Okay, maybe that’s not exactly true. But I can’t help it if they see me, fuck me, and suddenly want to bear my children. That’s not my problem. Like I said, I tell them how it is, give them a good time and then the cab fare home. Thank you, good night. Don’t call me, ’cause I sure as shit won’t be calling you.
Finally getting through the crowd to the bar, I order two drinks. I take a moment to watch the writhing, twisting bodies melt into each other on the dance floor as the music vibrates all around.
And then I see her, fifteen feet from where I’m standing, waiting patiently but looking a bit uneasy amongst the arm-raising, money-waving, alcohol-craving herd trying to get the bartender’s attention.
I told you I’m poetic, right? The truth is, I wasn’t always. Not until this moment. She’s magnificent—angelic—gorgeous. Pick a word, any fucking word. The bottom line is, for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Her hair is long and dark and shines even in the dim light of the club. She’s wearing a red backless dress—sexy but classy—that accentuates every perfectly toned curve. Her mouth is full and lush, with lips begging to be ravished.
And her eyes. Sweet fucking Christ. Her eyes are large and round and endlessly dark. I imagine those eyes looking up at me as she takes my cock into her hot little mouth. The appendage in question immediately stirs to life at the thought. I have to have her.
I quickly make my way over, deciding then and there that she is the lucky woman who’ll have the pleasure of my company for the remainder of the night. And what a pleasure I intend to make it.
Arriving just as she’s opening her mouth to order a drink, I intervene with, “The lady will have…” I look her over to surmise what she would be drinking. This is a talent of mine. Some people are beer drinkers, some scotch and soda, some an aged wine, others are brandy or sweet champagne. And I can always tell who’s what—always. “…a Veramonte Merlot, 2003.”
She turns to me with a raised brow, and her eyes appraise me from head to toe. Deciding I’m not a loser, she says, “You’re good.”
I smile. “I see my reputation precedes me. Yes, I am. And you’re beautiful.”
She blushes. Actually turns frigging pink in the cheeks and looks away. Who blushes any more? It’s goddamn adorable.
“So, what do you say we find someplace more comfortable…and private? So we can get to know each other better?”
Without missing a beat, she says, “I’m here with friends. We’re celebrating. I don’t usually come to places like this.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“I just got my MBA and start a new job on Monday.”
“Really? What a coincidence. I’m a finance guy myself. Maybe you’ve heard of my firm? Evans, Reinhart and Fisher?” We’re the hottest boutique investment bank in the city, so I’m sure she’s duly impressed.
Let’s just pause here again, shall we?
Did you see the rounding of this gorgeous woman’s mouth when I told her where I am employed? Did you see the widening of her eyes? That should have told me something.
But I didn’t notice at the time—I was too busy checking out her tits. They’re perfect, by the way. Smaller than what I usually go for, no more than a handful. But as far as I’m concerned, a handful’s all you need.
My point is, remember that look of surprise—that will make sense later on. Now, back to the conversation.
“We have so much in common,” I say. “We’re both in business, we both like a good red…I think we owe it to ourselves to see where this could go tonight.”
She laughs. It’s a magical sound.
Now I should explain one thing here. With any other woman, on any other night, I’d be in a cab by now, with my hand up her dress and my mouth making her moan. No question. For me, this is working for it. And strangely enough, it’s kind of a turn-on.
“I’m Drew, by the way.” I hold out my hand. “And you are?”
She holds up her hand. “Engaged.”
Undeterred, I take her hand and kiss her knuckle, grazing it ever so slightly with my tongue. I see my reluctant beauty try to suppress a shiver, and I know, despite her words, I’m getting to her.
See, I’m not the type who really listens to what people say. I look at how they say it. You can learn a lot about someone if you just take the time to watch the way they move, the shift of their eyes, the rise and fall of their voice.
Doe Eyes may be telling me no…but her body? Her body’s screaming, Yes, yes, fuck me on the bar. In the span of three minutes, she’s told me why she’s here, what she does for a living, and allowed me to fondle her hand. Those are not the actions of a woman who is not interested—those are the actions of a woman who does not want to be interested.
And I can definitely work with that.
I’m about to comment on her engagement ring; the diamond is so small that even on close inspection, it can’t be located. But I don’t want to offend her. She said she’s just graduated. I have friends who had to put themselves through business school, and the loans can be crushing.
So I go for a different tactic—honesty. “Even better. You don’t do places like this? I don’t do relationships. We’re a perfect fit. We should explore this connection further, don’t you think?”
She laughs again, and our drinks arrive. She picks hers up. “Thank you for the drink. I should get back to my friends now. It’s been a pleasure.”
I give her a wicked smile, unable to help myself. “Baby, if you let me take you out of here, I’ll give the word pleasure a whole new meaning.”
She shakes her head with a smile, as if she’s indulging a petulant child. Then she calls over her shoulder as she walks away, “Have a good night, Mr. Evans.”
