I wake up early today, filled with a sense of purpose and drive that I haven't had in a really long time. The sun isn't even up yet, and I'm already dressed and heading through the mansion to the converted garage where the gym is set up. I switch on the lights and look over the one area of my life where I'm the undisputed master... or at least I thought I was, until Katrina put me on my ass in about two seconds yesterday.

I'm no pushover. I've had more than my fair share of throw downs, and my forty-eight-inch chest isn't just bodybuilding muscle. I've trained too, mostly in BJJ and MMA, getting into scraps and knuckling up with some bad fuckers. It was one of my adrenaline rushes for a while, going down to some of the worse neighborhoods, or under the bridges near the Pontchartrain Expressway where they do the bum fights, and throwing down.

But while I took some licks in those underground fights, I never had my ass handed to me as quickly or as effectively as what Kat did to me. Sure, she caught me off guard, but that won't happen again. I promise myself that as I grab my workout notebook from the shelf and look at the page in my journal, seeing that today's a chest and triceps day. Good, I can use the heavy work to get myself calmed down again.

I start with an empty bar on the fifteen-degree incline press, just getting the blood flowing into my chest and shoulders and grooving the movement again.

I haven't done these in a month, and my first set with 275 feels a little heavier than normal, probably since I'm not used to lifting this early in the day, but I get through it okay, and note that on my upper set I might need to drop a rep.

I slide the next set of two and a half pound plates on each side when the door to the gym opens and Andrea walks in, stopping when she sees me. “Whoa. What the hell are you doing up at six thirty in the morning?”

“Oh, come on Andi, you've seen me awake plenty of times at six thirty,” I say as she shrugs and comes in, stripping off her outer t-shirt to just her sports bra and running shorts. The gym has more than just weightlifting equipment, and she gets on the StairMaster, draping her shirt over the bar above the console.

“Of course I've seen you awake at six thirty. But usually when you're stumbling in the house still half-drunk after a party,” she says. “Not in here, and certainly not lifting.”

“Gotta do what I gotta do,” I say, setting up under the bar. The gym isn't air-conditioned, although I can turn on a high-velocity fan if it gets too bad, but that's on purpose. I don't have any pussy pads on the squat bars, and I don't need no pussy air conditioning, either. “Enjoyed getting out of the house yesterday, and think it might be time for me to get out some more again today. Besides, maybe if I act like I've got my shit right, Pops will get off my ass.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Andrea says, starting up her workout. “You really think Peter will give you a little more slack with that leash he's got on you?”

“Maybe not the full amount, but he's gotta let me out sometime,” I say. “Might be a month before I'm going to be safe to go by the Watering Hole again.”

“You'll just have to content yourself with your previous playmates,” Andrea says. I ignore her, though, doing my next set at 280 before moving up in five-pound increments, finishing with 315 by the time I've hit my target for today. I set the bar back down, and I see that Andrea's still grinding away on the StairMaster, her head down, sweat dripping from her chin to drop to the moving beltway stairs.

“How long you going for today?” I ask, figuring she can't last much longer. I'm surprised when she looks up, and she doesn't look tired at all.

“Still got another half hour on here. Today's all endurance. Besides, this thing gives me some killer calves and a nice ass, too. At least as much as us Japanese girls get,” she says self-deprecatingly.

At the mention of calves, I think of Kat, the way her legs looked yesterday in those martial arts pants, and my cock twitches again. I grumble, turning away from Andrea quickly before she gets any ideas. I go to my next exercise, weighted dips alternated with bodyweight pullups, ten and ten before I rest, six sets. I finish up, then climb onto the StairMaster next to Andrea for a quick fifteen minutes.

Andrea finishes soon after I climb on, and pats at her face with her t-shirt. “So did you go see her?”

I blink and glance over, but there's no deception or slyness in Andrea's face. I've suspected for a long time she hates Pops nearly as much as Kat does. I can understand, when her entire presence in the house has been to basically serve as a giant 'Fuck You' to Mom. That's not the sort of thing anyone wants growing up.

