Page 56 of Concerted Chaos

Yes, accident. That’s the rumor the FBI supplied. My staff signed a card for me and sent me a huge bouquet of flowers. Whitney texted a couple oftimes to check on me, but that’s it. I’m not annoyed she didn’t try to visit. Maybe we’re developing a friendship—we’ve gone out to a few happy hoursand saw a movie together once—but we’re not close enough for her to witness my convalescence.

“Luckily, I survived with just scratches.” I hold up one arm to show her my fancy new scars. It’d be a lot cooler if I could tell the real story. These? Oh yes, one time I was in an explosion and narrowly escaped being blown to bits.No big deal.

“Wow. Now you and your brother have both cheated death. That’s amazing.” Her tone is just sarcastic enough to make me wonder if she’s minimizing the severity of my being in a car crash, but my lack of major injuries does make it seem like it wasn’t so bad. She wouldn’t have any idea how utterly the car was destroyed. Fortunately for Powell, he maintains full coverage insurance. And now he’s rather excitedly shopping for a replacement. The guy still has eight other vehicles; there’s no need to be greedy. But what can I say? He’s a collector.

Percival—yes, I’m definitely calling him that from now on—tells us both to be quiet. He’s studying my files and working his magic. Or perhaps he’s helping himself to the rest of my money. Either way, he’s doing something that requires his full attention.

“Fine, I’ll be at the front desk,” I tell him. I’d prefer to go get a workout in—my first since the “accident”—but it’s probably better to not be sweaty and stinky if I have to return to my office and help with anything. It’s just courtesy. “See you later, Percival.”

“Where’d you find that guy?” Whitney asks as she walks through the gym with me.

“He came recommended by a friend.” Not quite the truth, but not quite a lie. Agent Benítez isn’t my friend, but I mostly trust her. And I kind of like her, especially after seeing her adorable reaction to meeting Brixley. It humanized her.

“My brother is an IT guy. I would have called him, if I’d known you were hiring out.”

“Maybe next time.” I’m only saying that to appease her. Once the FBI is done with their investigation, my computers will only be accessed by services vetted by Mike.

“Speaking of my brother,” she says, even though we weren’t. “He’s in town visiting.”

“Great. Did you talk to Owen about taking time off?” Owen is the manager, so he creates the schedules. I don’t. And I don’t like employees using their relationship with me to try and change their hours.

“I already made those arrangements. I only brought him up because I think you two might like each other.”

“Oh?” I’m not interested in dating anyone, no matter what Brix keeps implying. But with Brixley leaving tomorrow evening, and Powell constantly singing—he says he’s rehearsing, but I suspect he’s doing it to annoy Mike—it would be nice to escape the house.

“I was thinking maybe we could go out to dinner the day after tomorrow.”

“The three of us?”

“No, you should bring someone for me,” she says with a wink, a wink that gives everything away—she’s bringing her brother, so I should bring mine. She is doing exactly the same thing everybody else does, using me to access Powell. I saw this coming, and I’m not falling into this trap. This isn’t the only time she’s hinted about meeting Powell, despite the no-fangirling clause in her contract. She tried to invite herself over to my house before too, but I cut that off. I don’t need someone taking advantage of me. I went through enough of that in high school. And during my one semester of college. And everywhere people find out that I have a celebrity sibling.

“Anyone?” I ask, silently daring her to outright state her goal. I had enjoyed spending time with her outside of work, so I’m sort of hoping she proves me wrong.

“Well, not that Percival guy. He seems kind of odd. And I think he lied to you about his name. Von Sharkington sounds more like a gamer tag.”

While I’m glad I employ staff members smart enough to realize that was a fake name, I’m also mildly disappointed. I suppose I should have come up with a more plausible nom de plume. John Smith-with-an-I or something.

“I wasn’t even considering him. You make the reservations and I’ll find someone for you.” Not Powell though. I have a better idea.

After an hour of standing around pretending to be working, but actually worrying, I am summoned back to my office. Agent Walters is leaning back in my desk chair, staring at the screen.

“Find anything out?” I ask hopefully.

“You donate more money to charity each month than I earn in a year,” he says. I doubt it. I mean, I do give a lot away, but not in FBI-salary level quantities.

“If that’s true, then you need a better job, Percival.”

“Cassidy.”

“What?”

“I was correcting you. My name is Cassidy. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

I’m trying not to laugh at how childish it was for him to conceal that from me before. Nothing is wrong with having a unisex name. “I wouldn’t have made fun of you. We share an awesome name. But I’m older than you, so I get to keep it. You’re stuck with Percival now.”

He finally tears his eyes away from the computer monitor. “What makes you think you’re older than me?”

Is it rude if I say his babyface? Or how he dresses like an intern who just rolled out of bed? Or the way his colleagues treat him, like he’s a newbie fresh out of the academy? “I just assumed,” I finally answer tactfully.

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