I’m about to press her for more information when I hear my name. I glance up to see Sam Wolfe Jr. standing in the doorway of the conference room.
“Come on in, Matt.” Shit. If Carla looks worried, Sam looks about thirty seconds away from an apoplexy.
“Sure thing,” I say, forcing an easy grin as I amble into the small conference room where the other Sam is sitting at the end of the table.
Samuel and Samantha Wolfe, known as The Sams, are Wall Street’s ultimate power couple. Sam inherited Wolfe Investments from his father around the same time that he married Samantha, a Wall Street powerhouse in her own right.
Neither smiles as I come in and greet them.
“Have a seat,” Samantha says, gesturing at one of the available chairs.
I do as instructed, noting the newspaper on the table in front of her as I sit. I can see that it’s the Wall Street Journal but not much else. I certainly can’t figure out what the Financial District’s favorite newspaper has to do with me personally.
Samantha takes charge, getting right down to business. “I assume you’ve read this.” She sets a manicured hand on the paper.
“Ah, no. Not yet.”
Sam’s eyebrows go up, landing somewhere between disapproving and surprised. The WSJ’s required reading around here. I read it every morning, but, well, as established, today’s not exactly my best morning. I haven’t gotten to it yet.
Samantha lets out a long sigh as she opens the paper, turns to the second page, and refolds it before sliding it across the table.
Still baffled, I reach out and pull the paper toward me, my eyes going straight to the photo. My stomach drops as I recognize the man in the picture.
Me.
And not just me. Me and a scantily clad woman draped across my lap, my hands on her bare waist.
Ah hell. The memories are hazy, to say the least. The picture is from Saturday night. Or was it Friday? The photo’s in black and white, but I remember the woman was blonde, the bra was red. Or was it pink? It was late by the time we got to that particular strip club; I remember that much for sure.
I drag my eyes away from the photo to the headline: HAVE THE WOLFES OF WALL STREET GONE TOO FAR?
My stomach churns. I’m used to the Wolfes of Wall Street moniker—it’s all any of us at Wolfe Investments heard after the Leonardo DiCaprio movie came out. But seeing it in print alongside my face in the Wall Street Journal of all places . . . this isn’t good.
“You must have heard about it,” Sam says, his voice a low, disapproving rumble.
“No.” I resist the urge to run a hand over my neck to see if I’m sweating. “I was on a red-eye.” And lost my phone somewhere in the weekend’s debauchery.
Sam grunts, then exchanges a long look with his wife. In my hungover state, I’m not at the top of my game, but I still know that look doesn’t mean good things.
Samantha’s the one to give it to me straight. “You can read the full article later, but I’ll give you the highlights: You stumbled into the same club as a WSJ reporter who was covering a story in Vegas. He was sober. You were not. You were seen tucking hundreds into G-strings, dropping thousands on a single round of expensive whiskey, and that wasn’t even your last stop of the evening. He followed you to three other clubs, where members of your party unabashedly partook in illegal substances.”
My head snaps up. “I don’t touch drugs. Booze, sure, but that’s it.”
“Booze and women,” Sam says with a pointed look at the paper.
“Lap dances aren’t illegal. Neither’s vodka or whiskey.”
Still, I get their point. I’m hardly a saint, but the weekend in Vegas had gotten crazy, even by my standards. My cousin’s a big-shot club owner in Miami, and his group of friends had not only taken partying to a whole other level but also been cocky about it. Cocky and stupid, and now, apparently, I’m to pay the price for that stupidity just by association.
“No, you weren’t technically caught doing anything illegal,” Samantha grants. “And we’re not here to act as your parents. You’re one of our best, Matt, you know that. But this is bad. We’ve already received a half dozen calls from concerned clients, wondering just what the hell we’re doing with their money.”
“I spend my money,” I say, stabbing a finger against the newsprint. “And I’ve earned every penny.”
“We know that,” Samantha says. “But you know as well as we do that perception often counts more than fact. Nobody’s going to believe you didn’t touch the cocaine. Nobody’s going to believe the hundreds you threw at these women stopped at a harmless lap dance. Drugs, prostitution, reckless spending . . . those aren’t accusations we can weather easily. Especially not after the insider-trading allegations against Ian last year. We’re still doing damage control from that.”
“He was found innocent,” I snap, ever defensive of my friend who may be a bit of a daredevil, but who plays strictly by the book when it comes to his work.
“Yes. Officially,” Sam says. “But as we said, there’s the perception issue. And this . . .” He gestures at the paper and breaks off.
Samantha folds her hands on the table and meets my eyes. “Public relations and legal have strongly suggested that we let you go to ward off the worst of the reputation hit.”
For a second, I think I’ve heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”
“We don’t see the need to take it that far,” Samantha says, pausing to let an unspoken yet linger in the silence. “We understand this was a bit of bad luck on your part, being in the same club as a reporter. But Matt, we do have to do some damage control here. You’ve already had two clients request to be moved to another broker.”
Shit. Seriously? I’m torn between incredulity and anger—first, at the fact that it’s happening at all, and second, that it’s turning into a big fucking deal. I manage to nod, even as my racing brain is in denial. “What kind of damage control?”
Samantha looks at her husband, who takes over. “We’re thinking an image overhaul.”
“A what?”
“You know . . .” He waves his hand. “Cutting back on the booze. Limiting the late nights. Skipping the caviar at dinner. Keeping your bar bill under four figures. And for the love of God, avoiding the strip club and your cocaine-loving friends.”
“Sure, of course,” I hear myself say, even when I feel a bit like puking. I don’t know if it’s from the bucket of booze I had just a few hours earlier or the situation at hand. Likely a combination of both.
“There’s another thing,” Samantha says. “All of this will help, but nothing signals a reformed man like a plus-one. I mean, look at Ian and Lara. He was even more wild than you, and now he’s—”
“Domesticated, I know,” I snap. “But he didn’t plan for that; it just happened. I don’t have a Lara McKenzie waiting in the wings. I’m single and happy to be.”
“Well, get un-single,” Samantha says, standing as though that’s the end of the conversation. “Preferably in time for the Wolfe Annual Gala next month.”
“Wait, what? What do you mean?”
Sam stands and moves so he’s beside his wife with a grin. “She means that nothing cleans up a man’s reputation like the right woman by his side.”
“But—”
Samantha pins me with a look. “I’ll spell it out for you, Matt. Get a girlfriend.”
“Or?” I ask, sensing an ultimatum at play.
She gives a thin smile. “Or get a new job.”
2
SABRINA
Monday Morning, September 18
Weather-wise, it’s the perfect morning.
Just warm enough to enjoy a cappuccino on my favorite restaurant’s patio, just crisp enough to warrant the new cashmere sweater I bought to usher in the fall weather.
A little less perfect? The expression on Lorna Midler’s face right now as she flips through a dozen photos of her in twelve different sexual positions with her personal trainer.
She looks devastated, and even though I’ve been at this career for years and am a die-hard cynic, it’s difficult not to feel somewhat sorry for her.
To give her a bit of privacy, I lift my mug and study the little heart the barista made in the foam, smiling because the gesture, while sweet, proves he or she doesn’t know me at all.