Chapter 9: Vodka and Ghosts

 

The Brownhardt was never quiet, not even in the heavy warmth of a Kansas City July night. The air clung thick to the seventh floor, pressing into Jaxson Lee’s sleek, meticulously neat apartment like humidity had manners and knew to whisper.

Jaxson stood near the window, phone to his ear, speaking in smooth, fluent Spanish, every syllable sharp and controlled.

“Sí, lo entiendo,” he said, pacing slowly across the polished wood floor.
“Mañana está bien. Sí… claro. Gracias.”

Yes, I understand.
Tomorrow is fine.
Thank you.

He hung up just as Scott Ramsey shuffled out of his bedroom, shirt untucked, apron for Chubby’s Diner tied loosely around his waist.

Scott leaned against the wall. “Man, I’ll never get used to hearing you talk like that.”

Jaxson raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you were born in Mexico,” Scott said. “Where’d you learn Spanish?”

Jaxson opened the fridge, pulling out a bottle of mineral water. “Here and there.”

Scott crossed his arms. “So, like school?”

“No.”

“From friends?”

Jaxson placed two glasses on the counter, filled only one. “From life.”

Scott frowned. “You never talk about when you were a kid.”

Jaxson leaned against the counter, eyes unreadable. “You ask a lot of questions for someone running late.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “You always do this. Answer every question with a question. You gotta give me something.”

Jaxson’s mouth formed a soft, amused smile. “I always give you something. Wisdom, guidance, breakfast sometimes. What more could you want?”

Scott was about to respond when the phone rang.

Jaxson answered immediately. “Yes. I see. So I should expect them tomorrow? Good. I appreciate it.” He hung up.

Scott stared. “Expect who tomorrow?”

Jaxson took a slow sip of water. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

Scott blinked. “What?”

Jaxson repeated the question with a perfectly calm face. “Anywhere. No limits.”

Scott huffed but played along. “Somewhere warm. Tropical. Beaches. Palm trees. Coconut drinks with umbrellas.”

Jaxson nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Good choice.”

A knock at the door interrupted them.

Scott grabbed his bag and hugged Jaxson around the waist — something he always did, something Jaxson never stopped allowing.

“See you tonight,” Scott murmured. “Don’t wait up.”

He opened the door to find Carla Triplett standing there, cup of gas station coffee in hand, hair pinned up with more bobby pins than engineering logic should allow.

“Oh thank God you’re here,” she breathed as she stepped inside without being asked. “I’ve been freaking out.”

Jaxson smiled patiently. “Good evening, Carla.”

Carla was already pacing. “Do you know Alicia? That girl always hanging around Faces? With the glitter eyeliner and purple boots? She hasn’t shown up in days.”

Scott paused near the doorway. “Yeah, she’s… been missing.”

Carla waved her coffee wildly. “Well no one seems to be taking it seriously! Mark says the cops haven’t even talked to him. I swear, if one more girl vanishes—”

Jaxson’s voice cut gently through her panic. “Alicia will be found.”

Carla stared at him. “Like Melissa was found? Under the Broadway bridge? Throat bruised? You want me to feel good about that?”

Jaxson didn’t flinch. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I have to, Jaxson. Someone has to care. If the police don’t, then I’m going to do—”

He reached out, resting a steady hand on her shoulder. “They are looking into it. My colleagues tell me they’re working very hard. Let them do their job.”

Carla’s eyes widened. “Colleagues? You mean the cops that walked you out of the building this morning?”

Scott froze. Carla clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god—Jaxson, did they arrest you?”

Jaxson chuckled softly. “No. It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding.”

Carla stepped closer, voice trembling. “I hope you’re being careful. You helped me when no one else would. When I was three days from eviction, you paid the landlord so I could stay. You didn’t even know me.”

Jaxson’s expression softened. “You were my neighbor. That was enough.”

Carla blinked away sudden emotion. “If you ever need anything—anything—you ask me. I don’t care what it is.”

Jaxson kissed her cheek lightly. “Thank you. Now go home. Get rest. It’s late.”

Carla hugged him tight, nodded to Scott, and slipped out.

Scott left moments later, hurrying down the hall.

When the door finally closed, the apartment fell quiet again.

Jaxson locked the deadbolt, walked to the kitchen, and poured himself a vodka tonic—heavy on the vodka, light on everything else. He stood by the window as the ice melted too quickly in the summer heat.

Outside, the night pulsed with voices and laughter. A sudden shout, then something slamming.

Across the alley, through a narrow apartment window, Jaxson saw two silhouettes. A man and a woman — arms raised, bodies tense, shouting so loud the words might punch through glass.

A long, sharp crack — something breaking.

For a moment, the world shifted.

He wasn’t in Kansas City. He was nine years old in a home. Looking through the cracked door.

His mother’s cigarette glowed like an ember in the dark.

“You ruined my life, Martin,” Frances hissed. “I could’ve married Wade Hardy. I could’ve had a good life. But no. I got stuck with you and your faggot son.”

Martin’s voice shook, angry, wounded. “He’s not—he’s just a kid.”

Frances laughed — a sharp, cruel sound. “Everyone knows what he is.”

Martin slammed a fist on the table. “He’s nine.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She blew smoke in his face. “This town sees everything. And I should’ve left you, Martin. Should’ve run the minute I realized who you really were.”

Jaxson felt his own breath catch.

Back in the present, a loud crash echoed from the alley apartment.

Jaxson flinched — but when he looked again, the silhouettes had changed. The couple was kissing now, desperate and messy, fighting turned to something else entirely.

Jaxson huffed a tiny, ironic laugh.

“Love,” he murmured. “The oldest illusion.”

He finished the drink in one swallow, the vodka burning warm down his chest.
The night pressed in, thick and heavy.

He set the glass in the sink, turned off the lamp, and walked toward his bedroom.

Tomorrow, they were coming.And he would be ready.

© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.