by R. S. Lively
Settling is the road to unhappiness down the line, and if that means, I grow old, collect fifty cats, and sit around knitting while watching Jeopardy, then so be it. I'd rather do that than grow old next to some guy I'll eventually come to resent simply because he doesn't check all the boxes – or rather, the most important boxes – I want. That I need in a partner.
“Serious, Darbs,” she says. “You're too young and beautiful to not have a man.”
“A man isn't going to define me, Jade,” I say. “I don't need a man to be happy.”
“True,” she says and laughs. “But, you do need a man to have amazing, earth-shaking, mind-blowing sex.”
I laugh and feel my cheeks flare with heat. “I appreciate the concern, but I'm okay.”
“Woman cannot live by porn and vibrators alone,” Jade says. “Woman needs man otherwise, she may dry up forever.”
I laugh and throw a crumpled up napkin at her. I enjoy sex, don't get me wrong. I'm just normally not as out in the open about it as Jade. She's very outspoken about it and gives me more details than I want about her sex life with Aaron. Secretly, I envy how happy and satisfied she is, but I'm happy that she's found somebody who can meet those needs for her.
To be honest, I've only had that once in my life and I doubt I'm ever going to have that again. That moment – passed. I have a feeling the best I can hope for is good sex. But, I doubt I'm ever going to have that toe-curling kind of sex ever again.
“Well, if it gets to the point where I feel like I've got the Sahara in my panties, I'll give you a call,” I say.
“Come on, Darbs. I've told Neville all about you and he's dying to meet you,” she says.
I sigh and sit back in my seat. Maybe I could just meet him. Go have a drink with the guy. Honestly, I doubt it will go anywhere after that first date, just because nobody has ever been able to catch and hold my attention like – well – him. He, whose name shall not be spoken. But, who knows. Maybe this Neville will surprise me.
If nothing else, when the inevitable happens, and I don't feel that spark, at least it'll get Jade off my back about it.
“I'll think about it,” I say.
She squeals with excitement. “Awesome,” she says. “You're going to love him, Darbs. I guarantee it. He's the perfect guy. He really is and I know he'll be excited –”
“I said I'd think about it,” I say, smiling at her. “I didn't say yes.”
“You usually say no, flat out, so I'm taking this as a big step forward.”
“Yeah well, don't start planning the wedding yet.”
She laughs, and we fall into some easy conversation for a while. We talk about our lives and what's going on in them. Thankfully, it gets her off the topic of my love life – or rather, the lack thereof. The truth is, it gets lonely sometimes. And having a little companionship would be nice. I'm not going to lie, there are times when I'm laying in bed at night, when my toys just don't particularly cut it. Times I long to feel a man inside of me. The warmth of his body cuddled close to mine. Times I long for the whispered conversation between lovers.
But, I made the conscious choice to not have a string of empty one-nighters, and the conscious decision to not jump into a relationship just for the sake of being in a relationship.
“Oh my, God,” Jade gasps. “I totally forgot to show you.”
“Show me what?”
She digs into her bag and pulls out a folded newspaper. Actually, I recognize it as one of those trashy tabloids I see in the check-out lines at the market. Jade loves the gossip rags, and though I'll scan the headlines while I wait to be checked out, I honestly couldn't care less about which celebrities are screwing each other – or who they're screwing over. Celebrity gossip isn't my thing. Jade though, can never get enough of it.
She unfolds the paper and drops it onto the table in front of me. And when I see the man in the picture on the front cover, I feel like I just got punched in the stomach. All the air in my lungs is literally sucked out and I feel like my heart is about to explode in my chest.
“Do you remember this guy?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say. “I remember him.”
As if I could forget. Like ever. Those blue-gray eyes and those “old Hollywood” good looks hadn't faded in the least in the ten years since I last saw Carter Bishop. If anything, he's only gotten more good looking. He looks more like a young Marlon Brando now than he did back then. He's absolutely gorgeous.
I fight back all the emotions that are welling up within me – the most prominent one being anger. A deep, abiding anger. Ten years ago, I'd had the sort of mind-blowing, earth-shaking sex Jade talked about. Ten years ago, I'd let myself grow close to Carter. Get attached to him. Really attached. Maybe it was just a stupid teenage girl crush, or maybe being as young as I was, I didn't really understand love or the complexities of it, but back then, I really did think I was falling for him.
And 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. It was like he never existed anywhere but in my mind.
For months, I battled depression. I cried myself to sleep more times than I can count, always wondering why he'd ghosted me. Why I hadn't been good enough. I had a million questions and no way to get the answers I needed.
Over the intervening ten years, I've moved forward with my life. I've left those childish notions about me being unworthy or somehow 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.
