Wallstreet God (The House Of Creed Book 1)

by D. M. Burns

  My superiority for the numbers and statics game coupled with Carson’s eye for talent and people skills makes us a force to be reckoned with. We have three other key players that banked up with us out of college. Brock Myrick, Lance Roth, and Damian Reed. They rode our coattails to fame in this real estate game. They’re Carson’s sidearm suits and backup calvary when I’m out of pocket.

  Each of those guys own ten percent in our company leaving Carson with twenty percent and of course I hold fifty. The percentages don’t matter in the overall scheme of things because we’re all fucking rich from our hard work. Money comes easy in this match. You must know how to play your cards, make the right moves, and finish strong.

  My obsession with The House of Creed is no secret. It’s my handcrafted and cultivated creation. My sexy lady that I openly married a long time ago. And before it became the beautiful breeding beast of money that it is today, I simply made sure that no one will dick me around and call the shots. My abilities to read people taught me many important unshakeable lessons early on in life. I plan to never revisit that shit. Plus, I saw what my dad went through, life changer.

  My Boardroom.

  My Domain.

  My Rules.

  End Of Story.

  I’m not sure what the hell each of those guys do and don’t give a shit. That’s what I have Carson for. He handles the people playing chess game that I refuse to deal with. People are more times than not, pieces of shit. I, however, don’t want to know. Literally and figuratively speaking.

  I trust Carson to utilize his capable abilities in expelling the good qualities out of the employees for the overall profitability of our company. Carson has never failed to produce anything but the best results when exacting his headhunting recruitment talents thus far. There’s no reason for me to start second-guessing him now.

  The echoing sounds of that ridiculous foyer grandfather clock strikes out against the silent square footage of the penthouse. Flowing through the empty hallways and successfully snapping me from my thought process. As my smile breaks out, I fold away from the windows nightly view and maneuver my ass to the master wing. Time to prepare for the much-anticipated activities of the day.

  I’ve looked forward to this boardroom victory and slaughterhouse kill for close to a fucking decade. Vick Malone is about to enter a blood bath today and nothing will wipe the gleeful smirk off my face. Time to slip on my boardroom Boss Hunt façade and take this prick out to the shed for a financial fucking that’s well-deserved. Today is a good day to be a Wallstreet God.

  When I step off the private elevator, I proceed down my personal hallway to my spacious corner inside The House of Creed. I push through the hidden side entrance and find a fresh cup of coffee sitting on my desk. Geneva knows what I want and need before I do. That woman’s going to get one helluva raise when her annual review is due.

  I snatch the remote off my desk and power on the TV so I can hear the stock market and dive into my preferred chest game of numbers before my meeting rolls around. When the reporter starts off her speech with condolences to the Malone family, I raise my head. My ears do an A-Ten-Hut salute drowning out everything else. Then my door bursts open and in walks Carson looking like a cracked-out and wide-eyed Bozo the Clown.

  “Fuck man. Did you hear?” I lean back in my chair, rest my ankle over my knee, and prop my chin in the palm of my hand. I wave my other hand out toward the TV without taking my eyes off him.

  “I was trying but then you happen. By the way, knock next time.” He flips me off. “So, spill the shit. Are they talking about Vick?” I high beam blink through my boredom for his dramatics. It’d be just like that fucker, Vick, to pull the death card, pissing all over my long overdue, and rightfully deserved parental payback.

  “Yeah, man. The bastard had a heart attack in the back of his limo on the way here. Flatlined.” Carson does a swipe of his arms in what I can only imagine is his rendition of what a flatline should be to the hearing impaired. For fuck sake.

  “Well then, that only means that I’ll give his company ninety-days. That’s just enough time for the acting CEO to fuck shit up and their stock will bottom out. Then I’ll swoop in and take it for pocket change compared to what I would’ve paid today.” That makes my heart go pitter-patter but my evil side wanted to see good oh Vick squirm.

