by Mia Ford
Okay, hang on, let me back up a little bit to give you the whole story so you don’t think I’m a total asshole just out on New Year’s Eve looking for something strange to fuck. I mean, that ended up being the case, but there’s far more to the story than that.
I was not just out cruising to get laid that night. To the contrary, I had the numbers of a dozen girls in my iPhone that I could have called if I just wanted a quick fuck. When you’re a young, good looking, rich investment banker in New York City, there is no shortage of pussy at your disposal, even on New Year’s Eve. I could have booty-called a dozen girls, but I didn’t. Like I said, I did not start out the evening planning to get laid by anyone, especially a gorgeous redhead I had never met before or seen since.
I was in the back of my limo headed to the annual New Year’s Eve shindig at my friend Reed Helstrom’s penthouse in midtown Manhattan when I got a text from Andy Whitlock, an old college buddy who happened to be in town for the night. He was hanging out with friends at O’Grady’s, an Irish pub across town away the chaos that was Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Did I want to come by for a quick drink? I figured, why the hell not. The night was young and maybe slumming a little before going to Reed’s swanky party would be fun. The one thing I’d come to learn about drinking with rich assholes like Reed was, the drunker they get, the bigger assholes they become. Myself included.
I had the driver drop me off at O’Grady’s and told him to drive around until I texted him to pick me up. Even though O’Grady’s was blocks away from Times Square, the sidewalk was still teeming with revelers, most of them drunk off their asses or well on their way. I pushed my way through the crowd and went inside to look for my friend, Andy. I found him belly up to the bar chatting up with two gorgeous women. One of them was a curvy black girl with beautiful brown eyes and the other one was Polly. Or Molly. Whatever.
I think my mouth hung open when I saw her for the first time Naturally pretty, with the aforementioned flaming red hair and fair Irish skin and eyes so green I thought they had to be contacts (they weren’t). She seemed to do a doubletake when she saw me, as well. She watched me as Andy put me into a bear hug, then glanced at her friend and wiggled her eyebrows. I took it as a sign that the night might get very interesting.
Andy introduced the black girl as a former coworker from his contract law days in DC, Monique Griggs. I knew Andy was the biggest pussy hound no matter where he worked, so Monique was probably an old flame or recent fuck buddy. The way she was hanging onto Andy’s arm told me she was more than just an old coworker. Good for Andy. She was drop dead gorgeous. Monique shook my hand and introduced the gorgeous redhead as her roommate. It was so loud I missed her name, but did not miss her smile. Or the way her eyes locked onto mine.
Andy and I chatted for a minute while the girls ordered another round of drinks (on Andy’s tab) and I shucked off my coat and gloves and gave them to a passing waitress for safe keeping. She looked at me as if I’d shoved a dog turd in her hand rather than a two-thousand dollar overcoat, and told me in no uncertain terms that taking my coat was not her fucking job.
When I held up a hundred-dollar bill her expression changed and she gladly took my coat and promised to keep it safe. I told her there was another hundred for her if the coat and gloves made it back to me when I was ready to go. It’s one of the things about being super rich. You get used to people waiting on you and doing everything you tell them to do. If they resist, you simply pull out a wad of hundred-dollar bills and start peeling them off until they see things your way.
When I turned back around, Andy was making out with Monique like two teenagers in the backseat of a car, leaving me to talk to the redhead, who was holding a glass of red wine to her lips and swaying to the loud music that was coming from the overhead speakers. She was being coy, pretending to ignore me. I got the bartender’s attention and ordered a double bourbon, straight up, and leaned an elbow on the bar to give her a smile.
“So, what did you say your name was?” I asked, leaning in so she could hear me. I took a deep breath. She smelled glorious, like soap and wild flowers.
“I didn’t,” she said, wine glass at her lips.
Ah, so that’s how this was going to go. “Okay, then tell me now.”
“You can call me… Molly,” she said, giving me a sideways glance. I knew that wasn’t her real name, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to know what to call her later when I was fucking her from behind. She batted her eyes at me from over the wine glass. “And what was your name again?”
My name was Conner McGee, but for some reason, I said, “Brad. You can call me Brad.”
She eyed me for a moment as if she knew I was as full of shit as she was. She licked the wine from her lips and smiled. “So… Brad. What do you do for a living?”
Conner McGee was a wealthy investment banker who worked as the youngest partner at one of the top firms on Wall Street. He lived in a ten-million-dollar penthouse on the Upper East Side and banked a hundred-million dollar a year in salary and bonuses. Brad, however, was just a normal guy.
“I work in banking,” I said. “Small firm downtown. Nothing major.” I took a sip of the bourbon and studied her eyes. They were like green pools with little brown specks. “And what do you do for a living, Molly?”
She set her glass on the bar and turned toward the crowd. Her head bobbed to the music. She was being coy, I could tell. That was fine. I enjoyed the view of her profile. “I’m a paralegal,” she said. “Small firm downtown.” She grinned at me. “Nothing major.”
