordan closed his eyes and rubbed a spot on his forehead. “Ya think you’re a big shot in L.A. now, right? Got that good job, all those women… Too good for the likes of your family. Ya come from humble beginnings. You’re ashamed of us.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.” He slumped back against the couch, watching a young Harry Belafonte running with a gun in his hand across the television screen. “How do you think I’ve changed?” Jordan shrugged. “I mean, besides having a closer beard, I think I pretty much look the same.”

  “Nah.” Grandpa regarded him. “You’re a little bigger. More muscular. You’re tan, too.” Jordan nodded. Perhaps he was right. “Something’s not right with you.”

  “What do you mean something isn’t right? Being tan is a problem?” He chuckled.

  “Nah, that’s not what I mean. You seem… I dunno, preoccupied I guess.” He shrugged. “Something’s off. You’re a little agitated. I know my grandson. I know everything about cha.”

  And he did. Jordan was so comfortable with his grandfather, the man was more like a second father than a grandparent.

  “I want to know why you’re here.”

  “What kind of silly question is that?” Jordan threw up his hands. “It’s for Thanksgiving. Ma made me promise to come this year.”

  “So what? You promised last year and the year before that, too. It ain’t just for Thanksgiving.” Grandpa offered him a glass of something warm, with a cinnamon stick in the beverage. Apple cider.

  “Thanks.” Jordan sipped from Grandma’s old recipe. He smiled. “It’s nothin’. Why don’t you believe me?”