  I stand and circle around my redwood desk centerpiece while buttoning my coat up in the motion. Leaning against the front of my plank of wood, I brace my arms on either side of my body and continue, “I’d say I was sorry about Vick, but he was a bag of shit.” I shrug my shoulders unaffected.

  Vick, the old bastard that he was, managed to screw me out of my schedule filled with all kinds of playful fuckery. The only bright side to this news is knowing that hell is his hot playdate destination, for eternity.

  “Since your calendar just opened up, why don’t you sit in with me through the next few interviews for our Marketing Director position?” Carson walks over to the four chairs open for ass planting in front of my desk, settles in, and gets mileage out of one.

  “Fuck Car… I’d rather have my god damn balls waxed.” I push off my desk, walk over to my scenic windowed view, and peer down across the street.

  My Park Avenue business viewpoint is within spitting distance from the American multinational investment bank, J.P. Morgan Chase & Company. It’s a comparable powerhouse of wealth. I respect their hustle because I’m a boss to that game too. Our manhandle is much the same except mine is perfected. Those suits come to me for advice. I’m their kindred spirit right across the way.

  “Brogan, are you listening to me, or are you in your head again man?” Carson asks.

  “Fine. I’ll sit in but…” I turn around and point my finger in his direction, “When I say sit in, that means I don’t want to participate-period. That opens the door up for their unwanted thoughts and fuckery. I’m not in the mood for that shit today.” He also knows that I’m full of shit. I’ll wade in because being in charge is engrained in my DNA.

  “Bro, you must need sleep because you’re in a more miserable mood than your normal dose. Don’t be a bastard to the potential new hires.” His eyebrows crease in a warning.

  “And to think I was going to compliment your fashionable suit before that bastard comment,” I mumble.

  “Damn, really man?” He stands and brushes off the lapels of his coat then straightens his tie.

  “No, asshole. What do you think this is? A fucking chick flick.” I turn my back to him as he flips me off. “I’ll be in the boardroom before you get started.”

  “Try not to be a dick, yeah?” He walks out.

  I ignore his comment and stare out the windows while ticking off all the other shit I could be accomplishing instead of wasting my time doing the one thing I loathe the most, interacting with people.

  chapter 3

  brogan

  Sitting in the captain’s seat of my boardroom, I stare a hole in ole Curtis, whatever the fuck his last name is. I didn’t bother to catch it. It won’t matter. This ridiculous prick is not coming to work here, ever. He’s going on and on about his Harvard days. Carson can tell I’m over this bullshit too. I don’t need to be a mind reader to know this fucker has snorted enough coke to ride his high out for the next two weeks without ingesting another sniff.

  Tossing my pen out on my statistics report in front of me. My phone chimes and I reach out swiping the screen. It’s exactly what I thought. I clear my throat and both men turn to look at me. I lean back into my chair, prop my elbows on the arms of my luxury leather, and steeple my hands together.

  “Tell me, Curtis… Why’d you leave your prior employment again?” I pierce him with my steely glare of indifference and unaffected fucks not given. He pulls at his tie and adjusts himself in my expensive chair. The same one that he’s been sweating his coked-induced juices all over for the past thirty minutes. Much like everything with this guy, it’s pissing me off.

  “Well, uhmm, Mr. Creed…” He cle
ars his throat and continues, “I wanted to explore my options and…” I cut him off. I’ve had enough of his sniffling red-rimmed nosed bullshit.

  “Let me stop you there. The CEO of Brighton Communications just confirmed that you were terminated for multiple sexual harassment complaints by your female cohorts. If that wasn’t enough to toss your strung-out ass across the pavement the final straw was the eight ball of coke that fell out of your briefcase during a sales pitch with one of their main clients.” I raise my eyebrows at him with a devilish smirk. “Please see yourself out of my building Curtis and never step foot back in The House of Creed again.” I point toward the door.

  The greasy bastard scurries his ass for the exit and I swivel my chair around to Carson. “What the actual fuck, Car?” He simply smiles at me. This little redheaded asshole right here though…

  “Figured I’d see if you were still firing on all cylinders.” He says on a chuckle.

