Due South (The Compass series Book 5)

by Tamsen Parker

  Goodness knows we don’t want to get in trouble with the Municipal Securities Rulemaking Board. We just got accredited as a municipal advisor, and we can’t blow this on our first time out. I bounce the ball against the wall again, thankful I’ve got an office on the outside of the building because this is one of my best techniques to get my brain to sort information. It’s not effortless by any means, but there’s something about the thunk, thunk, thunk of the felt against the wall that clears pathways in my brain and sometimes allows disparate thoughts to come together in a way that makes sense.

  As the ball leaves my fingertips, there’s a rap on my doorframe and standing there is my brother of all people. Looking like one of those guys in a television drama who’s supposed to be the bad boy with a heart of gold with his long hair and worn jeans. I’m startled by his appearance, but more so by the ball that’s bounced back to thwack me in the head. Ow.

  “Darren, what’re you doing here? How’d you even get here?”

  “It’s called Uber, you square.”

  Of course.

  “What’s going on? Is everything okay? Mom and Dad?”

  “Yeah, yeah, they’re fine.”

  Darren shoves his hands in his pocket and looks around my office—the piles of papers on my desk, my desktop in the corner, and my shelves of regulatory manuals and reference books. It’s not glamorous, but he looks reasonably impressed.

  “Not a bad setup you’ve got here, bro.”

  “Uh, thanks. Do you need something? Money?”

  Darren shakes his head. Under the fluorescents, reddish highlights show through the otherwise inoffensive brown of his scruffy hair and three-day-growth of beard. “Why do you assume I need money?”

  Because you don’t work, you haven’t signed up for the money you’re eligible to collect, and you rarely talk to me otherwise? But all I say is, “Never mind. What are you doing here? And who let you in?”

  Since it’s just me and Lucy in the office and we’re so absorbed in our tasks, we usually lock the door. Anyone could walk in and rob us blind.

  “I came to see my big brother. Do I need another reason?” Darren staggers in and dumps himself in the chair in front of my desk. His mobility is better than it was right after the accident, but it’s not great. I wonder how much better it could be if he took advantage of all the resources on offer.

  “You don’t need one, but you must have one. You never visit me at work.”

  “Well, let me tell you, I will be visiting more often. You asked who let me in? It was that foxy redheaded receptionist you’ve got out front.”

  Lucy.

  “What did you say to her?” My demand makes his eyes bug.

  “Nothing,” he says, holding up his hands in a warding gesture. “Was just my charming self. She knew who I was. Said I look kinda like you.”

  I suppose we do look somewhat alike if you’re looking for it, though if you’re not, it wouldn’t surprise me if no one realized we were siblings. Darren’s always had a more athletic build, whereas I’ve tended to lean, and he’s got stronger, blockier features where mine are more delicate, friendly.

  “You better have been polite and appropriate. That’s my boss’s assistant, and if you messed with her, India will claw your eyes out, rip your balls off, and shove the whole mess down your throat.”

  “Whoa, there, Super Chuck. Sounds more like you’d be the one tearing me up. What’s this girl to you? You got a crush on her or something? Don’t blame you, those tits—”

  “Darren, knock it off. Don’t talk about Lucy that way. Also, I hate it when you call me Super Chuck. So stop.”

  “All right, all right.”

  I drop my head into my hands, a frustrated sigh blowing through my lips. “I don’t have time for this right now. We’re busting our asses on this project and don’t have a second to spare to get it in on time, so tell me what you’re doing here or get out of my office.”

  “Well…” Darren wipes his hands on the jeans he’s got on, wincing when he gets to the part of his thigh that gives him trouble. I remind myself that chronic pain is a bitch to deal with and I should be more sensitive. Darren’s been a pretty crap brother, but he’s still a person. So I take a deep breath and try not to hurry him.

  When he looks up at me again, his brows hover low over his eyes. It’s the same look he used to get during football practice or a video game when he was concentrating and about to do something difficult. This is his psych-up face.

