There's a deep sigh from Cheryl. "Well, it seems like you're eating too much, Sloane, and the company is suffering," Cheryl says, putting a folder in front of me. "Do you realize that Hard Times has no new products in its investment lineup after our recent investment with Arsen Hawke?"
I freeze. Venture Capital firms need a steady lineup of companies and products to invest in. Without a steady stream of investment, we're just sitting on piles of cash that earn very little interest. And with salaries to pay and overhead, if I don't make money through investments, I'm fucked.
"What do you mean?" I ask in a panic. "I thought we had two or three products lined up?"
Cheryl shakes her head. "They either pulled out or stopped calling because they thought we lost interest, Sloane," she tells me. "I just discovered this after going through next quarter's projections. You need to find some solid products to park your money in. And you need to find them fast."
Cheryl is standing there, looking at me and shaking her head. She's not judging me, but I know she knows that this is how she's going to get me to do something. Because I fucking hate how she's staring at me.
"I'll start looking today," I say through clenched teeth.
"Well, you might as well start with family dinner," Cheryl says, and drops another folder onto my desk. I look up at her. She gestures with her eyes and I take the folder and open it.
"It looks like your stepsister, Natalie, has some major growth happening in her little company, Dirty Lil' Angels," Cheryl tells me. I scan over the info sheet that Cheryl has prepared.
A line of technologically revolutionizing sex toys. Wireless connections to Kindles. AI to anticipate when exactly to stimulate you, mimicking human partners.
"She just got a huge order and could soon be the next breakout product, but she's not going anywhere until she gets funded and can grow," Cheryl says out loud, to me.
I keep reading. This could be my ticket back in.
Natalie's mother married my stepdad several years ago. The marriage never lasted. This is after that asshole Drake, my stepdad, completely forgot about my own mom after she died. Completely forgot about me too. Ran into the arms of Natalie's mom, Linda.
I remember the first day I met Natalie and Linda. I was fucking pissed. But that anger turned to lust the moment I saw my stepsister, Natalie.
I mean, it was the first time I was meeting them and they were already part of our family. Drake never even sat me down and told me what was going on. Just that he had gotten married again. I still remember that day that he told me. I carried that memory of abandonment with me all throughout life. I used it to leave th
e house when I was 18 years old. To get my own scholarship to Yale. To graduate and find my own financing to start my own company. I never took a single penny from Drake Carlton. I even got rid of the Carlton name and went back to my mother's last name as soon as I could: Hardman.
So when Linda Vanderhill and Drake Carlton divorced, it wasn't a big shocker.
But what had saddened me was that it would be harder to see Natalie.
"Let me know what you decide," Cheryl says, and walks out.
Yeah, it was hard to see Natalie.
But with her company, Dirty Lil' Angels, about to break, this might just be my ticket back into her life. As well as the way I save my own company.
Gotta fucking love fate.
Drake
"Well, if it isn't the man, the myth, the legend—the shark," a voice says. I feel a meaty hand clap me across my back.
I look over my shoulder at a familiar face—a round, bald, middle-aged man who smells of false pretenses and feigned confidence. I play the game and return his smile.
"How are you, Tom," I say, not as a question, but as a bland statement. I honestly don't give a fuck about him. I know this guy. He's like so many on Wall Street. He's a mediocre broker, in a mediocre suit, at best.
"Apparently not as good as you, buddy," he smiles. It's an over-the-top smile that I'd like to wipe off his face. "I've heard all about your latest acquisition. That was one hell of a move."
"Indeed it was," I reply, expressionless, and motion to the bartender for a drink. We're two seconds in and I'm already bored with this conversation.
"What can I get for you, sir?" the bartender asks. He has a waxed handlebar mustache and I can't help but focus on its perfectly curved tips, sharp as teeth.
"Blood and sand," I reply, with the emphasis on the word 'blood.' They don't call me the shark for nothing.
The bartender nods and smiles, "One of my favorites," and he moves deftly behind the bar, grabbing a top-shelf bottle of rye. There's a miniature pig with wings on the bottle's stopper. Yes, this is the good shit. WhistlePig Rye. The kind of bourbon that instead of scorching your throat, lights a warm fire. I watch as he pours two fingers of the amber liquid.