“Davey, what are your thoughts on cryptocurrency?” my father asks, which is easily the most horrifying question I’ve been asked in months—largely because I hate that nickname with the fire of a thousand suns, but also because I don’t know enough about crypto to formulate an intelligent response.
“I think it’s a cross between an MLM and a Ponzi scheme,” I explain succinctly, and then I hold my breath until Gregory hums lightly and says, “Gray said the same thing.”
Well thank god. If the heir apparent doesn’t think crypto is lucrative, it must not be lucrative.
“Hm,” my father murmurs, turning to stare out of the window as he mulls this information over. “So, you don’t think this is a worthwhile use of my time?”
“Learning about it or buying it? Because to be honest, it would take you a hell of a lot longer to learn about it than to just buy a ton of it.”
He rotates slightly to look at me in the backseat and offers an amused expression, like an implicit acknowledgement that he finds me funny. He started doing that seven years ago, around the time that I came home after my first year of business school having memorized The Ridgeway Guide to Success and said to him, “I’m going to be the best thing that has happened to this company since you decided not to acquire Facebook and all of Mark Zuckerberg’s mess.”
Now, around the same time that my billionaire father, Chairman of the Board, top of his class at Yale and at Wharton is staring at his eldest child with undeniable approval—no, pride—my phone buzzes.
With a text message.
From an intern at Davenport-Ridgeway.
A twenty-seven-year-old intern.
Olivia: Fine.
One word. Four letters. It’s enough to make my heartbeat speed up to unparalleled rates faster than eight cups of this bespoke Costa Rican coffee ever could. I can feel the anticipation all through my body. It’s a tingling sensation that makes me feel like my hands will tremble if I don’t focus on my breathing. It’s the same feeling I used to get after raising my hand in class or meeting one of my father’s business associates back when I was a teenager.
It persists for another fifteen minutes, all while I try to talk through the nuances of the current annual growth of the fintech portfolio with my father and Gregory. It doesn’t subside until my phone buzzes with another message from Olivia.
No words. Nothing but a picture of her perched on the end of my desk with her bare legs crossed and every inch of her fair skin on display.
Every. Single. Inch.
She’s kept her face out of the image—a wise choice, all things considered—but there’s a supreme confidence in the way she carries her body. Shoulders back so that her breasts jut outwards. Palm pressed against the desktop and her fingers curled over the edge. Her shapely legs dangling so that one of her feet points elegantly downward.
And she’s wearing my spare tie. It’s Hermes. It’s hideous. It’s a travesty of a gift from my dickhead of a brother for Christmas years ago. Now that it’s been on Olivia’s skin, now that it has dangled between her perfect breasts, it’s suddenly one of my favorite ties.
I commit the image to memory: the way her hair rests on her shoulders, auburn contrasting with ivory. The pink tips of her nipples and the smoothness of her stomach. All of it, right there on my desk.
Mine.
“Davey?”
“Yep?” I reply on instinct, tearing my eyes away from my phone when I hear my father say my name.
“I asked when you’re coming to town for my birthday,” he repeats, glancing over his shoulder. He doesn’t like to repeat himself, but I usually get a pass.
“Can’t,” I explain. “Didn’t Shelby tell you? I have to go to the end of summer celebration for the interns. We’re having a rooftop event at the Tower.”
My father’s face darkens in a way that only a Ridgeway’s could. “Shelby did not tell me that.”
Yeesh. I know that tone…Yeah, Shelby’s going to be unemployed by the end of the day.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” I suggest, even though I know that my father is probably already in the midst of firing his personal assistant over text message.
He waves his hand, like that’s a normal gesture to give when someone’s livelihood is on the line. “So who’s doing my birthday toast then?”
“Kieran.”
I may as well have said that Elon Musk or someone else that my father hates was going to be pontificating this year. Immediately, my father shoots a glance in Gregory’s direction. “Do you think Gray will do it?”
“Only if you can convince Corinne to ask him. She’s the only one he’ll listen to these days,” Gregory responds with a heavy sigh.
“Well, Corinne loves Davis,” my father says as he cocks his head in my direction. “Davis, will you ask Corinne to talk to Gray?”
I’m about to say no, partially because I doubt Corinne wants to be caught up in the weird ramblings of a bunch of billionaires and partially because Gray hates my father only slightly less than he hates his own father. Then I remember my conversation with Olivia a week ago—the one where she recommended that I stick my neck out for Kieran.
That conversation had me reeling for days, mostly because I couldn’t imagine why Olivia would care about Kieran—not after what he did to me. To her. It only got worse on Saturday night, when Kieran called and asked if he could come stay in the apartment with me for a few weeks, and I told him to kindly fuck off.
But then Olivia had to go and lower herself to her knees and suck me off, just because she could sense that my shit relationship with my brother had rattled me so badly that I couldn’t even enjoy a night with her. She had to go and repair what was broken for us because my brother and I were too screwed up to do it ourselves.
If he couldn’t give the toast, Kieran was never going to let me hear the end of it. That meant I could look forward to a hell of a lot more ruined nights with Olivia this summer—and we only have seven left.
“Dad,” I interject, “Kieran can handle a toast. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Okay, not exactly a glowing recommendation, but it’s a start.
My father lets out a snort, which is uncharacteristically uncouth for him. “Davey, your brother isn’t like you. He doesn’t understand the gravity of these things, the importance of rising to the occasion.”
I bite my tongue, although I want to remind him that he didn’t particularly care for the bumbling, awkward toasts that I gave him for a decade. My father’s recency bias has only served to work in my favor. Finally, after years of blood sacrifices to the corporate gods, he has the perfect successor son that he’s always wanted—and it’s enough to make him forget about the anxious, overweight, insecure kid I was until I was twenty-two.
“Give him a chance,” I recommend, imagining what Olivia would say. “Right, Gregory? Shouldn’t my dad give Kieran a chance? After all, you’re letting Gray work at that startup for a couple years instead of Davenport-Ridgeway. That’s going great, right?”
Immediately, the mention of Gray’s current startup job changes the vibe of the car ride entirely. Both men let out matching sighs and I know that I’ve successfully changed the subject for at least half an hour—long enough for me to calculate exactly how many minutes stand between me and my next encounter with Olivia Nolan.
Before I forget, I send her five thousand dollars.