This was the life, and I was living the dream every man wished for — only it hadn't come easily. I'd started working at 13 when my mother ran out on my father and me for another man. My father had been weak and couldn't take it. He turned to drinking and could never hold onto a job, so it was up to me if we were going to keep from starving out on the streets.
It was tough, but even though I was working full time, I still managed to keep top grades in school. One of my teachers noticed and recommended me for a special internship in the Business Leaders of Tomorrow program at his alma mater. My father had remarried by then, and I knew he'd be okay on his own, so I went ahead and applied, never thinking that I'd really get in — but I did.
They admitted me on full scholarship, and when the program was over, I was offered full-time employment at one of the nation's top manufacturers of engine parts: Krueger Auto Parts. Even without a fancy degree, I could do the job of running the shipping and manufacturing warehouses in every town I was sent to, and soon I was brought to work in their corporate headquarters in Los Angeles.
I worked my ass off, coming in early every morning and staying late every night. I took on all the shit assignments nobody wanted to do and volunteered to work weekends and even holidays. I climbed up the ranks faster than anyone had ever seen, and by 30, I was running the motorcycle parts division for Krueger.
The job was my passion, and I worked closely with scientists and engineers, wanting to learn everything I could about what made bikes run better, faster, and more efficiently. I talked with long-time riders and kids just starting to learn what they wanted in a bike. On my days off, I went for long rides in the California countryside to get a feel for the wind in my face, the tires on the road, and the motor between my legs. It was a powerful feeling, completely freeing, and I wanted more. Most importantly, I understood what drove our customers and how to give them the best riding experience possible.
I took my ideas to the CEO and founder of the company Martin Krueger, but he didn't give a shit.
"Do you have any idea how expensive it would be to start manufacturing this motorcycle? We would have to sell 100,000 to make a profit," Krueger said, crossing his mushy arms over his fat belly. His balding head was always beaded perspiration, and his skin was a shade too pink, like an angry little piggy.
"So, we'll sell 100,000. I'm willing to work with marketing to get our name out there, not just as a parts manufacturer, but as a creator of the country's best motorcycle. Once riders try this bike, they'll sell themselves. I just need our factories to build them," I said passionately.
I believed in the product I had worked so hard to develop. I'd created cost estimates, profit projection reports, and even had a sample of the bike created as an example, using my own savings. The bike had been test-driven by a dozen different riders, and they all loved it. I knew the bike would be a huge success — if only Krueger would give it a chance.
Unfortunately, Krueger was too stodgy and stuck in his ways. He handed me back my research without even taking the time to look at it.
"If we manufactured that many bikes and they didn't sell, it would ruin us. Just stick to your job of managing the parts warehouses and leave it to Harley Davidson to build the bikes. I didn't hire you for your creativity. Why do you think I plucked you out of the intern program instead of going for someone with a business degree? It's because I want someone who will just be a cog in the engine I designed and not try and one-up me with dumb ideas. Don't forget who signs the paychecks around here. Now quit wasting time and get back to work."
That's when I quit. Krueger gave me a nice severance package, after I put the portly piece of shit in a headlock and threatened to expose some of his muddy little secrets to the media.
I used the money, along with what I made selling off all my Krueger stock, to invest in my own motorcycle company. The bank didn't want to give me a business loan at first, but I had a good reference to co-sign with me — my old teacher was now a professor at the Ivy League university where the banker wanted to send his son and the professor promised to give him a letter of recommendation.
It was all I needed, and Speed Motorcycles was born.
I named my first bike The Rebel, and it sold 200,000 units the first year and double that the next year. After that, I designed the Chrome Cruiser and then Highway Man. Each de
sign was more successful than the last, and when Krueger came to me begging for the contract to distribute our patented specialty parts, I did one better and bought the son-of-bitch out. Now, all parts for Speed Motorcycles bikes were manufactured and sold by our own distributing subsidiary, Krueger Auto Parts, and fat, old Krueger gets his paychecks signed by me.
