Chapter 2
A lot of people live for their job. Not because they’re forced to financially, but because what they do for a living is who they are—their profession gives them confidence, purpose, maybe even an adrenaline rush. It’s not always a bad thing. The office is a businessman’s playground, a courtroom to a lawyer feels like home. And if I ever need a surgeon? Only a full-blown workaholic is getting near me.
That being said, I’m an investment banker at one of the most respected and prestigious firms in the city. I’m good at my job, the paycheck is nice, I serve my clients well—keep them happy and keep new ones coming in. But I wouldn’t say I love it. It’s not a passion. When I die, I’m not going to go out wishing I had spent more time at the office.
I’m similar to my father in that respect. He’s committed to the firm he, John, and George founded, but he doesn’t let the obligations interfere with his golf game. And he’s an old-fashioned family man—he always was. Growing up, dinner was served at six o’clock sharp. Every night. If my ass wasn’t in that dining room chair, I’d better have been in the Emergency Room, or there was hell to pay. Dinnertime discussion focused heavily on “What did you do today?” and “Nothing” was never an acceptable response. Being an only child, there weren’t any siblings to distract my parents from keeping tabs on me. My old man was well aware of the potential pitfalls of growing up privileged in New York City, so he made damn sure I stayed out of trouble.
Well . . . most of the time? anyway.
Every kid deserves to get into a little trouble. It helps them learn to be resourceful, think on their feet. And if a teenager isn’t allowed to have some kind of life? they’ll go totally ape-shit when they get to college. Which could end badly.
My father’s three basic rules were: Keep your grades up, keep your criminal record clean, and keep your pants zipped.
Two out of three ain’t bad, right?
Even though my dad knows the importance of family and separating business from pleasure, that doesn’t mean I get a free pass at the firm because I’m his son. Actually, I think he rides my ass a lot harder than the other employees’, just to avoid any claims of favoritism. Impropriety at the office is something he would never tolerate. He’d come down on it like Gallagher’s sledgehammer on a watermelon.
Which is another reason my dad and his partners were able to build such a successful business—because each of them brings their own unique talents to the team. John Evans, Drew and Alexandra’s father, is like Face from the A-Team. He’s the charmer, the convincer—he makes sure the clients are happy and the employees are not only content, but enthusiastic. Then there’s George Reinhart—Steven’s dad. George is the brains of the operation. My dad and John aren’t exactly lacking in that department, but George is like Stephen Hawking without the ALS. He’s the only guy I know who actually enjoys the technical, number-punching aspect of investment banking.
Then there’s my father, Frank—he’s the muscle. The intimidator. He’s a man of few words, which means when he speaks, your ears better f*cking be listening, because he’s saying something worth hearing. And he has no problem firing people. My dad makes Donald Trump look like a p-ssy. Doesn’t matter if you’re the sole family breadwinner or a pregnant woman in her last trimester—if you’re not getting the job done, you’re out on your ass. Tears don’t move him, and second chances are rare. Ever since I was a kid, he’d say, “Matthew, family is family, friends are friends, and business is business. Don’t confuse them.”
Even though he’s a hard-ass, he’s always fair. Honest. Keep your i’s dotted and your t’s crossed and there won’t be a problem. I always make sure my i’s are dotted and my t’s are crossed. Not just because I prefer to keep my job, but because . . . I’d never want to disappoint my old man. Sadly, that attitude’s become scarce. So many little a*sholes running around today give no thought to making their parents proud—but it’s what Drew, Alexandra, Steven, and I were raised on.
Anyway, back to the real story.
After lunch with the guys, I spend the rest of the afternoon at my desk, drafting a contract and making nice with clients on the telephone. Around six o’clock, I’m packing up when Steven comes breezing through my door.
“Guess who spent their lunch break surrounded by rabid gamers in line for the latest fix?”
I slip a folder into my briefcase for some non-enjoyable reading before bed. If you don’t want to live life chained to a desk? Time management is crucial.
I answer, “That would be you?”
He smiles and nods. “Damn straight, brother. And look what I scored.”
He holds up a square cellophane-wrapped package.
