Big Pickle
The USA Today bestselling author of
Single Dad on Top
The Accidental Harem
Uncaged Love
Fight for Her
Reckless Attraction
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Copyright © 2020 by JJ Knight All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, fan-made graphics, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons , living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edition 1.1
Casey Shay Press
PO Box 160116
Austin, TX 78716
www.jjknight.com
Paperback ISBN: 9781938150906
Contents
1. Jace
2. Nova
3. Jace
4. Nova
5. Jace
6. Nova
7. Jace
8. Nova
9. Jace
10. Nova
11. Jace
12. Nova
13. Jace
14. Nova
15. Jace
16. Nova
17. Jace
18. Nova
19. Jace
20. Nova
21. Jace
22. Nova
23. Jace
24. Nova
25. Jace
26. Nova
27. Jace
28. Nova
29. Jace
30. Nova
31. Jace
32. Nova
33. Jace
34. Nova
35. Jace
36. Jace
37. Nova
Epilogue
Books by JJ Knight
About JJ Knight
1
Jace
It’s pretty great when a new Pickle comes into the world.
Today my cousin Greta is giving birth.
Like, literally, right now.
She’s walking the halls and refuses to lie in bed.
Her husband Jude is off talking to the doctor, hoping they can convince Greta to lie down and accept an epidural.
Her pain is great. She’s already cussed out all the nurses.
But Greta hates needles. This is a fear we share.
Since I’m on her side, Greta asks me to walk the halls with her to escape the hostility. She stops every few minutes to let out a rather alarming groan.
I’ve texted both my brothers and my dad to walk with me because I have this terrible, awful feeling my cousin is going to squeeze out a kid on the linoleum floor.
And it’ll be my fault.
They’ll say since I hated needles and spouted off about how horrible they were when we were kids, that I’m the one who poisoned Greta on them.
And that’s why she’s currently walking the halls of Mercy Hospital, deep into labor pains, and refusing to even put in an IV.
It’s on me.
Totally.
I’m the eldest of all the cousins. I’m the big Pickle.
I was a tyrant in our youth. I made everybody listen to me. Follow my lead. Do what I say.
Especially when needles were involved. I provided detailed descriptions of the pediatrician’s office, so the cousins knew where to flee when the vaccine shot came out.
And here we are. Still on the run.
Greta’s wheat-blond hair sticks to her forehead in sweaty clumps. She wears two blue hospital gowns, one open to the back and one to the front, to avoid having to worry about drafts.
I hold her arm as we walk along the hall, the occasional visitor looking at us with alarm as they pass.
“Maybe needles aren’t that bad—” I venture.
She cuts me off. “Shut up, Jace. I’m trying to have a baby here.”
“Wouldn’t it be better in bed? With sheets? And a doctor?”
“Walking helps labor go faster.”
“We’ve been walking half an hour—”
“Shut up, Jace!”
I shut up.
We make it a few more steps when suddenly, Greta’s face goes red, she bends over, and squats smack in the middle of the hall.
The groan that comes out of her mouth would scare off a pride of mountain lions.
I look around frantically for a doctor, a nurse, a janitor. Anybody.
Why is nobody outside their rooms?
We’re at least ten miles from the nursing station.
“You okay, Greta?”
She huffs in several big breaths. “I think he’s coming!”
“What!”
She lets out another long screech and I do the only thing I can think of, harkening back to my football days.
I lunge to the floor between her legs and hold out my hands to make the catch.
My brother Max got a picture.
Of course he did.
While Greta holds baby Caden, who was born quite properly in her bed a solid hour after my baby dive, Max uploads the shot of me on the floor, my hands outstretched beneath the hem of my cousin’s gown, to his Instagram.
I’m going to kill him.
But not in front of the baby.
He and my youngest brother Anthony snicker over it endlessly.
Bastards.
We’re about to get in a shoving match like we’re twelve instead of pushing thirty, when the great matriarch of the family, Grammy Alma comes in.
“Boys, behave,” she orders.
We stand still like we always do.
“Let me see that child.” Grammy moves to the bed, her orthopedic shoes squeaking on the floor. She’s spry for eighty, and still runs the original deli of the Pickle clan, deep in the heart of Queens. My other cousin Sunny helps her.
Delis definitely run in the Pickle blood. My dad owns the massive Manhattan Pickle, which takes up an entire city block. As each of the three Pickle sons ventured off for college, he built a franchise for us in our chosen towns.
Anthony is the baby of the brothers. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt that reads “Another one bites the crust.” He’s twenty-six and runs the deli in Boulder, where he went to culinary school.
