Sunday, May 11, 2014

Chapter One Nickolas The Grant Brothers Book One 5/11/14


Nick looked across his desk at the young woman applying for the position.
Okay, I must have heard her wrong. There’s no way she just said what I think she said.
I’m just tired. I’ve conducted at least twenty of these interviews today and I’m just a
little punch drunk. Hiring a receptionist/secretary is not as easy as I thought. Let’s try
this again.
“You came here today for this interview, why, again?” Same question really,
just a bit more...specific.
“I said my parole officer said I had to come. She said that I needed to make
‘amends,’ or some other crap. I don’t know. Look, Randall didn’t take anything
from you, so I don’t know why she said I had to come here precisely. I told her I
thought it was a bad idea, but she was insistent.”
He just stared. Okay. Take. She said she did not take anything from him. A thief.
Why on earth would I want to hire a thief?
“I haven’t the foggiest idea either. Ms. Morgan, I think this is a mistake.
Maybe my brothers know your, ummm...parole officer and set this up as a joke
of some sort.”
Nickolas was going to kill Damon. This sounded just like something he
would do. He gathered up Becky Morgan’s file and closed it. He stood up to
walk her to the door to his office, but got no further than just standing up. He’d
toss it in the trash after she left. She stood up, too, and pulled down her miniskirt
again. She had done that several times already. Well, he would give her
points for that; she was not stupid enough to believe he would hire her just
because she had a nice set of, shapely legs and a pretty face.
Her eyes were a shade of blue he had never seen before, almost silver. Her
hair hung in a, fat braid down her back. Wisps of it curled around her face and,
slim neck, making her swipe at it annoyingly. Her lips were full and kissable,
without a trace of gloss or lipstick. Freckles danced across her nose and along her
high cheekbones. She was tall, probably five-ten in her bare feet. She’d just fit
under his chin if he were to stand next to her. Her breasts were full, if the view
from where he was sitting was any indication. Nick shook his head. What am I
thinking? Focus here, idiot. On her, not her body, damn it.
“Yeah, could be. Well, you’ll tell Ms. Parker that I came by before you throw
out my application, won’t you? Yeah, I can see you eyeing the circular filing
cabinet. She said to have you call her, that you’d know the number and all.”
“Margaret Parker? Margaret Parker is your parole officer?” He sat back
down, harder than he expected, and clipped his tongue with his teeth coming
together. Shit!
“Yeah, she said you knew her or some other sh…stuff. You okay? You look
sort of ... well, I was gonna say stiff, but that’s probably not possible. You already
look like a rod has replaced your spine.” She was glaring at him.
His mother. His mother sent him a thief as a potential employee. He opened
her file again and really looked at it. He was going to ignore the reference to his
spine and the rod; his brothers had been saying something similar to that to him
for the past six months. Then, he leaned back in his chair and began to massage
his forehead right between his eyes. Why did the tension always start there?
There was an annoyance in the middle of his chest too.
Okay, let’s get to the bottom of this. He sat upright again and forced himself to
focus on the task at hand. “This is an investment firm, Ms. Morgan. We handle
other people’s money, a lot of money, every day. Tell me what you stole and
why?” He wanted to get to the bottom of this quickly so he could truthfully tell
his mother that he had interviewed Ms. Morgan, but wouldn’t be able to hire her.
He looked up at her when he didn’t hear anything from her for a few
“I didn’t steal anything. Randall did. I wasn’t even convicted. At least not of
that—I didn’t even know that was going on. I didn’t go to jail for that anyway. I
went to jail for murder, Mr. Pompous Ass.”
Murder? Pompous ass? Whoa!
“Hold on a minute. You went to jail for murder?”
“Yeah, but not for long. They let me off. I was ... I can’t remember what it’s
called, but they figured out I was telling the truth and that it was self-defense. He
deserved to die.” Her voice was hard; he could hear the barely controlled anger.
“Who deserved to die?” Nick’s head was spinning with all this information.
Die? Self-defense? What the...?
“Some guy. It’s none of your business since you’ve already decided I’m not
good enough for your precious firm.”
He watched as she leaned over and picked up her bag, and he got a very nice
view down her blouse. Oh yeah, those were very nice and full. Her bag, the
thing was really too big to call a purse, was slung it over her shoulder as she
stood back up. She was halfway to the door when he cleared his throat.
“Are you leaving? Now? I thought you said that you had to come here for
this?” He stood, moved to the other side of his desk, and leaned against it. His
headache was now thrumming through his body, making him slightly sick to his
She stood by the door, her hand on the knob and her back to him. Even from
across the room, he could see that she was trembling. From what, he wasn’t sure;
anger came to mind first, but why she was mad, he didn’t know. He’d been the
one who had been tricked into this mess.
“Yes. Yes, I’m leaving now. I’m leaving before I say something I’ll regret.
Maybe I’ll regret, I don’t know. Maybe I won’t regret it until tomorrow or the
next day, if ever, you ... you stupid jerk. Have a good day, Mr. Investment
Banker Grant.” She opened the door without a backward glance and closed it
quietly behind her.
Nick sat there for a good two minutes without a thought in his head and
stared at the door she’d just left through. Then he jumped up and called the
lobby. He knew he’d be cutting it close, but he wasn’t going to let her get away
with that last comment. Jerk indeed.
“David, its Nick Grant. There’s a young woman coming down. I need you to
detain her. Hummm...nice body, she has a head of dark red hair, a short skirt,
huge pink bag. Tell her I’ll be down momentarily.” He hung up, confident in
David Tulle’s ability as his security guard to keep her there until he made
another phone call.
“Mom, it’s Nick, your son. Want to explain to me why you sent me an ex-con
to interview?” He was moving toward the stairs, knowing that if he took the
elevator, he’d lose the connection with her. And he wanted to hear her reasons
before he talked with Ms. Morgan again.

Tune In Next Sunday for Chapter Two 

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