No, they're still there inside of me, but they've been laying dormant. And seeing his picture again, after all these years, has stirred them all up again. 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, it occurs to me that he is the bar I judge all other men by. I just hadn't actively realized it before. 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?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Did you ever hang out with him or anything?”
I hadn't told Jade back then that Carter and I had dated. That we'd grown close. 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.
“Yeah, I never saw that coming,” she says. “I thought he was just some street punk who would've ended up in prison sooner or later.”
I knew better than that. I saw 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 the shark tank that was Hell's Kitchen.
“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 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. 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 offices.
The crowd 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 good crew working for me. Everybody 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.
At Bishop Financial, we work hard, and we play hard. I throw some of the best employee parties around. And, I like to show my appreciation with little spontaneous displays. I believe morale is a key ingredient to a successful business.
“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 leading, top-earning, most successful firms around. Partly because I have a tremendous staff of people working for me, and partly because of my own know how and daring.
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. But, I'm right far more often than not, which keeps my clients happy.
I'm in the business of making money and business is booming, baby.
In a lot of ways, doing 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 interpret it. Much like I did when I was running numbers, there's a lot of intuitiveness and gut feel involved with what I do. I don't like to play it safe. Never have and never will. It's one of those things that terrifies my clients, but also draws them to me – the promise of a massive payday.
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 whole life 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 all around open in perfect O's. I'd projected a decent week, but it had exceeded my wildest ambitions or expectations. As successful as we are as a firm, last week had been one for our record books.
All eyes turn back to me, as if they're expecting me to deliver the 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, people high-fiving each other. They all know the better we do, the fatter their bonuses are each quarter, so I 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 money, right?
“So, to celebrate a fantastic week, I wanted to treat you all to some breakfast.”
The doors swing open and an army of waiters and waitresses wheel in carts loaded with food. Everything you could imagine, and everything, of course, top shelf. It wasn't long before our offices were redolent with the aroma of breakfast foods being served up.
“There is a mimosa station for anybody inclined,” I said. “But, no getting drunk. You get sloppy, I kick your ass!”
They all laughed and shouted their thanks to me.
“Enjoy, everybody,” I call. “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 larger office building. When I'm stressed out, I often 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. From a street kid in the Kitchen, to a billionaire on Wall Street.
If I really stop to think about it, it's overwhelming sometimes. There are days I seriously need to pinch myself. I mean, I've worked hard to get to where I am. I've worked my ass off. But, there's also been a fair amount of luck to it. Pops likes to give me all the credit, but I know I don't deserve it all. I mean, I deserve a good share of it – I still work my ass off – but it would be the height of arrogance to claim it all.
If not for Pops though, none of this would have ever happened for me. If not for Pops, I'd probably still be on the street running hustles and doing what I could to get by. Probably selling drugs or robbing people. The way I could have gone wouldn't have been good. It was Pops who saw a different future for me – even when I couldn't see it for myself.
“Twenty-two million,” the voice sounds behind me. “Damn, that's an impressive number.”
I turn and face Rupert, my right-hand man. He came on board shortly after I opened my doors for business and helps keep the office running 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 actually endears him to me.
But, even more than that, he's also the cool head 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.
“Unbelievable week,” I say.
I walk to the sideboard on the one wall that isn't 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 say.
I take a swallow of my drink and let out a long breath, reveling in the feeling of satisfaction washing over me – and yet, 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 gala.”
“Nah, I don't,” I say. “I'm not big on 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. “But, you 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 says and laughs. “But, it makes them feel better.”
“Fine,” I say. “Have Cindy tell them I'll come.”
“Good call,” he says, smirking at me.
I sigh and light my cigar, shaking my head. He's smirking because he knew he was going to win that fight the whole time. The 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 says, though he's eyeing his own cigar.
&nbs
p; I shrug. “Fuck them,” I reply. “For what I pay to rent this floor, they can throw in a little air freshener.”
I turn on the overhead fans though, just to be somewhat considerate.
“The calls on the Decker and Blumenthal stocks were brilliant,” he said. “Those fuckers went off.”
“Lucky,” I reply. “Had a gut feel and decided to go for it.”
“Your gut feels 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, 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.
“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 intimidated look on his face.
“What does he want?” I ask.
“Maybe you should ask him.”
I wave the kid in and he steps through the door looking as meek as a mouse. He stands before Rupert and me looking like an awkward kid standing in front of his school principal.
“Peter, right?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
“What can I do for you, Peter?” I ask.
He looks down at a file in his hand, looking reluctant to say whatever it is that's on his mind. I take another draw off my cigar and aim my smoke at the ceiling as he struggles to find the words. The longer his silence continues though, the more annoyed I find myself getting.