Like I said, I am typically an observant man. Sherlock Holmes and I, we could hang out. But I’m so enraptured by the view of that sweet ass, I miss it at first.
Did you notice? Did you catch the little detail that passed me by?
That’s right. She called me “Mr. Evans”—but I never told her my last name. Remember that too.
For the moment, I let the dark-haired mystery woman retreat. I intend to give her some slack, then reel her in—hook, line, and sinker. I plan to pursue her the rest of the night if I have to.
She’s just that frigging hot.
But then Redhead—yep the one from the men’s room—finds me. “There you are! I thought I lost you.” She pushes her body up against my side and rubs my arm intimately. “How about we go to my place? It’s just around the corner.”
Ah, thanks—but no thanks. Redhead has quickly become a fading memory. My sights are set on better, more intriguing prospects. I’m about to tell her so when another redhead appears beside her.
“This is my sister, Mandy. I told her all about you. She thought the three of us could…you know…have a good time.”
I turn my gaze on Redhead’s sister—her twin, actually. And just like that, my plans change. I know, I know…I said I don’t ride the same coaster twice. But twin coasters?
Let me tell you, no man would pass up a ride like that.
HAVE I MENTIONED that I love my job?
If my firm were Major League Baseball, I’d be MVP. I’m a partner at one of the top investment banks in New York City, specializing in media and technology. Yes, yes, my father and his two closest friends started the firm. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t bust my ass to get where I am—because I did. It also doesn’t mean I don’t eat, breathe, and sleep work to earn the reputation I have, because I do.
What does an I-banker do, you ask? Well, you know in Pretty Woman, when Richard Gere tells Julia Roberts that his company buys up other ones and sells them off piece by piece? I’m the guy who helps him do that. I negotiate the deals, draw up the contracts, manage due diligence, draft credit agreements, and many other things I’m sure you have no interest hearing about.
Now you’re probably asking yourself why a guy like me is quoting a chick flick like Pretty Woman?
The answer is simple: Growing up, my mother forced “family movie night” on her young children every single week. The Bitch got to choose the featured presentation every other week. She went through this whole Julia Roberts obsession and forced it down my throat for, like, a year. I could recite the goddamn thing verbatim. Though I have to admit—Richard Gere. He’s fucking cool.
Now back to my job.
The best part about it is the high I feel when I close a deal, a really good deal. It’s like getting blackjack in a Vegas casino. It’s like being picked by Jenna Jameson to be in her next porno. There is nothing—and I mean nothing—better.
I do the prospecting for my clients, recommend what moves they should make. I know which companies are dying to be bought and which ones need a hostile takeover. I’m the one with the inside information about which media mogul is ready to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge because he spent too much of the company’s profits on high-priced hookers.
Competition for clients is fierce. You have to entice them, make them want you, make them believe no one else can do for them what you can. It’s kind of like getting laid. But instead of getting a piece of ass at the end of the day, I get a big, fat check. I make money for myself and my clients—lots of it.
The sons of my father’s partners also work here, Matthew Fisher and Steven Reinhart. Yes, that Steven—The Bitch’s husband. Like our fathers, the three of us grew up together, went to school together, and now work at the firm together. The old men leave the real work to us. They check in from time to time, to feel like they’re still running things, and then head on out to the country club to get in an afternoon game of golf.
Matthew and Steven are good at the job too—don’t get me wrong. But I’m the star. I’m the shark. I’m the one clients ask for and drowning companies fear. They know it and so do I.
Monday morning I’m in my office at nine a.m., same as always. My secretary—the smoking little blond with the nice rack—is already there, ready with my schedule for the day, my messages from the weekend, and the best damn cup of coffee in the tri-state area.
No, I haven’t fucked her.
Not that I wouldn’t love to. Trust me, if she didn’t work for me, I’d hit that harder than Mohammed Ali.
But I have rules—standards, you might say. One of them is no screwing around at the office. I don’t shit where I eat, I don’t fuck where I work. Never mind the sexual harassment issues it would bring up; it’s just not good business. It’s unprofessional.
So, because Erin is the only woman besides my blood relatives that I have platonic interactions with, she is also the only member of the opposite sex I’ve ever considered a friend. We have a great working relationship. Erin is simply…awesome.
That’s another reason I wouldn’t screw her even if she were spread-eagle on the desk begging for it. Believe it or not, a good secretary—a really good one—is hard to find. I’ve had girls work for me who were dumber than a whole bucket of dirt. I’ve had others who thought they could make it by just working on their backs, if you know what I mean. Those are the girls I want to meet in a bar on a Saturday night—not the kind I want answering my phones Monday morning.
So now that you have a little insight? Let’s go back to my descent into hell.
“I moved your one o’clock lunch with Mecha back to a four o’clock meeting,” Erin tells me as she hands me a stack of messages.
Mecha Communications is a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate. I’ve been working on their acquisition of a Spanish-speaking cable network for months, and the CEO, Radolpho Scucini, is always more receptive on a full stomach.
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