by Max Monroe
Goddammit. This, my friends, was a perfect example of how to lose valuable footing in a business deal.
“Sure thing, Martin. And since Mr. Brooks wants to be on that call Friday, let’s plan on it being a video chat.” My boss knew nothing about that call. But this was me calling Martin’s bluff. My persuasion skills were top notch, but there was a reason Kline Brooks was President and CEO of his own company. The man could talk an Eskimo into buying ice.
“Oh, okay.” Martin cleared his throat. “In the meantime, I’ll try to get legal to review everything over the next twenty-four hours. The sooner we can sign off on this deal, the better.”
Translation: I’d like to avoid a video chat with your boss.
“Perfect. I look forward to hearing from you.” I ended the call and used all of my strength to plaster a neutral smile on my face as I looked up at Leslie.
“So, like I was saying, you need to sign these,” she repeated, still clueless.
God, I didn’t even care if I had resting bitch face. Hell, I wanted to active bitch face this chick so bad. She’d been with the company for a hot minute, and I was already done with her.
“Okay, Leslie. Just give me a second and I’ll sign them so you can go about your day,” I responded through a fake smile. I wanted to berate her. I wanted to let her know just how much her interruption could have screwed up an important business deal. But it would’ve been useless. My words would have gone straight through the giant hole in her head.
I gripped my pen, scribbling half-assed sayings about celebrating and happy birthday and have a great day. Five cards later, I handed them back to Leslie and sent her ditzy ass on her way.
I was twenty emails deep before another interruption peeked in my door.
Kline Brooks. He was the kind of man women fantasized about. A quintessential billionaire bad boy—styled, short dark hair, muscles for days, and a panty-dropping smile.
Except—he wasn’t.
His smiles were genuine and his orders gently delivered. He kept to himself, from what I could tell, and didn’t appear to sleep around. Despite his crazy good looks and net worth, I’d yet to see him land an “NYC playboy” spot on Page Six. I’d never seen him execute a salacious glimpse at a single employee—male or female. He was a mystery, hidden under all of that quiet direction with absolutely no chance of being uncovered.
As an employee, he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. Honestly, I wasn’t sure he knew I had a vagina. He treated me as an equal and seemed to truly value my opinion on all things business and marketing. His eyes never strayed to my tits. His mouth never flashed a devilish grin.
And I stood strong in my beliefs that business and pleasure may as well have been oil and water. Kline was business, plain and simple.
Plus, he wasn’t at all what I was looking for.
And yes, I can practically see the word billionaire flashing in front of your money-hungry eyes and feel the judgment rolling off of you in thick, disdain-filled clouds.
But this isn’t actually about him. Not really, anyway.
Despite my inexperience with relationships, I knew myself enough to know I liked a straight shooter—both in conversation and the pun that intends. And I wasn’t willing to settle—even if it was on a big, comfy pile of money.
Christ, there had to be a middle ground between soft talkers like Kline and dick pic bandits like BAD_Ruck. Didn’t there?
“Good morning, Georgia,” he greeted with that professional yet handsome smile of his. “Just wanted to check in and see how the Sure Romance deal was doing.”
“Even though I had to threaten Martin with your presence on a video chat, I think we’ll walk out of the deal with a million more than we anticipated.”
“Nice work. Keep me abreast on the progress and let me know if you need backup.”
My mind went straight to the word abreast. I knew my boss wasn’t referring to my breasts, or breasts in general, but I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wandering there.
I doubted Kline Brooks had ever thought about my breasts.
That would have been weird, right?
There was no way he saw me that way. And of course, I didn’t think about him like that either. But it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. Well, not my eyes, but other women’s eyes. I was sure he was easy on their eyes. My eyes knew not to look at him.
I wouldn’t deny my eyes were thankful he didn’t have a weird comb-over or nose hairs or crusty lips. But Kline Brooks was business, not pleasure. He wouldn’t touch me, and I sure as hell wouldn’t touch him.
“Georgia?” he asked, pulling me from my rambling inner monologue.
Shit.
“Sorry.” I shook the awkward thoughts out of my head. “I will definitely keep you updated on the Sure Romance contract, Mr. Brooks. I’m planning on signatures being finalized by the end of this week.”
“Good to hear.” He rapped his knuckles twice against the doorframe in that way only a man can pull off. “Thank you.”
And with that, through the glass walls of my office, I watched as Kline Brooks strode down the hall with purpose. I knew that look well. Either someone was ready for lunch or they were about two minutes late for a meeting.
Before I could resume the task of responding to the morning’s emails, Dean walked into my office, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. “Got a minute, sweet cheeks?”
“Of course.” I shut my laptop, giving him my full attention.
He plopped his Prada-wearing ass in the leather seat across from my desk. Dean kept grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat as he slid a Hallmark card across my laptop.
I raised an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling like that? It’s creepy, dude.”
“So, Tits McGee put this card on my desk,” he sing-songed. “Of course, this was after she practically shoved her cleavage in my face.” The wide smile turned to irritation. “That girl has about the worst gaydar I’ve ever seen.”
