Page 8 of Stir

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.”

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