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ChapterThree
At eight o’clock the next morning Seth stepped out of the elevator and walked up to the shiny white reception desk of Shazad. “Morning, Megan. Which Star Trek episode did you watch last night? I assume they kicked Klingon arse.”
The blue-haired geek dropped her gaze back to her computer. “Just something old.” Her voice came out as a mumble.
Where was her normal teasing remark bemoaning his lack of Trekkie allegiance?
“Aren’t they all old to some degree?” He paused in collecting his pile of mail as she still didn’t meet his gaze.
When the phone rang, she answered with more urgency than he would have thought was required.
Shrugging, he continued past the birch panel that screened the foyer from the office behind. Desks overflowed with multiple screens and gadgets the staff used to help their creative juices flow best along with an alarming number of empty energy drink bottles. Comparing this space now to the empty shell it had been when he and Dillon had first moved in with two desks and a phone, Seth couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride. Man, they’d come a long way. And soon he’d be letting it all go.
Seth ignored the sudden pang of loss and scanned the room, noting around fifteen employees working about the place. All clocked his entry. None acknowledged him. Not by word, gesture. Nothing.
What the hell?
Were they upset by something in yesterday’s announcement? Their employment was guaranteed, and the sale had been discussed at length with staff earlier in the week. The announcement was no surprise. What else could be up?
He searched the room, determined to get answers. A blond head popped up and caught Seth’s stare before ducking back down. Jonas O’Brien. Perfect target. The young programmer had been with Seth from the beginning and practically hero-worshiped Seth. Best part, he wouldn’t lie to save himself.
Seth was two steps from his prey when the door to Dillon’s office burst open.
“I fucking know that. I’m not an idiot,” Dillon yelled, his face turned back to someone in the room as he walked out. When he glanced toward the main office, he caught sight of Seth. With hands clenched by his sides, Shazad’s Vice President seemed to catch himself. “Perhaps you can join us, Seth?” Not waiting for a reply, he stormed back inside.
Ignoring the now blatant stares of the staff, Seth walked into Dillon’s office, coming to a standstill when he saw two more of his brothers in the room.
“Guys, what’s going on?”
Dillon volleyed back what clearly sounded like an accusation. “I’ve tried calling you for the last hour.”
“I had the phone turned off this morning. Wanted quiet time as I went through everything we need to finalize today.” He’d been running on vapor for the last week; a few hours of solitude had been a luxury. And the peace and quiet of this morning’s drive in allowed him a chance to savor the memory of last night with Harper. In fact, he’d planned on ringing her this morning, eager to hear the sound of her laughter with its throaty mix of sexy and sweet. So the sooner he sorted whatever had his brothers in such a bad mood, the better.
Heath, with hands on hips, paced back and forth in front of the windows looking out on downtown Seattle. Dressed in jeans and a charcoal gray shirt, the cop wore a scowl as thunderous as the rolling clouds forming over Puget Sound.
By contrast, Zach, his long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing the usual black jeans, T-shirt, and motorcycle boots, lounged in one of the leather chairs in front of Dillon’s desk. His fingers formed a steeple on his chest, his chin resting on the top. The bearded biker had his eyes on Seth but remained silent.
Heath ceased pacing and focused his glare on his younger sibling. “Bloody hell, Seth. What the fuck’s going on?”
Seth raised his brows. “You want to give me an idea of what’s crawled up your arse, Detective, or do I have to guess? As far as I know, you should be thanking me.” Hadn’t his actions yesterday made them all a fortune? And where was this anger during their quick call last night?
Heath’s jaw dropped. “You want praise?”
Seth slid his leather satchel off his shoulder and onto Dillon’s desk and jammed his hands on his hips. “I’m guessing that’s too much to ask for?” Had they all grown apart that much?
“Enough,” Zach’s low voice rumbled as the third eldest, behind Dillon and Adam, stood to his full height, an inch taller than Seth’s six foot two, and fixed his hazel gaze on Seth. “Mate, those posts”—he shook his head slowly, barely moving the brown ponytail that fell down his back—“not cool.”
“What posts?” He turned to study all three men. Dillon sighed. Heath glared. But Zach’s gaze flickered with surprise.
“The ones about screwing the bastards—and about Heath’s job.” Dillon rolled his eyes at Seth’s blank look and held out his phone. “Here, see for yourself. That’s your Facebook account, right?”
Seth glanced at the screen, saw his name in the familiar Facebook font, but the profile picture showed a snapshot of a Pacman in a maze with ghosts, not his normal picture of Maximus, from the movie Gladiator.
He turned his head slightly toward Dillon as he began to read the post. “That’s not my—”
Met with Brock-Porter Digital. Sold them my company. Screwed the bastards for 100 mil. Who says you can’t enjoy yourself with your pants zipped?
Seth froze. He went to breathe but his lungs wouldn’t expand, as if tight bands of steel held them cramped tight. “What?” he whispered. Around him the world melted away, dissolving under the acid of the post’s poisonous message.
