Wall Street Blues (Swashbuckling Romance)

by Nancy Clinton

  WALL STREET BLUES

  By Nancy Clinton

  Copyright © 2013 Nancy Clinton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise (mechanical, photocopying, recording or stored in a retrieval system) without the prior written consent of the Publisher. Such action is an infringement of the copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter One: A Friend From Hell

  Chapter Two: The Scariest Group Date Ever

  Chapter Three: Memo to Self

  Chapter Four: When the Hottest Guy in Town Came Calling

  Chapter Five: Life Is So Good

  Chapter Six: The Longest Hangover

  Chapter Seven: A Little Talk After Lunch

  Chapter Eight: On Becoming A Whore

  Chapter Nine: Paying The Devil His Dues

  SWASHBUCKLING ROMANCE SERIES

  #1 Wall Street Blues ………... Just Released!!!

  #2 The Billionaire’s Doctor ……Coming Soon!!!

  WALL STREET BLUES

  Janet Bellview: An innocent, virgin twenty-eight-year-old who goes to Wall Street only in search of an enduring career in banking.

  Mr. Henry Russell: A randy Chief Executive Officer of the bank Janet works for, who is brash and notorious for chasing anything in a skirt.

  The Intrigue: Not knowing how to subdue Janet’s resistance to his sexual overtures, Mr. Russell hires a very hot, married guy to trick her into an extramarital relationship that would later crush her spirit and self-confidence!

  The Results: Love, romance, wet kisses and hot sex.

  A Friend From Hell

  Wall Street is not only what we all know it to be: a popular, world-renowned financial district in America. It is also a place of annoying sins where raunchy bosses stalked their beautiful employees without courtesy; where happiness is squashed because of jealousy and unnecessary rat race. On top of it, it is a street where innocence is destroyed and hopes are dashed by the most inhumane group of people.

  But I had had a different perspective of Wall Street right from the moment I accepted to work for a bank on Broad Street. For me, it would be the place for my professional development, where I could climb up the corporate ladders, where I could contribute my own humble quota to help American economy expand by creating jobs, as a senior officer, and making people’s lives better.

  At twenty-eight, my aspirations might seem too big for people who didn’t have knowledge of my background. Both of my parents were retired bankers: my father became a chief operating officer (COO) of his bank before his full retirement at seventy years of age; my mum was also a senior manager of hers. And they had instilled me the thought of possibility of reaching any level in my career if I could only work hard. But what my parents had hidden from, maybe because of the fear of discouraging me, was the reality of the doggy lifestyle on Wall Street.

  Armed with a first degree in economics and a six-month stint as a banking intern at the same bank where I would be honing my skills in the coming years—the bank whose CEO was my billionaire uncle’s best friend—I had approached everything concerning my profession with an air of rigid seriousness.

  By coincidence or deliberate selection, all of the bank’s three new recruits were ladies and graduates from the same university. Though I didn’t know the other two ladies, Meg and Hillary, during our college days, but I felt more attracted to Hillary because we shared the same interests in music and books, and she had been raised by disciplinary parents as mine. At twenty-seven, and like me, she had never dated any guy in her life—she confessed that she didn’t want anything to stand in the way of her education then; a decision that let her graduate at the top of her class. Together, Hillary and I had formed a secret club for fun, Sisters of the Virgin New Yorkers, with the acronym SVNY!

  Like two Siamese Twins, Hillary and I tagged along well in everything we did, most especially in our official duties as the secretaries to the bank’s Chief Executive Officer, Mr. Henry Russell. Despite knowing Mr. Russell for decades and enjoying good relationship with him and his family, in particular, with his forty-two-year-old wife who looked like a teenager, sleek and very pretty, I had learnt to always behave in a professional demeanor whenever I was around him.

  This Monday morning was dull and lazy for both of us as the CEO had jetted out to the United Kingdom for a business meeting. Hillary and I had had plenty of time on our hands to burn as no one bothered us except for a few phone calls from people requesting to book appointments with Mr. Russell.

  “I’m wondering we are on the verge of kicking up some shit for people to be crazy about in New York City,” Hillary said, smiling mischievously.

  I frowned a bit because I didn’t get what she was talking about. “What about that?” I asked, impatiently.

  “The Sisters of the Virgin New Yorkers thing!” She shouted, but not loud enough to disturb people in the next office.

  “Yeah. What about that?” I said again, looking straight into her eyes for clue. “Or have you got any weird plan in your chest to blow things up?”

  “Definitely, Jan,” she answered in her usual comical way. Only she referred to me as “Jan”, everyone else called me “Janet”, Janet Bellview. “I’m thinking about setting up a website and a Facebook page for SVNY and watch people, I mean virgins (both guys and ladies) flock to the damn site and Facebook page within days,” she said, optimistically.

  We stopped talking when the door suddenly creaked open. One of our CEO’s media publicists came in to announce that Mr. Henry Russell wouldn’t be returning to New York later today as scheduled; he would be having another important meeting that would force him to stay a couple of days in London.

  “Good riddance!” Hillary said, to my great surprise.

