Pedigree Promise Read online

  “Answer me this,” she said. “Do you ever want to be loved? Like your next heartbeat depends on it?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, but I focus on something else, like sailing in the regatta with a pina colata.”

  “Admit it, Patrick, you’re as hopelessly in love with me as I am with you. My vulnerable side draws you to me.”

  Vulnerable? If she only knew. Even now his heart seemed to recognize that. Intimacy felt more meaningful with her than with any other woman. Somehow she had touched him with a deeper tenderness and caring.

  “Actually,” he said, “love has that unforgettable face and seductive voice, a certain lolling of the head, and eyes so brown they melt this man’s heart.”

  “Hmmm, so you do love me in that same special way I love you.”

  “Does thinking about you day and night count? I’m so into you, I never want out.”

  “Are those your real thoughts, baby? And don’t say it unless you mean it.”

  “Genes don’t lie and neither do I,” he said.

  “I need to ask you something,” she said. “Do you ever imagine me being pregnant?”

  Pedigree Promise

  Pedigree Nation, Book 1

  J Nolan White

  Edited by

  Monica Derr

  Cover Design By

  Craig A. Price Jr.

  PEDIGREE PROMISE © Copyrighted 2017

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover Design by Craig A. Price Jr.

  Editing by Monica Derr

  Formatting by Craig A. Price

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Pedigree Persuasion Blurb

  Pedigree Persuasion Excerpt

  About the Author

  One

  Anxiety knotted his gut as Patrick Murph paced the floor of the studio greenroom. What if his standup routine flopped? His talent agent said this appearance on America’s top-rated talk show—a weeknight production in New York City—would be his one big chance at stardom.

  Only a few minutes remained before he would be signaled to appear onstage. Even in the cool room, beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he vocalized his lines.

  Interrupting him, two young women appeared in the greenroom doorway. They applauded his vocal rendition while sashaying to sit in studio chairs. Custom-fit blouses and designer jeans revealed the contours of each one’s physique.

  He feigned shock. “Aha! Central casting sent you here to upstage me, didn’t they?”

  The tall strawberry blonde, her voice steeped in Southern sweetness, spoke after a closer look at his toned body. “We’re here to support Dr. Ronofski. And who are you?”

  “I’m the scheduled comedy act, a buffoon with a tune.” He adjusted a strap on bib overalls worn over his bare torso. “What brings you girls to the Big Apple, besides a telegenic tune-up?”

  The blonde eyed him closely. “Tele-what?”

  Her shorter companion raked back her chestnut-brown hair and stood to offer her hand. “We’re on a lifesaving mission,” she said. Her voice, a sultry contralto, matched the allure of her honey-brown eyes. She was maybe three inches shorter than Patrick’s five-foot-nine.

  He bowed low as a sly grin curled his lips. “Pat McGroin at your service. Just kidding. That’s my stage name. I portray a macho guy who flubs his pickup lines.”

  She lolled her head back. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’m in a bar and I say to a pretty woman, ‘Is this seat shaved for me?’” He grinned. “So how’s that for a quickie?”

  She hinted at a smile while shaking his hand. “I’m really not into bars or quickies but please, call me Easter.”

  “Easter?” he said. “Okay, like the Babylonian goddess?” Her firm handshake surprised him. “All jokes aside, I’m Patrick Murph. It rhymes with….” The thought hung in limbo as he nodded at Easter’s companion.

  “Smurf!” the blonde answered. “I’m Vanessa. It rhymes with, well, nothing really.” She stood tall as Patrick, her eyes translucent green crystals, hypnotic in their beauty. “We’re putting together an entertainment group. To us it’s spiritual, sort of.”

  He toasted her with an imaginary drink. “Spiritual, huh? As in Twenty-Three and Thee? Get it?”

  “Yes, it’s a pun. We’re hiring for the Sweethearts of America Show—the SAS.”

  “SAS?” he said to Easter. “Sounds almost sassy.”

  Multi-colored charms jangled on her bracelet as Easter snapped her fingers and directed attention to a television monitor braced on a stanchion. “We’ll have lots of skits, all purposed to save the human race from deeper devolution.”

  “And you’ll perform entertainment gigs?”

  Easter’s earnest demeanor made her seem older than her companion. Endowed with an olive skin tone, her eyes showed the steely resolve of a leader who could light a fire under recruits without making their blood boil.

  Returning to her seat, she said, “The idea is to educate audiences. Comedy can do that.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  “But there’s more. Major changes have to take place. Now!”

