Breeding My Boss’s Wife(3)

After the presentation, my dad introduced himself and made small talk with Jake for a while. He finally ended up mentioning that I was about to graduate with honors with an MBA from Wharton School of Business in Pennsylvania.

“Oh, a Wharton man?” Jake had asked.

“Yeah, his mom and I are pretty proud of him,” my dad answered.

Jake fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to my dad.

“Tell your son to send me a resume. I have some openings I’m looking to fill, and having another Wharton man would be nice.”

“Oh, you have another Wharton grad with your company?” my dad asked.

“Yeah, I do.” Jake held up his class ring from the University of Pennsylvania. “Me!”

So just a couple of days later, I emailed Jake a resume and almost immediately got a call from an assistant in his company scheduling me for an interview just days after I was supposed to arrive back home after graduation.

I arrived at the interview and was ushered in to meet Jake.

“Chris Jenkins, Sir.” I held out my hand in introduction. He took it and shook it firmly.

“Just call me Jake.” His face sported a pleasant smile. “Nobody around here ever calls me sir.”

My dad told me that Jake was an aggressive businessman. Although he allowed himself some extravagances every now and then, he didn’t flash much of his considerable wealth, living in a nice, but not ostentatious neighborhood in Dallas. My dad quipped that since Jake was Jewish, he probably still had 95 cents out of every dollar he had ever made.

His office was Spartan. An elegant, but understated wooden desk was nearly bare, capped only by a desk calendar, a phone, a computer and two pictures. The biggest photo was of a gorgeous, young blonde woman. I could scarcely keep my eyes off of the picture as we talked. I guessed it was his daughter, as she appeared to be just a little older than I was at 23 years of age.

Jake noticed me continually sneaking glances at the picture. He turned it to where I could see it.

“That’s Gabriella,” he said proudly. “My wife.”

I gulped nervously, hoping I hadn’t been too obvious staring at the picture. She was gorgeous. Blonde and with model good looks, she smiled at the camera showing a dazzling white set of perfect teeth. Her body was, simply put, stunning.

I looked back at Jake. He was well into his fifties. She was pretty clearly not out of her twenties.

“My friends at the Safari Club call her my trophy wife,” he said with a grin. I could see why.

He put the picture back on his desk and picked up the other photo. He turned it toward me. It was a picture of a man’s forearm. The arm was tattoed with a number that looked like it contained seven or eight digits.

I looked back at Jake quizzically. I had no idea what I was looking at.

“You don’t know what that is, do you?” he asked.

“No sir… I mean…Jake. I have no idea.”

“That’s a picture of my father’s arm,” he explained. “That number was tattooed on him when the Germans put him in Auschwitz when he was fifteen. He was nearly dead a year later when the Russians liberated the camp. He was part of the crew that removed the bodies from the showers, pulled out the gold teeth, cut off the hair and anything else useful, and cremated the bodies.”

I could only look at Jake in dumbfounded silence.

“I keep that on my desk so that, as a Jew, I’ll never forget,” Jake said, a chill in his voice.

I continued to stare back mutely.

“It also reminds me that I don’t like to take shit,” he continued. His voice carried a slight menacing tone.

“Yes, sir,” I barely managed to stammer out. I decided that this wasn’t the time to call him “Jake.”

Jake continued the rest of what was pretty much a slam-dunk interview, and then stood, shook my hand, and told me he would let me know something soon. “Soon” turned out to be an understatement. The next morning, a Fedex arrived at my dad’s house with a job offer. I excitedly opened the envelope and saw that I was being offered a job with his company as a marketing representative.

My eyes bugged out when I saw the salary he was offering me. I mutely handed it to my dad.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed as he saw the six-figure number.

“Is that in pesos?” my dad quipped. “Congratulations, son!”

That’s how I ended up working for Jake, making a ton of money from the very beginning. But it was only the beginning of my whole story.





Chapter Three





I settled into my new job quickly. I easily got licensed to sell insurance in Texas, and took to the job like a duck to water. Using leads from Jake’s Safari Club contacts, I closed a number of big deals quickly, and made a good reputation for myself very fast.