Blessed

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 su

it, 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.

"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.