Stir (The Sizzle TV Series Book 5)

Chapter 3 – Nic

Reputation is everything.

Take my brother, Barry. He’s been coasting on goodwill from his fraternity brothers for years, using the connections he made in college to get himself into meetings he’d never get on his own. Took a page out of dear old Dad’s book for that one, and why not? It works for them. Doesn’t matter that he’s a casual, if disinterested, bully, or if he can barely tell the difference between pro se and pro bono.

Or take my father, for example. Depending on who you ask, he’s a stand-up guy. Best lawyer in town, get you out of anything. The old boys’ network is alive and well, and both my brother and my father, Nicolas Pendergrass Sr., have made their lives and living out of it. Although, Dad’s reputation among his employees is a different story.

The only employee in my office is my personal assistant, Natalie Casteel. She was fifth in an exasperating line of temp agency hires and the only one who didn’t spend all her time on her cell phone, arrive constantly late, like the first one, or flirt like the third.

No doubt my reputation among those five—three women and two men—wouldn’t be good. I heard the complaints under their breath, the phone conversations they wrapped up as soon as I walked back in from lunch. Hard-ass, they said. Stick up his ass. Come to think of it, there were an awful lot of comments about my ass. Doubly so from number three, right up until I had to let him go.

Natalie, bless her, does her job, which lets me do mine, and we go about our business. No drama, no fuss. Simple. Easy.

“Hey, boss,” she says, smiling as she sets the coffee on my desk, along with the files I asked her to retrieve from my apartment. I try to avoid sending her there, but this client has been demanding my attention all week, and I want to wrap this up today. And while I trust her in my private space, I have no desire to push my luck and risk her running into my new next-door neighbor.

For the three hundred and seventy-seven days she’s been working here, never once has she mentioned a boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, or lover of any kind.

“Good afternoon,” I say belatedly, thanking her for the coffee and the errand. We touch base on her tasks for the afternoon, and when my office door closes on her way out, I take a deep breath.

Three hundred and seventy-seven days, five hours, and forty minutes.

Not that I’m counting.

She’s changed something about herself again or is planning to. The last time I’d seen that particular smile, she’d come to work the next day with her dark hair all shiny, shorter, and different. It bounced and curled around her shoulders, and I wanted to wind it around my fingers to find out if it was as soft as it looked.

The phone on my desk rings. I answer immediately. Anything to get my mind off things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

“Pendergrass Law, Nic speaking.”

“Son, that’s about the dumbest way to answer your phone I have ever heard.”

I close my eyes. Check the caller ID next time, Nic. “Hi, Dad.”

“Why on earth do you pay that tubby secretary if you’re still answering your own damn phone? I’d like to know.”

I don’t bother answering the insult to Natalie or his questions. Nicolas Pendergrass Sr. doesn’t like to be interrupted, which means this conversation will end faster if I let him get to the point.

“And speaking of answering phones,” he gruffs. “Where’s Barry?”

I blink and realize he’s waiting for a response this time.

“I haven’t talked to him.”

“Well, what the hell is he up to? I’ve left messages. I know he keeps in touch with you. You tell him from me, he better call me back. Boy’s got some explaining to do.”

That boy is over thirty years old. “I haven’t seen him,” I say. It’s true; I haven’t actually seen my brother in weeks. “If that’s all, Dad, I’ve got to get back to work.”

He snorts. “Like you’re covered up with clients. You want to get into real law, you come work for me,” he says. “Instead of twiddling your thumbs with those one-off nickel-and-dimers.”

“I’ll tell Barry you want to talk if I see him.”

Dad hangs up without another word.

Thirty-four years of abbreviated conversations taught me long ago not to expect otherwise. At this point, I’m just happy he cuts the diatribes short.

My going to law school made him happy, but he’s never quite recovered from his disappointment at my choosing to strike out on my own instead of joining him in the fast-lane corporate takeover life. Barry, likewise. Not law school, but an expensive MBA from a famous Ivy League school, and he isn’t exactly setting the world on fire. I don’t know how my mom can stand it, but I guess all that money and privilege makes up for a lot.

A glance at my cell phone shows another missed call from my brother. Everything I said to Dad was technically true, but Barry had called several times the last couple of weeks, always when I’m at work, never leaving a message. Something is going on, and I don’t want any part of it, but I tap through to hear the voicemail anyway because he’s my little brother and eventually, he’ll stop being cryptic and get to the point.