Back in my father’s day, guys would occasionally get together for a fishing trip or drinks at the local pub to unwind after a long day’s work. But what Steven holds in his hands is more addictive than alcohol and a hell of a lot more fun that baiting a hook.
It’s the latest edition of Call of Duty.
“Sweet.” I take the disk from his hand and flip it over, checking out the updated real-to-life graphics.
“You up for a mission tonight? Around nine?”
In case you don’t already know—Steven is married. And he’s not just married—he’s married to Alexandra-formerly-Evans, also known as The Bitch. But you didn’t hear that last part from me.
If a regular wife is a ball at the end of a chain? Alexandra’s a Sherman tank. She keeps Steven on a short leash—doesn’t let him come out to the bars on Saturday night, only allows him one poker game a month. Even though Steven’s not the straying kind, Alexandra thinks hanging out with us carefree, single friends would be a bad influence on her husband. And . . . she’s probably right.
But, like any good warden knows, you can only restrict the inmates so much. You can lock them in a cage ten hours a day, ban yard time—but try and take away their cigarettes? You’ve got a major revolt on your hands.
Xbox is Steven’s one permissible vice. As long as his playtime doesn’t disturb their daughter, Mackenzie, after she’s down for the night. One time, Steven got a little too loud during an ambush and woke Mackenzie up. He was on lockdown for a week. Lesson learned.
“Yeah, dude, count me in.”
I hand him the game back and he says, “Cool. See you at twenty-one hundred.” Then he salutes me and heads out the door.
I pick up my briefcase and gym bag and walk out a few minutes later. On the way to the elevator, I swing by Drew’s office.
He’s bent over his paper-covered desk, making notes with a red pen on a document.
“Hey.”
He glances up, “Hey.”
“Xbox tonight, nine o’clock. Steven’s got the new Call of Duty.”
With his attention back on the paper, Drew says, “Can’t. I’m gonna be here until ten, at least.”
The people I mentioned who live for the job? Drew Evans is that kind of people.
But it works for him. He’s not a bedraggled, stressed-out clock puncher—he’s the exact opposite. Drew genuinely enjoys the grind; he gets a rush out of negotiating a deal, even if it’s a hard sell. Because he knows he can close it, that he’s probably the only one who can.
Well . . . at least until a certain dark-haired woman joined our ranks.
I look across the hall to Kate’s office. She’s at her desk, the mirror image of Drew—but way hotter.
Leaning against the chair, I say, “Did you hear Kate’s close to signing the Pharamatab account?”
Still not looking up, he mutters grumpily, “Yeah, I heard.”
I smirk. “You better step it up, man. If she makes that deal, your old man’s gonna be so psyched I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to adopt her. And incest—even between adopted siblings—is illegal in New York.”
Busting balls is what friends do. It’s the equivalent of women giving those half-cheek half-air kisses to each other. A sign of affection.
“But I guess incest wouldn’t be an option anyway, with the way she keeps shooting you down.”
“Blow me.”
I chuckle. “Not tonight, dear. I have a headache.” Then I walk toward the door. “Have a good one.”
“Later.”
After leaving the office I hop on the subway, like I do every day after work, to go to the gym. It’s in Brooklyn, a real bare bones kind of place. Some would call it a dump, but to me it’s a diamond in the rough. The floor is hard and dirty and worn red punching bags line the back wall. There are weights stacked in front of a cracked mirror, a milk crate filled with jump ropes beside the lone rowing machine. There aren’t any spandex-wearing, bored housewives looking to hook up or show off their latest cosmetic enhancement. There are no elliptical machines or high-tech treadmills like the ones that can be found in the workout room of my building. I come here to sweat and strain my muscles to their limit with time-tested calisthenics. And most of all, I come for the boxing ring in the center of the gym.
I was twelve the first time I watched Rocky. It takes place in Philly, but it could’ve been in New York. I’ve been a fan of boxing ever since. I’m not going to quit the day job to train for the heavyweight title or anything, but there’s no better workout than a few rounds in the ring against a decent opponent.
Ronny Butler—the fiftyish, stubbly chinned guy in the gray sweatshirt with the thick gold crucifix around his neck who’s in the ring’s corner, yelling out critiques to the two sparring partners dancing around each other—he’s the owner. Ronny’s no Mickey, but he’s a good man, and an even better trainer.
