I fight back the emotions welling up within me – the most prominent one being anger. A deep, persistent anger. Ten years ago, I gave him my virginity. And I had the sort of mind-blowing, earth-shaking sex Jade talked about. Ten years ago, I'd let myself grow close to Carter. Maybe it was just a stupid crush, or maybe, I didn't really understand love or the complexities of it, but back then, I really did think I was falling for him. It was silly, but I remember entertaining the notion that he was the one. That he was going to be my happily ever after.
He's the only man I've ever been with who checked off all those boxes of wants and needs in my head. Or, maybe, he was the one who set up that checklist in my head to begin with, and no other man has lived up to the standard. I don't know. All I do know is that at one time, I thought he was the man I would spend the rest of my life with.
And then he'd ghosted me. Totally, and completely ghosted me.
I tried calling him. Texting him. I'd gone down into the Kitchen more times than I could count, looking for him. And he'd just – disappeared. There was no trace of him anywhere. I'd asked around, but nobody seemed to know who I was talking about. He was gone, like a puff of smoke on a breeze. It was like he never existed anywhere but in my mind.
For months after that, I battled depression. I cried myself to sleep more times than I can count. I had a million questions and no way to get the answers I needed.
I couldn't talk to anybody about it, because if they knew about the two of us, all hell would have broken loose. My aunt and uncle would have clamped down on me harder than they usually did, and I wanted my freedom. I tried to stuff it all down and bury it deep inside of me. I learned to suffer in silence, because I couldn't bear the thought of sharing it. Not even with Jade – mostly because she would have been pissed had she found out.
Over the last ten years, I've moved forward with my life. I've left those childish notions about me being unworthy or defective in the past. But, seeing his picture on the front page of that tabloid stirs up all kinds of emotions within me once again, and I realize that I only thought I'd left them all in the past.
Although I've moved forward enough to know that the fault wasn't with me, as I look at his strong jawline and piercing eyes in the photograph, for the first time, I realize with absolute certainly and clarity, that he really is the bar I judge all other men by. I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I've always known it, or at least, have always suspected it. I just haven't allowed myself to fully believe it. But, seeing his face again, I know it's true.
“I so would have slept with him back then,” she says. “I wanted to.”
“I remember,” I say.
“You two were friends, right?” she asks. “You were in the same group home? That's how you knew him, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Did you ever hang out with him or anything?”
I purposely hadn't told Jade back then that Carter and I had dated. That we'd grown close. And I certainly hadn't shared my feelings about him with her. I knew she was into him – at least for the sex, anyway – and I hadn't wanted to stir up drama between us. So, I just kept it a secret. And when he vanished on me, I put on a happy face and bore that pain alone.
“No,” I say. “He was kind of an asshole.”
I look at the picture again and feel a yawning chasm open in my stomach. A familiar pain burns into my heart as I see him at some fundraising gala with a lingerie model-like blonde on his arm. I want to tear my eyes away but can't seem to make myself. Damn him. Damn Carter Bishop.
“I guess he's some big-time hedge fund manager now,” Jade says, oblivious to my torment and pain. “The article says he's worth billions. He's always making the tabloids for banging this supermodel or that actress. The guy gets around.”
“Wow,” I say. “I guess I'm not all the surprised though.”
“Yeah, but I never saw that coming,” she says. “I thought he was just some greasy street punk who would've ended up in prison sooner or later. Never figured him to be some big Wall Street mover and shaker.”
I knew better than that. I know who Carter truly was, and he wasn't anything like Jade described. There were so many layers to Carter that nobody ever saw. Nobody but me. That street tough image was like his secret identity. An armor he wore to help him survive in Hell's Kitchen.
I saw behind the facade and saw him for the man he was. The man I fell in love with. The man who'd destroyed me.
“Anyway, I just thought you'd get a kick out of it since you knew him and all,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “That's really – something.”
We hang out for another hour or so, talking and laughing about this or that. Honestly, I'm not much paying attention to the conversation. I'm just going through the motions. I can't keep my eyes off his picture and am too caught up in my own head and heart to give her my full attention.
Eventually, we part ways with kisses on the cheek, and promises to get together again in a few weeks. I go home, my mind and heart filled with a swirl of questions and conflict – and thoughts of Carter Bishop.
I want to hate him. I want to loath and despise him. It would be so much easier if I could hate the man. But, for some reason, I don't. I never have.
For the first time in a long time, when I get home and flop into bed, I cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Five
Carter
“Good morning, my faithful minions!” I call as I step into the offices of Bishop Financial – my office.
I look around and suppress the look of distaste that wants to cross my face. Someone decorated the office for the fast-approaching holiday season. It's one of the holdovers from my childhood – a bitter loathing of Christmas.
If I had it my way, I'd shut myself into my house on December first, and remain locked inside until the holiday madness is over – sometime around mid-January.
My offices look like some drunk, demented Santa Claus came roaring through and vomited up a bunch of holiday cheer. Decorations, tinsel, garland, and a large tree, including some wrapped gifts, litter the area. There is so much damn Christmas spirit floating through here, I might choke on it all.
