by Dark Angel
I don't say anything.
"After she died, I don't know what happened, but I should've never married Linda," he says to me. "I know you didn't approve, but I didn't care."
It's not that I didn't approve.
Fuck.
Could it be that I didn't want to share?
Did I maybe want Drake to myself?
"I can't fault you now for marrying Linda, man," I say to him. "Otherwise, I would've never met Natalie."
That makes us both pause.
Natalie Vanderhill.
The girl with the beautiful face. The gorgeous fucking body. That tight heart-shaped ass. Those slender legs. That flat stomach. Those luscious tits.
And the dirtiest fucking mind I've ever seen in a woman.
"Natalie is...special," Drake says, choosing his words. I understand where my stepdad is coming from. It's a loaded fucking subject. "Hell, she's the reason we're in this room today talking to each other as civilized people."
"When you married Linda, there was a lot of hurt," I tell Drake, going back to my epiphany. I think I almost have it to put into words.
"But that hurt wasn't because I thought you were forgetting about Mom," I tell him. He's nodding, and looking at me now. "That hurt was because I thought you were forgetting about me."
"I wasn't close to even trying to be a good dad, Sloane," Drake says shaking his head.
"That's not it," I say to him and Drake looks at me.
What is that in his eyes?
He's my stepdad. All it can be is concern.
"I think, yeah, I needed a father," I tell Drake slowly. "But I think I was jealous of Linda because she was going to be your lover."
Drake is quiet.
And that's the fucking rub, isn't it.
I was jealous of my stepmom, not because I didn't want a new family coming in.
Because on some deeper level, I was attracted to my stepdad.
It's been an attraction that I haven't been able to reconcile all this fucking time.
So what did I do instead?
I lashed out. I got angry. I built walls. I never settled on one woman.
So much to tell Drake about. And looking at him, I see he hasn't turned away in shock or disgust anymore. He's smiling; it's an open fucking invitation.
We're going to finally bury the fucking hatchet. We're going to--
The phone interrupts my thinking.
"Mr. Hardman," Cheryl says with professionalism in her voice. "The investors are here to go over the final details on the investment of Dirty Lil' Angels. They're in the South Conference Room."
Fuck. This is a real meeting.
Drake understands though that we've had a fucking breakthrough. He gets up.
"Let's grab some dinner," he says. "The three of us. We have a lot of talk about."
I get up. We shake hands. A bit awkwardly. And then he's out the door.
And I'm in a whole new world. Every last thing I knew has fucking changed.
I honestly need a breather, to be honest.
A meeting with some bankers is just what I need to get my focus back.
Why don't you go see what Natalie is up to?
Natalie
“Open the door, I know you’re there,” I hear my mom say from the hallway, the footsteps of her pacing back and forth like a caged lioness reaching me like a bad omen. Maybe if I just remain silent she’ll give up and go away.
“I can see your shadow from under the door, you know?” she continues triumphantly, and finally stops pacing.
Sigh. I guess I can’t avoid her, right? She’s my mom, I know, but after that fight at The Oak Room I’m in no mood to see her. Ah, screw this.
Surrendering, I open up the door and there she is, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “I can’t believe you’re avoiding your own mother, Natalie. That’s so below you,” she tells me, walking inside the apartment while she shakes her head in disapproval.
“Well, maybe that’s because my own mother is trying to force me to destroy my company,” I shoot right back, closing the door and preparing for another fight.
“Sell your company. Not destroy. It’s totally different,” she replies in a condescending tone, as if I was still five years old and she was explaining to me why playing with the poor kids isn’t proper. “Honey, think it through. You own a sex toy company. What kind of career is this? You have a degree in finance.”
“I know what kind of company I have, and I also know what I graduated in, mom. But this is my life.”
“Sweetie, please. I’m just trying to help you, really. Get rid of this awful company of yours, get a proper job—like I know you can—and once I’m mayor it’ll all payoff. I’ll pull some strings for you and set you up for life.”
Her words are full of honey, and the lines around her eyes seem to have gained a soft, and almost kind, quality. Linda, the actress—please give this woman an Oscar. Her words might be honey, but trust me, her intent is vinegar.
“No.”
“Be rational about this, Natalie,” she continues sweetly, reaching for me and taking my hand in hers. “You’re my daughter. Forget about my bid for mayor, I’m just thinking of you right now. You’ve proved whatever it is you want to prove, haven’t you? You have money; you have success. Wouldn’t it be nice to be respected as well?”
For a fraction of a second I almost believe her. Perhaps she really wants what’s best for me. Perhaps she isn’t thinking of herself and her ambitions right now, and she’s really worried about me in that twisted way of hers. But no, I can’t let her sink her hooks in me. She’s trying to play me, but I won’t allow it; if there’s one thing I inherited from her, it's that I’m stubborn.
“No,” I merely say, shrugging and taking back my hand. “I’m on the verge of securing a major investment, and I’ll take a bullet before I give up on this company.”
“Investment?” she scoffs, looking around my apartment and gazing at the towers of cardboard boxes crammed in my living room. “And why would anyone invest in this, sweetie?”