“Yeah,” I say after a moment. “She's... motivated.”

“Seems to have rubbed off on you,” Andrea says as she steps off the machine and gets to the floor. “You sure it's safe?”

“No... but then again, when do I ever do the safe thing?” I ask, to which Andrea doesn't smile, doesn't smirk, nothing. “What?”

“Someday, Jackson... someday I hope you really learn what not doing the safe thing means,” Andrea says mysteriously after a moment, then pulls her t-shirt back on. “In any case, have a good rest of your workout, I've got class.”

Andrea leaves, and I finish up the rest of my quick cardio, just letting my mind drift. I figure I'll get a swim in later, but maybe today instead of a swim I'll pull out my old gloves and throw down a few rounds with the heavy bag in the corner. It's not quite the same as actual training, but it'll help in starting to get me back in fight mode. I won't be caught by surprise again.

I go inside and drop off my shaker cup of post-workout protein mix in the sink for the maid to wash and run upstairs to take a lengthy shower. I even make sure to condition my hair. I've been lazy with it since I've been cooped up around the house, but it's time to get back to normal.

I dry off and put on my first set of clothes for the day, some Burberry pants and a button-down Ralph Lauren shirt. I grab my Steve Madden loafers, and I'm all set for the morning.

As I walk down the hall toward the stairs, Andrea's door opens and she comes out, also dressed for success in her typical power suit look, although I see she's skipping the heels for something a little more comfortable. I guess doing close to an hour on the StairMaster does have side effects after all. “Well, you are dressed today. Back to your regular duds, I see.”

“Not totally regular,” I note, showing her the Maddens. I normally reserve these for when I go out and go around the house in training shoes instead. “What do you think?”

“I think you need to keep them polished better,” Andrea replies. “But they're fine. What's the occasion?”

“Like I said, I was thinking of going out today,” I reply. I stop at the top of the stairs. “Andrea... would you mind if I borrowed some of your business books? I mean... oh fuck it, never mind.”

“Whoa, whoa, niichan, stop,” Andrea says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Slow down, what's all this?”

“Just... I had a dream last night, and with what you said... I was thinking that maybe I can start learning about more than bodybuilding and partying,” I say. “And I was thinking that maybe I could learn a little bit about investing and stocks, or real estate, or something like that.” I shake my head, and shrug before giving her a grin. “You know, something actually useful in real life.”

Andrea studies my face for a minute, then nods. “Hold on... I've got something in my room you can start with.”

She jogs back to her room and comes out with a book. “Here. He's become a bit of a hack, and I don't want you running off like a madman with it, but take a read, and if you want... I'll be around to answer questions and talk with you.”

I look down at the title. “Rich Dad, Poor Dad? Okay... looks easy enough.”

“It is. Not trying to say you're an idiot, Jackson... but you've been fucking off for the four years since high school finished for you. It's a decent refresher. In the meantime though, let's get some breakfast. I thought you were all about protein loading after lifting or whatever it is you call it, and if you don't mind, I'll share an egg or two with you.”

I keep the book with me while we eat, then Andrea goes off to class. I've got a while before my afternoon swim, and I was planning on getting out during the evening, so I find a comfortable chair in the downstairs den and start reading. I'm caught up pretty quickly, and I find that I'm in chapter four when Mom comes in, pretty much ignoring me. Not that unexpected, really. “Hey Mom, is Pops around?”

Mom shrugs, not caring, and goes over to the liquor cabinet in the corner and pours herself a straight bourbon. I glance at the clock and shake my head. It's just after eleven. “A little early, even for you, isn't it?”

Mom downs half the bourbon and glares at me. “Considering you caused it, you have no room to say a damn thing,” she hisses. “Do you know what the doctors just told me?”

