Tangled Read Free Page B

next porno. There is nothing—and I mean nothing —better.
    I do the prospecting for my clients, recommend what moves they should make. I know which companies are dying to be bought and which ones need a hostile takeover. I’m the one with the inside information about which media mogul is ready to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge because he spent too much of the company’s profits on high-priced hookers.
    Competition for clients is fierce. You have to entice them, make them want you, make them believe no one else can do for them what you can. It’s kind of like getting laid. But instead of getting a piece of ass at the end of the day, I get a big, fat check. I make money for myself and my clients—lots of it.
    The sons of my father’s partners also work here, Matthew Fisher and Steven Reinhart. Yes, that Steven—The Bitch’s husband. Like our fathers, the three of us grew up together, went to school together, and now work at the firm together. The old men leave the real work to us. They check in from time to time, to feel like they’re still running things, and then head on out to the country club to get in an afternoon game of golf.
    Matthew and Steven are good at the job too—don’t get me wrong. But I’m the star. I’m the shark. I’m the one clients ask for and drowning companies fear. They know it and so do I.
    Monday morning I’m in my office at nine a.m., same as always. My secretary—the smoking little blond with the nice rack—is already there, ready with my schedule for the day, my messages from the weekend, and the best damn cup of coffee in the tri-state area.
    No, I haven’t fucked her.
    Not that I wouldn’t love to. Trust me, if she didn’t work for me, I’d hit that harder than Mohammed Ali.
    But I have rules—standards, you might say. One of them is no screwing around at the office. I don’t shit where I eat, I don’t fuck where I work. Never mind the sexual harassment issues it would bring up; it’s just not good business. It’s unprofessional.
    So, because Erin is the only woman besides my blood relatives that I have platonic interactions with, she is also the only member of the opposite sex I’ve ever considered a friend. We have a great working relationship. Erin is simply…awesome.
    That’s another reason I wouldn’t screw her even if she were spread-eagle on the desk begging for it. Believe it or not, a good secretary—a really good one—is hard to find. I’ve had girls work for me who were dumber than a whole bucket of dirt. I’ve had others who thought they could make it by just working on their backs, if you know what I mean. Those are the girls I want to meet in a bar on a Saturday night—not the kind I want answering my phones Monday morning.
    So now that you have a little insight? Let’s go back to my descent into hell.
    “I moved your one o’clock lunch with Mecha back to a four o’clock meeting,” Erin tells me as she hands me a stack of messages.
    Shit.
    Mecha Communications is a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate. I’ve been working on their acquisition of a Spanish-speaking cable network for months, and the CEO, Radolpho Scucini, is always more receptive on a full stomach.
    “Why?”
    She hands me a folder. “Today—lunch in the conference room. Your father’s introducing the new associate. You know how he is about these things.”
    You ever see A Christmas Carol ? Of course you have—some version of it’s on some channel, somewhere, every day before Christmas. Well, you know when the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back in time to when he was young and happy? And he had that boss, Fezziwig, the fat guy who threw the big parties? Yeah, that guy. That’s my father.
    My dad loves this company and sees all his employees as extended family. He looks for any excuse to throw an office party. Birthday parties, baby showers, Thanksgiving luncheons, President’s Day buffets, Columbus Day dinners…need I go on?
    It’s a miracle any actual work