Bedwrecker(15)

My job is my life.

My life is my job.

It’s all I have.

And I fucking love it.

The investment firm that I work for occupies the top five floors of a sprawling black-glass office building that rises up forty stories just near the corner of Wall Street and Broadway.

Today, like every day, as the car approaches the office building, I find myself welling with pride. The mirrored black glass gleams brilliantly in the morning sunshine, reminding me of just how far I’ve come in the last five years.

Just before I get out of the car, I take my phone in my hand, and before I know what I am doing, I’m texting Maggie. Like it’s become a part of my day. Like the time I spend texting and talking to her isn’t eating up my time in the pit. Jeopardizing my research, my focus on the market, my trades.

Yesterday was excessive. I need to cut back. Besides, her questions are fucking ridiculous. I’m almost certain it’s her way of getting to know me. Still, they are off the wall, and yet, I find myself answering them, and to boot, giving them real thought.

Then there’s the sexting and phone sex. Both of which I can honestly say I have never thought about doing before—before her, that is. Even though I know I need to limit the time I spend on the phone with her today, here I go again.

Me: FaceTime fucking beats phone sex a million to one.

Maggie: Do you know how early it is here?

Me: Did you wake up screaming my name?

Maggie: I’m screaming your name right now, and it’s not because you’re making me come. Good night, Keen.

Me: Keen? That’s all I get after last night?

Maggie: (smiley face with zzzz’s above it)

I laugh and shove my phone in my pocket, ignoring the wood that started to rise minutes ago when I mentioned making her come. The way she screams my name does something to me. Something I can’t think about right now.

I climb out of the back of the car, say my parting farewells to Todd, who as usual nods without speaking, and then stride into the grand entrance meant to dazzle all those who walk through it.

Huge glass doors.

Marble floors.

Modern statues.

Fur rugs and designer furniture.

Walking fast, I board the elevator. The car rises quickly, as it always does, and I mentally prepare for another day of taking on the world.

As I exit the small space, I can already make out the faint echoes of the mighty roar. It is music to my ears, and I head right toward it with a vengeance.

My phone pings with a text, and although I shouldn’t, I pull it from my pocket.

Maggie: Is it true that in the underground parking garages on Wall Street, wolves get laid by a happy hit squad of prostitutes on their mid-afternoon coffee breaks?

Me: I thought you were sleeping.

Maggie: Now that you woke me up, all I can think about is sex.

Me: Hold that thought, will you? I need to fucking concentrate today. Later.

Walking through the maze of custom-made desks and sleek black telephones, I enter the pit, and immediately my adrenaline starts to surge through my veins.

The pit is a vast space loaded with desks, telephones, computer monitors, glass walls, and some very obnoxious dudes. All with their jackets off, leaning back in their chairs, reading their Wall Street Journals, and talking shit.

A dozen more steps and I will be where I make the magic happen.

Two steps away, and the big bossman claps a hand on my shoulder. “We need to talk, son,” he says.

All of a sudden, my gut twists. Mr. Foxtrot has said like five fucking words to me in just as many years.

“Certainly, sir,” I tell him as calmly as I can and ignore the feel of my phone buzzing once again in my pocket. This time I can’t possibly respond to her, yet I find myself wondering if he will notice. When he doesn’t stop at my desk, I decide against checking the phone, and instead follow him as he strides quickly toward what I assume our destination to be—his office.

“Jesus Christ, Ray!” Bill screams when we pass by his cubicle. “Pick up your skirt, grab your balls, and make a goddamn decision.”

I give him a quick glance and smirk as I watch the numbers and letters flash across his screen, bringing the previous day’s stock quotes right in front of his face.

“It’s going to soar as soon as it opens, Ray—you better make a decision real quick.”

Bill is in his forties. A real hard-ass seller with a raging coke addiction. He sweats profusely, never shuts the fuck up, and somehow managed to make $5.2 million last year. Yet, he’s still out here, and not in a corner office, or even an interior office.

The way things are going for me, I’ll have a corner office in another year, and Bill’s salary within two.

I’m on my way up.

Way up.

Right to the top.

The bossman walks faster and sets his attention on each of the desks we pass. Every broker is diving in, getting ready to work—the roar growing louder as the minutes tick past nine and toward nine thirty.