Baby for the Bosshole

That brings me up short. “Cheery…?”

“Well, you know. Relatively speaking. You didn’t make anybody cry last week.”

“What is it with—? I don’t make people cry! I merely show them the error of their ways. How they decide to react is on them.”

“Ha. Show them in a way that has them in the emergency stairwell sobbing.” He drags his index fingers down his face.

“And since when do you care about how I handle the staff? You know the rule. If you can’t move up…” I make a cutting motion across the neck.

“Obviously. But there’s something wrong when you aren’t making HR sweat, wondering what bullshit they need to feed everyone to get them to not hate you.”

I roll my eyes. HR has never had to do that. “They don’t hate me. They instantly forgive me when I talk about the ten percent of the workforce that does anything meaningful at GrantEm and the other ninety that are sheer deadweight.” For whatever reason, everyone believes they’re the ten percent.

“That’s mean. Even Paulson said twenty percent does the real work.”

“Things are tougher here than at Goldman, and you better realize that sooner rather than later if you don’t want to be part of the ninety percent. Anyway, I’m busy. I need to get all this stuff”—I gesture at my laptop, which unfortunately doesn’t increase its size in proportion to the number of tasks on my to-do list—“done before lunch.”

“So? Delegate it. That’s why we pay them”—Grant inclines his head toward the floor—“the big bucks.”

“I can’t delegate everything. So come on. What do you want?”

Grant folds his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowed. “There’s seriously something wrong. It’s like…you got laid. The best sex of your life.”

“Don’t be absurd. I always have great sex.” Time to change the subject, fast. If he goes any further in this direction, he might even realize that Amy’s the one I’m sleeping with. Grant is a genius at this sort of thing. “What’s your problem?”

“Did you find the perfect woman to impregnate?”

“Did I what?”

“Or maybe there’s already a bun in one of your ovens. Tell me it’s true.”

“Did Dad call you about wanting a grandkid for his birthday, too?”

His face scrunches worse than an empty beer can somebody stepped on.

“Jesus.” I shake my head. “You should know me better than that. I already said no.”

“And he didn’t do anything to you?” Grant stares at me like I’m the one he wants to be when he grows up.

“Not that I’ve noticed.” I was too busy with Amy. Besides, it sounds like he moved on to my brothers after I refused him.

“He called my mom after I told him I couldn’t give him a grandkid.”

Ah jeez. Dad and his drama.

Grant continues, “He said he’d buy us hookers for the job unless she does something about it.”

Grant’s mother tells him everything because she’s slightly needy and fragile and wants her son to comfort her every time she’s upset. It reassures her of his love. A lot of her “upset” comes from her personality, but I doubt she’s being melodramatic this time. Dad would absolutely believe that bought-and-paid-for women would make great mothers for his grandbabies. To him, a child is something to be popped out into the world and shown around when it suits his mood. Loving, caring for, giving guidance and nurturing are all functions to be contracted out. If he could bypass women and just grab our sperm himself to get a grandchild, he’d do it.

“I’m not doing a hooker,” I state flatly.

“I’d bet my entire portfolio he’s going to FedEx one to each of us.”

“Refuse the package. Do I have to come up with a solution to every Dad problem?”

“Should I adopt a baby?” Grant says, obviously not listening. “Or maybe Huxley or Griffin would agree to…”

“Don’t even think about ruining some poor child’s life,” I say. “If you can’t love them the way they deserve, you shouldn’t have them in the first place. And frankly, I think none of you are ready for that kind of commitment.”