Still, the people love it, and so I have to love it – or at least, pretend to, anyway. I clear my throat and clap my hands, gathering all their attention to me.
“Anyway,” I call out, trying to distract myself and focus on the task at hand. “It's a wonderful day for all of us to make a pile of money, isn't it?
The office erupts into cheers and applause as I walk the floor. A wide smile stretches across my face as I raise my arms and acknowledge them all. I've got a relatively small but immensely talented crew working for me. Everyone is exceptional at what they do. I appreciate all their efforts and talents, and it's my job, as their boss, to keep them happy and make them feel appreciated. Happy employees make productive employees, after all. And productive employees result in incredible profits.
At Bishop Financial, we work hard and play hard. I throw some of the best employee parties around. I believe morale is a key ingredient to a successful business, and I do everything I can to keep spirits high.
“Okay, folks,” I say, waving them over. “Gather 'round.”
I've been running my hedge fund firm for almost a decade now. And in that time, we've become one of the most successful, top-earning firms around. Partly because I have a tremendous staff of people working for me, and partly due to my own skill.
I tend to take big risks – and all my clients know this when they walk through the door – but, the payoff is always huge. I've made more multi-millionaires than I can count. I play my hunches and sometimes I'm wrong – and those losses would blow your mind. Nevertheless, I'm right more often than not, which not only keeps my clients happy but makes more money than they could possibly spend in one lifetime.
In a lot of ways, what I do now is the same as what I did for Pops back in the day. I analyze a mountain of information and base my decisions on how I interpre
t it. I don't like to play it safe. Never have and never will. It's one of those things that terrifies my clients, but draws them to me at the same time – the promise of a massive payday.
But, I'm always very careful to outline the potential risks of my approach to the business when they come me. Once I explain everything, I have them sign a waiver to acknowledge they understand and accept any risks and responsibilities before we begin doing business together. I don't want anybody feeling like they've been duped, or taken advantage of in any way, shape, or form.
With everybody gathered around, I take them all in. I clap my hands and smile.
“People,” I say. “I want to thank you all for being so diligent and so damn good at what you do. You make my life a whole lot easier and more importantly, you make me look damn good, which I appreciate.”
They all laugh and applaud.
“I wanted to be the first to tell you that we cleared twenty-two million,” I say. “Last week.”
There's a gasp among the crowd and everybody looks around at each other, eyes wide, mouths hanging open in disbelief. I'd projected a decent week, but it had exceeded my wildest ambitions or expectations. As successful as the firm has been, last week was still one for the record books. I'm sure other, bigger firms have bigger weeks on the regular, but I think we're doing damn fine in our own right.
All eyes turn back to me after a few seconds, as if they're expecting me to deliver a punchline. But, there's no punchline to deliver. It's simple fact. I nod, as if to confirm it, and the room erupts into wild applause. They all know the better we do each quarter, the fatter their bonuses will be. I always make sure they have plenty of incentive to hit it out of the park.
It's how I draw the best and the brightest to Bishop. Everybody loves making money, right?
“So, to celebrate a fantastic week, I wanted to treat you all to some breakfast.”
The doors swing open and I groan inwardly when I see an army of waitstaff wheel in carts loaded with food. They're all decked out for the holidays, and wearing Santa Hats. Even the carts of food are decorated with a holiday flair. I sigh, and shake my head, trying to focus on the positive – my employees.
“There is a mimosa station for anyone so inclined,” I say. “But, no getting drunk. No one wants to see a sloppy drunk at 9:00 a.m.”
They all laugh, and some shout their thanks to me.
“Enjoy, everybody!” I yell out, trying to be heard over the buzz of excited conversation. “You earned it.”
I walk to my office – the fishbowl, as everybody calls it. Three of the walls are floor to ceiling windows – the door is in one, the second overlooks the floor of the offices, and the last one has a breathtaking view of Central Park.
Bishop Financial sits on the forty-third floor of a large office building. When I'm stressed out, or need to think something through, I like to stand at the window and look at the view outside. It usually calms me down and helps clear my head. Sometimes, I think about how far I've come, and it boggles my mind. From a street kid in the Kitchen to a billionaire on Wall Street – I'm a living, breathing American success story.
If I really stop to think about it, it's almost overwhelming. There are days I seriously feel like pinching myself. I mean, I've worked my ass off to get to where I am, and I've sacrificed a lot on the journey here. However, there's also been a fair amount of luck to it. Pops likes to give me all the credit, but I don't think I deserve it.
I know if it wasn’t for Pops, none of this would have ever happened in the first place. I'd probably be stuck on the street running hustles and doing whatever I could to get by. Probably selling drugs or doing something worse. Who knows? I could even be dead right now. The streets are tough as it is, but the streets in the Kitchen are always tougher.
“Why are you hiding out in here like Ebenezer Scrooge?” comes the voice from behind me. “Surveying your vast kingdom again?”