Through the years, I’ve pieced together bits of information he’s let slip when I’ve been the last one here at closing. In the late eighties, Ronny was a Wall Street big shot, living the dream. Then, on a Friday night, he and his family were driving out to the Hamptons for the weekend. Because he’d gotten jammed up at work, they’d had a late start, and a drowsy truck driver nodded off at the wheel, flew across the median into oncoming traffic—and smacked headfirst into Ronny’s BMW. He made it out of the accident with a concussion and a shattered femur. His wife and daughter didn’t make it out at all.
He spent a few years drowning in a bottle, a few more sobering up. Then he used the settlement money to buy this place. He doesn’t come off as bitter or sad, but I wouldn’t say he’s happy either. I think the gym keeps him going, gives him a reason to get up in the morning.
“Back up, Shawnasee!” Ronny yells at the fighter who’s got his sparring partner pinned against the ropes, pummeling his ribs. “This isn’t Vegas, for f*ck’s sake, let the guy breathe.”
That Shawnasee kid’s an a*shole. You know the type—young, hot-headed, the kind of prick who would get out of his car to beat down some poor schmuck for cutting him off on the freeway. Which is another reason I like boxing—it’s the perfect opportunity to put idiots in their places without being charged with assault. Shawnasee’s been trying to goad me into the ring for a few months now, but it’s no fun fighting someone with piss-poor technique. No matter how hard they hit, they’ve got no shot at winning. I’m waiting until he gets better—then I’ll kick his ass.
I catch Ronny’s eye as he breaks up the fighters and greet him with a nod. Then I head back to the locker room, change out of my suit, and hit the bag for half an hour. Next, I use the rowing machine until my biceps are screaming and my legs feel like Jell-O. I finish off with ten minutes of speed jump roping, which might sound easy, but it’s not. You try jumping rope for half that time and I’ll bet you feel like you’re going into cardiac arrest.
When the ring is empty, I climb in and go three rounds against Joe Wilson, an uptown lawyer I’ve sparred with before. Joe puts up a good fight, but the session clearly goes my way. Afterward, we tap gloves affably, and I go back into the locker room and grab my stuff. I smack Ronny’s back on the way out, jog to the subway, and catch my train home.
I’m not ashamed to say my parents hooked me up with my apartment after college—in those days, this place was slightly above my pay grade. The location is great—walking distance to the office and a killer view of Central Park. Because I’ve lived here since college, it lacks the stylish consistency you’d typically expect in the home of a successful businessman. Take a look around.
Black leather sofas face a big-screen television with a top-of-the-line sound and gaming system sitting on the glass shelves below it. The coffee table is also glass, but it’s chipped around the edges from years of contact with reclining feet and glass bottles. A shadowy painting of a mountaintop by a renowned Japanese artist hangs on one wall, and my prized collection of vintage baseball caps hangs from hooks opposite it. A lighted display case is perched in the corner, showing off the crystal etched EXCELLENCE IN INVESTMENT MANAGEMENT award I received last year . . . and the authentic Boba Fett helmet that was worn during the filming of The Empire Strikes Back. Built in, dark-wood bookshelves are lined with collectible sports memorabilia, books on art, photography, and banking, and about a dozen mismatched frames with photographs of family and friends from the best times in my life. Photographs I took myself.
Photography is a hobby of mine. You’ll hear more about that later.
In the dining room, instead of a totally useless formal set of table and chairs, there’s a pool table and a Space Invaders arcade game. But my kitchen is fully set up—black granite counters, Italian marble floors, stainless steel appliances, and cookware that Emeril would be honored to own. I like to cook, and I do it well.
The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach—but it’s also the most direct route down a girl’s pants. For women, a guy who knows his way around a kitchen is a big selling point. Tell me I’m wrong.
