The Baby Contract

His and Vegas’s side-by-side apartments took up the top floor of the Pinion Security Company building in northeast DC. The first two floors housed the company’s reception and meeting areas. Floors three to seven were offices and electronic equipment storage. The computer control center was highly secured, directly below the apartments. The basement and subbasement were used for parking, target practice and storage for a vault of weapons.

The building was state-of-the-art, built after Troy sold his interest in some innovative security software and Vegas hit it big at a casino on the strip. After that, their company had grown exponentially, and they’d never looked back.

The buzzer sounded, and he crossed the living room, opening the apartment door to find the six-feet-four, barrel-chested Vegas standing behind his sister, Kassidy, who, even in four-inch heels, seemed barely half the man’s size. Her blond hair was streaked purple, and she wore three earrings in each ear. A colorful tunic-style top flowed to a ragged hem at midthigh over a pair of skintight black pants.

“Hello, Kassidy.” Troy kept his voice neutral, waiting to ascertain her mood. He couldn’t imagine it was good news that brought her here.

“Hi, Troy.” She slanted a gaze at Vegas, clearly hinting that he should leave.

“I’ll be downstairs,” said Vegas.

Troy gave his partner a short nod of appreciation.

“Is everything okay?” he asked as Kassidy breezed her way into the penthouse foyer.

“Not exactly,” she said, hiking up her oversize shoulder bag. “I have a problem. At least I think it’s a problem. I don’t know how big of a problem.”

Troy curbed his impatience with her roundabout speaking style. He wanted to tell her to spit it out already. But he knew from experience that rushing her only slowed things down.

“You got any coffee?” she asked.

“I do.” He cut through the vaulted-ceilinged living room, heading for the kitchen, assuming she’d follow and hoping she’d compose her thoughts along the way.

Her heels clicked on the parquet floor. “I’ve thought about it and talked about it and I’m really sorry to bother you with it. But it’s kind of getting away from me, you know?”

No, he didn’t know. “Does ‘it’ have a name?”

“It’s not a person.”

He tried and failed to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Kassidy.”

“What?”

He rounded the island in the center of the expansive kitchen. “You’ve got to give me something here, maybe a proper noun.”

She pursed her lips tight together.

“What happened?” he asked. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. See, I told my manager this would happen.”

“You have a manager?”

“A business manager.”

“For your singing career?”

“Yes.”

The revelation took Troy by surprise.

Sure, Kassidy was a sweet singer, but she was really small-time. Who would take her on? Why would they take her on? His mind immediately went to the kinds of scams that exploited starry-eyed young women.

“What’s the guy’s name?” he asked suspiciously.

“Don’t be such a chauvinist. Her name is Eileen Renard.”

Troy found himself feeling slightly relieved. Statistically speaking, females were less likely than males to exploit vulnerable young women in the entertainment business, turning them into strippers, getting them addicted to drugs.

He gave her face a critical once-over. She looked healthy, if a bit tired. He doubted she was doing any kind of recreational drugs. Thank goodness.

He retrieved a second white stoneware mug from the orderly row on the first shelf of a cupboard. “Why did you think you needed a manager?”

“She approached me,” said Kassidy, slipping up onto a maple wood stool at the kitchen island and dropping her bag to the floor with a clunk.

“Is she asking for money?”

“No, she’s not asking for money. She likes my singing. She thinks I have potential. Which I do. It was after a show in Miami Beach, and she came backstage. She represents lots of great acts.”

“What were you doing in Miami Beach?” Last Troy had heard Kassidy could barely afford the subway.

“I was singing in a club.”

“How did you get there?”

“On an airplane, just like everybody else.”

“That’s a long way from New Jersey.”

“I’m nineteen years old, Troy.”

He set a cup of black coffee in front of her. “Last time we talked, you didn’t have any money.”

“Things have changed since the last time we talked.”

He searched her expression for signs of remorse. He hoped she hadn’t done anything questionably moral or legal.

“I’m doing better,” she said.

He waited for her to elaborate, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Financially,” she said. “Good, in fact. Great, really.”

“You don’t need money?” He’d assumed money would be at least part of the solution to her current problem.

“I don’t need money.”

That was surprising, but good, though it didn’t explain her presence.