I did it.
I fucking did it.
All that work paid off.
With a great smile and hearty tone, Mr. Foxtrot says, “All you have to do is one small thing for me.”
I nod eagerly. “Sure, anything, sir.”
He stares at me for a beat, then two. “I thought I could count on you.”
“You can, sir, you can.”
After a few moments of silence, he pulls a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and casually pushes it toward me. “The National Association of Securities Dealers is releasing Surfnet for trading on the NASDAQ stock exchange under the four-letter trading symbol SURF. Tomorrow the opening tick will come out way too high, but by noon, when no one buys it at the inflated price, it will drop. I want you to be on it. To purchase as much as you can without drawing the attention of the SEC, and then dump it the next day when the price rises again due to good press.”
As I watch the reflection of the numbers flashing across the television screens in the mirrored bar, I suddenly realize the depth to which Phillip Foxtrot is fucking me up the ass right now.
I don’t even have to look at the piece of paper he slid my way to know what this is.
To know this isn’t a promotion.
That this is insider trading.
That this is me being named the sacrificial lamb. The stories weren’t lies. Fuck me. This is how Bill made his money. What was said about him wasn’t just hearsay. Nor was the guy in the federal penitentiary right now acting on his own behalf, as he claimed when he was hauled away, right after I was hired.
I’m not naïve.
I’m anything but, yet this has blindsided me.
I’m also not a pussy.
So what the fuck do I do?
Mr. Foxtrot laughs warmly, and the shoulders of his five-thousand-dollar gray pin-striped suit rise and fall with each chuckle. “You look uncertain, Keen. I’m surprised. Tom Workman, the guy who hired you, told me what big balls you have. He told me about how you pitched him stock right in the middle of your job interview.”
I say nothing.
The prick is still chuckling. “He was impressed with you from day one—he told me to watch out for you. That you would be going places.”
Sweat coats my brow, and I try to hide my nervousness. “Yeah, I was worried he wasn’t going to hire me. There were twenty other MBAs interviewing, so I figured I’d better do something drastic—you know, make an impression.”
Mr. Foxtrot steeples his hands together. “So your hesitation, then—is this about a girl, perhaps? Some good pussy that you can’t stay away from got your mind all fucked up?”
“No,” I answer immediately. “Absolutely not.” Just then my phone pings, reminding me I have unread messages. Fuck me right now.
At that, he smirks and motions with his chin to my pocket. “Listen, Keen, why don’t you go into the bathroom and jerk off to whatever conversation you are having on that phone of yours, and then come back with a clear mind, ready to talk.”
This conversation is not happening. “I’m good, sir.”
“You like jerking off, though, I assume, right?”
I am a bit taken aback by the question. “Yeah, I do.”
With that he simply shrugs and stands. “What guy doesn’t, right?”
I nod, fully aware this conversation is taking the wackiest twist.
He nods back, as if relieved with the way I answered him. “Good, that’s real good. Jerking off is key to forgetting about whatever it is that has been distracting you the last couple of days, Keen.”
A moment later my phone fucking pings again.
The look he gives me is that of the devil reincarnated.
I swallow. “I’ll turn it off, sir.”
Two seconds later, he’s sitting on the desk in front of me with his arms crossed, watching as I power down my iPhone.
Then he extends his arm and turns his palm out flat. Like a scolded child, I find myself handing him my phone. Promptly he walks over to the bar and drops it into his ice bucket that has yet to be refilled today, so is filled with water. When he turns back around, he says, “Now do you need to use the bathroom to take care of your cock, or with the distractions out of the way are you ready to talk stock?”
My hands are shaking.
What he wants me to do is illegal.
No one will know.
I’ll be a rich fucking son of a bitch if I say yes.
I’ll be on top of the world.
No! I really will be the Wolf of Wall Street.
I take a weary breath . . . look around . . . and then stand up like the fucking man I am to deliver my answer.
What can possibly happen?
Maggie
Date: January 3
Time: 6:31 a.m. PST
Me: Never? Really?
Date: January 3
Time: 6:33 a.m. PST
Me: Okay, then you win. Here’s the pic you asked for.