It’s Just Business

Stretching my arms over my head, I feel my back crackle in three places as both shoulder blades and my left elbow let go of tension I’ve been holding inside for three hours. It’s been a week since Mom’s visit, and if she could see me now, she really wouldn’t understand why I love what I do. But I absolutely do love it.

The markets were hectic this morning, with the news that a European billionaire got caught with a couple of bedmates, neither of which was her husband, causing a ripple effect on everything her company has a foothold in.

It’s amazing how ridiculous traders can be, as the arrangement has clearly been going on for at least a couple of weeks, if not months or years. And this particular billionaire isn’t even involved in the day-to-day operations of her family’s corporation, an entity that’s been steadily profitable for the past sixty years.

And yet, where and how this woman gets her personal itches scratched has certain people ready to declare that a five-generations-old conglomerate is going to go belly up.

But I was able to jump in, grabbing three hundred shares of the stock for my own portfolio on the dip and another five thousand for my professional account before watching in anticipation for the bounce, which came in mere hours when the family put out an official press release addressing the rumors. I submitted the sale on my professional account first, and then, mere moments later, on my personal account, losing only a quarter point in the difference. In both portfolios, I made a tidy profit, so I’m calling this morning a resounding win.

There’s a knock on my cubicle wall, and I look over to see Hector Williams, one of my new co-workers, sticking his head around the corner. “Hey, Heck. How was your morning? You rake it in with the European market?”

“Not too shabby,” Hector says, tossing his trademark locked hair from side to side. I’m actually not sure he’s able to talk without his head moving. “I’m getting the numbers down for tonight’s get-together. You’re coming, right?”

“Where is it again?” I ask.

“McGinty’s,” he answers, then gives me the breakdown that I already read in the company email. “We all get together at the end of every month, usually on a Friday like today. This will be a bigger one than most, because we’ll be welcoming the new hires, like you, Shanna, and Mitchell. Boss Man will come by and press palms, rally the troops, and then we’re free to celebrate our wins and losses as we see fit.”

“That sounds like code for hazing,” I tease with a pointed look, and he shakes his head with a laugh. I didn’t think that was the case, but still, it’s good to confirm I’m not walking into a trap. Wait… “Who’s pressing palms?”

“Boss Man. Mr. Sharpe. Just for a minute, though,” he says, holding his hands up like people usually run away from the terrifying Dylan Sharpe. Luckily, Hector doesn’t know that I’m the type that runs to him, literally at the drop of a text. “Six thirty? I’ll put you down?” he asks, pointing at his phone where it seems he’s keeping a running tally of attendees.

I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

As Hector walks off and I hear him knocking on the next cubicle, I reach for my phone.

I hear you’re making an appearance at McGinty’s tonight.

Dylan’s busy so I don’t expect him to answer right away, but within minutes, I see the three dots and then his reply.

Monthly tradition, though I hate that it takes priority over our after hours work.

Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed to miss them too.

But getting together with the people from work is important. Especially with the rumors. I feel like I’m finding my place here and getting to know everyone, so being invited to go out with them is a must-do, even if it’s still a bit of a work function, not a friendly outing. I was initially worried the news of mine and Dylan’s behavior at the fundraiser would’ve preemptively poisoned people against me, but for the most part, it seems people at this level don’t know about it. Or they simply don’t care. Whatever the case, I’m thankful for it because I think I could really be good friends with some of my coworkers, and tonight is another step in the right direction.

Me too. I was excited to tell you about my morning.

Our after-work meetings always end in toe-curling orgasms, but they start with Dylan and me talking through my investments. He says I’m doing an even better job than he’d hoped, but he’s also guiding me as I learn more. I thought my success this morning would be worth a ‘great work’, at least, or an orgasmic bonus at most, so I’m disappointed to not get to share it with him.

European markets?

Yes! It was amazing!

He goes quiet for a moment, and I think he’s gotten caught up in something else, but then he says, Checked your numbers. Great work, Raven.

There it is—the warm, bubbly feeling in my chest when he praises me like that. I can’t help the smile that slips onto my lips.

Thank you. See you tonight.

I do a happy spin in my chair before grabbing my lunch from my locker. I go back to my desk to eat while I see what else is happening on the markets this afternoon. And before I know it, the bells are ringing across the globe to close out another day. I do some recording and analysis of my various portfolios and wrap up.

Before long, thoughts about the day get tucked away as I step into McGinty’s, heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk, then dulled on the wooden floor. It’s an institution in the Financial District, an authentic Irish pub that traces its roots all the way to 1847, when Sheamus McGinty brought his family to the USA from County Cork.

I’ve been here before more than once. It’s a pub that’s garnered a reputation similar to Lionfish, just the junior league version. It’s the place where young, hungry up and comers in the Financial District share a pint after a day’s hard work.