  “Oh, Hillary, why did you say that?” I asked, jokingly.

  “I’m sorry if that offends you; I know he’s your uncle’s closest friend,” she apologized, with her usual sexy simper.

  “Don’t worry about that, girlfriend. But, honestly, what don’t you like about Mr. Russell?” I prodded her. I was somehow interested in her reasons for hating him.

  “His greedy eyes!” She said in a funny way. “I just don’t like the way he stared at my body, particularly my breasts anytime he calls me into his office,” she explained, unsmiling.

  “Ah, is that? He stared at my body, too,” I revealed to Hillary’s utter bewilderment. “You know what? I thought he was just admiring me,” I said.

  “Looking lustfully at a girl your child’s age is improper,” Hillary muttered. “I think he derived a great pleasure from doing that. He often makes me feel like he’s undressing me with his big eyes!” She said, and we both laughed loud about that.

  The door suddenly opened again and the mailman brought three packages to be delivered to the CEO. I filed the mails away in the appropriate cabinets and returned to my seat to enjoy more jokes from Hillary who was, no doubt, more jocular than I was.

  “So, let’s go back to your idea for SVNY’s site and a Facebook page,” I urged her.

  “Yeah, I will do that first thing when I get home after work today,” she promised.

  We had truly had a relaxing day. We normally had a hectic schedule whenever the CEO was around. It was never fun dealing with the volume of guests that trooped in to see Mr. Russell every day. I never ceased to wonder how he managed to stay comfortable speaking to such large number of visitors on a dai
ly basis. Maybe he enjoyed doing so, being a socialite and hard-partying guy. And he was no doubt a womanizer. What kind of person would keep subscribing to Playboy Magazine and openly confessing that Hugh Hefner was his hero? An American hero that worth celebrating! I believe if Hillary had known these uncomfortable facts about Mr. Russell, she wouldn’t have taken his seductive stare at her body seriously.

  “Does it bother you sometime when some crazy guys ask you out?” Hillary asked.

  “Do you men bad guys?” I said, pushing her for clarity.

  “Well, they come in different shades and hues,” she reckoned, and her words made me laugh so loud. “There’s one god-awful guy living next door to my rented apartment. He has tattoos all over his body and always gives me the impression that he’s nothing but a moving wall of graffiti,” she said.

  “Haha. You sounded quite funny,” I said. “Did he ask you for a date?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Four different times, but I flatly refused,” she answered.

  “Isn’t he hot?” I prodded Hillary. Instead of uttering any word she just made a contemptuous noise with her mouth.

  “Some ladies date guys for different reasons; if he isn’t physically attractive, he may have a good body and other features that can make someone go mad. You know what I mean?” I said.

  Hillary smiled briefly and maintained her view that guys hold different sex appeals to different ladies. “For me, a guy must be spruce and well-mannered before he can sweep me off my feet. I don’t care a hoot about that muscular, never-do-well body that some men paraded as treasures!” she prattled.

  I had wanted to tell her that muscular men were my fave; but I didn’t want our discussion to end soon. So, I decided to say something else. “I like guys with hairy chests—I always feel that—in my imagination, you know—caressing a guy’s hair may produce good sensation for sex,” I told her.

  The squint on her face revealed that she didn’t find my statement funny or interesting, and I wasn’t shocked when she fired a salvo at me: “if that’s the case, why don’t you secretly date your CEO? I noticed he his chest is hairy,”

  I knew she meant that as a joke. Everyone who had worked in Mr. Russell’s office knew that he had hair on his chest as he, against the convention of a seasoned banker, refused to wear suit and tie; he often came to work in flannel shirts, which he always opened three buttons down.

  “You know I can never date Mr. Russell. Apart from being my uncle’s best friend, his wife, Angela, treats me like a family member. In fact, she relates to me like her own niece. Don’t wanna break such a kind heart. I’ll never forgive myself if such a thing happens,” I said.

  Hillary put her chin in her hand while listening to me. But the flickers in her eyes showed that she wasn’t sold on what I was saying. If I had read her mind correctly, she believed anything could happen, given the chance.

  “You sounded quite romantic at times, girlfriend; so, what prevented you from rocking life with any of the guys out there?” I asked her.

  “I’ve been a conservative Christian from childhood, and as such none of my sisters lost their virginity before marriage. It’s like a culture in our family,” she explained.

  “I see,” I acknowledged. “As for me religion played no part in my sexual abstinence. I can say I was rather asocial,” I told her.

  Exactly a week later, Hillary intimated me that The Sisters of the Virgin New Yorkers’s Facebook page had received twenty “likes” and six members had already joined the SVNY’s website’s mailing list.

  “Really?” I was visibly shocked.

  “The most surprising aspect of this issue is that there are more guys on the mailing list than ladies: in short, four guys and two ladies,” she explained.

  “How did you respond to them,” I asked, anxiously.

  “I just sent them a “Thank You” message for subscribing to the mailing list, and I promised to be in touch. Signed: SVNY’s Site Administrator,” Hillary said.

  I was speechless at her cleverness; it didn’t occur to me that she was adept at things like that until she confessed she had actually started out as a Computer Sciences major student until her elder sister, a financial planner and accountant in a bank on Wall Street advised her to divert into Banking and Finance course.

