Hey all. I'm sorry it took me so long to update, but I'm kinda dunning out of steam on this story already, help! And about the skimpy (I dunno what american's call em, but skimpy is the term over here in aus.), she is modelled on a skimpy I once worked with. Kinda tacky, but a lovely woman. I'm sorry if this doesn't sound much like Jordan, but anyways… oh, and thanks everyone for the reviews!
Disclaimer: (oops, I've forgotten this so far) Don't own it. I do own the Duck and Goose, Mel, Jon, Nate and everyone else you don't recognise.
That night, after yet another uneventful day, Jordan found herself stopping her battered old el Camino outside the Duck and Goose, an old pub that had once been run by a friend of her father's. The pub had long since changed hands, but now that she could no longer face the Pogue, it had become one of Jordan's regular haunts.
Opening the door, Jordan walked through to the tinkle of a small bell. A visitor glancing at the weathered wooden floorboards and rippled glass windows of the Duck and Goose could have been forgiven for thinking that this small corner pub was well-loved, and frequented by many respectable men at the end of an honest days work. Jordan had long since lost this misconception. In truth, the Duck and Goose stank of stale tobacco and perspiration, and in the far corner near the dukebox the wallpaper retained a faded yellow urine stain. Miserable men, old, young and in between, littered bar stools and booths around the room. Serving at the bar, next to Jon, the owner, stood a middle-aged woman, wearing only lacy blue lingerie and a pair of knee-high black lace-up boots. Her toned stomach and divertingly pretty face were offset by saggy breasts and the cellulite on her thighs. The skimpy, who Jordan now knew as Mel, looked up from the man she was serving and gave Jordan a fleeting grin.
"Hey, schweetheart, howzabout you let me buy youse a drink?" One of the middle-aged men lolled about precariously on his bar stool as he eyed Jordan.
"Nate, you know well enough to leave Jordan alone." Mel admonished the man. He lowered his head and looked at the woman sheepishly. She turned her attention back to the new arrival. "Hey sweetie. How was today?" Jordan grimaced her response and Mel chuckled sadly, "that bad, huh? What'd the boy scout do this time?" Mel was one of the few people who Jordan talked to about Woody. Or at least, one of the few people she talked to honestly about Woody. As Mel set a tumbler down in front of Jordan and poured an inch of whisky in, Jordan began to chuckle. Mel looked up in surprise, only to start to become alarmed as Jordan's laughter grew. Soon enough, the brunette was laughing so hard the tears were streaming down her face, and she clutched her tumbler so hard it seemed it might break. However, after a short moment Jordan took a large gulp of her drink and the tears changed from those of laughter to violent sobs.
"Jordan, Jordan, what's wrong sweetie?" The look of concern on the skimpy's face would almost have been comical were it not for the situation.
"I… have… absolutely… no idea…" Jordan managed to choke out between sobs. She took another large swig of whisky and swallowed, closing her eyes momentarily and mentally counting to ten. As she managed to get some form of control over herself, she turned back to Mel and said "I love him. And I hate him. But… I love him. He's my best friend. Was my best friend." She nursed her glass and stared miserably into the dregs at the bottom. "I bumped into him in the elevator today. Literally. Almost spilt my coffee all over him. And I looked like crap, because I'd been up all night, crying and drinking. And do you know what he said to me? "Good Morning, Dr. Cavanaugh."" Mel winced and refilled Jordan's glass. "No "Jordan", no "watch where you're going", no "Jo, you look like hell." Nothing. Mel, you have no idea what I'd give to here him tell me "Jo, you look like hell.""
"Oh honey. You know what I think you need?"
"Some bourbon and a bottle of Lortab?" was the wry reply.
"Don't even joke about that Jordan. You need a hot bath, a cup of tea and a good book."
"I think I'm a bit past the 'hot bath' stage here."
Mel was about to reply when Jon called her over to serve a sleazy looking young man seated along the back of the bar.
"I'll be right back sweetie, you just drink your whisky."
"Don't worry Mel, I'm not going anywhere."
Five minutes later, however, Jordan had changed her mind. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a twenty and slapped in onto the bar, calling out to Jon "bottle of Jacks please!". Mel excused herself from her customer and came back across to where her only female customer stood waiting for her order.
"Jordan, what are you doing?"
"Don't worry Mel, I'm going home. I just need something to help me sleep is all."
"Jordan…" Mel's voice carried a warning tone, as if she didn't trust what Jordan was saying.
"I promise Mel, I'm going straight home," she lied.
At 10:14 pm, Woodrow Hoyt was sitting bolt upright on his sofa, staring absentmindedly at the television screen in front of him. His mind, which had been preoccupied with the constant re-run of the look on a certain Boston Medical Examiner's face that morning, was brought out of it's silent reverie by a loud rapping on his door, a dull thud and a muffled expletive.
"Jordan?" Another expletive and the sounds of a fast stagger down the stairs. "Jordan, is that you?" all activity outside his door ceased immediately. Woody quickly stood up and moved to his door. Pressing his ear to the door he could here rough breathing and the occasional creak of the old stairs. He was about to give up, when he heard a faint sound.
"Woody, someone was following me."
Momentarily concern crossed the detective's brow, but as soon as it had arrived, it vanished. He opened his door and looked out to see Jordan resting her forehead against the cool painted wall of the landing.
"Jordan, what are you doing here? Go home."
"There was a guy near my car Woody. So I came back up."
"Jordan, did it… back up?" He let an irritated breath whistle between his teeth.
"Yeah," she said sheepishly, attempting to explain, "I came here to talk to you. But I, I couldn't."
"You're drunk." His accusation caused a brief look of pain to cross her face.
"No, I just had a bit…" She followed his gaze that was pointedly focused on the almost-empty bottle of Jacks that dangled from her hand. She giggled self-consciously. "Okay, maybe a bit."
"Jordan, go home. I don't have time for this. I'm tired of your games. I'm tired of you." The detective's face was set as hard as steel.
"But Woody, there was a guy, near my… my… y'know… the thing downstairs. Car." The detective's heart began to melt as he saw the puzzled look on Jordan's face. But he straightened himself up and narrowed his eyes at her, his voice becoming dangerously quiet as he surveyed the wreckage of the woman in front of him.
"Dr. Cavanaugh, has it ever occurred to you that the world does not revolve around you. I'm done with you, I thought I had made that perfectly clear. Now if you don't mind, I have work in the morning." At the shell-shocked look on the woman's face, his heart once again softened momentarily. "Go home, Jordan. Just, go." With that, he shut and bolted his door, leaving the drunken woman's heart to break.