“Thank you.”
He sighed. “No problem.”
“Why’d you have a shit day?”
“Ah, just another day in the business world.” Shrill beeps and a robotic voice sounded through the phone. “Premise is secure.”
“Are you just getting home now?”
“Yeah. I had dinner with brokers.”
I checked the time. After ten. “You sound tired.”
“I am. I wake at four a.m. This is a late-night for me. Especially given it’s only Monday.”
“Four a.m.? That’s inhuman.”
He chuckled. I sensed he spoke while walking and talking, maybe even preparing for bed.
“I suppose I should let you go so you can get a good night’s sleep.”
“I’ll have my assistant email over a consultant’s name. And, Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“That banker was an ass. And I didn’t mean to be.”
Chapter 7
Gabe
Tuesday morning, I woke to discover Asian stocks tanked thanks to mere whispers of a new virus. London shares were following suit, which meant at 9 a.m. it would be a freefall. I scrapped the gym and prepared for a steady stream of evaluations. Electrified, I watched the board, listened to calls, and searched for opportunities. A scintillating thrill seeped through my pores, a natural high from the rush of sophisticated gambling.
The world sat by, on edge, the memory of COVID-19 still fresh. Before that virus, the word “quarantine” seemed relegated to sci-fi films, but now it hung over an antsy business world. For some industries, another pandemic would mean disaster. But in my world, it didn’t matter which horse won, only that I could hedge my bets and be sure I picked the winning horses. Even if another pandemic struck, there would be winning horses.
Valerie tapped my door after markets closed and delivered some reports from an inside source at the WHO. “Do you need anything else?” she asked, notepad in hand.
While I worked insane hours, Valerie picked a career as an administrative assistant because she wanted a home life. We had an agreement. I never kept her late. She had little ones waiting for her, and her daycare fined her if she was late for pickup.
“You don’t need to do this today, but tomorrow, could you do some research and find a restaurant consultant?”
“Industry expert? U.S.?” she asked, confusion etched across her brow since there was no connection between my sector, the tech industry, and restaurants.
“Yes. It’s for a friend. She wants to open a restaurant. I need someone who consults and guides people interested in doing something like that. Someone who can coach her through developing her business plan and gaining funding.” I picked up my phone and shared Poppy’s contact information while Valerie tapped out notes to herself. “Invoices should come to me.”
“Is there a budget?”
“Nah. I mean, keep me apprised of the cost, but she’s not to know there are any expenses.”
“She?” I ignored her blatant innuendo.
“Family friend. Have a good night.” I waved her away, eager to see what the virologists had to say about this latest virus.
The next couple of weeks, stocks swung back and forth in a blur as confirmed cases spread through Europe. Stocks set about on wild swings. My days became manic. Some nights I’d lean back on my sofa, tanked from yet another feverish, nonsensical day. I’d pull out my iPhone and visit OnlyFans. I’d read through her posts. I watched her give a make-up tutorial on drawing on eyebrows. I actually replayed a short video of her playing with a tiny kitten she found somewhere in the woods. And every now and then, I’d locate my favorite photograph, the one where her short cut-off tank revealed a sliver of nip, and administer some self-love while I fantasized.
One night, as the news played on my television set and I popped out a quick push-up routine, the buzz of an incoming text caught my attention. I smiled and settled back against the sofa, my butt on the floor.
Thad Nguyen contacted me. Are you sure this is free to you?
Yes.
He’s not so hot on Haven Island as a market.
Listen to him. He’s the expert.
Thad believes I should look at franchises. Or approach an existing successful restaurant in the area about a franchise. Any thoughts?
He’s the expert.
Thad suggested I could capitalize on my OnlyFans base. Maybe create something like Hooters. Are you familiar with that chain? But I don’t like that idea.
Then don’t do it.
Meeting with a loan investment officer in one week. Thad set it up. He’s been amazing. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.
To that text, oh, I think we can find a way, is what I thought. Instead, I responded with a lame and dishonest,
Don’t mention it.
Our texts were all business. Straightforward. But later at night, I fully leveraged my anonymous subscription to her OnlyFans account. On one hand, she was this hot chick on a site. No different from, say, the chicks in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Or maybe one of the C-list celebrities Cyr invited to his parties. An entity. Entertainment. But on the other hand, unlike those other models, I was learning more about her than the shape of her breasts.
As the stock market continued to bounce around with emotion, not logic, my world flipped into an erratic rollercoaster. I counseled myself to focus on rational decisions and trust the market would catch up. When markets bounced, stress levels skyrocketed. My long days became marathons.
As if life wasn’t enough of a shit show, the FBI contacted my office and requested I come in to talk. A meeting was on the calendar. Rumors flew about the investigation and which investment firms would be swept up in the probe. I debated hiring a lawyer.
My days slipped into a routine. Up at four, treadmill, office, lunch, office, dinner, home, and weights or treadmills, always to loud, pulsing music. After a shower, perusing her account became my second decompression step. Like an addiction, I’d close my eyes and see those gorgeous curves and round blue