  “I came to say thank you.”

  That is not what I was expecting at all.

  “Thank you?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a swallow and fiddles with a thread at his knee. “Mom was hella pissed after you called. She’s probably still carrying on about what kind of terrible mother she must have been to deserve such an ungrateful and self-centered son and if only she’d been around more, yadda, yadda, which is part of the reason I left but…”

  He shrugs, and his brows crease. He suddenly looks very young, even with his scruff. It’s that look he’d get when he’d done something bad as a kid he actually felt guilty for. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever said thank you to you. I don’t know what the numbers are because of course Mom doesn’t tell me that shit, but I know it’s gotta be a lot. I’ve seen the bills lying around. And I think it’s time…it’s time for me to take more responsibility. I can’t have my big brother looking out for me forever.”

  If I weren’t sitting down, a stiff breeze could knock me over. Less than that. Like air being let out of a balloon would drop me.

  “I’m not going to be very good at it and I’m going to need a lot of help, but…I’m tired of being a fuck-up and being babied. I want to have my own life and start taking some control over what I’m doing. I know Mom means well, and after the accident, it was easier to let her go into family fortress mode and take over. Also, I was angry and I felt pretty sorry for myself. But I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to move out, and I know I can’t do it on my own, and I hoped you might help me? Not, like, today obviously, but Mom said you were sending some papers?”

  He trails off with a hopeful look on his face. Some papers that might help me? That might let me feel independent again?

  “Yeah, I did. Lucy put them together.”

  “The redhead?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wait for him to say something crass or make some kind of crude gesture, but all he does is smile, that charmingly boyish one that helped get him laid all the time. “She did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s got a thing for you, man. No one does that shit unless they’re related to you, they’re getting paid for it, or they want in your pants.”

  And there it is. Well, she didn’t even have to do that to get in my pants. “If that’s true, I’m in luck because I’ve got a thing for her.”

  Darren nods, and I wait for him to say something wildly inappropriate, but he’s taking his vow of maturity pretty seriously at the moment and keeps all the gross thoughts I’m sure he’s having in the gutter that functions as his brain. “Good. You should be happy.”

  It shouldn’t matter, those small words. They shouldn’t make my throat narrow and my sinuses burn, but they do. I’ve been waiting for some generosity or acknowledgement all these years, and never did I expect it to come from Darren.

  “Thanks. You should be too. We’ll figure this stuff out together, okay? I’m not abandoning you guys, I just—”

  He waves me off. “I know. Mom doesn’t see it that way, but I do. You deserve your own life. You work hard for it.”

  “Thank you for saying so. It means a lot.”

  It’s been a long time since I celebrated Hanukkah with the candles and the stories, but it comes back to me now. Darren acknowledging I’m a person with my own wants and needs is no one-day-of-oil-lasting-for-eight, but this is my own Hanukkah miracle. I’ll take it.

  “Cool. Then I, uh, guess I’ll get going. Got some planning to do. Maybe when you’r
e done with this project, we could sit down and go over that stuff your—Lucy put together?”

  “Definitely. Let me get this project more under control and I’ll call you.”

  “Any chance we can do it at the Hen House? Their wings are fucking amazing.”

  I have to laugh, because heck yeah they are. “Yeah, sure. My treat.”

  Darren laughs and levers himself out of the seat with some difficulty, then heads for the door, stopping when he’s on the threshold. “Thanks, bro.”

  I wad up a piece of paper and throw it at his head, missing by an embarrassing margin. “Get out of here. I’ve gotta make some overtime to pay for those six dozen wings I know you’re going to hoark down.”

  He snickers and throws a wave over his shoulder as he heads out. I pick up the ball after he’s gone and throw it against the wall again, only to realize I’ve already figured out how to structure the compliance responsibilities. Excellent. More time to put my plan into action.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‡

  December 24th

  Lucy

  Why could India’s favorite takeout place not deliver? At the rate she orders food from there, she probably keeps the place in business. But no. I have to go get it. On a day when I don’t have five minutes to spare because we’re getting down to the wire on this damn report and I’d like to have at least some downtime tomorrow because it’ll be freaking Christmas, she sends me on an hour-long errand. What the hell? India can be completely cracked, but not usually in a way that’s so…inefficient. At least the Guptas are friendly and they always remember to put in extra tamarind sauce. They wished me a Merry Christmas when I left and I almost cried.