“I have a prototype I’m working on, and I’m betting my whole company on it,” I tell her, determination rising inside of me. I’ve never been the kind of woman who did things just to show others that I can do it, but right now all I want is to rub my success in her face.
“Is this really how you want to play your hand, Natalie?” my mom asks me, lowering her voice and giving me a look that would make the most hardened SEAL run for cover. I stand my ground, though. I won’t bend over to please her.
“You can do what you want, mom. I’m not selling my company,” I say again, feeling more determined than ever. An expression of contempt washes over her face and, for a fraction of a second, all of her beauty vanishes; she looks dangerous now, like a coiled snake ready to jump and bury its fangs into the neck of a defenseless prey.
“Actions have consequences. And I can’t be responsible for what happens next,” she tells me, her words cold and heartless, a veiled threat in her voice.
“Are you threatening me?” I ask in complete disbelief. I know my mother is ruthless but… Christ, I’m her daughter!
“You’re making your own bed. And, sooner or later, you’re going to lie down on it. I offered you a bed of respect and money, Natalie, but it seems that you prefer one made of thorns.”
“Why are you threatening me, Mom?” I ask, a bit too shrill. “Why are you always so brutal on me?”
Mom looks at me. "Honestly, Natalie, I'm warning you," she says. "If you don't get out of this filthy sex toy business, you're not going to be considered my daughter any longer.”
"And so what?" I shout back. "It's not like you were ever a mother to me!"
It takes her two seconds. But her hand reaches out.
And slaps me.
"You ungrateful little bitch!" she yells. "You better watch your back, baby girl. Because I'm about to destroy both you, your stepdad, and your stepbrother."
There is nothing but anger in her
eyes.
"I'll make the world hate you! To the point where they close your business down for you! And by the time I'm done destroying the three of you, they'll be wanting to make me a saint for putting up with you," Mom says. I
"You wouldn't," I say, shocked. "Not to your own family."
"I hate all three of you," she says. "And with the reporters I have in my payroll, you're going to watch Sloane and Drake suffer."
Clutching her purse to her breast, she then turns on her heels and walks for the door, leaving me completely dumbfounded in the middle of the living room.
Before she can leave, though, I walk after her. I slam the palm of my hand against the door, stopping her from opening it, and look into her eyes. It hurts me to say it, but the person looking back at me isn’t someone I can call a mother. There’s just ice there, almost as if I were just another obstacle in her path.
But there’s something else too. It finally dawns on me.
“You’re jealous…” I whisper, and I notice a flicker of anger in her eyes. I can hardly believe it, but she’s jealous of me.
“Don’t be silly. Why would I be jealous?” she says, but her voice falters as she says it. I can see through the cracks in her armor. I open my mouth to speak, but then I realize it won’t do any good.
“Just go,” I whisper, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I step back from the door, and with one final hard look at me, she leaves. I lean against the wall and let my body slide down to the floor; burying my face in my hands, I let one huge sob rise in my chest and I finally let the tears loose.
I’m not crying because I’m afraid of her. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself; I’m crying because she’s my mother. I never had a close relationship with her, but to think that she has become a complete stranger… And, more than that, she’s on the verge of becoming my enemy. My own mother!
I pity her, to be honest. She always chased money and fame, the high-life, running after it like a dog chasing after a car. It’s everything she wants, but the last thing she needs. And that’s why I know she’s jealous of me. I live a life of freedom, doing the things I love and being true to myself. And she either can’t do that, or won’t.
Wiping away the tears with the back of my hand, I go up to my feet and take a deep breath.
Let her threaten me. Let her come after me.
I’m right here.
Drake
The waitress brings us another round of drinks. We're sitting at Cipriani's, and the broker in front of me takes a good, long look at the waitress' ass as she walks away, and then he continues his rant. He's been bragging about his firm's latest client for the last twenty minutes.
He's one of those old money types. His money's been handed to him from his father, and his father's father, and on, and on. It's a legacy that probably began when his family came over from the fucking Mayflower or something. You get the point. This guy's never known what it's like to have one foot dangling just above the gutter, or to claw your way to the top out of necessity.
It almost makes me smile. I don't care how much money I've made, having that knowledge of desperation simmering just below the surface never goes away, and it gives me an advantage against the competition. It brings out the blood-thirsty shark in me. Always.
"The IPO for my new client will be offered next week," he continues, "and the firm's going to make more money than it knows what to fucking do with."
"We'll see," I say, taking a sip of my drink. I honestly don't give a fuck about whatever new client he's waving in my face. I don't give a fuck about the IPO. My mind is all over the place, but it always returns to two things: Natalie and Sloane.
"There's no wait and see," he replies.
"I just mean that we'll see if the public wants to invest," I say, trying not to yawn. I've heard these kinds of predictions a million times, and these fucking things don't always work out as planned.
"Oh they'll want to invest," he continues, and then changes the subject. "What about that waitress, huh? That ass is something else."