“Aw, poor Dean. So attractive that single women are throwing themselves at him,” I teased.
“Well, you’re about to be thanking poor Dean here in a minute.” He nodded toward the card. “Go ahead and read it, sassy pants. I think you might want to make some changes.”
Huh? I glanced at the front, reading the sentiment. It was, by all accounts, a sympathy card. Someone in the office must have had a death in the family. I opened it and read through everyone’s thoughtful responses.
I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mary. -Patty
You’re in my thoughts and prayers. -Meryl
Please let us know if there’s anything we can do. -Gary
My coworkers were really sweet. That much was apparent.
Lots of love and prayers being sent your way through this difficult time. -Laura
HAPPY! HAPPY! JOY! JOY! Have a great day celebrating! -Georgia
Oh, fuck.
I read it again just to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
My Ren & Stimpy reference wasn’t all that funny when written in the center of someone’s CONDOLENCE CARD.
“Fucking Leslie,” I spat. “She threw a bunch of cards on my desk and said they were birthday cards.”
Dean proceeded to lose his shit, his cackling laughs echoing inside my office.
I glared at him. “It’s not that funny.”
“Oh, hell yes it is. You referenced Ren & Stimpy on a sympathy card,” he wheezed.
Seriously, fuck you, Leslie. Fuck you, hard.
I was convinced I could blame her for everything wrong in my life.
Lost my keys? Goddammit, Leslie!
Missed the subway? Fuck you very much, Leslie.
Another awful dick pic sent to my phone? You’re such an asshole, Leslie.
I sighed. “I’m not even sure how to fix this.”
“White out?” he suggested, still laughing like a lunatic.
“Please.” I waved my hand
at him. “Continue to giggle your ass off at my expense.”
“This was literally the highlight of my day. When I read it, I about fell out of my chair from laughing so hard. Pretty sure everyone in the office heard me. Even Meryl was giving me the stink eye.”
“Glad to know I’m brightening someone’s workday.”
He smirked, standing up and snatching the card out of my incompetent hands. “Let’s just throw this card out. I’ll have Meryl send flowers to Mary’s house from everyone in the office.”
I let out a breath of relief. “I’m in full support of this plan. I’ll even chip in fifty bucks.”
“Perfect.”
“Hey, you’re throwing that card out, right?” I asked before he made his way out of my office doors.
He only responded with a shrug and a few more cackles.
Dean was such a bitch. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d have definitely disowned his designer-tag-wearing ass.
As his laughter faded, the annoying crescendo that signaled a text on my phone built.
I grabbed it quickly, knowing if I didn’t read it now, I wouldn’t remember it until the end of the day.
Cassie: I just watched the police arrest two guys for fucking right up against a wall on Broadway.
Not sure how to respond, I said the only thing that came to mind.
Me: Well, it is the Theater District.
I exited my messages, and before I locked the screen, I noticed the little red notification on my TapNext app. A message from BAD_Ruck from this morning made promises of sexual normalcy despite his indiscretions. A truce was in order.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:14PM): Awkward apology accepted.
His response came two minutes later.
BAD_Ruck (12:16PM): Thank God. Though, to be fair, your profile name really does nothing to discourage bad behavior.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:19PM): Ugh. Don’t remind me. I owe it mostly to a bottle of wine and an ill-advising roommate.
I chuckled to myself and then glanced at my watch, compelled to double-check the time even though the display on my phone told it to me just fine.
A pastrami and corned beef on rye from the deli on the corner was calling my name, yelling louder with each passing minute, but every single action of the day seemed to move as if it were coated in molasses.
“What are you laughing at?” Thatch asked from the screen in front of me.
I’d nearly forgotten I was on a video call with him.
“Your ugly mug,” I countered, pointedly electing not to tell him I was having any further conversation with TAPRoseNEXT.
“This face? No way. This is my moneymaker, son.”
“You sound like the biggest douche on the planet right now. Can we work, please? I’d like to eat lunch sometime this century.”
“You and your delicate stomach.”
“It’s not fucking delicate,” I argued grumpily. But he really couldn’t blame me. I was hungry after all. “It’s manly and it needs food on the regular. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Right. Now you’re justifying your PMS symptoms—”
“Yes, Leslie?” I interrupted Thatch as she pushed open the door to my office.
“I just finished moving all of your meetings from this morning to this afternoon,” she purred, smiling at me like I should praise her. She was the one who’d told Dean to schedule the investor calls for that morning rather than this afternoon, necessitating a schedule flip in the first place.
“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. Catching sight of Thatch’s “Duran Duran” face on the screen in front of me stopped me from rolling my eyes. Operation Cockblock Hungry Wolf superseded my needs.
“You can just leave the new schedule by the door and head to lunch,” I offered, hoping she’d telepathically understand what I was trying so hard to communicate—get out.
She giggled.
Nope. Life wasn’t that easy.
The tile of my office floor turned into a runway, her dramatic, foot-crossing steps designed to amplify the swing of her hips and elicit a man’s attention.