  My heels click on the cement of the parking garage deck as I walk through the practically deserted space. Evans’s roller skate masquerading as a car is still here, so I guess I’m not entirely alone. But still.

  This is not what I should be doing on Christmas Eve. I should be at home, baking cookies with my mom. Or wrapping presents for my horde of nephews and nieces. Singing carols by the fireplace. Not picking up takeout for my bitchy boss in San Diego where it doesn’t even look like Christmas. Tears gather in my eyes and I blink them away. Maybe I should take that job in Phoenix. It wouldn’t be an improvement in terms of actually having seasons, but I’d never have to work through Christmas. I had thought India was getting better, but after tonight, maybe I’m wrong.

  Not to mention I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up with Evans. Yes, the sex is hot. But that’s part of the problem. It’s not just sex. I like him, and if he doesn’t like me—or even if he does and we’ll never be able to do anything about it because of some stupid rule in the stupid employee handbook—well… I shake my head as I push through the office door and head to India’s office. When I get there, there’s a note on the door, and as I read it, anger boils in the pit of my stomach.

  Lucy,

  I went home. Check your desk.

  She doesn’t even value me or my time enough to stick around to eat the food I wasted an hour of my life to get for her? My whole body coils up like an angry snake, and there’s no one to lash out at.

  Yeah, that’s it. I’m done here. I’ll call Greg Wu after Christmas. I don’t know jack about Phoenix, but it’s got to be better than this. Not to mention Greg wouldn’t make me pick up his takeout, and on the off-chance he did, he would stick around to eat it and say thank you. Not skip off home to get spanked or whatever the hell else kinky things they’re into.

  I drop the bag of food on the carpet in front of her door. Maybe I should leave it there. Then when she comes in tomorrow—or maybe the next day, though I wouldn’t put it past India to come in on Christmas—she’ll see it and she’ll feel bad. Really, really bad. Or maybe she’ll step over it and buzz me to clean it up. The idea makes me angry all over again. So angry that I kick the bag and there’s a satisfying smush of takeout containers. It felt so good that I do it again and again. And again.

  I’m distracted from my assault on my jerkwad boss’s mutter paneer by the buzz of my phone in my pocket. It’s a text from Evans.

  You were supposed to check your desk.

  Seriously? He’s going to boss me around now too? Probably distracted by my tantrum. Screw that. I text him back:

  No, I’m going home.

  Because…because fuck this. Yeah, that’s right. Fuck India and fuck this PRA project and fuck BCG and… My mental fit of rage is interrupted by a very physical closing of my throat as I try to swallow a sob. I lean over to pick up the bag that’s miraculously remained intact despite my having treated it like a soccer ball and there’s another damn text.

  Check your desk, Lucy. This is not a request.

  Oh, no, he didn’t. The anger inside of me is out of control and it comes out my fingers.

  Fuck you.

  I’m about to drop the carcass of the takeout in the trash when my phone rings. Evans. I have half a mind not to answer it, but I do, if only because it gives me a reason to snap at someone.

  “What do you want?”

  “I very much want for you to go to your desk. Please. This is a request. No, not a request. It’s a plea. I’m begging you. Please, Lucy. Go look at your desk.”

  That is the last thing I want to do. What I want to do is drive to the airport and pay an exorbitant amount for a ticket home. But if I did, I’d effectively be quitting my job, and then I’d be coming home a failure. Not even “just a secretary” anymore, and I’d prove them all right. And then I’d end up stuck at home getting slut-shamed for the rest of my life.