Max, our middle brother, is two years younger than me. He is undoubtedly the alpha. He’s a workout junkie, and he’s tricked-out like a bodybuilder. His deli is in L.A.
Dad built my deli, Austin Pickle, while I was at the University of Texas.
I rarely visit it. Sure, it’s an all-right town. I show up for the big music festivals and drop in whenever a blizzard hits up here. But my little deli does fine without me. Probably better.
Grammy turns from where she’s been cooing over the baby. “Where’s Sherman?” she asks, her forehead crinkling in a way that makes us boys stand even straighter.
Max speaks up. “He went to get some balloons.”
Grammy nods. She settles in a rocking chair near the bed. “Good to see all you boys in the same place.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Anthony says.
A voice booms from the doorway. “It’s about time we all got together.”
It’s Dad, unmistakable in pressed khakis and a freshly ironed button-down. He holds a bouquet of blue balloons so enormous that he must have depleted the stock in the gift store.
“Oh, Uncle Sherman!” Greta exclaims. “That’s a lot of balloons!”
/> He peers around them, his hair a perfect gray wave. “Just want to make sure the newest Pickle knows he’s welcome!”
“He’s actually a Jones,” Jude says from the corner.
“Every Pickle’s a Pickle!” Dad insists, and his tone reminds everyone that nobody is to argue with him. He sets the base of the balloon cluster on a side table and approaches us, hand extended. I give him a hefty shake, like he expects.
“Jace,” he says. “I hear you tried to make the winning catch.”
I sigh. I’m never going to live that down.
He turns to Max. “Now that’s a physique. You trying to make your old man look weak?”
Max nods. “You make it too easy, Dad.”
Dad mock punches him in the shoulder. “You look good.”
When Dad extends a hand to Anthony, he instead pulls Dad into a hug. “Great to see you.”
Dad claps him on the back. “You remind me so much of your mother.”
Everybody goes quiet. Mom died ten years ago, a loss that never seems to get easier.
“Thank you,” Anthony says.
“Saving the old bat for last, are you?” Grammy calls from her corner.
“Always the best for last, Mother.” Dad approaches her rocking chair.
I glance over at Max. I still want to kill him.
He gives me a sneer. “How’s the playboy mansion?”
“Shut up.”
“I saw you went out with that actress. She was terrible in that frat boy movie.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs. “I’m surprised you graced us with your presence.”
“I was already in town.”
“Hey,” Greta calls from the bed. “Pay attention to the real hero here.”
Dad cups the baby’s tiny head. “A new Pickle son in the family.”
“You going to give him a franchise?” Grammy asks.
“I think the deli business is on your side of the family,” Greta says. She gazes down on her son. “Caden can be whoever he wants.”
I feel a twinge of jealousy. As the eldest Pickle, I’ve been expected to toe the line in the deli business. Sometimes it feels all I’ve done since leaving home is try to escape it.
Dad clasps his hands behind his back and faces the three of us skulking in the corner. “It seems my own sons don’t want to settle down. Why, Greta’s the youngest Pickle and here she is, married and providing my brother Martin a grandchild.”
“Where are Martin and Fran?” Grammy asks.
“On a flight,” Greta answers. “Caden wasn’t due for two more weeks.”
Dad clears his throat. “We’re glad to be here for you, Greta. It’s about time my boys started putting family first.”
Max’s eyebrows draw together in concern. I know what he’s thinking.
Lecture incoming.
We think we’re saved when a family friend arrives at the door. It’s Dell Brant, a New York billionaire who helped Dad find properties to buy as he expanded for us sons. He’s like an uncle to us, and his acquisition of an unexpected baby was the talk at our family table a year ago.
But apparently, he’s part of whatever Dad’s working up to. “Thank you for coming, Dell,” Dad says. “I think the boys will have questions for someone as experienced as you when they hear what I have to say.”
All three of us glance at each other anxiously. What’s going on?
Dad paces in front of where we stand like soldiers lined up for inspection. “When Greta announced she was having a baby, I started thinking about the future. The Pickle franchise is a really big deal.”
Chuckles fill the room, since Dad has inadvertently repeated the chain’s punny slogan, “A really big dill.”
He shuts us all up with one steely gaze.
“The delis have sustained my generation, as well as you boys.” His eyes meet ours. He gestures to the baby. “And it should help any member of the family who chooses to be a part of it.”
“Damn straight,” Grammy adds.
Dad nods at her. “But it’s time for me to begin the process of stepping down.”
