Disclaimer: I do not own Jackson and Lisa. Nor am I making profit from this fanfic. It's purely for my own sick satisfaction. ;)
Dedication: To Syrinx for introducing me to the fandom and for offering to beta this fic.
The Art of Stalking
1. The Height of Paranoia
Lisa Reisert was not having a good week. Make that month. Or possibly decade. Whatever. The shoes she was wearing were blistering her feet and the man in front of her was making her consider owning a gun. Gritting her teeth into a forced smile, Lisa fought back some comment she would regret later and said, "I understand your frustration, sir. However, please understand that we are fully booked. It's the holiday season and the only room I can offer you is on the second floor."
"The second floor? But that has no view! And I wanted a suite!" The irate man before her banged the desk in a display of temper worthy of a toddler.
Lisa wondered for the millionth time why she was still in this job. She had had, after all, several other job offers. Positions that involved more administrative work and less schmoozing.
But, the Lux Atlantic had become her home away from home, as insane as it seemed. The people that worked there were her extended family and every single aspect of the hotel was as familiar as a faithful pair of slippers.
Picking up a blank keycard, Lisa swiped it through the encoding machine. "I trust that you will find your room satisfactory, Mr. Fitzgerald. Please do not hesitate to contact me if there is anything you need." Handing the man the card, she smiled brightly. She had said several times that there were no assholes, just customers. Well, this guy was pushing her to amend that statement.
Walking away, Fitzgerald grumbled something under his breath about customer satisfaction.
"Try booking a room in advance next time," Lisa muttered, wondering if some people had impaired logic.
Cynthia rushed up then, looking flustered. "The Walkers want fresh towels and we're out of complimentary chocolates."
"Just another summer at the Lux Atlantic," Lisa said, giving her coworker a sympathetic smile.
"Oh, something arrived for you, Lisa." Cynthia gave the side of her head a little tap with her the palm of her hand. "I clean forgot about it. I put it on your desk."
Checking her watch, Lisa figured it was close enough to the end of her shift to investigate the package. "Thanks, Cynthia. What is it?"
Shrugging, Cynthia said, "It's in a box. You'll have to open it and tell me!"
"Okay, hold fort here while I go and take off these shitty shoes and find out." Lisa strode down to the offices, her heels making a clicking sound on the polished floor.
In the safety of her office, Lisa kicked off the shoes and sat down, rubbing her toes briefly. Most shoes required at least a month of wear-in time before one could wear them comfortably. The pair of pumps that now lay under the desk was no exception.
Now that she was free of the worst mistake in consumer history, Lisa examined the package on her desk. An oblong box lay there with nothing to indicate where it had come from. The only thing on its white exterior was her name and the name of the hotel.
Curiosity piqued, Lisa pulled the lid off and lifted the layer of crepe paper to reveal a pair of shoes that were worthy of a store along Rodeo Drive.
The leather straps felt delightfully soft between her fingers and the heel was elegant yet practical. A glittering stone was set on the strap that ran across her toes. This was a pair of shoes that could be worn with anything from a ball gown to her conservative work clothes.
Digging around, Lisa found a plain card tucked behind the crepe paper.
In neat, fastidious handwriting, it said, "I hope these are your size."
A chill ran down Lisa's spine. Events from a year ago suddenly replayed themselves in Technicolor clarity in her mind. Just when she thought she'd put the past behind her, something like this had to happen to bring it all back.
The card fluttered to the floor, but Lisa ignored it. Only one thing had her attention now and it was the memory of Jackson Rippner's face as he lay spread-eagled and bleeding on the floor of her father's home.
Of course, there was the possibility that some kind soul had sent her the shoes. Cynthia, perhaps. Or a grateful, satisfied guest. Anyone other than the psychopath that had almost taken her life almost a year ago, actually. At least, that's what Lisa tried to convince herself as she stared at the shoes numbly.
Jackson Rippner had seemed charming, sweet and funny at first. Lisa had been pleased that she was sitting next to him on that flight to Miami. It all changed drastically when Jackson threatened first her father's life, and then her own. Having him chase her wielding a knife changed her perspective (awkwardly worded sentence). If it hadn't already been altered by having him head-butt her into unconsciousness.
After her father had shot Jackson, he'd been handcuffed, strapped to a stretcher and taken out of her life for good. The next day, Lisa had gotten a phone call informing her that Jackson Rippner had died due to complications with his condition. So it was impossible that he'd been the one to send her the shoes anyway.
The height of paranoia, Lisa thought to herself, is thinking a guy is still after you from beyond the grave.
So, the shoes were not from Jackson. Sure, she had stuck one of her pumps in his thigh and the possible message these new shoes might contain scared her. But Jackson was dead and gone. It was just a coincidence.
Cynthia rushed into the room and shut the door behind her. "So, who's your secret admirer?"
"You are. Thanks for the shoes, Cynthia," Lisa said, dangling them from a finger to show her.
Grabbing one, Cynthia whistled. "There is no way I can afford these, you know. I didn't send them, so you'll have to guess again."
"I suppose I have an admirer then," Lisa chuckled uncertainly.
"Put them on! I bet they'll fit you amazingly well." Cynthia tossed the pump back at Lisa.
The mere thought of trying the shoes on creeped her out a little, but Lisa didn't want to get into any discussion about that with Cynthia. Pulling on the shoes, Lisa wriggled her toes, feeling the softness of the leather against her chafed skin. It was like they'd been made for her.
Cynthia pouted. "I wish I'd get expensive shoes from someone."
No, you really don't, Lisa thought. One thing was for sure. She'd be locking the door securely tonight.