It’s also got a reputation of being a bit of a frat house, and as I join the sea of dark suits and the waves of faint cologne hit me in the nose, I’m reminded of the last few times I’ve been here.

Tonight, there’s an actual band on the stage, playing traditional Irish music, and I give them a glance before scanning for people I know. Thankfully, I see Hector waving at me from across the room and head that way.

“Raven!” he calls, greeting me loudly. He’s gathered by the long, black oak bar, his coat already ditched somewhere and his sleeves rolled up his forearms, which highlights his Rolex watch. “Glad you could make it. First one’s on the company! Guinness?”

It’s not one of my favorites, but it seems to be apropos, so I nod and a moment later, the bartender hands me a pint.

“Cheers,” I reply, clinking mugs with him. Three other people around us hold their glasses up too, smiling and clinking with us. I’m not sure if they even work at Sharpe or are maybe just financial district types out for a nightcap after work.

Hector takes a sip, bobbing his head to the music. “You don’t look like the Irish music type.”

“I used to work here, back in college,” Hector says, grinning at my surprise. “I know, I know. It’s the locs, right?”

“Something like that,” I admit, and he laughs.

“You’ll see when I get up there and start belting out some Dropkick Murphys!” he vows, his voice rising as he completes his statement. It’s greeted by a roar of approval, and behind the bar, a staff member rolls her eyes. “Worker’s Song, Worker’s Song!” he chants, and a few take up the rally with him.

“Worker’s Song?” I ask when he quiets, and he nods. “Sorry, I’m unfamiliar with it.”

“Best ‘fuck the rich’ song recorded in the past twenty years,” Hector says quite seriously. “Pretty awesome bagpipes, too.”

I nod, deciding to take his word on that because my musical tastes run a little more popstar and a bit less… bagpipe.

More people arrive, and the party really begins, though no one gets too wild. It’s more of a ‘who do you work for’ and ‘how’d you do in the markets today’ than ‘let’s get as shit-faced as fast as possible’ vibe.

Right at six forty-five, the doors open and Dylan arrives. A cheer goes up from everyone, and Dylan looks around, nodding and smiling.

He looks… divine. Handsome as always, but more rugged in some ways. His sleeves are rolled up, highlighting his strong forearms and masculine hands. He’s removed his tie and undone a couple of buttons at his throat, and his eyes are bright and happy.

In that realization, I remember what he said… You make me happy.

It takes all my strength not to run over to greet him, which would be disastrous, so thankfully, I manage to keep my butt on my barstool. I run my fingers up and down the cold glass of ale.

“I see we haven’t forgotten how to have a little bit of fun in this company,” Dylan says to more cheers. He raises his hand, and everyone quiets. “But seriously, this month’s traditionally been a good one for us, but it’s been even better than usual… because of you.” He looks across the gathered group who’re hanging on his every word. “We’ve got our new hires here, so let’s make them feel welcome. You’ve all been great mentors to them, which I appreciate. Keep up the good work there.” A few people fist bump one another, like they’ve got their ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ on lockdown. “To the new hires, continue to learn from your colleagues. They’ve been where you are. They’ve built the house you work in today. So lift a glass, not to me, but to those who’ve come before, to those who come after, and to yourselves. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” the group replies in unison.

I lift my glass, toasting with the person I’m next to, Shanna. She’s also young, and though she’s been with the company for about six months, she was only recently officially hired on. Previously, she was an intern with the firm her senior year of college, and she impressed enough to be offered a job in the payroll department upon graduation.

“Cheers, Shanna,” I reply, clinking glasses with her and taking a drink of my beer. “Welcome to Sharpe,” I tell her, teasing since we’re both new hires.

“You too,” she answers with a laugh before she floats away to continue a conversation with a guy who I think works in HR. Or maybe he’s an analyst? I’m not sure.

I continue to mingle, meeting new people and chatting with the ones I already know, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dylan making the rounds too. He stops by each group for just a minute, and I can tell he’s being as political as he is sincere. It’s not that he doesn’t want to give time to the people here, but he knows this isn’t quite his place. So he checks in, smiles, and moves on.

I’m over by the pub’s long ‘slingers’ table, watching a couple of the team play the shuffleboard-like bar game, when I feel him coming up behind me, and I turn around. “Mr. Sharpe.”

“Miss Hill,” he says, and once again, I feel that tingle of desire that permeates every instance Dylan and I are together. “Enjoying yourself, I hope?”

“I am. Thank you,” I say politely with what I hope is a warm smile, not an ‘I’ve seen you naked’ grin. “The European markets were quite the roller coaster today.”

He licks his lips and smirks. “They were. I saw you made significant margins this morning. How was the afternoon?’

“Not as good,” I admit, seeming disappointed in that. “But tomorrow’s a new day, right?”

“That it is.”

