Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
He’s good and pissed, and I take advantage, going for a surprise attack. “I know you weren’t in bed with Arnold Maverick,” I say. “But it doesn’t mean you weren’t in contact with him.”
Ian blinks. “Who the fuck is Arnold Maverick?”
Damn it, he’s good. He’s either a really good liar or . . . honest.
“Arnold Maverick was the CIO of J-Conn,” I say.
He thinks for a moment, then drops my wrist as recognition settles. “He was in the news. The tech guru who committed suicide a couple of months ago. That’s who you think tipped me off about J-Conn?”
I take another sip of my drink and let my silence do the talking. I’ll neither confirm nor deny . . .
To my surprise, instead of getting pissed and defensive, he smiles, back to charming Ian once again. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight . . . an anonymous source, who you won’t identify, is claiming that I got an inside tip from a J-Conn executive who’s now dead and can’t confirm one way or the other. Makes for a convenient accusation, doesn’t it?”
“We’re just following protocol, Mr. Bradley.”
“Fantastic,” he mutters, rummaging through my office stuff. “You know, I’m not the only one with lines. Mine may be of the pickup variety, but they’re a hell of a lot better than your evasive SEC bullshit.”
“That wasn’t a line—”
“Sure it was,” he says, grabbing a pen and a pad of Post-its. He scribbles something, drops the pen back in the cup, and hands me the sticky pad.
I look down as he stands. “What is—”
“My e-mail account information—work and personal. Eat your heart out. I have nothing to hide.”
I’m still staring at the Post-it in surprise as he saunters away, turning back after he opens the conference room door.
“Oh, and Ms. McKenzie . . .”
I look up.
“My personal account has a few naughty pictures in there. Enjoy those.” He winks.
Damn it. I hate knowing that I probably will.
5
IAN
Week 1: Thursday Morning
“Dude.” Matt slows to an easy jog beside me. “When you asked if I wanted to go for a run, you could have mentioned you were trying to set an Olympic record.”
“You’ve done four Ironmans,” I point out, catching my breath.
“Exactly. Because I like the swimming and bike shit. If I liked the running part, I’d do a marathon like Prefontaine up there.”
I slow my cool-down jog all the way to a walk. “Hey, Kennedy,” I call out. “Slow your roll.”
My other best friend doesn’t glance back, but I know he hears me because he slows his damn sprint pace to a walk, then stops and waits for Matt and me to catch up.
Kennedy’s not even breathing slightly hard, damn the man. We’re all in good shape, but of the three of us, Kennedy’s the runner. Matt’s all about the competition, and me . . . well, to be honest, I just like a good old-fashioned gym session, preferably with a hot female trainer.
Today, though, I’d talked the guys into a run with me. I see them enough around the office, but today I need them as friends not coworkers.
And there are no better friends than these two.
Matt Cannon, Kennedy Dawson, and I all came up with one another at Wolfe. We started the same year and worked the bullpen together, even as we were competitors. Investment brokerage is an up-or-out business—you either make it to the next level, burn out, or are pushed out.
All three of us had made it. We’re competitors still, fighting for the same clients, the same accounts, but friends in spite of it. Hell, maybe friends because of it. All of us are fighters in our own way.
Matt’s the brains. Younger than both Kennedy and me, he’s twenty-eight now, but everyone from the trading room floor up to the CEO penthouse still thinks of him as a boy wonder. The little shit skipped God-knows-how-many grades to graduate from Cornell at the age of nineteen, then took Wall Street by storm by twenty-two.
Lucky for Matt, the women of New York City know that he’s all grown up now. Blond, blue eyed, charming, and clever as shit, the guy’s almost as big of a manwhore as me.
And if Matt got here by brains and I did by sheer force of will and hard work, Kennedy Dawson’s a big dick on Wall Street because it’s just his damn destiny.
As dark haired as Matt is blond, Kennedy and his family have been in finance for for-fucking-ever, his trust fund big enough to ensure he could quit tomorrow and still have more money than Matt and I will ever see in our lifetimes, combined.
It’s more than the bank account, though. Kennedy’s old money, and it shows. His apartment’s got a goddamn library, his mother wears pearls, he only drinks single-malt scotch, he belongs to two different country clubs, and he looks like one of the Kennedys (whom he was named after).