Pedigree Persuasion Read online

  Pedigree Persuasion

  Pedigree Nation, Book 2

  J Nolan White

  Cover Design

  Craig A. Price Jr.

  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

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Pedigree Priority Excerpt

  About the Author

  PEDIGREE PERSUASION © Copyrighted 2022

  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.

  Formatting by Craig A. Price

  One

  Patrick cringed as he read the text on his smartphone.

  The memo lingered on the screen, taunting him: Step it up, Casanova. Your contract ends in 60 days. Chop-chop!

  Sixty days—why? He shot a text back: What’s the problem?

  The response came seconds later: Competition eating our lunch. Be more provocative, more risqué or raunchy.

  From the perimeter of the elevated patio where low-slung walls sheltered tropical plants, he mused over a response before deciding none was needed. He wanted to say raunchy was off limits in his comedy skits. It might anger the mega-radicals again.

  Instead, he glassed Sanctuary Beach with his binocs. Beyond sand dunes topped with sea oats, turquoise waters of the Alabama coast served as a backdrop for agile young women who staged antics for another Funtasy Channel production on the Sweethearts of America Show. With its risqué scenes, the primetime show—considered tame by modern standards—would certainly not qualify as raunchy.

  Was the television producer’s memo an idle threat?

  The girls had wowed viewers for months, yet the show had not made the Funtasy Top Ten, a must in luring big-budget sponsors. Maybe his own playacting wasn’t humorous enough. With every waking hour consumed by comedy ideas, what more could he do?

  Easter Beaulieu, seated thirty yards away, had insisted the show must do more than entertain. It must inform. She expected Patrick, as its Casanova Comic, to grow her genetic cause at warp speed. But the producer demanded the show do more. It must attract a fun-addicted audience.

  Would Easter risk alienating some of the show’s audience for her cause?

  He suspected its format would never satisfy a producer burdened with a commercial agenda. Money ruled. Yet the show’s humor fit perfectly with Easter’s mission. The future of civilization depended on it. A pedigree society, she insisted, must stop heritable diseases, mental disabilities, and behavior disorders.

  Nor would she change only to satisfy a producer’s lust for money.

  Interrupting his musing, the call of a crow drew his attention to a nest within spring foliage where a mockingbird was lured from its hatchlings. It chased the crow toward palm trees near Peninsula Road, a two-lane blacktop separating the big house from the beach by little more than ninety yards. Wise to the crow’s trickery, the songbird turned back toward its nest among jasmine twining up the east side of the large antebellum mansion.

  A second crow had swooped in, ready to pluck newborn chicks from the mocker’s nest.

  “Not on my watch,” Patrick mumbled as he gathered decorative pebbles from a nearby urn. He hurled one at the second crow. “This one’s on the house, little birds.”

  Pocketing a few pebbles, he lay the binoculars aside and turned from the south parapet to hurry past a large pool where seven young women lounged, all in the late stages of pregnancy. They waved to him, but his working partner needed help with video edits on the opposite end of the patio.

  Greeting him, Easter stood and turned from the circular table beneath an umbrella canopy. Her olive complexion, of mixed-race ancestry, complemented her symmetry of form in custom-fitted sweats. Her chestnut-brown hair enhanced her natural glamour with its luxurious sheen.

  She opened her arms wide. “Time for tea, baby,” she said.

  Patrick warmed to her cheery greeting. In her mid-twenties, her leadership skills and steely resolve intrigued him as much as her physical attributes.

  His words matched her mood. “The girls’ stagecraft is a director’s dream.”

  Following his kiss, she poured iced tea from a carafe. “Something unique about it?”

  “Always,” he said. “Who best to turn a staged skit into a blooper? Vanessa is the ticket for that innovation. These girls amaze me.”

  After filling his mug, her gaze locked on him. “Surely you wouldn’t expect anything less of your comedy protégé. Vanessa Wynley mimics your own performance.”

  He self-consciously patted tight abs below his cutaway jersey. “Still, the show needs more than zany slapstick skits. I’m thinking more off-the-wall pizazz from the others, too.”

  She lifted her glass, offering a toast. “Not this late in the game.”

  “But it feels like we’re about to tank,” he said.