  “So, what’s going to be the next step?” I asked. I was somehow interested in meeting those other virgin New Yorkers and listened attentively to their personal stories.

  “Two of the fans requested for a get-together, but I’m still thinking about the feasibility of that,” Hillary answered.

  When we finally agreed that we should arrange for a get-together party in a hotel room, three guys and a lady had shown significant interest in the event. They had even made financial contributions in advance in order to make this idea come into reality.

  “I’m quite nervous about this, Hillary! It seems like it‘s going to be a weird group dating. And I’m afraid I have no experience of such,” I confessed.

  My words appeared funny to Hillary but she managed to clear the air about the event: “I’ve already sounded warnings to all participants that we aren’t organizing a group date, just a feel-good meeting among people who may share similar interests and want to bond together later. Life is too short to be lived in isolation in this age when good networkers are kings,” Hillary explained.

  In order not to appear childish to my friend from hell, I refused to go into further discussion about the matter. But deep inside me, I harbored some fears about the whole arrangement. Who knew what kind of guys would show up? Sex offenders? Rapists? Murderers?

  The Scariest Group Date Ever

  Group date: What a scary thing to do! I couldn’t conveniently imagine how a group of lovelorn people would hole themselves up in a hotel room for hours trying to relive the past romantic life they had miserably lost. On a more serious note, I had heard various terrible things about group dating, and the mere thought that I was going to be part of the madness truly terrified me. Some victims of group dating had complained about being mercilessly raped by strangers to whom they had mistakenly entrusted their safety. Others had met kleptomaniac who stole some valuables from their purses during the process.

  There was no definite dress code for the occasion but I had decided to go in my tight-fitting jeans and a thick blue shirt. My idea was that if I unfortunately ran into a rapist, it would take him a long time before he could forcefully undress me. Again, I worried about my reputation: it was the most sensitive thing I was putting on the line for this tryst. Any strangest outcome could have a chain-reaction effect on my self-respect, job and future.

  Filled with fear, I almost rang up Hillary to apologize for my change of mind: to be true to myself, I wasn’t one hundred percent for this event. But, coincidentally, my cell phone came ringing and when I flipped it open to answer the call, it was Hillary: “What are you still doing in your apartment? Please get into your car and drive down here. I’m waiting at the hotel’s lobby for you,” she reprimanded me in her usual way. Hillary was a no-nonsense bitch.

  With no apparent option for me, I strode to my garage and kicked my Ford Mustang into motion. A large meeting room at one of the ritzy hotels on Broad Street had been rented for the get-together. The first thing that struck me as I rushed into the lobby was that I had probably underdressed for the occasion. Hillary, that peacock of a girl, was in a pink, see-through blouse, and her skirt was too short for my liking. I winced when she inspected my choice of fashion and later shook her head without saying a word to me. At that moment, I felt like I was pushing myself too far just to satisfy Hillary. Was it because we had been quite chummy these past weeks because we freely shared secrets and the same office? Oh, snap! This wasn’t my nature; I disliked being pushed around by someone at my age.

  But my worries were quickly assuaged when she gave me her don’t-go-gaga smile. It was physically reassuring. I realized I hadn’t done anything awful that might destroy our friendship.

  “I know yo
u are still in your college-day mindset,” she finally said with a simper. And I knew she was referring to my casual dress.

  “Oh, yeah. It didn’t occur to me that it was going to be a gaudy party where everyone is expected to show up in their most resplendent clothes,” I said that as a joke.

  “Oh, no! It should be casual. I was just pulling your leg as usual,” she said.

  Not quite long, a dashing young lady appeared in a skimpy dress, her pink knees jutting under the hemline. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses that made her look like a CIA agent. Hillary sidled up to her and asked in a whisper, “Are you Laura?”

  “Yeah,” the lady responded, shyly.

  “I’m Hillary. Nice to meet you,” she said to her and I watched them shake hands like two professionals on an important business meeting.

  “Please meet Jan,” she pointed to me. We both said “hi” at the same time. We could sense that either of us was very nervous about the whole situation. Exactly, twenty minutes later, three guys arrived one after another. They didn’t look like they had known each other before. That killed any negative thought in me that we, the ladies, might have probably been targeted by a gang of three related criminals.

  Hillary surprisingly turned out to be a wonderful emcee. Since we didn’t have time on our hands, having rented the hotel room for just two hours, we ended pairing up naturally. Everyone turned to the person next to him or her and immediately started a lively conversation.

  David Seymour, an Irish-American lawyer with a Chicagoan accent stretched forth his hand for a handshake. I grabbed his hand gingerly and avoided looking straight into his blue eyes. A curly lock of hair kept falling on his forehead, which he returned now and then to its place with the back of his hand. I was quite cautious about how much information I could reveal to this complete stranger. I only told him that I worked for a bank, but I didn’t mention which one or said where it was situated. New York City might appear to be a big place, but I reckoned it was small as well: people are quite connected in this age of furious networking. It was hard identifying who had met or known who.