I nod, just to humor him. She's okay, but honestly, her ass doesn't compare to Natalie's. But he's fixated, like a dog drooling over a steak, and who am I to burst his bubble?
"Yeah, nice."
"I'd like to grab two big handfuls," he says, a grin forming on his face.
I bet you would. Good luck with that. With the gold band on your finger, your receding hairline, and that gut protruding over your belt buckle, my guess is you don't have a chance in hell, I think to myself. But I don't say anything. Instead I smile. Schmuck.
Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and look at the incoming number.
Shit. "Excuse me," I say, "I need to take this call."
"No problem, buddy," he responds, and smiles, "I'll just continue to take in the sweet, sweet view."
I push my chair out and stand up from the table, quickly walking outside. I bring the phone to my ear and answer.
"Linda?"
"It took you long enough to answer."
"I was—" I begin to say, but she cuts me off.
"You're not at your office; so let me guess … you booked a discrete room at the Carlyle for you and maybe a young intern of yours. You plied her with drinks, flashed your money and influence, and when your phone rang just now, you were taking your mouth off her tits?"
"So, that's what you think of me?" I ask, a smile forming on my lips. Two can play this game. "Give me a little more credit. I was taking my mouth off her pussy, not her tits."
"You disgust me."
"So, how can I help you today?" I ask, cutting to the chase. Hanging on the phone and cracking jokes with Linda isn't high on my list of priorities today. "Were you calling just to inquire about my sex life?"
"I don't need to call you to find out about that, Drake. You're an open book."
"Is that so?"
"I know all about what happened between you, and Natalie, and Sloane," she says in a chilled tone.
"Well, aren't you the super sleuth," I say, trying to play it casual. But my brain is cranking in overdrive. How did she find out? Is she tracking me? Is someone tracking Sloane and Natalie? I make a mental note to get to the bottom of that.
"This isn't a joke."
"Of course not. So, shall I go ahead and give you an award for being so fucking astute now, or do we wait?"
"Go ahead and laugh, Drake, but consider for a moment what this can do to your reputation," she hisses into the phone, sounding exactly like a snake coiled and ready to strike.
"My reputation?"
"I won't hesitate to leak this to the media."
Now the fangs are coming out.
She continues, "And this sort of scandal would … ruin you," she drags the word 'ruin' out for emphasis.
"Unless?" I ask, because it's clear that there's an 'unless' lurking under the surface and that she wants something.
"Good. Now you understand," she says, and I can almost hear her face contort into a smile. Can snakes smile? I wonder. "Unless you remove your backing from Dirty Lil' Angels."
"I can't do that," I snap back. There's no fucking way I'm going to allow her to dictate my investments.
"Remove your backing or every major media outlet in the city will have this story on their desks," she says, "and believe me, reporters would salivate for a story like this."
"Like what, exactly?" I ask, calling her bluff.
"Just think. This is your daughter, and … son," she continues. "What kind of man … no, what kind of a father does that? And not only will you be revealed to the public as a fraud, but as a pervert too."
Venomous. Plain and simple.
The way her words manipulate the story, and paint the situation into something horrible sounding, makes my stomach clench.
I don't know why I ever married this woman. What did I ever see in her?
She doesn't wait for me to respond. Instead, she continues, "But it doesn't have to be this way. Talk to the banks. Flip the script. Tell
them that Dirty Lil' Angels is a bad investment. And in doing so, prevent them from investing in the company."
I stand there frozen, the phone still held to my ear. I think about Natalie and Sloane, and everything that's at stake.
"Hello?" Linda asks. "Drake? Are you listening to me?"
Words are caught in my throat. Her ultimatum has left me speechless.
Do I give in and 'flip the script'?
Do I step into the viper's pit?
Sloane
So this is what it all comes down to.
This is what I do. You're going to see me in action today. We’re going to make Dirty Lil’ Angels a giant fucking company.
All the paperwork is over. All the hoops jumped through.
I'm standing next to my Treasury Operations team. They sit next to the trading floor that takes up the majority of the Hard Times main floor. The Treasury folks control the money. They're in Finance, and without them we wouldn't know what kind of positions we're in during our trading day.
Let me put it to you another way.
Let's say that I have one hundred million dollars. And I invest it in a company that starts paying me back 10 million a month for twenty months. That means that at the end, I'll be getting back two hundred million dollars. But that's only over the course of twenty months.
So each month I get back ten million dollars.
So what am I doing with that cash? I'm gonna have to re-invest it. But I'm also going to have to pay regulatory fees and taxes. And I'm going to have to make sure that I have enough coming back to tide me over till the next ten million comes in from the first investment.
Now instead of just one investment, imagine this is for several hundred.
Right.
Blows your mind away, doesn't it? And that's why we have a Treasury ops department.
See, people like Drake, they're all flash and little substance. They make the big sales, close the big deals, and then they think the hard part is over. But the back office bean counters—the accountants—they're the ones who keep the fucking firm running.
Seriously, rule number fucking one on Wall Street should really be never to disparage the fucking back office. Because they will fucking make or break you.