  “Tank? No. I mean, who can watch the girls’ interplay without laughing? The twins are a hoot, the dance numbers are spectacular, and Peaches and Freckles are a gas. Who could want more? I think we’ve hit our stride bigtime with your hilarious skits.”

  “But don’t you think our TV audience expects something new and provocative?”

  In the shade of the canopy, she shook her hair back so that it cascaded to fall over one side of her face, the move stirring his interest. “New and provocative requires too many retakes. Most of our girls already improvise. And a
few could be cast for bigger parts in our movie sequel.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk with you about that,” he said. “I’m writing a script for it.”

  “Oh? Did Sorelle ask for one?”

  “Who cares? Crush doesn’t do it for me. I mean, who gets crushed? My title, Lovestruck, is better. Oh, and another thing, I’m cast as a sex-obsessed Romeo. Gimme a break.”

  Easter shrugged. “But the Romeo role fits your persona. Sorelle agrees. Surely you don’t think she and the director are scheming against you.”

  “Yeah, I do. When does it end? Just when I think the end is near, another end comes along.”

  She laughed. “Good one. But listen up. Sorelle Ebanetti knows the business. Besides, who arranged my collaboration with her? You. Yes, you, Patrick.”

  His gaze drifted far beyond the beach to the horizon where sky seemed to merge with gulf waters. “Don’t spank me for thinking, but—”

  “Ha!” She patted his backside. “We haven’t tried that, have we?”

  “I suspect she’s also behind today’s memo,” he said.

  “What memo?”

  He tapped his phone. “The TV director’s text. It gives us two months to break into the top ten or it’s game over.”

  Easter emitted a soft popping sound with her lips. “Two months? Well, we can’t blame him for wanting more advertising revenue but sixty days is ridiculous. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, we’re on the chopping block,” he said. “And Sorelle is no help. Why is she on a luxury yacht fifty miles off the coast with Central Order honchos? What are they scheming?”

  The wide-open canopy allowed the mischievous twinkle in her eyes to be clearly seen in the morning hour. “What’s this really about, Patrick? Don’t tell me your old flame is firing up romantic feelings in you.”

  He grinned and pulled her to his side. “No. Any feelings I had for Sorelle are long gone. They’ve found a new home.”

  “Oh, really?” she cooed. “You keep saying I bring out the best in you but you didn’t sleep with me last night. Nor the night before.”

  “Well, girl, the rotation schedule is a bit demanding. But you being the most adorable woman I’ve ever met, feels like rescheduling might be long overdue.”

  “Promise?” she said.

  “Yep, genes don’t lie and neither do I.”

  “But I’m curious, baby. We’ve been through a lot this past year, but what did you feel for me when we first met on the set of The Hotz Show?”

  “What do you think I felt? I recall thinking if charm were a crime, you’d get sentenced to a lifetime of public service. The SportScene centerfold put you on the map. And did I hesitate to join your cause? No. And long before Dr. Ronofski found out I had the youth gene.”

  “Want to know what I think?” she said.

  “Uh-oh, here comes the think bomb.”

  “Funny ha-ha. I think after a decade of standup in comedy clubs, coaching my super talented Sweethearts for a variety show was too irresistible for you to pass up.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, they’re top talent, babe, but nobody can equal your beauty and your—what’s the word—effervescence?”

  “Effervescence, eh?” She waved him off. “Listen, baby, don’t fret the memo. The producer knows the show is a hit. Ratings are inching up every week. Heads in Hollywood roll if a project fails to make enough money but our girls continue to get better, so our show gets better.”

  “I agree,” he said. “And I’ve always enjoyed doing the show, but serving as a stand-in for a genetic messiah shocked my psyche-doodle-doo.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “Hey, twenty-one women. Felt like I was in a breeder barn.”

  “We don’t say breeder,” she said with a finger-shake. “Seeder is the word. Okay?”

  He glanced at the pregnant women at poolside. “I get subbing for an impotent Super Bowl champ like Immanuel, but I don’t get why he’s credited for my offspring. I understand it’s his image that sells stuff but why couldn’t he be the one stuck with the youth gene?”

  “Stuck with it? You hit the genetic lottery and you want to give it back? Is that what I’m hearing? The mutation was meant for you, Patrick. But every cause needs a leader and who’s more high-profile than Immanuel? In marketing, image is everything. Know what I mean?”