“That you have a surgical addiction?” I shoot back. “That you need a psychiatrist more than you need more collagen in your lips? By the way, you're dribbling.”

It's something that's happened to Mom since her most recent round of lip injections. She doesn't seem to be able to close her mouth properly all the time, and is constantly dribbling drinks from the corner of her mouth. Mom wipes away the bourbon with a swipe of her free hand and glares at me some more. “They said they can't do anything else for my waistline. According to them, their ethical guidelines prevent it.”

“Maybe they have a point,” I say, turning back to my borrowed book. I can feel Mom glaring at me for a little while longer before slamming back the rest of her bourbon and leaving the tumbler on the table. I finish the chapter I'm working on and go looking for Pops. Maybe he's in his office.

Before I get there, though, I hear something crash on the wall. What the hell? I rush down the hall the last little bit and go in, ducking as a paperweight comes flying by my head. “What the fuck?”

“I want her dead!” Pops screams, his face an angry, nearly purplish red. “I want that bitch found and her throat slit!”

I see that Nathan's in the room too, his face grave, but he remains silent. “What's going on? Is this over the photos still?” I ask.

“No, you ignorant, spoiled little shit!” Pops hollers, picking up a tablet and throwing it at me. I'm glad I've got good hands, he just bought this one after breaking the last one with the discussion we had the day after Kat's little limo trick. Even still, I barely manage to catch it, cradling it in my arms while I give the sensors inside a chance to try and figure out which way is up. “That's what I'm talking about!”

The screen stops revolving, and I see that a gossip website is up with a story it lists as “Breaking News! New Orleans Social Magnate Has String of Mistresses Even While Being Named Family Man of The Year!”

I read quickly. Most of the affairs are older ones, ones that I've known about for years, stretching back to my high school days. This time there are pictures though, which I am surprised about. There's Pops in the casino, a couple of girls on his arm... Pops going into a hotel room with what looks like a very young girl, I'd be surprised if she was a month over eighteen at the time... damn. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, in my opinion. I'm also glad that Kat seems to have at least somewhat listened to my request, since this leaves the rest of the family totally out of it.

“You knew that accepting the award would bring greater public scrutiny, sir,” Nathan says, trying to calm Pops down. “That the press would run with old rumors and play up some photos is expected.”

“Bullshit! You know exactly who leaked this, Nathan. If you'd done your fucking job like I ordered you to do, there's no way the press would've gotten hold of those pictures. Hell, I'm friends with the owner of that casino! But now security camera footage of the night they gave me the award is out there. How the fuck does that even happen?”

“Maybe it's someone else,” I try to add, knowing it sounds lame as soon as it comes out of my mouth, but I have to try. Katrina, I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into. “There have to be a lot of people who might have an ax to grind with you, Pops.”

He ignores me, still staring at Nathan. “I don't care what it takes, I want that bitch found. Not next week, not tomorrow, not this evening. I want her found now. I don't give a shit if she's left New Orleans, left the States, or is hiding in the deepest shithole in the darkest back corner of the world. You find her, Nathan. You find her, and... take Jackson with you. He obviously thinks this is all some sort of fucking joke, so you take him with you. And when you find her, you force her on her knees, and you slit her fucking throat right in front of Jackson here. Show him what a real man does.”

A real man? So a real man is a guy who pitches a tantrum and throws things around his office, his potbelly hanging out and his face looking like he's about to have a goddamn coronary? A real man is someone who acts like a preschooler when his shit's exposed? Or is a real man the guy who's cheated on his wife so many times it's fucked with her head to the point she's a fucking basket case, and then when his shit's brought to the light of day, can't even handle it himself, but orders someone else to take care of it for him? All these thoughts flash through my mind, but I keep my mouth shut, even if I can't keep a look of disgust off my face.

Nathan looks disgusted as well, but nods. “I understand, Mr. DeLaCoeur.”

“Then both of you get the fuck out. Actually, no, Jackson... you stay here. I want to talk with you.”