I smiled and finished the bourbon, then ordered another for myself and another glass of wine for her. I held out her wine glass, so she would turn to face me. I was enamored of this girl for some reason. Probably because girls never played coy with me. Girls came easy when you were Conner McGee. Everything did.
I said, “Molly the paralegal.”
She grinned. “And Brad the banker. Aren’t we the odd pair?”
Smiling, I said, “Yes, we are. Are you originally from New York?”
“No, Boston,” she said, head bopping to the music. “You?”
“Born and raised upstate.”
“That’s nice,” she said, starting to sound a little bored. I looked around. There were a dozen guys eyeing her, like hyenas on the prowl, just waiting for me to strike out.
“Where did you go to school?” I asked, wincing at my own words as they left my lips.
For the love of god, I sounded like a total social retard. I felt like an idiot making small talk, but it had been so long since a girl had made me work for it, I didn’t really know what to do.
Thankfully, Molly was not the kind of girl I’d have to woo. She knew what she wanted. And obviously had no problem saying so.
“Tell you what, Brad the banker, line us up a few rounds of shots and we’ll play Truth or Bullshit.”
“Truth or Bullshit?” I gave her a playful frown. “I’m not familiar with that game. How does it work?”
“Oh, it’s super easy to learn,” she said, leaning over the bar to wave down the bartender. “We line up five shots of tequila each, I tell you something about myself, and if you call bullshit and it is, I have to take a shot. If you call bullshit but it’s not, you have to take a shot. Then, it’s your turn to tell me something. We take turns until the shots are gone or we puke on our shoes. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” I said. “Why don’t we just line up a bunch of shots and knock them back?”
She gave me a scolding look. “Now where would be the fun in that?”
“Good point,” I said as the bartender came over. I tapped a finger on the bar. “Ten tequila shots. And another red wine for her and another scotch for me.”
He gave me a funny look for a second. The look turned into a smile when I slid two one-hundred-dollar bills across the bar. A minute later, we each had five shots lined up in front of us and our other drinks. I told her to go first.
She tapped a finger to her chin and pooched
out her lips thoughtfully.
She said, “Okay, let’s see… I have six toes on my left foot.”
I chuckled and glanced down. She was wearing knee-high boots. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she said, looking hurt. “Don’t make fun of girls with six toes.”
I blinked at her. “What? No, I was just… hang on…” I smiled. “I’m calling bullshit.”
She giggled and picked up her first shot. “You got me, Brad the banker.” She shot back the bitter tequila and sighed. “Okay, your turn.”
I looked deeply into her eyes as if I was thinking up some dark secret. What she didn’t know was that I made my living sorting the bullshit from the truth. I was very good at it. I could also dispense bullshit with the best of them when I wanted to.
But I didn’t have time for games.
I wanted to get this girl in the sack, not play fraternity games with her at a dive bar.
I picked up my first tequila shot and said, “My name’s not really Brad.”
She rolled her eyes and huffed. “No shit. Truth. Drink up, Brad.”
The game ended quickly because we wanted it to.
Five minutes later, the shot glasses were drained, and we were both drunk.
“So, what next?” I asked, wiping my mouth on a napkin. “More party games or can we just cut the shit and get the fuck out of here?”
She took a long sip of wine, eyeing me over the glass, then set the glass on the bar and grabbed my tie, which probably cost more than her entire outfit. She pulled my head down to growl in my ear.
“If you hope to fuck me before the night is over, Brad the banker, you’re gonna have to get a lot more interesting or get me a whole lot drunker.”
I smiled. Bingo. “I think I can do both,” I said.
She cocked an eyebrow and pursed her lips.
“And you’re gonna have to dance with me. Do you dance, Brad the banker? Or do you just like to stand around and watch other people having fun?”
I pulled back with a devious smile on my face, glad she had broken the ice.
Broken the ice?
Hell, she had pulverized that shit like a Waring blender.
I shot back the bourbon and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, then gestured toward the crowded dance floor.
“Alright then, Molly the paralegal. Let’s get this fucking party started!”
Chapter 2: Katie O’Hara
I don’t know why I gave him a fake name. I don’t know what made me decide to act as slutty as I did. And I really don’t know what possessed me to grab onto his tie and say what I did. I mean, anyone who knew me would have been shocked. I know I was. And so was Monique, my coworker and roommate, who pulled her tongue out of her old boyfriend’s ear long enough to witness the whole thing. Even though she had been rubbing Andy’s cock through his pants under the bar, she couldn’t believe the way “little old innocent Katie O’Hara” was acting.
“I’m the one who usually gets down and dirty with a guy,” she said later. “Girl, I don’t know what you were thinking!”
I’d like to just chock it up to being drunk and horny on New Year’s Eve, but I don’t think that was it, not entirely. Or maybe it was just that I’d had a really tough year at work and dealing with personal crap, that the thought of just letting myself go on New Year’s Eve was too much to resist.
Honestly, I just think that it was one of those rare occasions when you meet a guy and sparks just fly like the Fourth of July! I had no other sound reason for it because it was totally and completely out of character for me.