  “But he’s always been elevated as America’s macho champ, yet I’m the one doing the heavy lifting.”

  She reached and tilted his English tam-o’-shanter to a jaunty angle. “What a quirky sense of humor. Look, nature’s genetic lottery favored you. Who knows what else is lurking inside your DNA?”

  “Might have a lurky thing going on, huh?” he said. “I understand we have to purge the detritus inside us, and the girls like the surge in my urge, but this youth gene mutation is still a mystery to me.”

  “Sorry, I’m no geneticist but I’ve tried to keep your genetic assets a secret. Really, I have.”

  “Not to mention my proxy role,” he said.

  She nodded toward the pool where the young women floated on colorful rafts, their swollen bellies showing final-trimester pregnancies. “You should be grateful that we’re using you to stop genetic devolution. And then at long last—ta-dah!—a genetic utopia arrives. Right?”

  He shook his head. “Fine, but Sorelle’s not sold on genetic matching for better babies.”

  Easter sipped from her tea glass before plopping an ice cube into her mouth. “You listen to me, Patrick Murph. Get over her. Yes, she knows about your youth gene, but be grateful that your secret is in good hands.” She followed as he ambled outside the canopy. “We can deal with that, darling, but right now we have a contract deadline to handle.”

  He realized Easter’s concern was genuine, but did she know how much his loss of self-esteem by Sorelle’s betrayal had cost him? Not once but twice. Sorelle lived to manipulate trusting people. None had been more trusting and vulnerable than himself. And her close friendship with a power broker who presided over a cabal of billionaires certainly didn’t inspire confidence. She had confided in the cabal’s Imperial Master about the rare youth gene.

  Who else had she told?

  Adding to his stress was the Funtasy Channel contract crisis. What could be done to beat the Sweethearts competition there?

  Something had to give. And give now. Not later.

  Two

  Months ago Patrick realized his past had overtaken him, but Easter inspired him to deal with it.

  Redemption, though, had a price.

  He renounced his prodigal lifestyle and embraced a greater cause. The adjustment meant accepting his role as paramour and progenitor to the Sweethearts, all in harmony with Easter’s perfect progeny program.

  “Our program stirs up anger among some,” Easter said. “But as long as allies like Reggie Torgenthal are in control of the Central Order, he’ll keep Sorelle in check. Meanwhile, Sorelle’s contacts in the movie industry does give us a big advantage.” A thought appeared to sidetrack her. “Hmmm. I’ve often wondered. She has ten years on you at forty-eight, doesn’t she?”

  He took a deep breath of the bay air, its brackish scent drifting to mix with the nearby aroma of jasmine. “Yeah, and she wants to replace Reggie as Imperial Master. If that happens, it’ll mean your selective breeding program will be gutted and I could be put out to pasture.”

  “There you go again,” she said. “Breeding sounds so animalistic and, well—she waffled her hand—gritty.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I meant to say regenerative gene matching program.”

  “No, Patrick, perfect progeny program. Repeat after me; perfect progeny program, per—”

  “Okay, okay, but since it’s just you and me talking, think on this. It’s not only Sorelle. She says about four-dozen corporate CEOs make up the Central Order. And if Reggie slips up in a moment of weakness and tells his colleagues, they’ll all want a piece o’ my youth gene.”

  Easter
’s fingers crawled playfully up his chest. “Well, I’ve made friends with Reggie, so there’s that. And secondly, we met this week’s TV deadline. Know what that means?”

  “Yeah. A cold one at the Swashbuckler Pub.”

  “No, tonight you’ll take a romantic walk with me.”

  “Long walk, short pier?”

  “No, we’ll stroll in the moonlight, all the way out to the boathouse.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  Releasing him, she said, “By the way, your latest skit is over the top. How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Are you trying to be the king of quirky? Is there really a spider that drums its genitalia on the ground to attract a mate? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “Yep, it’s a fact,” he said. “In the skit he goes balls to the walls. It’s outrageously funny.”

  “Okay, but tell me this. How do we relate that oddity to our gene matching cause?”

  He shifted his tam for comfort. “I’d say the spider’s stunt illustrates how ballsy pedigree members need to be to grow the cause faster. Like change how they think about mating.”

  “Okay, but what’s so entertaining about him drumming his balls?”