Nathan gives me a glance, and in his green eyes I see a message. He'll wait for me to finish my conversation with Pops before anything else. I nod just a fraction of an inch, then turn my attention to Pops as Nathan closes the door behind him. “What do you want, Pops?”

He slams his hands down on the desk and screams, his breath stinking and spewing over the space between us. “What the fuck are you doing, disrespecting me like that in front of Nathan? How dare you contradict me in front of the staff!”

Contradict? What the fuck is he talking about? I was trying to deflect him, calm him down. “Pops, that wasn’t my…”

“Shut the fuck up!” he yells again, at least taking a seat. “Jackson, it's bad enough that you embarrassed yourself, and yes, embarrassed me. You've been a disappointment your entire life, really. At least Andrea has enough sense to try and make something of herself, even if she does refuse to act like the proper daughter I've tried so hard to get her to be. But you had your uses. It's time to grow the fuck up, and that means seeing that life isn't all parties and limos and threesomes with sluts. Sometimes it means making hard decisions and doing hard things.”

“Like ordering your attack dog to do your dirty work for you?” I ask before I even realize what's coming out of my mouth. Pops starts to turn red again, and I decide to just fucking go with it. “You've made your own bed. Now you're upset that someone's calling you on it? What about the rest of the family, Pops? Did you ever think about us in your little tirade?”

He slams his fist on the desk, sending a pen cup flying. He's staring daggers into my face. “I promise you, Jackson, if you ever disrespect me like that again... you'll find that Katrina Grammercy isn't the only person who can have her throat cut in front of someone she knows. Get the fuck out.”

I get up, and I make my way out to the hallway. I immediately go looking for Nathan... once again, I have to know.

I find him in the back after twenty minutes of searching, where he's indulging in his other hobby, animals. The plantation still has a stable attached to it, and while it doesn't hold horses any longer, the Great Dane that Nathan keeps there is nearly as big as a pony. “Nathan.”

He holds up a hand, and I see in his right hand he's holding a stiff-bristled brush that he's currently using to brush down the dog. “Yes, Maverick, you're a good boy. I know, I promised you a walk this morning, but I've got some business to attend to, so I'm going to have to keep this short. Tonight though, you and I can go for a romp in the back acres all you want. Wouldn't you like that?”

Maverick obviously does, as the giant dog wags his tail briskly. Nathan looks over at me, then back at Maverick. “You think it'd be okay if Jackson comes along?”

Maverick wags again, settling the issue. Nathan reaches over and unsnaps the long lead attached to Maverick's collar, and rubs his head. “Well, come on then. Maybe only a mile or so, then we can head back.”

Maverick goes bounding off, acting for all the world like a two-hundred-pound puppy, heading for the door. His dog out of earshot, Nathan speaks to me for the first time. “Your shoes will get muddy. And I'd appreciate it if you'd limit the unpleasant talk around Maverick. He's a big baby, but he's my baby.”

I look down and shrug. “I can get others. It's not as important as what you and I need to discuss.”

Nathan nods and takes the lead, his long legs eating up the ground. We leave the stables and head north, into the unkempt scrubland that used to be indigo fields two hundred years ago. It's now mostly fields, with a little bit of wild indigo still covering areas of the property, but most of it disappeared after later attempts to turn the fields into tobacco and then cotton before the Civil War broke out. For Maverick, the open spaces are wonderful, even as I feel the first squelch of mud underneath my foot. “So why'd you brush him before this run?”

“We start every day with a brushing, even if it's just a few minutes,” Nathan says, and I notice that he's changed into what looks like old combat boots, albeit unlaced. “Like I said, he's my baby, since I've never had children of my own. Lots of nieces and nephews, but none of my own.”

“How often do you see them?” I ask, surprised at this insight into Nathan's mind. It's like when we sat down for tea, I'm finding depths to the man that I never knew existed.