  Perplexed but intrigued by the urgency in her voice, he plopped down on a studio chair next to them and focused on the television monitor.

  “Look, there’s our mentor,” Easter said. “Listen and learn how we’ll save humanity.”

  Hosting The Hotz Show, Wynn Traynor introduced his primary guest, Dr. Henry Ronofski. A world-renowned geneticist, Ronofski’s high forehead seemed to exaggerate his gaunt features. Thick eyebrows hooded his intense gaze. He spoke in
a graveled drawl, strong and authoritative.

  “It’s all about choices,” Ronofski said. “Regenerative matching versus degenerative luck. One is essential to our survival. That is why, based on genetic testing, we do it for the greater good. You might call it genetic mating.”

  Seated next to Ronofski, a sports icon known as Dan the Man DiNago to American football fans, nodded in agreement.

  Patrick leaned forward, eager to hear how genetic choices might be used as a survival technique.

  The host snorted in his typical scoffing tone, “Dr. Ronofski, surely you must know those master race protocols ended with Hitler’s downfall.”

  “That’s not what I propose,” Ronofski said. “We favor science without Hitler.”

  Wynn indicated Danny DiNago whose height and broad shoulders bolstered his iconic status. “So why a super jock?”

  Ronofski deep-frowned as his voice growled out an answer. “Do you realize how costly genetic diseases are to society? Look at the talent being wasted when gifted people die with no hope of a cure. It may sound strange but Danny here never gets sick, and that’s why he’s my donor of choice to sire the privileged; those whose genes are not corrupted.”

  Danny spoke with the confidence of a superstar. “I’ve got the bloodline to offset bad mutations, Wynn. You know, those people with genes gone wild.”

  As though at his wit’s end, Wynn raised his arms skyward. “Lord help us.”

  “Wait,” Danny said. “Think, man. A hemophiliac doesn’t choose a free-bleeder mate, does he?”

  Amused, Patrick shook his head. Genetic matching prevents hemophilia? News to me. What else will it prevent? Tooth decay? Bed wetting? Stuttering?

  Wynn Traynor grinned. “So you’re saying we should match the best and discard the rest? I can imagine your come-on line—your egg, my sperm, let’s boogie, baby.” As the audience laughed, he said, “Where do you guys get off trying to boost some elitist icon’s genetic status?”

  “Why not?” Danny said. “Boosting isn’t boasting.”

  The slope-shouldered scientist stared into the camera. “Genetic matching is no joke. As a matter of fact, in my new book, Pedigree Promise, I remind people that the few have sabotaged the many. And mismatching genes leads to genetic implosion, which is another big step toward Armageddon.”

  Wynn pounded the desk, his tone mocking. “Yes-yes, frickin’ shameful, yada-yada-yada.”

  Ronofski’s voice thundered, “But we can help! And despite junk genes that predispose some to deadly flaws. Take emblot. It’s a heritable disease. It mutates like a stealth virus, a glitch in DNA.”

  Wynn scratched his head. “So you’re telling us that victims of emblot should stop reproducing?”

  “It’s their choice, Wynn, but regenerative matching is the only answer to prevent it.”

  Facing the camera, Wynn said, “So says the wizard. Do we have volunteers out there who want to avoid this color-me-dead pestilence while at the same time approving Black genocide?”

  The scientist’s eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose. “Dammit, you’re skewing my message. Emblot is not their fault. Some Blacks never get sick, so they have genes well worth matching.”

  “Some? How many? Fifteen, twenty percent?” He hammered the desk. “This sounds like racial inequity masquerading in pedigree garb. No sex. No offspring. No hope.”

  “You’re distorting the science of gene matching, young man, and ignoring our secret weapon.”

  Wynn knuckle-rapped the surface of his desk. “Really? Is racial purity your secret weapon?”

  In the wake of derisive boos from the audience, Ronofski shook his head. “Would you rather match diseased genes, Mr. Traynor? That, sir, should be taboo, like suicide and incest.”

  His eyes wide in surprise, Wynn looked at the professor. “What? Explain yourself.”

  “I’m saying far too many retrogressive misfits are breeding. Their effect on the gene pool causes out-of-control genetic maladies. Again, genetic matching will help.”

  The host peered hard at Danny. “How were you suckered into this breeding thing, pray tell?”

  “One in six males in America have severely flawed sperm,” Danny said. “We have to right the inherited wrongs.”

  Wynn chuckled. “Really? Ha! So your group will prevent Spermageddon.”

  “Of course,” Danny answered without blinking. “The hi-tech medical industry with their gene editing and big-money backers don’t like us because genetic matching is natural, and it’s free.”

