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.
Chapter 2
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 f**king 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 p**n o. 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 f**ked her.
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.
Chapter 2
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 f**king 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 p**n o. 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 f**ked her.
