by London Casey
“In a way, yeah,” I said. “But first…”
I pulled her closer to me and moved my hands to her face.
She leaned into me and bit her lip.
She smelled like sticky booze and sweat.
Her dream in life was to become a lawyer. Bartending at a place like this was a lot of money and she couldn’t pass that up. She told herself she was going to go to law school soon. My best guess was that she was going to work here for a very long time.
I brushed my lips to hers. Then down to her neck. My hands slid down to her tits and I squeezed them through her shirt and bra. Maggie hated her chest, which maybe was a little flat. She wore a heavily padded bra to give an appearance that wasn’t all that true. Then again, at a bar like this, we all weren’t totally truthful.
My right hand moved down her body and touched the front of her black pants. They hugged her body so fucking tight that I just simply followed the curve of her pants and nestled my hand between her legs.
She jumped to her toes and giggled.
“Dammit, Cole,” she purred. “I can’t right now. I’m not on a break.”
“Of course,” I said. “My bad.”
Maggie stepped back and touched her hair again. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I closed in on her again. My right hand touched the small of her back. “Listen to me. The guy I’m with…”
“The cucumber guy?” she asked.
“Mr. Pickle,” I said.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Listen to me, darling. He’s got a lot of money. And I want it. So you’re going to feed him drinks like they’re free. Because to him, they are. This is a no ask situation. If I see his glass ever get empty, I’ll text your sister and fuck her.”
“You’re an asshole, Cole,” Maggie snapped. She pushed herself away. “Why would you say that?”
“It got your attention,” I said. “And I bet your sister is the more successful one, right?”
“Fuck you.”
She started to turn and I hurried up behind her then pulled her against me. “You know I love it when you’re mad at me, darling.”
Maggie elbowed me. “I better get a big fucking tip for this.”
“That’s all you want? Just the tip?”
She looked back at me.
She smiled.
I winked.
For the record, I did not like Maggie at all. I didn’t care about her. I wasn’t going to fall for her. We were never going to get married or have kids or tell some wild romantic story of how I was a rich douchebag, she was a bartender and we fell in love.
Our respect for each other was my good looks and her orgasms.
Hate me yet?
Good.
Mr. Pickle may have had a goofy name, but nothing was goofy about his bank account. Or his sway in business mergers and acquisitions.
I was the big bad boss of a software company that my roommate started in college. I was far from some techy geek, but I knew the value of technology and what it could become. It took me years to grow the company and grow with it, finally sitting at the top.
Now my one goal was simple.
Sell the fucking thing.
Why?
Because competing in tech was a suicide mission.
It was far easier to sell off the company, cash in on more money than I could have ever dreamed of having, which would make everyone else rich in the company, including my old roommate, who lived in California and spent his days surfing and his nights hitting on single and lonely tourists.
There was one name at the top of my list to buy the company.
“Mr. Pickle,” I said. “You haven’t said much in the last few minutes.”
“Cole,” he said. “I think I’m drunk.”
I grinned.
It had been two hours since my meeting with Maggie, and she performed amazingly. She kept Mr. Pickle drinking. She flirted with him.
Mr. Pickle wasn’t the best looking man. His clothes were nicer than him. He had no problem giving off the allure of a rich asshole. He loved it. The giant, gold watch. The smell of his clothes. Or the fact that he spoke about how much money he had any chance he got.
When he got serious, his face narrowed. He had the look and appeal of a rattlesnake that had been annoyed.
None of it bothered me.
I knew the game.
I knew the dance.
And we were smack dab in the middle of it.
“I’m the same, Mr. Pickle,” I said. “I think our bartender here wants us drunk.”
I looked at Maggie as she slid another drink toward Mr. Pickle.
He looked at it. Then at her.
She shrugged her shoulders and batted her green eyes.
She was good.
Mr. Pickle laughed. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Maggie,” she said.
“Do you know how much I’m worth?”
“I think I’m more interested in something bigger than your balance sheet,” she said.
Mr. Pickle shook his head. “You’re nothing but trouble.”
Maggie put her hands out. “Arrest me.”
“If I put you in the handcuffs I have, you’re under my control,” Mr. Pickle joked. “I’m the judge, jury, and final say.”
“Do I look worried?” Maggie asked.
She winked and strutted away.
Mr. Pickle devoured her ass with his eyes.
He slowly looked at me. “I love women.”
“Agreed.”
“A bartender? Eh. That’s a little tricky. If you get someone too low on the financial level, they get clingy. I don’t need her gawking at my apartment or hotel or high rise, you know? I need her focused on my dick. I’ve had that happen. A beautiful woman, on her knees, her pouty lips on my dick… and she stops. Because she saw a chandelier.”
“Oh, that’s tough,” I said.
“It was a nice chandelier,” Mr. Pickle said. “But come on…”
“I get it,” I said. “Let’s set our sights somewhere else.”