I could have fired him after that and destroyed his company by selling it off bit by bit, but that's not my style. People don't learn from cruelty. They learn from discipline, carefully measured and distributed with thoughtful intent.
That's how I lived my life from the days of my childhood, when I was just 13, and needed to balance work and studies and caring for my old man. It's how I made it through a grueling internship and years of shit jobs climbing up the corporate ladder, and how I managed social relationships and dating after being abandoned by the one woman who should have loved me. I lived my life by a strict code of adherence.
Of course, being disciplined didn't mean one didn't deserve a reward for work well done. That's where my assistant came in.
Angela Stratham was everything I could want in an assistant. She was 26, bright, hardworking, and sexy as hell. She had emerald-green eyes and voluptuous curves she didn't mind showing off. We'd started screwing around in my office about six weeks ago when I came into my office late one night to find her naked, draped across my desk. It had been a rough day at work, and she provided me with just the pick me up I needed. We'd been fucking around ever since, but I wouldn't call her my girlfriend — more like a really attentive assistant who gives great head.
At the age of 42, I'd given up dating years ago. Women were always throwing themselves at me, but it wasn't real. I worked hard to stay in shape with regular workouts in the gym, and I knew I had the kind of looks they found attractive. I kept my black hair cropped short, and I'd been told more than once that my gray eyes flecked with blue and gold looked like swirling clouds in the middle of a thunder storm. It was all bullshit, though.
These women who were always flinging themselves weren't interested in me. They didn't want to know the real Ethan Colson; where I was born, what I liked, what my favorite foods, movies, and books were. They didn't want to know about my hopes, fears, dreams, and ambitions. They just knew I was the owner and CEO of the country's top motorcycle company. They only saw the luxurious suites of our corporate offices, the fancy cars I rode around in when I wasn’t on a bike, and the sprawling estate of my Beverly Hills mansion. When they looked at me, they were only seeing dollar signs.
Seeing the way my mother had destroyed my father when she left him had taught me one valuable thing: never open your heart to a woman. There was always a part of my father that was visibly scared. He catered to her every whim, he was vulnerable and cowardly. He had been broken and the wounds never fully healed.
I tried having a girlfriend once in college, but when she broke my heart, I saw just how vulnerable an organ it was, and I knew I was in danger of suffering the same way my father had. So, after that, I vowed never to put my heart in jeopardy again. Sure, there was always a beautiful date on my arm for parties and special events — and don't get me wrong, I got plenty of sex — but I never had a relationship with a woman. It was too messy and put too much at risk, so I always cut them off after a date or two. This office fling with Angela had already gone on too long and it was time to end it.
It's just that I was getting tired of being alone, of waking up each morning to an empty pillow beside me and not have anyone I could talk about my day with at night. I realized I was getting sentimental; I turned my attention back to the incredible feeling of Angela's hot wet mouth on my throbbing cock.
"Suck it, baby. I want you to drink my come." I ran my hands through her hair, encouraging her to work even more enthusiastically.
Just then, my office door swung open and Keith Wilkes stuck his head inside. He had the California-blonde looks that were so prevalent here in the City of Angels. People liked him instantly, which made him the perfect guy to head up my marketing department.
Advertising was my one weak point. I liked designing the bikes, figuring out to streamline them and give them more power, crunching the numbers, and finding ways to make things work. I did not like schmoozing people, asking advertisers and investors for more money, or pandering to customers. I left that up to Keith, and he did a terrific job, netting me millions of dollars over the years. There was no one I trusted more. Still, he didn't need to know the secret dirty deed that was happening under my desk.
"We're about to get started with the selections of the models for next month's magazine. Do you want to sit in?" he asked casually.
Angela was completely hidden under my desk, and he had no idea she was there. Still, hearing his voice startled her, and she jerked up her head. I forced her back down, letting her know I wanted her to keep going, and she continued the blow job while I talked to Keith. The excitement of being so close to getting caught doing something so taboo only heightened my pleasure.