I also sensed a very raw, very real mutual attraction brewing—and that’s why I called it like it was and referred to her as a snack.
It was for the best.
I didn’t come here tonight to get laid. I’ve got bigger, more important things on my mind.
I watch the pretty little brunette with the black sweater grab her bag from her booth and storm out of the bar, her blonde friend in tow, and I toss back the rest of my Hennessy in one swallow.
Slapping some cash on the table, I take off and head back home, this time opting to walk.
Fresh air.
Deep thoughts.
A strong drink coursing through my veins.
If I’m lucky, these things plus a good night’s sleep will work together, helping me come to terms with what I’ve got to do in the morning.
Making my way through a crosswalk, I pass one of those sickeningly sweet couples walking hand-in-hand with that new-in-love look in their shiny eyes.
That kind of thing has never appealed to me, and if I’m being honest, a long-term relationship baked in exclusivity seems like a prison sentence. Who the hell wants someone they have to report to? Someone who has to know where they are at all times? Someone who expects them to be there when they call? Someone who has access to every aspect of their life?
It’s Bridgeforth Academy all over again, only the relationship version.
Pass.
I slide my hands in my pockets, keep my head down, and mind my own business the rest of the walk home. Along the way, I pass a group of teenage tourists in matching red t-shirts emblazoned with their school logo, a middle-aged couple bickering about which Broadway show is least likely to be sold out, and a long-haired kid blazing past on a skateboard, a flannel shirt tied around his waist as he simultaneously composes a text message.
That’s the thing about New York.
You’re only ever as alone as you want to be.
When I finally reach my building, I climb the stairs to the third floor and lose myself in the quiet and solitude of my self-imposed sanctuary.
It’s dark now, and my apartment is bathed in blackness. I kick off my shoes and head back to my room to peel off my clothes and climb into an unmade bed.
It’s early still, not quite eight o’clock, so I grab the remote off my nightstand and tune the TV to ESPN.
The female broadcaster on the left side of the screen is new and when the camera pans to her, I catch a glimpse of her caramel-brown eyes—just like that girl at the bar tonight.
My new PA.
I roll my eyes at the thought of sending someone to do my menial errands like I’m some kind of important. How fucking full of yourself do you have to be that you can’t be bothered to get your own coffee?
I’ll have to tell my father “thanks but no thanks” on the girl. Aside from the fact that we didn’t exactly hit it off and she’s probably going to want to slap me across the face next time she sees me, I can’t focus on learning the ins and outs of WellesTech with some sex-on-legs PA coming in and out of my office, rubbing her scent everywhere.
The world is full of enough distractions as it is.
Wanting to fuck my assistant when I’m trying to learn how to run a billion-dollar conglomerate should be the least of my concerns.
A men’s hair loss commercial fills the screen, and I reach for my phone, pulling up a news site and taking a look at the day’s shitfest headlines.
ADULTERY NO LONGER A CRIME IN INDIA
TOP REPUBLICAN WANTS JONES CLAIM PROBED
NIKE TO PART WAYS WITH BEAU CARTER
THE NEWEST CASE AGAINST ROY SAMUELSON
I tap the fourth article.
This jackass is always in the news for some reason or another. Last month it was for sending expired malaria vaccines to Uganda, which his top-notch lawyer was able to explain away. Two months ago he was in hot water for setting up offshore business accounts in his sixteen-year-old son’s name in order to avoid paying taxes—yet another situation his lawyer was able to weasel him out of.
The son of a bitch is slippery.
It’s a miracle he hasn’t seen the inside of a jail cell—yet.
All the more reason I need to ensure Samuelson doesn’t lay a finger on WellesTech. I can’t have him tarnishing the Welles name or my mother’s legacy. After all, it was her family’s money that built this empire.
After she passed, all the money she’d inherited from her parents—millions of dollars she’d had locked up in trusts and investments—was liquefied and given to my father, who then used it to grow the company, turning it into what it is today.
That wouldn’t have happened had Samuelson not killed my mother with his bogus medical equipment.