And f*ck your mother!!!
I felt my cheeks getting hot. Even though it’s been over a year since Scott dumped me, it still makes me fume.
Granted, I didn’t come from money like Scott’s family did. The Carlson family was lower middle class at best, but I worked my ass off to get through college and then graduate school. I graduated with an MBA from Harvard last year and was recruited by Goldman & Stern to join their management consulting group before the ink on my diploma was dry.
I have a windowed-office in a Chicago high-rise, and pulldown one-fifty a year plus bonuses. I have a killer apartment downtown, and am on the fast track to make partner within five years. And I’m not good enough for your piece of shit son?
Again, dear mother, f*ck you!
I frowned at my own thought. I never used to cuss like this. Granted, this conversation is only going on in my head, but now I have the vocabulary of a drunken sailor.
And I blame it on Scott and his mommy.
Scott said his mommy thought I was a bad person. She didn’t like the way I treated her little boy.
Fine. Whatever. Sure, I can be a little abrasive at times, and maybe I bossed Scott around a bit, but come on, the guy could barely wipe his own ass without mommy’s help.
If he didn’t have me telling him what to do he would have spent most of his days bouncing through life like a pinball.
Not good enough for your son.
F*ck you, you old bat.
Your son wasn’t good enough for me!
I chewed on a chunk of lettuce and scolded myself for even thinking about this stuff. I mean, it had been over a year since I last saw Scott. Why was this still sticking in my craw?
And why didn’t I want anything to do with men in general now?
Had Scott scarred me for life?
Was I destined to be an old maid?
Or maybe a lesbian?
Hmm, no, I didn’t swing that way.
At least not yet…
I was young, healthy, and horny as the next girl. The fact that I was still a virgin irked me a bit. After all, the whole “saving myself for Mr. Right” crap flew out the window the day Scott dumped me. I’d jump Mr. Wrong’s bones if given the chance.
It’s not that I haven’t had opportunities to have sex. Jesus, you can’t walk down the hallway here at Goldman & Stern without running into a swinging dick. It’s just that I don’t want to be bothered by a man at this point in my life.
And as I said, men are douchebags.
I’d never had a cock inside of me, so maybe I didn’t know what I was missing. But I had long, nimble fingers and the foot-long vibrating dildo I bought online that I called “George Clooney”. George was always waiting for me in my nightstand. What the heck did I need a man for?
No, better for me to focus on my career rather than my love life. I was only twenty-four. I still had plenty of time left on the old biological clock, although some days I could hear it ticking louder than others.
I had my entire future all mapped out. I would find a man after I made partner, probably when I was thirty or so, squeeze out a couple of cute babies by the time I was thirty-five, and find a nice French nanny to raise them for me while I went back to work.
A solid plan, if I do say so myself.
Why would I let a man screw that up?
I finished the salad and wiped the dressing from my lips, then clicked on the email to find out when I’d be meeting with Tanner Wright, who I knew would be a douchebag, albeit a douchebag worth billions of dollars.
“I don’t give a damn what it costs, Barry! Just buy the fucking thing! And stop calling me every five seconds. If you miss out on this deal because you’re on the phone with me, I’ll rip off your balls and feed them to my Doberman! Now go!”
I slammed down the phone and balled my hands into fists. I shook them at the ceiling and growled. “Christ, why does everything have to be so fucking hard?”
Henry Costas, my best friend of ten-years and Executive Vice President of Business Development at Wright Enterprises, sat on the other side of my desk with a mild look of concern on his pleasant face.
“Is there a problem?”
I shook my head at him. “I sent my car guy out to the Barrett-Jackson auction in Vegas to bid on a 1961 Ferrari 250 in mint fucking condition, and he’s calling me every ten seconds to update me on the bids. I’m like, for Christ sake, just buy the fucking thing!”
“What was the last bid?” Henry asked.
“Fifteen million,” I snapped. “The catalog estimated that it could go as high as twenty-five million and I’m like, just fucking bid twenty-five million, Barry, and get it over with! I don’t understand the problem.”
I caught Henry grinning at me. When we met, I was in grad school at MIT and he was my business management professor. I didn’t have twenty-five cents to my name back then, and here I was a decade later throwing a temper tantrum over a twenty-five-million-dollar car that I would probably never drive.