“Not often enough,” he admits. “Some of it is because I'm pretty busy working for Peter, but also... well, I'm not the sort of uncle that is exactly welcome at the family Thanksgiving table. How do you explain to a five-year-old that the richest member of the family got that way because he's put enough men in the ground to populate a small village?”

“Yet you keep doing it,” I say quietly. “I'm not accusing you, just saying.”

Nathan nods, his eyes following Maverick as the dog goes sniffing around. “Maverick! Leave that rabbit alone!” he hollers with a laugh, then sobers. “I do. It's all I've ever known, and to try and make myself out to be something more than what I am... I think the ghosts of my past would condemn me even more if I pretended to be something I'm not. But there's a part of me that would like to go back if I could, back to when I was a Green Beret. Yeah, there was a lot of killing then... but we did more than that. I can remember going into what some people call Kurdistan. We were working a black ops mission, this was when Saddam was still in power, just after the Mogadishu op that I told you about. We were supposedly there to reinforce the no-fly zone Clinton insisted on, but really we were there to help the Kurds get on their feet. I spent ninety days in that area, and never fired a shot. But what I did do was help them build three schools, and we dug two wells for villages that were struggling. I'll never forget the look in the eyes of those Kurd children when I pumped the handle, and fresh, clean water flowed out of that pipe. They thought I was Santa Claus and Allah all wrapped up in one that day. I use that image a lot when I meditate, trying to find inner peace.”

“And how much meditation will it take for you to find inner peace with what Peter just told you?” I ask. “Hours? Days?”

Nathan stops and turns to face me fully, his scarred eye wide, his right eye arched. “Peter? I think that's the first time I've ever heard you call him anything other than Pops.”

“Considering the man just told me that if I ever talk back to him again he'd have my own throat cut, I think that disqualifies him from being referred to by a fatherly name, don't you?” I ask. “But my question stands, Nathan. What are you going to do?”

Nathan turns and watches Maverick bound along. “Did you know the average Great Dane lives only six to ten years? It's why they're also called the Heartbreak Breed, because they're so affectionate, but they die so quickly. But it's also part of the reason I chose Maverick. He's already four, I've had him since he was a puppy. But I know that if I ever piss off Peter DeLaCoeur... there are other men who will do what I will not. Including dropping my corpse into the Gulf. Oh, not that I'd make it easy for them, it'd be a very expensive operation for sure. But I wouldn't want to rob an innocent dog of love and affection, or of too much of his life. You know your... that Peter would have Maverick killed first. It's a poor way to soothe my conscience, but I wouldn't be robbing Maverick of too much of his life if that happens.”

“What are you even saying?” I ask, hot. “What type of monster have you become, Nathan?”

Nathan turns back to me, gives me a studied look, and shakes his head. “You miss my point. I can't go after Katrina, not this time. I found her like you asked, and in the course of my investigation, I found out things... well, I found out things that only she should tell you. The only thing I could give you was an address. But I can't go after her for this. I'll delay, and I'll do what I can, but eventually Peter's going to reach out to someone else as well. I can't stop that.”

I nod and watch Maverick romp around the fields while we talk. “What am I going to do?” I mutter to myself, the mud squelching as we reach a turn in the little path we're following, and Nathan stops. “What can I do?”

“I don't know if you're asking for my advice or just muttering to yourself, but here it is anyway, Jackson. Stand up. Be a man. I saw how you were last night, coming home from seeing her, and don't try to say that you didn't. But she isn't going to be interested in a playboy. If she's going to be interested at all... it's in the man you could be. You're not dumb, even if you pretend to be for whatever reason. So stand up. It's dangerous, but like you said when you approached me before... it's the right thing to do.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants and think. Nathan studies me for a bit, then turns. “Maverick! Let's head back now!”

As the dog goes running by, heading for the stable, Nathan stops next to me. “Don't think too long. I guarantee you, Peter will contact others about this. I've seen him this angry before. You've got a couple of days’ head start. At most.”