“First, I need a little action,” he said with a wink.
Mr. Pickle reached for his phone and I touched his arm. “Allow me.”
I slipped my right hand into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and took out a small baggie with some pills in it.
Before anyone goes too crazy, welcome to the real world, darling. We’re rock stars with suits on. We know how to party. We know how to drink. We love to fuck women. And sometimes… it is what it is…
“Cole,” Mr. Pickle said. “How’d you know?”
“It’s my job to see the bigger picture of things,” I said.
“Glad I have another drink to wash it down,” Mr. Pickle said.
He smiled and his smile grew ear to ear.
Evil. Pure evil.
But the man had the money needed to buy the company.
“You know why I like you, Cole?” Mr. Pickle asked as he snuck a few pills into the palm of his hand.
“I can name plenty of reasons,” I said.
“Your confidence is part of it,” he said. “But it’s the fact that you get it. You get how to enjoy life. You’re not tied down to anything or anyone. No women. No kids. No bullshit.”
“That’s why we work good together,” I said. “That’s how I built this company into what it is. And I can tell you this… if you don’t act now, I’m going to keep building the company. And in a year you’re going to wish you could get it for the price it is now.”
Mr. Pickle threw his head back and laughed. “And you never stop working.” He leaned toward me. “Tell me something real about yourself. Put the bullshit walls down for a second.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maggie? The bartender?”
“Yeah…?”
“I’ve slept with her,” I said with a grin. “And tonight, I’m going to sleep with her again.”
“Goddamn,” Mr. Pickle said. “What if I wanted her.”
“Nah,” I said. “You want t
he beauty behind you. Tall, blonde, heavy chest, a diamond encrusted dress. Sitting alone with those lips you love so much. And she’s all yours for the night.”
Mr. Pickle looked over his shoulder and smiled again. “Cole, you are something else. You’re lucky I’m a strong man. You certainly know how to woo someone.”
He tossed the pills into his mouth like they were peanuts at a dive bar.
He washed them down with his drink.
And Maggie was right there with a fresh drink.
I loved when a plan came together.
I looked down and Maggie was on her stomach, asleep.
She had a tattoo on her right shoulder. It looked like a ballerina with wings. I had always wanted to ask her about it, but I didn’t want to cross that line where we actually talked about something other than sex.
The only time I wanted to hear her voice was when she was calling out my name or saying something filthy that she wanted me to do to her.
And trust me… she could get wild.
I touched the ballerina tattoo and shook my head.
She was probably some small town girl who grew up taking dance lessons, never really sure of her dreams. Good in school, smart, all that shit. Then when the real life decision came to her, she chose a lawyer. Why not? A strong woman like her would make a great lawyer. But a wild fire was lit in her heart. The artist side of her. So she bolted to the big city to take it over and couldn’t do it.
Was anything of that true to Maggie’s life?
I had no fucking idea.
All I knew was that after I sent Mr. Pickle home with the blonde beauty I ordered for him, I paid my tab with Maggie, left her a more than generous tip, and then asked when her shift ended.
I gave her money for a ride to my place, and she showed up a little after two.
Now it was four, she was asleep, and that was just another night in my life.
I inched my way out of bed and walked to the dimly lit kitchen.
I helped myself to a bottle of electrolyte water. That was the key when it came to a night of drinking and sex, knowing I had to be in the office in just a few hours.
Speaking of which…
I took out my phone and texted Maya.
Mr. Pickle is on the edge. Need you to send over a care package for him. I’ll text a list of items. Needs to be done ASAP.
I waited a few seconds.
Good morning, by the way. Early to rise, Maya. Got it?
I waited a few more seconds.
Also - pull the financials for the last decade of his acquisitions. I want to see what worked and what didn’t. Better yet - you do that. Give me a list of companies that succeeded and failed.
I chugged the rest of the water and walked my way back to the bedroom.
My dick swayed left to right like an elephant’s trunk.
Maya finally texted me back.
The way my phone was pointing, it was like Maya was talking to my dick.
I laughed.
Her text was simple.
Morning Cole. I’m awake now. I’ll get on that when I get to the office.
I curled my lip.
Get to the office now. I’m sending you money to grab coffee and food. Don’t worry about how you look. No need to impress anyone but me. Impress me with your work. You better be there before me. Tick tock, Maya.
I pictured her reading that text.
Cursing me out.
Then hurrying to get to the office, thinking I was going to be there, waiting for her.
I sent her more than enough money for breakfast.
Back in the bedroom, I stared at Maggie for a few minutes.
I slowly pulled the covers down her back, over the curve of her ass.
My fingertips touched the back of her right leg and moved down to her inner thigh. When I grazed her warmth, her ass jumped up and she groaned.
“Cole?” she purred.
