Diana climbed the stairs half an hour later. Even though he’d mentioned that he was trying to build his physique, something was off about Carl going off on two to three hour runs at night the past few evenings – and that he’d be up early in the morning coming back from an intense outdoor exercise session again the next morning. It seemed to fit with her suspicions, but she couldn’t be sure yet.
She saw that Jordan's door was cracked open, a light, twanging metallic sound coming from inside. Curious, she tapped at the door, and it opened further to show Jordan reclining, eyes closed, on a plain bed, covers rumpled. Jordan had his broad shoulders and his head against the wall, one leg bent to help keep his body upright. His hands wrapped around the body of a red electric guitar, from which the barely audible twanging came. She heard only the sounds of the naked strings without the boost from the amp – only Jordan could hear this through his headphones which were connected to the small box that the guitar was also plugged into. The amazing thing was the face; it wasn't his. At least, not the one she’d come to recognize from the short time she’d known him.
The furrow between his eyebrows had disappeared, his dark, slightly open lips were fuller, more sensuous. The tightness she thought was permanent in his jawline was gone entirely. He was a handsome man when he wasn't wearing his usual expressions of anger, frustration, irritation, suspicion, and skepticism. His eyes had never smiled, but closed they seemed lost in the bliss of a sound only he could truly hear. She tried to make out the tune, listening carefully to the faint twanging of the unamplified metal strings. She remembered the words first: "I close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment's gone..." then, to her surprise, he opened his eyes and leaned over to reach a knob, but his movement was arrested when he saw her staring at him. His arm remained for a moment in midair as he appraised her, then he turned away and made the adjustment, removed the headphones from his head and put them on the amp.
When his face came back around, it was hard again. She was about to leave, but he motioned her to a pillow lying on the floor. Other than the bed, several pillows on the floor, a radio alarm clock, and a glob of clay presently affixed to the wall in a flattened lump (by the myriad blotches on the wall, she suspected he threw it around a bit) there was nothing in the room. Even the wardrobe, half open, was well-organized but virtually empty. There was no dresser.
She realized he was staring at her and waiting, so she sat down on the pillow he had gestured at. He continued staring. "This is my break," he said finally. "By state law, an employee gets fifteen minutes for every four hours. I take it in a lump sum, an hour and a half a day, every evening. The door's usually locked, but it hasn't recovered from the last slam I gave it."
He was still staring, and she felt rather uncomfortable, as if caught in an act of voyeurism. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I've interrupted. I should leave," she said, rising to her feet and turning to the door.
He was silent for a moment before he spoke. "That would depend. Are you work or pleasure?"
Diana spun around. His eyebrows had drawn together and his lips had narrowed further. Something that she couldn't identify drew her to the weightlifter, though she knew she didn’t dare get involved with either of the men. She’d been sent to scout out the werewolf pack, and told there might be another living on his own. She was beginning to suspect it was one of these two, and she would be expected to identify which one, then ensure he was executed.
She weighed his question as his eyes passed over her body like she was a painting at the Louvre. "I'd like to think I'm not work, but I… I'm… not sure if I want to call myself pleasure…"
Jordan's head snapped back almost as if he'd been slapped. "I'm sorry. I'm not a good host, and that was rude. If you sit down, I'll try to be… more decent." He unplugged the headphones and smiled with half of his face, then shook his head. "I wouldn't blame you if you left."
She wasn't sure it was wise, but she had a job to do, so she returned to sit down. He motioned at the door and she closed it with the toe of her shoe, thinking she could scream, if she had to, before he could get to her. She was pretty sure Carl was a decent man, though what else he was remained undetermined. Jordan’s hands were straying to the frets again as if he were unable to stop them, and she recognized the song this time.
"'Dust in the Wind,'" she said.
He nodded. "It's all I know." He continued playing while she watched and listened.
She watched his face began to relax again until she spoke. "Is the guitar all you own?"
Eyes closed, he nodded. "I try not to own things. They break.”
She watched his hand change position with the chords as his right hand plucked strings with alternate fingers, like a dance. "And the guitar?" The music was still quiet, but distinct now.
"From a friend." His face continued to fall into softer contours.
"He didn't want it anymore?" She asked.
Jordan didn't answer until he had segued into “Love Song” by The Cure. "He broke." She was watching his face when he said it, and would have missed the slight clenching of jaws if she hadn't been looking for clues to his thoughts.
Jordan's eyes opened and he gave her a wry smile. "Like classical?" he asked.
She nodded slowly.
He adjusted the dial on the amp with a wry grin. “I don’t know any yet, but it’s in the title of this one.” Next, he played a pop instrumental called “Classical Gas”. It sounded excellent up to the point in the piece where the orchestra normally took over. His fingers grappled with the fretboard, trying to get all of the notes in, and fumbled slightly. He watched his hands intently, then went into quick arpeggios, knuckles turning white. He shook his head with frustration, his lips thinned past visibility, and he put the guitar down.
“Giving up so easily?” She asked with a smile.
He looked startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Uh, just… my father was a perfectionist. He tried to beat it into me, and sometimes I think he succeeded.”
He looked over at her then, his eyes an open window into a pain that looked as ancient as time itself. "Diana…" he said slowly, then stopped.
"What?" She asked, puzzled by the change in his demeanor. He had a primal quality, but she’d also noticed his mind was sharper than she expected in a man that seemed to live for nothing but bodybuilding, judging by the size of his muscles.
He looked into her eyes for quite some time, then looked down. When he looked up again his expression was a closed door. "What are you doing here?" He looked like the same Jordan that had picked her up at the station.
"First, tell me why you lied," she said with her most charming smile, buying a moment to think. She wondered how much he might have figured out about her. She arranged her body to show off her hips and legs.
Jordan raised his eyebrows, undistracted by her posture. Damn, she thought, That usually works. She tried to smile warmly, "You know quite a few songs."
He looked at the guitar, then turned back to her with a lopsided smile. "Oh... ” he said mischievously, “I didn't lie, I was just speaking metaphorically. That flaw apparently didn’t get beaten out of me." His eyebrows drew down further. He was leaning on his side now, and she felt his eyes wander over her body again. “Why are you here?” He asked bluntly.
She leaned back against the wall and nodded. "I'm here to see the lay of the property, what kind of animals can be expected to pass through, and how often. Viability for ecotourism and potential profit margins." She hoped that providing some details on her cover story would increase his confidence in her. Both Jordan and Carl seemed wary of her, and she had too much work to do out in the woods, hunting down the werewolves that were in this area, and figuring out Jordan and Carl. She was the hunter – always – and she needed to make sure she didn’t become prey.