  Wynn palmed his face momentarily. “Mother of God! Seriously, are any Black people—any—allowed in this elitist mating club?”

  Before he could answer, a chorus of shouts rumbled from the studio audience as cameras panned a cluster of Black activists. Their leader, Spence Lovejoy, stood with fists raised and voice booming. “I know y’all hiding something behind all that razz talk, fooling us, like we’re too gone to mix with all you blue bloods.” An All-Pro linebacker, recently retired and destined for the NFL Hall of Fame, Lovejoy had always been a formidable foe on and off the gridiron.

  In the greenroom, Patrick understood Wynn was framing the debate to incite adverse reactions from the audience. The chaos could only worsen by bringing the Black leader onstage.

  “Uh-oh, girls,” Patrick said. “This can’t be good. Spence’s nickname is Hush Yo’ Mouth and he has a reputation for making people do just that.”

  “It’s just a ratings ploy,” Easter said. “Wynn likes to rile audiences and stir things up.”

  Patrick paced the floor. “My act will be hijacked if Wynn keeps up his showboating.”

  Easter pointed at the television. “Oops! What’s going on out there?”

  A flurry of movement on the monitor caught Patrick’s eye. Wynn Traynor gestured like a referee as Spence smacked Dr. Ronofski upside the head. The scientist’s glasses sat lopsided on his pale face. As he righted himself, he blinked rapidly, disoriented by the sudden jolt.

  From the greenroom Easter and Vanessa bolted down the straightaway and across the stage to the scientist.

  Danny DiNago sprang to his feet, his muscular physique a wedge protecting the scientist from Spence. Guards rushed onto the stage but kept a respectful distance from the Black behemoth. Patrick reached in his pocket and retrieved a small flask as he followed close on the girls’ heels, all the while hoping to defuse the on-camera standoff.

  Within reach of Spence, the comic drew himself up to his full height, his smaller size at odds with the linebacker’s bulk—a badger confronting a cougar. Patrick swigged a mouthful of lighter fluid from the flask and spewed it over a butane flame. The flame billowed larger but quickly disappeared.

  “Don’t make me do my burning bush routine, Spence. Stage hands are union and all they know are thunder farts.”

  An amused gleam showed in Spence’s eyes. “You firing up that flame thang for show, Bozo?” He nodded at Vanessa. “I say you hinting for some chick to lick your Bic.”

  “Dr. Ronofski, come with us.” Easter steered the scientist beyond Spence’s reach with Vanessa following her.

  Studio lights faded to semi-darkness and silence replaced the clamor. Guards quickly escorted Patrick Murph and Spence Lovejoy away from the set. As the lighting returned to normal, Dan the Man DiNago, America’s most vaunted football icon, remained as the show’s only guest.

  Patrick knew the drill. Confrontation and drama were standard for the show. With his last chance at fame now in jeopardy, disappointment eroded his hopes for national recognition. Rescheduling him for the show would be a long shot. As anger seared into his sense of fairness, he wanted to drive his fist through the studio wall.

  At the far end of the stage, Easter slowed to gaze at him. On the chance that his own gaze would excite her curiosity, he stared back at her. As she hesitated before departing the stage, a nimbus of light glowed momentarily around her face.

  Though her smile radiated genuine warmth, he wondered about the aura.

&nbs
p; “So, Miss Irresistible, why do I suspect we’re the perfect match?” he mumbled before shaking his head. “No, not again. I’m done with fantasies.”

  But she turned again, sending him a quick finger-roll wave before easing down the hall.

  Transfixed, he relished the kindness in her eyes. “Here we go again. Can I afford to fall in love? No, it’s definitely not my gig.”

  He considered calling Liz to report his routine had been hijacked. Not now, maybe later. After all, my longtime enemy may revive its interest in whatever fame comes my way.

  Easter’s smile seemed to linger, as if chiseling a message into Patrick’s mind and heart. He could not deny the feeling, illogical as it might be, that he belonged in her future.

  Two

  Still vexed by Wynn’s antics on The Hotz Show, Patrick changed into street clothes and stuffed his wig, brogans, and bib overalls into a gym tote. Within minutes he rode an elevator from the studio inside the Waldorf Astoria down to the art deco lobby.

  Embarrassed to call his talent agent, he knew it had to be done.

  She answered on the first ring. “Liz? Did you see me get hijacked on the Hotz? The breakout performance I wanted went sideways. Am I snakebit?”

  A long sigh released into the phone. “Sorry, but with Wynn you never know.”