“Nic, call me back. It’s important, man… Look, I’m in a mess. It’s not a legal thing”—Barry’s nervous laugh sounds a little manic and clues me in that whatever he’s gotten into, it’s definitely not legal, goddamn it—“and anyway, we need to catch up. Talk soon. Call me back.”

I set the phone down and pull my glasses off to wipe the already spotless lenses. I wonder, idly, if it’s time to go back to contact lenses, but the heavy, black, Clark Kent-ish frames seem to appeal to my clients, so the glasses stay for now.

Barry’s in trouble. He’s in it deep enough that our dad’s aware of it. And it’s very probably something illegal. At the very least, not aboveboard. I’m all too aware those are very different things.

All that adds up to none of my business. Nobody’s in mortal danger, and they are, for all intents and purposes, grown men. Satisfied that this is not my circus and these are not my monkeys, I tap the button and delete the message.

A short while later,I open the door that separates my office from our little reception area.

“Right on time,” says Natalie, passing me the print copies I’d requested. “I was just about to bring these in. Volunteering tonight?”

I nod. I never like the idea of leaving Natalie alone to close up on the days I leave early for my office hours at Legal Aid, but our office building was still full of people, many of whom we both know by name. Especially Natalie, since she used to work for the TV network upstairs.

“You okay to close up?”

She grins, and as always, the dimple in her left cheek threatens to undo me. “You always ask me that. I really don’t mind. Grayson or Kenna will walk down if I need something.”

I glare at the door to keep from staring at that dimple. “Just checking. If it ever makes you uncomfortable, I can shift my hours.”

“It’s no trouble, boss,” she says. A building heat low in my gut winds and tightens when she says “boss” and it’s time to go. At this hour, I have the elevator to myself, and I spend the ride reminding myself of the parade of secretaries, executive assistants, and personal assistants my father has been through—more than a dozen, and those are just the ones I know about. All women. Not all of them were particularly young, but all of them were attractive. He made damned sure of that. And none of them lasted long. It took me years to piece together why he had such a reputation as a lady-killer when he’s been married to my mother for nearly forty years.

I’ll be damned if I turn out like him.

The Audi R8 in the parking garage downstairs is the one exception to that rule. My parents taught me everything I know about the finer things in life. Most of it’s bullshit, but the man knows his cars, and he made sure Barry and I knew them, too. The Audi had been a gift for passing the bar exam before Dad realized I was serious about not joining him in the corporate world. Extravagant, yes, but damn, I love that car.

The parking garage is still cold but free of ice or frost, at least. Not much longer until springtime, and I’ll be able to take her for a real drive. Coming up behind the car, I don’t notice the note until my hand is reaching for the door.

Plain printer paper, standard size, folded up into a sloppy square. I pull the gloves from my pocket, put them on, and gently ease the paper from beneath the wiper blade on the windshield. I pay for a premium spot, but the parking garage is otherwise open to the public. Security chases off anybody who tries to leave flyers on the cars but looking around, mine is the only one I can see with a note on it.

The gloves are overkill, but it never hurt to think ahead.

The note is short, typed. No spelling errors, I notice.

Twenty grand in cash, 447 Industrial Park Way, by 6 p.m. Friday, or I tell the world what a fucking perv you are.

I glance around, my skin going hot, then cold at the idea that the note-giver might be waiting to make sure I got the message. This early on a weekday afternoon, the parking garage is full of cars, empty of people.

I fold the paper, tucking it carefully into my coat pocket, and consider my options as I lock the Audi and head back up to my office.

Natalie looks up as I push open the door.

“Nic?”

I shake my head. “Need to make a phone call. Won’t take long. Don’t leave just yet.”

She nods, her eyes wide. I want to reassure her, gather her up in my arms, hold her, and chase that wariness from her expression.

She isn’t mine, and no power on earth will get me to cross that line between us. Still, she’s my employee and mine to protect while she’s here. The filth printed on that white page in my pocket will not touch her, not as long as I’m still breathing.

“On second thought,” I say, “it looks like I’m going to be a little bit late getting across town. Would you mind stopping back by the apartment and feeding Cat?” Natalie’s apartment is only a few blocks from mine. Sending her to my place twice in one day is… let’s go with suboptimal, but given the circumstances, it can’t be avoided.

“Of course,” she says. “Do you want me to call and let them know you’ll be late?”

“No, I’ll text Frederick and let him know. I appreciate it, Natalie. I’m sorry to have to send you right back over there.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she says, trying to smile, but it’s thin. She knows something’s up.

“I appreciate it. You go on ahead; I’ll lock up tonight.” We say goodbye as she gathers her things.