I leaned over the bed and dipped my fingers into her pool of wetness.
“It’s just me, darling,” I said. I kissed the middle of her back. “You need to get the fuck out of here. I have to go to work.”
Maggie reached with her left hand and touched my dick.
I sucked in a breath and watched her hand try to grip me.
She tugged at me and moved up on her knees.
My phone vibrated.
A text from Maya.
Waiting for a ride. See you soon!
Maggie stroked my dick while I stared at the message.
My eyes glanced over to Maggie’s ass sticking up in the air.
My fingers plunged into her pussy.
She groaned into the pillow.
For a second I thought about pretending Maggie was Maya.
Now that would be wrong.
And even an asshole like me had some sense of morals…
Chapter Three
Maya
Three words.
Longest. Day. Ever.
I showed up to the office and the cleaning crew was still there.
It wasn’t the first time that happened. In fact, it happened so many times, I kind of got to know them. There were a few times I even asked about their hours and pay, wondering if I would be better off cleaning the office than working in it.
Cole was the worst.
That whole Elevator Guy routine? That was more of a dream than anything else.
I had to sleep with my phone next to me, turned up to full volume, just in case he came up with some crazy idea and needed me.
As far as texting me at four in the morning… yeah, that was normal.
My best guess was that he was out all night, drinking, probably with a woman in his bed as he texted. Cole worked in real time. He would think, text, and expect me to act. Then when it came time for him to act, it was my job to make sure the idea was good enough to do.
I drank a gallon of coffee and got all the stuff together Cole needed.
He looked at it for literally thirty seconds and threw it all out.
Then he told me to leave his office.
All that work for that.
To make matters worse, when I left and went home, the smell…
Wait.
My roommate.
I was left with no choice but to have a roommate. The city was expensive. I wasn’t making a living as a writer. Far from it. So I had to find a place to live. That meant taking anything I could get.
Enter…
Beverly Bush.
No, that’s not a joke or nickname for her.
Her name was Beverly Bush.
But the best part was that when she introduced herself, she said ‘My name is Beverly Bush, but I don’t have a bush… too itchy.”
It was her version of a joke to take attention off her name. And it worked. Because from that moment on, I pictured her with a gigantic, Brillo-like bush…
Bev (as I called her) had a dream to sell shirts.
She wasn’t a fashion designer at all. She just liked to make shirts.
T-shirts with pictures and sayings on them.
She had a machine to print on t-shirts. She worked all day and all night, coming up with ideas. There was one time she had a company show interest in a shirt. They ordered a whopping one thousand t-shirts.
Bev couldn’t fulfill the order.
But she kept going.
Her dream was to get a warehouse to be able to print a lot at once.
How did she survive?
There was some kind of money coming in from her grandmother’s estate. An agreement was made that her rent and utilities were covered. Which meant her t-shirt revenue covered the rest of her bills.
Part of me was jealous of that.
I had no rich relatives - alive or dead.
There was a family story once that my late grandfather won ten thousand dollars on a scratch-off lottery ticket. He bought himself some new clothes, then spent the rest on booze and women.
So after the longest day ever, I got to go home to the mini t-shirt factory
that was my apartment.
I opened the door and the smell of the ink hit me.
I waved my hands and coughed.
“Open a window,” I said.
“They’re all open,” Bev said as she stared at her computer screen.
For the record, running a t-shirt business was not allowed. She didn’t care.
The only thing… she charged me nothing to live there.
She just wanted the company and the fridge to be full of food.
It was a great deal.
At least I thought so in the beginning.
I hurried to my room and opened the windows.
I lit a candle.
Then I took a hot shower.
That at least felt good.
I was going to be a big loser and be asleep by seven.
That meant there was no time for writing. Definitely no time for meeting a guy. Not that I was actively doing that. Even still, there was no way I could date a guy and bring him here.
I finished my shower and wrapped a towel around my body.
When I opened the door, I screamed.
“Read it!” Bev yelled.
“Sofa…”
“The next word,” she said.
“King.”
“Read it together,” she said.
“No,” I said.
Bev lowered the shirt. “Why not?”
“That’s such an old joke, Bev,” I said. “There’s got to be like a billion shirts that have that already.”
“Mine is… different… look…” She held the shirt up again. “It’s a couch with legs. And it’s wearing a crown. The couch is king.”
I swallowed hard. “Bev…”
She lowered the shirt. “You’re in a mood. Is it because of Cockhead Cole?”
“Yes and no,” I said.
“I told you to quit that job,” she said. “You live here for free. You can get a barista job.”
“I don’t want that,” I said.
“You like dealing with Cole?”
“No. The job pays well though, Bev. I need the money.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just do. I want to save up enough so that I can focus on writing.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you,” I said. “But when you make it big with your shirts, you’re going to have to move.”