Anthony gasps. “Dad! Why?”
“I’m not getting any younger, and I want to make sure the franchise is successful for generations to come.”
Grammy speaks up. “Sherman, you’re not going to die anytime soon. You’re fit as a fiddle.”
“That may be, but it’s time these boys took over the business. It’s getting beyond me anyway, with social media and all. But there’s one thing I do know. The company needs a strong leader. One leader.” He looks at each of us boys, and we all tense.
Dell nods in agreement. “It’s easy for a chain to have conflicting goals if it doesn’t remain unified as it transfers from one leader to another.”
What are they getting at?
Dad continues. “The three of you have handled the business in different ways, but I wanted to give you all one more opportunity to show me who loves it the most.”
“So only one of us can love it the most?” Anthony asks. He’s the soft-hearted brother, so of course he’s worried about how we’ll all take it.
Dad nods, and visions of not having an income flash in my head. Will all the franchises go to the winning brother? What the hell would I do instead?
But my shoulders relax as Dad says, “Each of you will continue to run the deli you currently possess. However, control of the franchise, including the Manhattan Pickle here in New York, will go to one son.”
Max elbows me.
Yeah, I’m the oldest Pickle. I get it. I’m supposed to step up.
I glance at Dell. His eyes are also on me.
Great. This is definitely going to cut into my time at the beach.
But then Dad drops the final bombshell. “The son with the highest profits between this day, March 1st, and the end of the year, will be named the winner.”
Anthony, Max, and I glance at each other uneasily. Dad has never pitted us against each other, not when we were small, not when we all picked different sports in adolescence, and certainly not when we began running our own businesses.
Why is he doing it now?
Dad clears his throat. “When you check your email, you’ll find our accountant has prepared a financial statement for each deli. Now that you know where you stand compared to the others, you can work on where you want to be by December.”
My phone buzzes. I hear a tone from Max’s pocket. Then Anthony’s.
Dad sure planned this out.
“Anyone who wants to confer with Dell, take this opportunity,” Dad says, “He’s bought and sold more businesses than I have shirts.”
“Think more in the bottles of shampoo range,” Dell says, and Dad shakes his head.
Anthony immediately heads toward him, clearly ready to get any advice he can.
My head is still spinning.
Dad gestures to us. “Boys, one of you go pick up some deli trays. I’ll call them ahead. Then we’ll enjoy this glorious day as a new Pickle has been born healthy and happy.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. I want to look at my email alone. I haven’t seen the books on my franchise in months. Maybe over a year.
Okay, maybe never.
It hasn’t been an issue. The franchise does fine. It doesn’t need me.
But is it enough for me to take over the entire chain? Will it prove I’m the leader of my brothers? Dad almost surely expects me to win. When lectures are handed out, I am usually the target.
I hurry down the hall to the elevator. While I wait, I pull up the email from the accountant.
And read with a terrible, sinking feeling in my stomach.
Even though I own the oldest spin-off franchise and have the most experience, I’m not even close to the other delis in gross, net, or growth.
In every single metric, I’m in the same place.
Dead last.
As I review the figures more closely, I realize it’s worse than that.
I’m barely keeping the doors
open.
I head down the lobby, realizing my father has thrown down the gauntlet. And I know one thing is true.
Something is terribly wrong with Austin Pickle.
2
Nova
I’ve had it with tiny pickles.
They are straight-up no use to me.
I huff out my annoyance, kicking my heavy boot against the leg of the mixing table. My coworker Lamonte has opened no less than six buckets of the supposedly biggest dill pickles in the United States of America.
I’ve seen bigger pickles on a dollar store party tray.
And, sometimes, unsolicited in my DMs.
I shove that disgusting thought away as Lamonte plunges his plastic-gloved hands into another drum of pickle juice.
“Nova, I don’t think this is the same company we usually get them from.”
He’s right. The buckets used to be a pale yellow, with the logo of a girl in some old-fashioned costume. These are generic white with the word PICKLES in bold black.
“Do we have the paperwork?” I ask him.
Lamonte withdraws his hands. “I haven’t seen papers on a delivery since Susan left. It’s all digital.”
I stare at his face for a moment. His warm brown eyes are friendly, even though a hint of concern crosses his features. I hired him myself, because our last produce stocker quit without notice, and Susan, Austin Pickle’s head manager, has been on extended medical leave for almost six months. In Hawaii.
Nobody believes she’s actually sick. Lamonte found her private Instagram, all beach pics and cocktails with umbrellas. She might even still be getting a paycheck. We don’t know.