Anyway, my apartment is kick-ass. It’s large, but comfortable, impressive without being intimidating. After hosing down in the glass-enclosed, triple-headed shower, I towel off and spend a minute looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My normally light brown hair is dark from being wet and sticks up at odd angles from the towel. I could use a cut—it gets pretty-boy curly if I let it grow too long. I rub the stubble along my squared jaw, but I don’t feel like shaving. I turn to the side and flex my bicep, proud of the muscle that bulges. I’m not bulky like a meathead, but I’m tight, lean, and powerful, without a centimeter to pinch from my six pack, let alone an inch.
Checking myself out in a mirror might seem douchey to you, but, trust me—all guys do it. We just don’t like to be caught doing it. But when you put as much time into your body as I do, the payoff makes it worth it.
I pull on a pair of silk boxers then heat up a bowl of leftover pasta and chicken. I’m not Italian, but I’d eat this every day of the week if I could. It’s about eight thirty by the time I finish washing the dishes. Yes, I am a man who washes his own dishes.
Be jealous, ladies—I’m a rare breed.
Then I flop back on my awesome, king-size bed and grab the golden ticket from the pocket of my discarded pants.
I finger the letters on the bright green cardstock.
DEE WARREN
CHEMIST
LINTRUM FUELS
And I remember the soft, smooth flesh that swelled from the confines of her tight, pink shirt. My dick twitches—guess he remembers it too.
Normally I’d wait a day or two to call a girl like Delores. Timing is everything. Looking too eager is a rookie mistake—women enjoy being panted after by puppies, not men.
But it’s already Wednesday night, and I’m hoping to meet up with Dee on Friday. The twenty-first century is the age of “Maybe He’s Just Not That Into You” and “Dating for Dummies” and “The Girlfriends’ Guide to Dating,” which means calling a chick for a random hookup isn’t as easy as it used to be. There are all these frigging rules now—I found that out the hard way.
Like if a guy wants to meet up with you the same night that he calls, you’re supposed to say “no,” because that means he doesn’t respect you. And, if he wants to take you out on a Tuesday, that’s a sign he’s got better plans for Saturday night.
Trying to keep up with the changing edicts is tougher than keeping track of the goddamn health care debate in Congress. It’s like a minefield—one wrong step and your cock won’t be getting any action for a long time. But, if getting laid were easy, everyone would be doing it. It . . . and pretty much nothing else.
Which brings me to my next thought: I know feminists always complain about how men have all the power. But when it comes to dating—in America, at least? That’s not really the case. In the bars, on the weekends, it’s ladies’ choice 24/7. They have their pick of the litter because single men will never reject a come-on.
Picture it: The music’s pumping, bodies are grinding, and a non-hideous female approaches a dude having a drink at the bar. She says, “I want to f*ck your brains out.” He replies, “Nah, I’m not really in the mood for sex tonight.” SAID NO MAN EVER.
Chicks never have to worry about getting shot down—as long as they’re not shooting too far above their pay grade. They never have to stress about when they’re going to get lucky. For women, sex is an all-you-can-eat buffet—they just have to choose a dish. God created men with a strong sex drive to ensure the survival of the species. Be fruitful and multiply and all that. For guys like me, who know what the f*ck they’re doing, it’s not exactly difficult. But for my not-as-skilled brethren, getting some can be a daunting task.
A slight buzz of adrenaline rushes through me as I pick up the phone to dial the cell number on the business card. It’s not that I feel nervous, more like . . . cautious anticipation. My hand taps my leg in time to Enter Sandman by Metallica, and my stomach tightens as her phone rings.
I imagine she’ll remember me—I did make quite the impression after all, and I assume she’ll be receptive to a meeting up—maybe even eager. What I don’t expect is for her voice to slam into my eardrum as she yells: “No, jackass, I don’t want to hear the song again! Frigging call Kate if you need an audience!”
I pull the phone a little ways away from my ear. And I check the number to make sure it’s the right one. It is.
Then I say, “Uh . . . hello? Is this Dee?”
There’s a pause as she realizes I’m not jackass.
Then she replies, “Yes, this is Dee. Who’s this?”
“Hey, it’s Matthew Fisher. I work with Kate—we met at the diner this afternoon?”
Another brief pause, and then her voice lightens, “Oh yeah. *-boy, right?”
I chuckle deeply, not entirely sure I like that nickname, but at least I made my mark. Note to self: Use that line again.
