Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance Read Free

made a pot roast –”
    “But Bosworth is unloading worthless shares – one after another, it's not just J&M and Farrow –”
    “Enough, Cunningham,” Mr. Hernandez barked. He slid the paper back across his desk and started picking at the lint under his yellowish fingernails. “Who is this woman, anyway?”
    “She was my Literature teacher back in high school,” I explained, breathing deeply. As much of a sexist jerk as he was, the man was still my boss. “From what I've heard, she lives alone, and she's got Alzheimer's. Look, I get it, we're in the business of making money, but this is taking it too far –”
    “It's always going to be someone's mother, neighbor, friend, hairdresser's sister, you get it.” Mr. Hernandez propped his elbows against his armrest and steepled his fingers. “At Slater Oakridge, we learn to detach ourselves from the situation and do whatever it takes to keep the company's best interests at heart. Now, see, this is why I've always said women shouldn't be dabbling in the market – other than those butch lesbians, I suppose –”
    “'You take care of Slater Oarkridge, and Slater Oakridge takes care of you,'” I recited the company motto pointedly under my breath, shooting daggers at him.
    “Exactly. That's the spirit.” His crusty white lips twisted in a thin smile. “Curious, isn't it? This is the first time you've ever brought anything of the sort to my attention, and coming from the firm's top-paid female employee, too.”
    “I don't see how that –”
    “Bosworth's got that Slater Oakridge drive – the man is stepping up his game. Instead of letting that jealousy fester, take a page from his book and keep at it, sweetheart. You'll get there someday.”
    “But what about –”
    “Now, why don't you run along and go buy yourself something shiny to get your mind off all of this. We don't want stress wrinkles to ruin that pretty face of yours, do we?” Mr. Hernandez rose to his feet, pushing a cigar into the side of his mouth. “I'll see you tomorrow, Cunningham.”
    I would have liked to take that cigar and ram it up his nose, but as a civilized member of society and a slave to the machine, I held my tongue.
    “Right.”
    With a hanging head, I took the call sheet and left the office. A knot of guilt settled in the pit of my stomach. If you extracted all the bigoted remarks from what Mr. Hernandez said, there was some truth there.
    Despite my 4 years on Wall Street, I liked to think that my conscience hadn't yet reached its full decay. I usually went out of my way to avoid sinking to Bosworth's level, but when I needed to fill a quota, I did what I had to. Though I could keep telling myself that I only sought out those who could afford it, there was no way I could put myself of any kind of pedestal. I had started out as an order entry clerk, and to scale the ranks to get where I was today, I've done some things I would prefer to be left out of my tombstone.
    When I returned to my cubicle, I slipped the copy of Bosworth's call sheet back into my files and swung my purse over my shoulder.
     
    XXX
     
    I pulled up in my usual spot by the curb of Ike's Hoagies. I was parked right across a vibrant mural, which seemed to be the only source of life amidst the rows of shabby buildings and flickering lampposts. The gorgeous life-sized painting depicted a young girl with flowing black locks and a white nightgown, soaring over the twinkling skies of New York City. Ever since the 17-year-old artist was shot dead in a drug deal gone wrong 7 years ago, people in the neighborhood have been working together to preserve the artwork.
    I reached for my duffel bag and purse in the passenger seat and got out of my car. Mr. and Mrs. Rashid, the adorable couple that owned Ike's Hoagies, waved at me cheerfully from inside the sandwich shop. Beaming, I locked my car and returned the wave. It was my first genuine smile of the day.
    I made a left on 86 th Street and decided to take a shortcut