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Brittney
"Read this," Erica says, shoving a newspaper into my hands. I stare down in shock at it – first off, who reads newspapers anymore?? – but then the words on the page jump out at me, and I’m just blown away. I stare at the grainy black-and-white photo above the article, trying to decide if that was really who I saw on Friday night. It’s hard to say. I wasn’t exactly sober when the guy had been busy bashing in the cop’s windshield, plus it had been dark and he’d been far away.
But…yeah, sure, it looked like him.
"Kaden Charles was the one who broke the cop’s windshield?" I ask in shock. "Kaden? Really?!" Everyone knew of Kaden the Wonder Kid. He’d made a name for himself a couple of years ago with some oil trade or something, and he was worth billions because of it.
So why was he going around, breaking windshields? It didn’t make any sense.
"That’s what the article says. Apparently, he spent the weekend in the clink."
"Do you…" I hesitate, the words sounding insane, even to me. "Do you think he did it for me? To distract the cop?" God, how self-centered do I sound! Am I seriously suggesting that someone would go to jail for the weekend, just to save my sorry need-to-go-pee-right-fucking-now ass? That seems a little extreme.
Erica stares at me contemplatively. "Well…I don’t know. It sounds a little nuts, I’ll grant you that, but on the other hand, does it really matter why he did what he did? Whatever way you slice it, he saved you. And I think that deserves a proper thank you."
"Are you thinking what I’m thinking?" I ask her breathlessly.
"If you’re thinking that you should fall face first onto his lap and give him the blowjob of a lifetime, then yes. If you’re thinking we should go out for tacos for lunch, then also yes."
I roll my eyes and toss the newspaper at her. "I have places to go, people to do," I say with a naughty grin. "Don’t expect me back in time for tacos. I prefer hot dogs anyway."
Erica bust out laughing. "I cannot believe you just said that," she said between snorts of laughter.
"How is it that you’re surprised by my naughty side?" I ask with another naughty grin, slinging my purse over my shoulder. "I’d think you would expect it by now."
"I should, I really should!" she calls after me. I saunter out, putting on my sunglasses to ward off the too-bright sun. It’s time to see what the Wonder Kid’s dick looks like. With any luck, it’ll be as magnificent as his bank account.
Kaden
I know it’s Tuesday morning because the calendar app on my phone says that it is, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s really Monday. After not getting out of jail until late – even Mark Anthony, as good as he is, struggled to save my ass – I just didn’t go into work yesterday. Which makes it the first day off that I’ve taken in almost two years, and quite frankly, my idea of a day off really shouldn’t include an orange jumpsuit.
I contemplate hang-gliding again. It could be fun. It could give me the rush I’ve been missing for a while. Gweny, my secretary, hurries over to greet me as soon as I arrive on the top floor of my office building. This whole floor is my office – ridiculous, right? Who needs 10,000 square feet of office space? But I will admit that the view is fabulous.
"Oh my god, you’re here!" Gweny says, checking me over as if she’s expecting that I’ll be covered in knife cuts and bruises. "I was so worried when I heard about the reports."
"I’m fine," I say, shrugging away her concern. She’s in her late 50s, and in many ways, feels like my grandmother.
"If you say so," she says with a frown, stepping away from me. "I sure wish you’d take some time off, though."
"What do you think about hang-gliding?" I ask her.
"Hang…" She’s just staring at me, mouth hanging wide open. "I haven’t been hang-gliding before, if that’s what you’re asking. But if you’d like me to research it, I can find out death rates and—"
"No. Don’t worry about it." Only Gweny would think to research death rates for a hobby. "What happened over the weekend?"
"$52 million dollars." She flashes me a happy smile. "Those stocks you picked skyrocketed because of what’s happening in the Middle East, and your customers made $52 million dollars just in the last three days."
"Great." I’m trying to sound enthusiastic, but let’s be honest here – I’m failing miserably. It is all too easy, too predictable. I need a challenge. I need someone or something to force me to do something difficult. The financial markets stopped being difficult a long time ago.
"If you need something outside of work to do," Gweny says quietly, "may I suggest golf? There’s a significantly smaller mortality rate with golf than with hang-gliding."
"How do you know?" I grin at her. "You haven’t actually looked up the mortality rates for hang-gliding yet. Maybe golf is dangerous too. There are other golfers who might hit me with their clubs, and—"
She reaches out and ruffles my hair, laughing. "If anyone is going to get a swing at you, I’m at the front of that line. I’ve had to put up with your shit for so long, I deserve some sort of payback."
Before I can come up with a sufficiently witty reply, Gweny’s intercom buzzes. "Is Mr. Charles up there?" Jennifer’s voice comes through clearly. She’s our front desk receptionist, tasked with keeping the crazies out who "just need a minute of your time, sir, to tell you about this new opportunity that you can get in on the ground floor" and letting through the visitors I actually want to see.
"Yes, he’s right here," Gweny calls back.
