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Essex
Saturday morning, I get up, lift weights, drink a protein shake and go back to bed. That’s been my Saturday morning routine for a while. I got money, yes, but booking a weekend flight some place and hanging out on the yacht isn’t necessarily my thing anymore, especially since I have no one to share it with. Besides, I live on the beach. I’m already in paradise, feeling the cool, sixty-degree breeze flowing through the wide-opened French doors in my bedroom as I slip my naked body between the sheets and just lie there. Thinking. About her.
Being in the elevator with her solidified my desire and determination to have her as mine. But my mannerisms always get in the way. And now that she’s getting to know the employees, they’re tainting her view of me, my company and what I stand for. But I can’t put the blame all on them. I’ve done enough to make her dislike me all on my own. If only I could re-do that interview…
After spending the majority of the day at home, I get a call from Brock around six. He wants to meet up at the lounge and since I have no plans, I hop in the black Mercedes, AMG-S56, my favorite casual car to drive around town at the moment, and head to Gregory’s.
“There’s the man,” Brock says when he sees me walking toward him. He lowers his cigar, stands up from a leather sofa and slaps hands with me.
Brock lives in New York, but he’s in Florida frequently for work – business and personal. He has a wife and two little girls back at home, but he doesn’t hide the fact that he has a side chick here. He’s out here playing the field like he’s not afraid to lose his family over some nonsense. Honestly, I don’t necessarily like the guy. He’s one of those light-skinned, curly hair dudes – looks like Jayson Tatum in a suit. He acts more boujee than some of these females trying to snag a baller up in here. The only thing we have in common is business. He doesn’t own a business, but he’s the chief financial officer for an energy company – so basically, he’s good at running his mouth and ripping people off.
“What’s been going on with you, my man?” he asks.
I sit down, summon the waitress and ask her to bring me my usual. She knows me, so she knows what the usual is.
Taking a deep, relaxing breath, I tell Brock, “There’s nothing much going on. Busy with the company and—”
“It’s the same ol’, same ol’ with you, ain’t it, DePaul? It’s always the company.”
I shrug. “That’s what I do. Make money.”
The waitress leaves my drink on the table and goes on her way.
“I heard that, my brother.”
Being home right now was certainly the better option than being here – I knew that before I left home – but since I’m here, I sip this cognac and attempt to get into conversation mode.
I ask, “How’s the wife and kids?”
“They’re good,” he says, eyeing a woman from head to heels as she struts by in a black mini-skirt, wearing a top that looks like lingerie.
“And the side chick?” I inquire. I’m not shading him. He brags about this every chance he gets and to anyone who would listen as if it gives him a status I have yet to reach.
He laughs, tosses back a shot, and says, “She’s—woo! She’s hot, man. I can’t get enough of her.”
I ask, “What do you get from her that you can’t get from your wife?”
He’s still cheesing. “You already know, man.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, you want me to break it down for you. Okay. I get fun, undivided attention. I get things I don’t get from my wife. Her focus is on pleasing me, not chasing after kids and planning bake sales—all that nonsense.”
“But they’re your kids. You should be proud to have a woman who takes care of your children.”
“I am, DePaul, but I have needs, too, and I shouldn’t have to schedule time to be with my wife. It takes all the fun out of it. It’s boring, man. Family life sucks sometimes.”
“Wow.” I shake my head and take another sip while he takes a pull from the cigar. I’m blown away by his disregard for everyone – his wife, kids – it’s appalling.
He continues, “Women outnumber men, which means it’s more for us to choose from, right? I may as well have my fair share before some other dude does.”
“That’s not accurate, Brock.”
“What’s not accurate?”
“Women outnumbering men.”
“It is,” he says. “Let me tell you something, DePaul. I travel all over the United States. Everywhere I go, a woman is trying to pick me up. They see the suits, the cars—man, with all this drip, they can’t help it. They want me. All of them.”