I close the office door behind me, pulling up the contacts list in my phone for a number I haven’t used in a long time.

He answers on the second ring. “Nic Pendergrass.” His voice is deep, Southern-slow. Deceptively so. I’d told him more than once he ought to try voice acting, but Rand is a private guy. It was why we’d gotten along so well.

“Hello, Rand,” I say. “I hope you’re well.”

He laughs. The familiar sound is a comfort, calming the unease I felt since I picked up that note on my windshield.

“You didn’t call to catch up,” he says. “No lie, I’m a little disappointed. What’s the trouble?”

“I’m being blackmailed.”

A beat of silence. “No shit.”

“No shit.”

Another pause. I hear rustling paper in the background. “Tell me.”

“Somebody left a note on the windshield of my car. Plain white, eight point five by eleven-inch, standard copier paper as far as I can tell.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to remember everything I can about finding it, knowing he’ll want every detail I can provide, no matter how tedious.

“Send me a photo,” he says. “Unless you want me to come to you.”

“No, I’m on my way out of the office.”

“Office parking garage?” Rand asks.

“It’s open to the public.”

He asks a couple of questions about the garage, which floor, and whether I saw anybody nearby when I found the note. Until he finally asks the big one.

“What’s it say, Nic? Word for word.”

I take the note out of my pocket and read it to him, word for word.

Rand swears.

“Now you see why I didn’t call the cops first,” I say. I knew he’d understand.

“I get it,” he says. “But you still have to report this.”

“Yeah.” I don’t like it, but I’m not an idiot.

“Send me that photo,” he says. “I’ll get to work on it.”

“Not sure I can afford you these days,” I say. Climbing the corporate ladder isn’t his thing, either, which is why Rand is a private investigator.

“Probably not,” he says blithely. “What do you legal types call it? Pro bono.”

“Rand.”

“Nic,” he drawls, mocking me. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be okay.” I close my eyes, just for a minute. “Somebody knows about me. God knows how.”

“Any idea who it might be?”

“None.” I was bloody careful. My last relationship ended nearly two years ago, and while I had a few of lovers since, hookup culture isn’t my style. It’s been a while since I’ve entertained anybody but my own hand.

Three hundred and seventy-eight days, to be exact. Not that I’m counting.

“Anybody new in your life?”

“No,” I say. “Well, I have a new neighbor, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean,” says Rand.

“Finn moved in next door around Christmas. I don’t see him much.”

“Finn?”

“Finnegan Hale.” I’d seen his name on an ad the mailman left in my box by mistake one time. “Late twenties or early thirties, blue eyes, dark hair, maybe six feet.”

“Oh, really,” says Rand. The drawl is back. I can feel a flush creeping up my neck.

“Knock it off.”

“Oh, no, sir,” he says. I tug at my tie.

“He’s harmless,” I say, perfectly aware that I barely know the man but trying to move the conversation along. The tone in Rand’s voice is one I’d heard a lot back in college and despite the stress of the moment, I’m feeling every one of those three hundred and seventy-eight days.

“We’ll see,” says Rand, the interest in his voice dialing back down. “Text me his address when you send the photo of the note. I’ll find out what I can and get back to you in the next day or two.”

“Rand—”

“Don’t even start, you sentimental sonovabitch,” he says. “I’ve got work to do, and I bet you do, too. Call the police, file the report. We’ll suss this bastard out.”

I knew he’d get it. “Thanks, Rand. I owe you.”

He snorts. “Bet your ass.” He hangs up.

We bonded over keeping our secrets secret in the Deep South. His parents are deeply religious, while my family lives their lives for the public. Neither of us had much privacy growing up, so college was an education in more ways than one.

I kept my private life private, and that went double for my sexuality. Who I go to bed with is nobody’s business but the man or woman with me.

I texted Frederick at Legal Aid and then called the police. I sent Rand all the information he asked for while I waited for the cops. They met me down in the parking garage and berated me for moving the note, but an hour later, I was finally able to leave. By then, the rest of the building had cleared out, and I was grateful I didn’t have to worry about getting home to feed Cat. She has her routine, same as I have mine, and we don’t much care for having it disrupted.

Of course, a man doesn’t get blackmailed every day. Exceptions must be made.

The note gave absolutely no indication who might be interested in my sex life, and while I have pissed off some people professionally—no self-respecting lawyer could claim otherwise—I can’t think of any personal enemies. No scorned ex-lovers or anything like that. So, who the hell found out that I’m bisexual and that I want to keep it private? Who knows I want that so much I’d be willing to pay for it?