“Just trying to decide what I'm going to conquer next,” I reply.
I turn and face Rupert, my right-hand man. He came on board shortly after Bishop Financial opened its doors for business, and he helps keep the office running smoothly. He's smart, and I like to bounce ideas off him. He's one of the most brilliant minds I've ever known – and a good man. Also, he doesn't take shit from anybody – not even from me – which, strangely enough, endears him to me.
More than that, he's also the voice of reason I sometimes need when I'm about to fly off the handle – which happens more than I'd care to admit. I value Rupert's input and rarely make a move without getting his advice first.
“You should be out there enjoying that breakfast feast,” he says.
I shrug. “A little too – Christmassy – out there for my liking,” I reply. “Besides, that's for them. They earned it.”
He nods. “Right, I forgot,” he quips. “You really are Scrooge. Bah humbug, am I right?”
“Something like that.”
He grins, shakes his head. “You really should let a little of that Christmas spirit into your heart,” he chides. “Worked out pretty well for Scrooge, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“He was also visited by three ghosts,” I reply. “If I'm ever visited by Christmas spirits, I'll change my mind. Until then, I prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“Man, you really are a downer around the holidays,” he jeers and chuckles.
“It’s never brought me anything good,” I reply.
“Fair enough,” he concedes, and then a moment later, whistles low. “Twenty-two million,” he says. “Damn, that's an impressive number.”
“Unbelievable,” I marvel.
I walk to the sideboard on the one wall that isn't made of windows. Half of it is devoted to a bookcase, the other half, my bar. I pour us both a drink and pull a couple of cigars out of the humidor, handing him one of each. Rupert looks at the glasses.
“Bourbon before ten?” he asks.
“It's happy hour somewhere,” I joke.
I take a swallow of my drink and let out a long breath, reveling in the feeling of satisfaction washing over me – and yet, I’m somehow hungry for more.
“I got a call that you hadn't accepted your invite yet,” he says. “You know you're going to have to make an appearance at the Sheldonhurst Holiday Gala.”
“Nah, I don't,” I say. “I'm not big on galas. Especially holiday galas.”
“You're receiving an award,” he laughs. “It's kind of traditional for you to be there to accept it.”
“And when have you ever known me to be big on tradition?”
“This is true,” Rupert says. “Although, you do deserve it. And it would look good for you to be there.”
“I wrote a check,” I say. “I don't deserve anything.”
“That's true too,” he replies and laughs. “It makes them feel better though. I think you need to be there. After all, you're the face of Bishop Financial.”
“You go in my place.”
“I'm not pretty enough,” he says.
“That's true.”
There's a long moment of silence between us, and even though I'm not looking at him, I can feel Rupert's eyes cutting into me. He doesn't have to say a single word. The man just has an air about him – like he has his own gravitational pull or something.
The man is also tenacious as hell, and very, very persistent. Usually those are things I love about the guy. But now that he's turned that one-track mind on me, I'm feeling like less of a fan.
“You're not going to let this go, are you?” I ask.
He takes a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving mine, and not saying a single word. The meaning of his silence is crystal clear. I roll my eyes and sigh loudly.
“Fine,” I concede. “Have Cindy tell them I'll come.”
“Good call,” he says, smirking at me.
“Like I had a choice.”
“I like to let you think you do,” he says.
I sigh and light my cigar, shaking my head. He's smirk
ing because he knew he was going to win that fight. The bastard. He always does. Which makes him an even bigger bastard. I know I'm going to have to go to this thing even though I don't want to. It's part of the price I pay for being a public figure. Taking a deep draw from my cigar, I exhale a thick plume of smoke.
“You know they're going to be all over your ass about smoking that in here,” he states, though he's eyeing his own cigar.
I shrug. “Fuck them,” I respond. “For what I pay to rent this floor, they can throw in a little air freshener.”
I turn on the overhead fan though, just to be somewhat considerate. It's the least I can do, right?
“The calls on the Decker and Blumenthal stocks were brilliant,” he says.
“Lucky,” I reply. “Had a gut feel and decided to go for it.”
“Your instincts are making a hell of a lot of money,” he says.
“I'm on a hot streak,” I say. “I'm not stupid enough to think it's going to last forever though.”
“This is true,” he replies. “Which is why –”
There's a soft knock on the door and I turn to see a youngish, dark-haired kid with a thick beard – a beard I notice is sparkling with silver and gold glitter – and black-rimmed glasses, standing on the other side of the glass. He's thin and awkward looking, his suit looks like something he got off the rack – of a thrift store. I guess he's doing that whole hipster-hobo chic thing.
“Do you know who that is? I ask.
Rupert chuckles. “Yeah, that's Peter,” he says. “Our new analyst.”
“How new?”
“About two weeks,” Rupert shrugs.
I look at the kid on the other side of the door. He stands there, looking through the glass, an expectant, yet hesitant look on his face. He swallows hard and pushes his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose.
“What does he want?” I ask.
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