  “How many more of these damn interviews are scheduled? After that shit, I’m second-guessing your capabilities?” I scrub my hand over my face, then look at my watch.

  “The next one is our new Marketing Director. I can feel it.” His four-leaf-clover eyes sparkle out as he rubs his hands together.

  I’d think his behavior was weird if the guy didn’t actually get an erect dick from this aspect of the business. He once told me that headhunting for these positions was like selecting a perfect NFL draft and our successful profits are based on his choices. I thought that was complete bullshit, but whatever. I kept that opinion to myself because to some extent I guess his theory is true.

  Carson said it reminded him of when he was in grade school and the gym teacher allowed him to select his own team. If his team turned victorious, he felt tremendous pride from piecing them together on his own. The only conclusion I took away from that was the fact that Carson thought of me as his gym teacher. Who fucking knew?

  As if on cue, the wall-mounted TV screen lights up and our receptionist, Patrice, comes into view.

  “Mr. Brooks… Mr. Creed…” We both turn our attention to the screen. “Miss. Winters' is here.” She says.

  “Please show her in Patrice. Thank you.” Carson says.

  “Right away, sir,” Patrice replies right before the screen goes black.

  “Thank fuck.” I mumble.

  “Seriously Brogan, don’t be a dick man. I want this lady on our team. She’s like a marketing magician and believe me, I’ve done my homework. She’s in demand from our top competitors.” He says. I nod my head while rolling my eyes.

  Carson fidgets in his chair then stands abruptly fussing with his coat. If I know my best friend, which I do, I’d say he’s got a crush on this lady. If I actually gave a shit, I’d tune into his little leprechaun brainwaves, but I don’t, give a shit that is.

  When the door opens, Patrice leads Carson’s reason for an interview erection in then turns and exits while shutting the door behind her. Shit… Now, I see why my little redheaded elf is fucking sweating this meet and greet. This woman is sinfully stunning from head to toe sans the cheap clothing encasing her body.

  Her long blonde locks flow down the back of her blood-red business suit that’s tightly draped over her hourglass curves. Her makeup is light but fucking fierce because it showcases the natural beauty of her porcelain powdered skin. Those damn eyes are a deep ocean blue color, an endlessly enchanting indigo with an almond-shaped outline and tiny specks of silver glinting out. Her lips are luscious layers of plump perfection with a coat of clear lip gloss highlighting their natural red color and capturing your attention. She’s god damn gorgeous.

  Even though I can smell the cost-cutting, swap meet effect from the off-brand name tags sewn into her clothing, her natural beauty is flawless. She’s also trying to fit in, but there’s no fucking way she ever will. This woman was made to stand out even if her wardrobe only consisted of ratty hole-ridden burlap bags. She’d own it. Hands down with a fierce victory. But I know her from somewhere…

  “Hello, Miss. Winters. It’s very nice to finally meet you in person. Thank you for agreeing to interview with us today.” Carson says as he swipes his palms on the sides of his pants. This asshole is acting like a preadolescent fool. “Come take a seat.”

  As soon as her eyes shift over to mine, it’s like someone shoves a freshly sharpened pencil into each of my ears blowing my barrier of blocked bullshit all to hell. Son-of-a-bitch! Holly shit… That fucking voice… All those sporadic thoughts start raining down on me… There echoing throughout my head like a god damn freight train.

  It’s what I would imagine it to be like if I were caught up in a twisted session of shock therapy to the membrane with a madman behind the on-off switch. I grit my teeth trying to silence her deafening sweet southern drawl. They're screaming out at lightning speed, bullhorn style. I can’t make them all out. The fuck…

  My jaw is flexing and my head’s starting to throb-aneurysm alert. I’ve never had anyone break my shield like this before. I grip the arms of my chair and white knuckle it for some semblance of control. I want to fill the four walls encasing us with a primal roar demanding her to shut the southern show down. Motherfucker.