I simply found this guy (Brad the banker… yeah, right) that I had only known for five minutes to be sexy as hell. There was something about him that made every nerve in my body stand on end, like he was emitting an electrical charge or something. My nipples got hard inside my bra. I started feeling a moist heat between my legs. And there was this attraction, this immediate attraction, that I didn’t understand and still can’t explain to this day. The moment our eyes met I knew I would end up doing things with him I’d only dreamt of doing before that night.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no slut, but I’m certainly no prude. I’d had my share of sex— some of it great, most of it not— but that was the first and only one-night stand of my life. I’m a good Irish Catholic girl from a big Boston family. My mom died when I was young, but I have six older brothers—three cops, three firemen—and a dad who owned an Irish pub called “O’Hara’s” in Southey who would kill any boy who looked at his little girl with lust in their eyes.
I didn’t lose my virginity until I was nearly twenty-years-old and a sophomore at Harvard, where I’d won a scholarship to major in law. I was the smart girl in high school, perfect SAT scores, belonged to all the scholastic clubs, and all I ever wanted to be was a lawyer. Don’t ask me why. There were no lawyers in my family and my cop brothers detested most people in the profession. I think it was watching that old LA Law show on reruns with my dad when I was younger. The law just looked so glamorous. You could make a ton of dough, wear fancy clothes, and hobnob with the rich and famous who were always doing something that required legal representation. I had no idea at the time that it would be such a grind just getting a law degree, then finding a firm that would hire me right out of school and pay me enough to even live on.
I was luckier than most. My grades were top notch. I graduated at the top of my class, and I seemed to have a knack for contract law. I applied for an associate position with Yates Hamilton & Booz, a prestigious Wall Street law firm after graduation. I had the luck of the Irish, my dad would say. I was hired and moved to New York City a week after graduation. Now, after six years of grinding it out sixteen-hours a day and having no personal life, I was on the fast track to making junior partner before I was thirty years old.
So, it had been a tough, ass-kicking sort of year. I had done nothing but work. I had not had a single date. I hadn’t been laid since I didn’t know when. So, when Monique asked if I wanted to go to O’Grady’s for New Year’s Eve, I said why not! I could use a little party time, blow off some steam, get shitfaced drunk, and wake up on the floor in a puddle of my own puke like the good old days of my freshman year.
I did not count on meeting a man that made my juices flow like ice melting down a mountain side. But when he walked in and our eyes met, I knew it was going to be a very interesting night.
I deserved to have a little fun.
And Brad the banker looked just like the kind of guy to have a little fun with.
Chapter 3: Conner/Brad
Molly the paralegal dragged me onto the crowded dancefloor by my expensive tie. I won’t lie, I’m not much of a dancer, but the warmth of the bourbon flowing through my veins, and the pounding rhythm of the music, and the prospect of putting my hands on her ripe body quickly overrode any hesitation I might have been feeling. Besides, nobody would know me here. I never came to this part of town. Ever!
Molly pushed her way through the crowd like a three-hundred-pound linebacker going after a quarterback, stopping only when we were at the center of the dancefloor, which I quickly realized was not a dancefloor at all, but a space the patrons had cleared of tables and chairs to give them room to get down and get funky.
Molly spun around toward me and draped her hands over my shoulders and started moving to the music, her hips swaying back and forth, her green eyes locked onto mine, a devious smile on her lips. All thoughts of making it to Reed’s swanky New Year’s Eve party disappeared from my mind like dust in the wind. I could only focus on Molly. That beautiful face. Those green eyes. Those luscious lips. And her words that kept echoing in my ears.
“If you hope to fuck me before the night is over, Brad the banker, you’re gonna have to get a lot more interesting or get me a whole lot drunker. And you’re gonna have to dance with me. Do you dance, Brad the banker? Or do you just like to stand around asking dumb questions?”
Brad the banker was one lucky son of a bitch. And he would gladly danc
e till the cows came home if that’s what it took to get between sweet Molly’s long legs.
I put my hands on her hips and we did this kind of sexy, fast, slow, side to side kind of thing. She laughed and threw her head back. “Damn, Brad the banker, you got moves! I have to admit, I was worried that you were all looks and no swag.”
I grinned and kept doing whatever I was doing because it was passing as being able to dance. “Oh, I got your swag right here.”
“I’ll bet you do,” she said, lacing her fingers behind my neck. “You almost look like you’re dancing!”
“Dammit, I thought I had you fooled!” I gave her a goofy look just as the song ended and another began. I was hoping that one dance would do the trick. No such luck. Molly started moving again. So freakin’ sexy… The song was some hard driving, obnoxious, loud number I’d never heard. I did not listen to dance music or EDM or whatever the fuck they called it now. I was more of a classical kind of guy, with the occasional dose of classic rock and even a little new country. But this music ground into my ear drums like a drill on high. Molly, on the other hand, let go of my neck and threw her hands in the air and squealed.
“Oh, I love this song!” She tossed her head from side to side and wiggled her hips. “It’s Bruno Mars!”