“That’s me.”
“Sorry about yelling. My cousin’s been up my ass all day.”
My cock stirs from the ass talk, and I have to stop myself from offering to trade places with this cousin.
“What can I do for you, Matthew Fisher?”
My imagination gets crazy. And detailed. Oh, the things she could do . . .
For a moment I wonder if she’s talking like this on purpose or if I’m just a horny mess.
I play it safe. “I was wondering if you wanted to get together sometime? For a drink?”
Let’s pause right here. Because, despite my earlier complaints about the modern complexities men face when trying to hook up, I feel it’s my duty to educate others, get the word out, about how to decode guy-speak. Think of me as a studlier version of Edward Snowden or Julian Assange. Maybe I should start my own website—I’d call it DickiLeaks. On second thought, that’s a shitty name. Sounds like an STD symptom.
Remember the mental game of “f*ck, kill, marry” I mentioned earlier? If a man asks you to get a drink or hang out, you are squarely in the “f*ck” category. Nope, don’t argue—it’s true. If a guy asks you for a date or dinner, maybe even a movie, you’re probably in the “f*ck” category, but you have potential for upward mobility.
You don’t have to base your response to a dude’s proposition on this information; I just thought you’d want to know.
Now, back to the phone conversation.
I can hear a smile in her voice as she accepts my invite. “I’m always up for a drink.”
Up. More sexual innuendo. Definitely not my imagination. I am so getting laid.
“Cool. You free on Friday?”
Silence meets my ears for a beat, until she suggests, “How about tonight?”
Wow. Guess Delores Warren missed the Chapter requiring two days’ advance notice for all screwing offers.
Lucky me.
And then she elaborates. “I mean, there could be a blackout, a water shortage, aliens could finally decide to invade and enslave the entire human race . . .”
There’s one I haven’t heard before.
“Then we’d be shit out of luck. Why wait for Friday?”
I like the way this girl thinks. As the saying goes, “Don’t put off till tomorrow anyone you could be doing today.” Or . . . close enough.
“Tonight works for me,” I readily agree. “What time?”
Some girls take forever and a day to get ready. It’s f*cking annoying. Going to the gym or the beach? Shouldn’t require prep time, ladies.
“How about an hour?”
Two points for Dee—great tits and low maintenance. I think I’m in love.
“Sounds good,” I tell her. “What’s your address? I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
My building has private parking for tenants. Lots of New Yorkers spend thousands of dollars a month for parking spaces—only to not drive their cars because of city traffic. Auto congestion doesn’t bug me; I always leave myself extra time. Like I said before—time management is key.
And another thing: I don’t have a car. I drive a custom-built Ducati Monster 1100 S. I’m not looking to put on a cut and join an outlaw MC or anything, but riding is another hobby of mine. Few things in life feel as great as cruising down an open highway on a blue-skied, crisp fall day when the leaves are just starting to change. It’s as close to flying as a human being can get.
I take the bike out at every available opportunity. Sometimes a girl will bitch about being cold or messing up her hair—but when all is said and done: Chicks dig motorcycles.
Delores responds, “Um . . . how about I just meet you?”
This is a smart move for a single woman. Just like you wouldn’t give out your social security number online, you don’t give out your address to some guy you barely know. The world is a f*cked-up place, and women especially need to do everything they can to make sure the f*cked up doesn’t find its way to their front door.
But, unfortunately, it also means the hog is staying home tonight. I’m a little sad about that.
“Meeting up sounds good.”
Before I can suggest a place, Dee takes charge. “You know Stitch’s, on West Thirty-seventh?”
I do know it. It’s low-key with good drinks, live music, and a comfortable lounge. Because it’s a Wednesday night, it won’t be packed, but no bar in New York is ever empty.
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”
“Great. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
“Awesome.”
After we hang up, I don’t get dressed right away. I’m not picky about my clothes, like some young semi-asexual professionals, but I’m not a slob either. I can be ready to walk out the door in seven minutes flat. So I grab the folder from my briefcase and use the extra time to finish the work reading I planned to do before bed. Because it looks like I won’t be hitting the sheets any time soon—and when I do, I’m definitely not going to be alone.