  Carson approaches her, shakes her hand, and pulls a chair out for her. She smiles sweetly and meets his handshake then takes his offered seating. Her eyes shyly glance up from beneath her thick eyelashes connecting with mine again but she suppresses her smile. Why? I’m not even sure. Maybe it’s because I look pained and god damn disturbed. Which I am. Because of her.

  If her thoughts weren’t firing out at me like an AK-47 assault rifle unloading multiple lethal hits to the center of my forehead, I might be able to decipher them. I prop my index finger against my temple willing the quite to seep back in, voices out. I swivel my chair around until my eyes have nothing but an intense laser beam focus bearing down on her.

  I stay glued to my seat because my dick is currently slapping against the underside of my war room table. When did I stop having control over that boardroom beast downstairs? Shit. Even if I manage to gain dick control, I rise out of the captain’s chair for no one. My reaction to her is purely based on the fact that it’s been a few weeks since I selected a coat on my revolving rack. It’s simple. I need to fuck and soon. This shit right here confirms it.

  Carson looks at me from behind her seat and wiggles his brows then moves back to his chair. I roll my eyes at him and wouldn’t you fucking know it? That’s the exact moment that Miss. Winters decides to engage those gems catching my reaction. She shifts in her seat and clears her throat but not before she calls me a butthole. A BUTTHOLE… Jesus. But of course, her comment is not said out loud, oh-no.

  I quirk my eyebrows at her and one side of my mouth tips up at the corner by a fraction. She looks over to Carson breaking away from my amusement at her choice, in what I can only assume is her version, of profanity. It’d be enduring if she weren’t a grown-ass woman currently residing in New York. The latter alone is reason enough to know all curses in five different languages. This lady is going to end up gutted in an alleyway. Or in a boardroom by my business beast downstairs. Where’s this cunning creature from anyway?

  “Miss. Winters, this is Brogan Creed. He normally doesn’t sit in on the interviews, but he was excited to meet you as well.” Carson says. This son-of-a-bitch has sweat forming on his brow. Jesus Christ.

  “I know all about Mr. Creed. I read the headlines. Your success is very impressive. Thank you for taking the time out of your schedule for me today. Both of you for that matter.” Those liquid blue midnight pools bounce between me and Carson. Her southern accent is thick and fucking sexy.

  “Then I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that I have several other commitments today. So, let’s make this quick shall we.” I quirk my eyebrows at her then cut my eyes over to my perspiring redheaded partner.

  He’s giving me a warning look that communicates he’ll fucking end me if I piss his interview with the lovely lady away. I squint my ey
es silently urging him to move this along. I’ve got to get the hell away from the loudspeaker with a southern twang that’s twisting up my god damn thoughts and sending an airborne Viagra kiss to the head of my dick.

  Rich Butthole…

  My head snaps back to her when I hear her loud, unsaid, unsolicited, and cute as fuck comment. She smiles brightly at me. Who even says butthole anymore? Jesus Christ, this woman does not belong in Manhattan or for that matter at The House of Creed. I run my hand over my face and shake my head in disbelief. This is a bad hiring decision if I ever saw one.

  When I hear her call me an over-priced suit with ego issues, I ignore that jab too. Even though I will say this, I’m proud she took a leap and ventured outside of her butthole safe word. It wasn’t until her last fleeting thought that I choose to speak up. It bounced off the wooden tabletop in front of me and smacked me in the face. It sorta felt like a personal challenge, one I’d love to accept.

  He probably has a little pee-pee that offsets his excelling success, hot looks, and bank account.

  “That’s so far from factual truth, Miss. Winters.” I rhythmically tap my fingers against the divider of expensive wood between us while spearing her with my ice cubes. The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. God damnit. She tilts her head to the side at me in question then opens her mouth to respond but Carson slides in. Thank fuck.

  “Miss. Winters…” She turns to him seeming to forget about her commentary. “I’ve reviewed your credentials as well as reached out to your references and I must say, I’m impressed.” Carson’s voice sounds a lot like a sugarcoated car salesman. It’s creepy. She smiles brightly at him ignoring me altogether. Why do I feel like there’s a ball of boiling anger forming in the pit of my stomach?