Next To Nothing!

In a place far more painful than his shoulder.

“Why does ‘getting yourself out of this mess’ have to involve eating cheap takeout food and sleeping on a short couch?” Derek crossed the room and picked up the corner of Tyler’s old Boy Scout sleeping bag.

“Because I sold the beach house.” Giving up on the bank balance for now, Tyler pushed back the chair and stood up. He preferred to look Derek in the eye for this conversation.

Derek might be six foot two, but Tyler had caught up to him on his eighteenth birthday, and even managed to beat him by half an inch. Not that it mattered. He was now and always would be the little brother.

And linebacker Derek could still take him out without even breaking a sweat.

“Because you were too stubborn to ask the family for help,” corrected Derek.

“A thirty-year-old man does not go running to his daddy for help just because his business hits a little snag.”

“A little snag?” Derek’s voice was incredulous.

“A little snag,” Tyler echoed.

“Your partner skipped with your clients’ money.”

Tyler gritted his teeth. “I’m handling it.”

“I can accept that you didn’t want to go to Dad. But why didn’t you come to me or Striker?”

Tyler folded his arms across his chest, imitating his brother’s pose. “I needed money, Derek. And I needed it fast.”

It had been forty-eight hours since he discovered Reggie’s duplicity, but saying it out loud still stung. Tyler had to squelch an urge to bash his fist into the nearest wall. It was an urge he’d been battling for two days.

“How much did you sell it for?” asked Derrick.

Tyler named a sum that made Derrick’s eyes widen.

“That’s it? You practically gave the beach house away.”

“They offered cash.”

“I would’ve bought it for that.”

“And I’d still have a place to live?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

Derek’s booming voice rose. “Jeez, Tyler, lightning won’t strike you dead if you borrow a little family money.”

“You know as well as I do that once Dad gets his hooks in me, I’ll be his for life.”

“Like me, you mean.”

“No. Not like you. You genuinely want to stare at balance sheets and stock portfolios all day long. Though how you’ve managed to stay sane this long is beyond me.”

Derek was the golden boy, the heir apparent to Reeves-DuCarter International, the pride and joy of three generations. Meanwhile, Tyler was the black sheep.

Derek shook his head. “You never did understand—”

“I understand perfectly. I’m thirty years old. This private eye thing isn’t just a phase. It’s my vocation, my dream, my calling.”

“Doin’ real well for you so far,” Derek snorted.

Tyler winced. “It’s a small setback.”

“How much did he get?”

“Reggie?”

“No.” Derek rolled his eyes. “Of course Reggie.”

Tyler slumped back down in the chair. “What did Striker tell you?”

Derek pulled up a guest chair and folded his big body into it. “That Reggie split with a client’s car and a cashier’s check.”

Tyler nodded. That about summed it up. Reggie had also made free with several hundred thousand in retainers over the past few months, much of which Tyler would have to pay back since Reggie wasn’t around to do the work.

“How much?” Derek repeated.

“Including Mrs. Cliff’s BMW?”

“Quit stalling.”

Tyler voiced the amount that still made him wince. “But I suspect most of it went up his nose before the big disappearing act.”

The books were a mess.

Tyler’s life was a mess.

Derek let out a long, slow whistle. “What’s plan B?”

Tyler gave a chopped, terse chuckle. Plan A implicitly being to hunt Reggie down and take it out of his hide. “Pay Mrs. Cliff for the car—I told her we wrecked it—back out of Reggie’s contracts and eat the penalties, sleep in the office for a while, find some quick, high-paying jobs…”

Derek glanced around the reception area with a frown.

“I’ve got coffee, a bath, a deli on the first floor,” said Tyler. “What more does a man need?”

“Bunk out at my place,” said Derek.

Tyler shook his head. “I don’t want Dad to know what’s going on.”

Derek stared hard into Tyler’s eyes, but Tyler didn’t flinch.