And for any other man, it probably reached into his pants and hardened the attention right out of him.
I, however, was too busy cleaning up her mistakes and trying to finish a phone call so I could go to goddamn lunch.
Tits suddenly filled the frame of my vision, and I practically had to slam my head back into my chair to keep from eating them by accident.
No, I wasn’t that hungry. That was how close she had placed them.
“Here you go.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, dismissing her and averting my eyes as much as possible. It wasn’t a battle of wills, but rather, strictly a game of proximity.
The day I was willing to subject myself to that kind of pussy was the day my cock would rot off and my office would burn straight to the ground. I was sure of it.
Come hell or high water, I was done being this amenable to my mom’s suggestions. Leslie needed to be gone by the beginning of next week. Soon, but not soon enough that I couldn’t talk my way out of it at family dinner.
I watched as she walked, counting the seconds and praying he’d wait until she left the room.
“Ho-ly hell—”
“Thatch—” I attempted to interrupt, recognizing his tone from experience and knowing it would only lead to bad things.
“Where the hell have you been hiding that one?”
“Don’t say another word,” I warned, just as the door shut blessedly behind Leslie.
“Fuck me hard, fast, and dirty, Kline-hole. Did you see the tits on her? Seriously, let her know she can swaddle me up and ride me like a cockpuppet any fucking time she wants.”
I picked up a pen and pretended to scribble on a piece of paper.
“Ride…you…like…a…cockpuppet. Got it.”
The muscled chords of his throat flexed with a bark of laughter, and recognition of his absurdity flashed in his eyes.
“All right, point taken.” He raised his hands and winked, his fingers in air quotes, mocking, “Business.”
I didn’t waste any time getting back to it. “I’ve got two investor meetings in L.A.—”
“And you want me to be there.”
“Yeah.”
He sat back in his leather chair and crossed his thick arms. “Done.”
“You don’t even know when they are,” I pointed out. I reached forward and took hold of my mouse to double-check the timing, but he didn’t wait.
“For you, my love, no time is a bad time.” He blew me a kiss.
“Why do I put up with you?” I asked, sitting back again and raking a hand through my hair.
His response was immediate. “I personally think it’s because you like a reminder of the fine male specimen you’ll never live up to.”
I shook my head and smirked, knowing I’d never be the six-foot-five monster he was and not struggling to swallow it even one little bit. My leaner but no less toned six-foot package hadn’t failed me yet.
“I’ll see you in L.A. tomorrow night, Adonis.”
“No way. I’ll see you here, at the airport, so you can hold my hand during—”
Raising my middle finger in salute, I clicked the button to end the call.
Thatch’s ability to bounce back from a night out was almost unfathomable. I needed more than four hours of sleep, and I needed to do it for some other reason than being blackout drunk.
My best friend and money man could go several nights in a row without, it seemed, and holding his liquor had practically been his first childhood milestone.
Nights out were dwindling for both of us, though. My tendency to be “an old man,” according to Thatch, and his secret rendezvous with every available pussy in Manhattan pretty much soured the deal.
It’s not that I didn’t enjoy nights out or the company of a beautiful woman. I loved women. I loved every fucking thing about them. I just didn’t love the idea of having drunken sex with some chick I picked up at a bar.
I wasn’t a fan of Pussy Roulette, and when I ate one, I wanted to be able to remember the taste.
My phone rang on my desk as though the call had been put straight through without a heads-up from a lunch-eating Leslie. Normally, Pam rolled my calls to voicemail when she was away from her desk, sorting through them and passing along worthy callers upon her return.
Every ring made it that much more painfully obvious she was out, a duck-lipped, inexperienced seductress in her place.
“Brooks,” I answered, putting the phone to my ear.
“Yo,” Thatch greeted. “I forgot to ask. Do we have BAD practice tonight?”
I covered my groan. I’d forgotten about rugby practice.
That didn’t stop me from busting his balls. “Yes, Princess Peach. We have practice every Monday night.”
“Yeah, but with it being football season and all, I thought maybe Wes was busy cheerleading or whatever.”
Wes was the third member of our bachelor trio and the owner of the New York Mavericks. We teased him relentlessly, but in reality, it was cool as fuck to know somebody who owned a team in the National Football League. A little sweet-talking got us tickets anytime we wanted and field time with the players.
“I take no offense, by the way. Princess Peach is a badass bitch.”
“Most of their games are on Sunday. You know, like the one you talked me into going out to watch last night. I’ll see you at practice tonight,” I said, shaking my head at another ridiculous conversation.
“Geez, Diva. Eat a Snickers.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know, you force me to say fuck, as in fuck you, way more than I ever dreamed in a business environment.”
His answering chuckle was dry. “Just one of my many talents, K. Most of the others involve a lighter, a forty of beer, and my cock—”
I ended the call before he could finish.
Jesus. Is this guy really my best friend?
The short of it was, yes, he was my best friend. And I wouldn’t change it despite his ability to produce migraines. I was never short on entertainment, that was for sure. But my well of patience had run dry for the day. Simple as that.