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I hate when I fuck up. Hate it. I’m the girl who still beats herself up for getting a C-minus in college (turns out astronomy is not easy!), and to this day I get pains in my chest over how badly I did in interviews when I first started looking for a job after college.
Needless to say, I’m going to lose a lot of sleep over this.
We have to make it right. Me and Theo. Even if I do wish the guy would fall down an elevator shaft on his way to lunch today.
I glance at him over my shoulder. “I’ll let Brian know we’re honoring the trade. I’ll also tell him we’re going out there to apologize in person. Once I have his schedule, we’ll make travel plans.”
“Fine.”
This is not fine. I’m not fine. How Theo is handling everything is not fine.
But I’ve got bigger fish to fry, and if playing nice with Theo means getting my most important client back, then so be it. It’s only a means to an end. Because if I play my cards right, one day I may be able to end him. Not in the biblical sense, but professionally speaking.
It’s a deal with the devil. But it’s a deal worth making.
@WSBathroom 2/19
We’re hearing Nora Frasier and Theo Morgan are being sent off to a major client to make nice after a trade gone wrong last week.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/21
The two of them allegedly came close to engaging in fisticuffs during the explosive situation.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/21
PS: why aren’t we using the term “fisticuffs” more often? Let’s make it a thing.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/21
PPS: what are the chances Nora & Theo’s hating turns into dating? I’m a better buyer of hate sex. If you work in this business, bet you are too.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/21
Speaking of sex, rumor has it the wife of the head portfolio manager at an insurance company went “missing” at a High-Grade conference in Phoenix last weekend.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/21
Apparently she was seduced by her golf partner, who may or may not work in the business. This is a developing story, so stay tuned for more.
Chapter Twelve
Theo
Doom scrolling through Twitter at the airport, I have one thought and one thought only: how the fuck does Wall Street Bathroom know all this shit about me?
About Nora too?
It’s creepy. Twenty-two-year old me would’ve killed to see my name pop up in a feed with over three million followers. But thirty-four-year-old me is just pissed off. And yeah, maybe a little embarrassed. I’ve made a career out of ruffling feathers—of being that guy who chases every basis point, every inquiry—and I admit I’ve enjoyed my reputation as the Bull.
Until now.
I don’t always feel great about the things I do. But I always feel fucking fantastic about the outcome. The monster P&L. The promotions. The way people look up when I walk onto the floor every morning. Did you hear he traded a billion in bonds yesterday? That stuff keeps me from dwelling too much on whatever mistakes I make.
No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t stop feeling like a shithead about this whole Nora/BamCo situation. Probably because I was a shithead. I turned a small mistake into an epic fuck-up, and I kept pushing when I clearly should’ve stopped.
Nora’s expression when I made that scumbag comment? My fist tightens around my phone. I was the scumbag. I knew it then and I know it now. I just can’t seem to stop acting a fool when this woman is involved. I’ve never blown up an account before. I’ve never been so reckless. Sure, I’m the most competitive guy you’ll ever meet. But I don’t go around intentionally hurting people.
I gotta make this right.
Really, I have to stay the fuck away from Nora. All the more reason I need to nab this promotion. If I get managing director, I’ll be moving into an office like Aiden’s. And that means I’ll have a wall—albeit a glass one—separating me from the rest of the group. Nora included. She’ll still be able to make me rage-y with that lipstick and those tight-ass skirts of hers, but at least I won’t be sitting right across from her all damn day.
I look up from my watered-down Manhattan to the TV above the bar. It’s a weather report; we’re supposed to get a few inches of snow in Charlotte later this week, and the meteorologist is warning us “to have preparations in place” for a “significant snow event.”
I have to smile. I remember this from growing up, everyone freaking out over what in New York would be considered a dusting of snow and ice. Doubtless whatever snow we get will melt by the next day. I just hope it doesn’t mess up my flight home. Still, I type out a text to my family’s group chat, reminding my mom and sisters to grab groceries and some extra batteries in case the power goes out while I’m gone.
