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 f**k 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.
Shit.
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.
“Why?”
She hands me a folder. “Today—lunch in the conference room. Your father’s introducing the new associate. You know how he is about these things.”
You ever see A Christmas Carol? Of course you have—some version of it’s on some channel, somewhere, every day before Christmas. Well, you know when the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back in time to when he was young and happy? And he had that boss, Fezziwig, the fat guy who threw the big parties? Yeah, that guy. That’s my father.
My dad loves this company and sees all his employees as extended family. He looks for any excuse to throw an office party. Birthday parties, baby showers, Thanksgiving luncheons, President’s Day buffets, Columbus Day dinners…need I go on?
It’s a miracle any actual work gets accomplished.
And Christmas? Forget about it. My father’s Christmas parties are legendary. Everybody goes home shitfaced. Some people don’t go home at all. Last year we caught ten employees from a rival bank trying to sneak in, just because the soirée is that frigging fantastic. And it’s all done to achieve the atmosphere—the vibe—my father wants in this firm.
He loves his employees, and they love him right back. Devotion, loyalty—we’ve got it in spades. That’s part of what makes us the best. Because the people who work here would pretty much sell their firstborn for my old man.
Still, there are days—days like today, when I need the time to romance a client—that his celebrations can be a royal pain in the ass. But it is what it is.
My Monday morning is packed, so I get to my desk and start working. Then, before I can blink, it’s one o’clock and I’m heading to the conference room. I spot a familiar head of bright orange hair attached to a short stocky-framed body. That would be Jack O’Shay. Jack started at the firm about six years ago, the same year I did. He’s a good guy and frequent weekend comrade. Next to him is Matthew, talking animatedly as he pushes a large hand through his sandy-colored hair.
I grab my food from the buffet and join them just as Matthew is recounting his Saturday night. “So then she breaks out handcuffs and a whip. A f**king whip! I thought I was going to lose it right there, I swear to Christ. I mean…she went to a convent…actually studied to be a goddamn nun, man!”
“I told you, the quiet ones are always into the kinky shit,” Jack adds with a laugh.
Matthew turns his hazel eyes to Steven and tells him, “Seriously, dude. You gotta come out with us. Just once, I’m begging you.”
I smirk at that because I know exactly what’s coming.
“I’m sorry, have you met my wife?” Steven asks, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Jack ribs him. “Tell her you’re going to play cards or something. Live a little.”
Steven takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with a napkin as he appears to consider the idea.
“Riiiight. And when she finds out—and Alexandra will definitely find out, I assure you—she’ll serve me my balls on a silver platter. With a nice garlic butter dipping sauce on the side and a good Chianti.”
He makes a slurping sound à la Hannibal Lecter that has me laughing my ass off.
“Besides,” he gloats, replacing his spectacles and stretching his hands over his head, “I got filet mignon at home, boys. I’m not interested in Sloppy Joes.”
“Pussy,” Matthew coughs out, while Jack shakes his head at my brother-in-law and says, “Even a nice filet gets old if you eat it every day.”
“Not,” Steven defends suggestively, “if you cook it a different way every time. My baby knows how to keep my meals spicy.”
I put my hand up and plead, “Please. Please just stop there.” There are just some visuals I don’t want in my head. Ever.
“What about you, Drew? I saw you leave with those twins. Were they real redheads?” Jack asks me.
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 f**k 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.
Shit.
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.
“Why?”
She hands me a folder. “Today—lunch in the conference room. Your father’s introducing the new associate. You know how he is about these things.”
You ever see A Christmas Carol? Of course you have—some version of it’s on some channel, somewhere, every day before Christmas. Well, you know when the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back in time to when he was young and happy? And he had that boss, Fezziwig, the fat guy who threw the big parties? Yeah, that guy. That’s my father.
My dad loves this company and sees all his employees as extended family. He looks for any excuse to throw an office party. Birthday parties, baby showers, Thanksgiving luncheons, President’s Day buffets, Columbus Day dinners…need I go on?
It’s a miracle any actual work gets accomplished.
And Christmas? Forget about it. My father’s Christmas parties are legendary. Everybody goes home shitfaced. Some people don’t go home at all. Last year we caught ten employees from a rival bank trying to sneak in, just because the soirée is that frigging fantastic. And it’s all done to achieve the atmosphere—the vibe—my father wants in this firm.
He loves his employees, and they love him right back. Devotion, loyalty—we’ve got it in spades. That’s part of what makes us the best. Because the people who work here would pretty much sell their firstborn for my old man.
Still, there are days—days like today, when I need the time to romance a client—that his celebrations can be a royal pain in the ass. But it is what it is.
My Monday morning is packed, so I get to my desk and start working. Then, before I can blink, it’s one o’clock and I’m heading to the conference room. I spot a familiar head of bright orange hair attached to a short stocky-framed body. That would be Jack O’Shay. Jack started at the firm about six years ago, the same year I did. He’s a good guy and frequent weekend comrade. Next to him is Matthew, talking animatedly as he pushes a large hand through his sandy-colored hair.
I grab my food from the buffet and join them just as Matthew is recounting his Saturday night. “So then she breaks out handcuffs and a whip. A f**king whip! I thought I was going to lose it right there, I swear to Christ. I mean…she went to a convent…actually studied to be a goddamn nun, man!”
“I told you, the quiet ones are always into the kinky shit,” Jack adds with a laugh.
Matthew turns his hazel eyes to Steven and tells him, “Seriously, dude. You gotta come out with us. Just once, I’m begging you.”
I smirk at that because I know exactly what’s coming.
“I’m sorry, have you met my wife?” Steven asks, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Jack ribs him. “Tell her you’re going to play cards or something. Live a little.”
Steven takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with a napkin as he appears to consider the idea.
“Riiiight. And when she finds out—and Alexandra will definitely find out, I assure you—she’ll serve me my balls on a silver platter. With a nice garlic butter dipping sauce on the side and a good Chianti.”
He makes a slurping sound à la Hannibal Lecter that has me laughing my ass off.
“Besides,” he gloats, replacing his spectacles and stretching his hands over his head, “I got filet mignon at home, boys. I’m not interested in Sloppy Joes.”
“Pussy,” Matthew coughs out, while Jack shakes his head at my brother-in-law and says, “Even a nice filet gets old if you eat it every day.”
“Not,” Steven defends suggestively, “if you cook it a different way every time. My baby knows how to keep my meals spicy.”
I put my hand up and plead, “Please. Please just stop there.” There are just some visuals I don’t want in my head. Ever.
“What about you, Drew? I saw you leave with those twins. Were they real redheads?” Jack asks me.
