"You've never been a man to shy away from making bold moves," Tom continues, trying to reel me back into the conversation. He's beginning to detect my disinterest.
"No, you can say I'm anything but shy," I smirk, and he laughs a big-bellied laugh like I've just said the funniest fucking thing on the planet.
The bartender places my drink on the bar, and I grab it in one fist.
"Good talking to you Tom," I say, getting up from my stool and giving him a nod. This conversation was over before it began.
"Let's do this again sometime—" he begins to say, but I'm already walking away and I lose his voice in the ambient noise of the 21 Club.
Maybe you've never heard of me, but on Wall Street, I'm revered—feared. I'm Drake 'The Shark' Carlton. More often than not, I don't have time for small talk. If you open up the latest issue of Wall Street Journal, I'm sure you'll find my name on the front page, and the page after that, and the fucking page after that. I was recently profiled in Forbes' 40 under 40 column as one of the most influential men on Wall Street.
Most people end up on Wall Street for the money, not because they love finance, or the work, or anything else. But I'm here because I fucking love it all. The power, and the grind. During the course of my career, I've made firms boatloads of money—I'm aggressive. I didn't shy away from thin margins or risking a lot of capital. As a kid, my father taught me two things: Fear is the enemy, and loose lips sink ships.
You can say I've repeated those mantras like prayers.
I fucking love Wall Street because I can feel the entire planet pulsing beneath my feet. You better believe that the planet has a heartbeat, and it's money. I can feel countries swelling with power and others losing it. It's like standing above a swollen river, billions of dollars raging beneath you. If you can navigate it, you win. If not, you drown.
And do you want to know what money sounds like? It's the sound of phones ringing and traders shouting and emails pinging and fists pounding on desks. And it has a smell—sex and leather and green wads and a metallic cold and cigars smoldering in dark rooms. It also has a face—lines, some straight and some jagged, but all moving up and down on a Bloomberg screen, and sweat, lots of fucking sweat.
And you want to know what makes my cock hard?
All of it.
Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.
I look around the 21 Club—at the New York elite—men in suits and women in designer dresses, their legs drunk and slightly spread beneath their tables. The place is filled with dark woods and deep reds. It's an old institution that knows old school cocktails—there's history, but best of all, there's secrets. That's why I decided to celebrate my latest acquisitions here. I couldn't think of a better place, to be fucking honest.
I walk back to our table and notice one of my senior managers, Eric, trying to schmooze it up with a lovely young woman. I'm guessing she's in her early 20s, legs that go on for miles, and a wide white grin that's more expansive and full of life than the Serengeti. Not bad. The man's got taste. For a moment, I look at her tits and her legs and wonder what it'd be like to fuck her.
By the way Eric's leaning in, and brushing his hand against her thigh, I can tell he's thinking the same thing, and he's laying his charm on thick too.
I smile and hang back, wondering if he's going to botch things, but the woman's holding a Manhattan in one hand and tilting her head back in full, open-mouthed laughs. Eric's in his early 30s, and if I had to guess, he probably hasn't been laid in years. Maybe tonight will be his lucky fucking night.
"Like what you see?" a voice asks.
I turn my gaze and come face-to-face with a woman like no other, wearing a tight black dress and shoulder-length blonde hair that cascades down the sides of her face like a river of fucking gold.
The woman who Eric's flirting with doesn't even compare to the one standing in front of me. This one would fucking stop traffic on the Lincoln Tunnel, or even on the Long Island Expressway.
She prods me further before I have a chance to speak. "You don't recognize me, do you?" A smile spreads across her lips, and I can tell she's having some fun with this.
How do I know her?
There's something vaguely familiar about her face. I'm searching my brain and hoping this isn't going to be a repeat of the incident at the bank. Yesterday, I went in to make a withdraw and a woman says the same fucking thing, that I don't recognize her, but of course she poses it as a question, and when I shake my head no she says, "You should, because you fucked me."
She said it loud enough, and let me tell you, it turned some fucking heads at the bank.
Now here I am, looking at this new woman standing in front of me. I'm eyeing her up and down. She's young. I'm guessing early 20s. Her face has delicate features … wait, this can't be. "Natalie?"
"Bingo."
"What brings you here?"
Now my head's really fucking spinning. I haven't seen her since ...
"I heard about your new acquisition, and wanted to say congratulations. It's all over the news."
"You came all the way over here just to say that? Isn't it easier to send an email?" I grin.