To anyone around us, it hopefully seems like perfectly pleasant, professional small talk. Nothing untoward happening here, certainly nothing rumor-worthy.

I feel eyes landing on us, then quickly looking away, and I arch a brow, reminding Dylan that we’re keeping us a secret, so we can’t blow it by making eyes at each other while we fake banal chatter.

Because despite my even tone, I can’t help the stars in my eyes when I look at him. He’s strong, powerful, and sexy, and there’s a part of me that wants to say ‘fuck this place and fuck the rumors’ and climb into his car so we can go back to his place.

“Well, I’ll see you later,” he says, nodding goodbye and moving to the next group of people.

I watch him go, and I don’t even realize I didn’t say goodbye until it’s too late.

Wait, does he mean later like later tonight, like he’s inviting me over? Or did he simply mean later like sometime in the future? Or was it just a polite phrasing of goodbye?

I don’t know, and I can’t exactly ask with everyone around.

I make my way across the pub, where Shanna’s standing by the bar, getting another drink. “Hey.”

“Hey!” she says, sounding slightly tipsy already. “What’s up, girlfriend?”Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Just having another,” I reply after ordering another beer, and Shanna grins.

“Me too!” She makes it sound like we’ve got something major in common, not just something as expected as getting a drink in a bar.

“How many is this for you?” I ask, a little concerned. I don’t know her well enough to gauge her tolerance, and she seems happy-tipsy, not over-served, but I still watch out for others.

“So far?” she asks, looking up. “Uh, Jason bought me one, Liam bought me one, Danny bought me one… ah… oh, and Eric bought me this one.”

“Buying beers for you?” I ask worriedly, and she nods, grinning. “Is that, you know… all good?”

“It’s no biggie,” Shanna assures me. “They’re just trying to hook up, and I’m the one getting the drinks from the bartender, so I know it’s safe.’ She wiggles her fingers in a flirty wave, and I follow her gaze across the room to where the guys she’s talking about are looking this way and returning her wave, encouraging her to come back to the table.

Her eyes clear a bit and she leans in, divulging in crisp, enunciated speech, “Besides, they talk more when they think I’m drunk. You can learn a lot.”

When she pulls back, her glassy eyes are back and her smile is a bit knowing. Ooh, she’s a smart one. I like her even more.

“Besides, it’s not like we’re a hookup den. But a little flirting to get through the long days at the office? No harm, no foul, you know?” she teases.

I shake my head. “Uh, sure?”

She’s stepping into dangerous territory… dangerous for me. And I want to back away from it entirely.

Shanna tilts her head, considering me. “Oh, I thought you were the one getting ‘Sharped’? My bad, sorry.” She takes her drink from the bartender, completely oblivious that she just upended my entire life. “Excuse me, better get back to the boys,” she says, sashaying toward the table across the room.

She knows.

I look around, seeing the smiling, laughing faces of my coworkers.

They all know.

I’m fucking the boss. I’m fucking Dylan. I’m getting ‘Sharped’. I didn’t even know that was a thing, but it rolled off Shanna’s tongue like it’s something she’s said before, so it must be.

They probably think that’s how I got my position, which is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I thought I was being so sly, that we were being so careful that nobody would notice. Yet apparently, it’s taken less than a month for me to be labeled as Dylan’s personal plaything.

They probably knew all along, those rumors they never mentioned getting to them even before we met. Every interaction where I thought I was making a friend at work comes back to me rapid-fire. They were probably cozying up to me in the hopes of garnering favor with Dylan. I thought I was getting further and further away from the consequences of that night at the fundraiser, but the truth is, it’s been following me like a shadow cloud just outside my field of view.

The realization makes my stomach churn.

I have to get out of here.

I flag down the bartender, hoping to tell him I don’t need that beer after all, but he sets it down in front of me right as Hector stops at the bar. “Here, this one’s on me,” I tell him, pushing it his way. “I’m heading home.”

“Oh! Thanks, but you’re gonna miss my much-anticipated return to the stage,” he teases with a grin.

“Next time,” I promise, knowing there won’t be a next time.

I weave through the crowd toward the door, feeling alone in the sea of people. People I thought were becoming my friends.

That’s fine, I tell myself. I have friends—Maggie and Ami—and they’re great. In fact, they’re probably sitting at home on the couch right now, eating whatever Ami pulled the birthday card on to talk Maggie into ordering. I can go home and join them, knowing they care about me and don’t give a shit about who I’m sleeping with as long as I’m happy.

And I have Dylan, who would spread me out on his desk, his bed, or any damn place and remind me that I’m beautiful, desirable, and his at a moment’s notice.

In the big scheme of things, the fact that my co-workers know isn’t all that catastrophic. But outside, as the night air blows through my already cold body, it feels like a big deal. A big, ugly, cringey deal that’s going to ruin my reputation again right as I thought I was rebuilding it.