  Plus, there’s something about the pleading in Evans’s voice. No matter how badly I want to stomp and scream and throw things, I shouldn’t do that to Evans. I should save it for India, the one who actually deserves it. As much as I can anyway because my nerves are frayed to the breaking point and I can’t help letting some of my frustration leak out. “Fine.”

  I stomp over to my desk, and when I get there, there’s an envelope with a bow on it. I rip it open, shredding the sorry excuse for what I should be enjoying right now—real presents instead of a stupid piece of paper—and start to read.

  Lucy,

  I’m so sorry you had to miss Christmas with your family. I know how upset you were, and I can’t tell you how impressed I’ve been with your dedication, especially since Jack left. I hope this will make up for it at least a little.

  I’d also like to offer you a title bump to office manager, with an accompanying raise, and if you wouldn’t mind the move, Leo’s office when he retires in April. I’ll be hiring a receptionist to free up some of your time for higher-level responsibilities. We can discuss the details the day after tomorrow. Please don’t go to Phoenix. I need you.

  Merry Christmas,

  India

  The next sheet of paper is a printout of an airline confirmation. The flight out to Dubuque leaves the day after the PRA presentation and doesn’t come back for a whole week. It won’t be the same as Christmas, but I wasn’t going to be able to go for a whole week. And I’ll be able to go home with a new title to show off. Maybe my family will finally realize I’m not sin on legs; I have a brain in my head and other people recognize that.

  Speaking of—how the heck did she know about Greg Wu? I suspect a little bird I’d sworn to secrecy told her, and I should be angry with him, but this has worked out so well I can’t find it in me. I’m so excited I almost miss the note she’s scrawled at the bottom of the page:

  Now go see Evans. I’m sure he’s losing his fucking mind.

  How does she know Evans is still here and why would she—

  I clutch the confirmation in my hand, afraid if I put it down on my desk, it won’t be there when I come back and instead this has all been a dream while I’ve been drooling on printouts of the interest tables I’m supposed to be proofing.

  Turning down the hall to Evans’s office, I’m met by a parade of candles lighting the narrow space. Alternating green and red tapers march d
own the hall on a strip of tin foil in an endearingly crooked line. There’s an index card propped up against the first one.

  Blow me out!

  What? But I do as instructed, enjoying the smell of freshly blown-out flame that curls around me. It’s one of my favorite smells in the whole world. I wish there was such a thing as a blown-out-candle-scented candle. I wonder if he’s noticed me lingering near birthday and retirement cakes while they were being cut up, the slices plated, so I could breathe in the scent a little longer.

  I should be embarrassed, but I can’t be. He’s done this for me because he’d thought I’d like it and I do. Blow me out! It makes me giggle.

  There’s another index card propped up against the next candle, and it says, Me too!

  Strange.

  The note after that says, Blow me too! Wait, that should read Blow me OUT too. I didn’t do that on purpose, swear. I should get another card. I have plenty. But I won’t because this will make you laugh. I love your laugh, Lucy.

  He’s right. I am laughing. Because he’s ridiculous. I love it when he’s ridiculous and awkward and shy. Just as much as I love when he’s being bossy and murmuring dirty, dirty things in my ear and fucking me stupid.

  So I follow the trail down the hall, reading notes as I go—No, please blow me out. Total fire hazard. What the hell was Evans thinking?—and blowing out the candles. I’m excited to get to the end, but I enjoy the smell of every one. How often do you get to blow out this many candles individually, not all at once like on a cake? When I get to the last one, there’s only an arrow pointing at Evans’s closed office door.

  I knock and he yells, “Come in!”

  A laugh bubbles out of me because he’s probably been waiting for me and here I’ve been taking my sweet time blowing out all the candles and inhaling smoke. Poor Evans. He was probably, as India so delicately put it, losing his fucking mind.

  Pushing the door open, I’m almost blinded. Strung up in Evans’s cramped office must be a million Christmas lights. They cover the ceiling and drip down the walls. Behind his desk is a tree that leaves hardly any room for his chair. Or him, for that matter.