“Did they send a picture? A link to her Facebook page perhaps?” I gave him a smirk. “She sounds hot. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Candice.”
“This isn’t Match.com, for Christ sake,” Henry said, giving me a look over the top of the glasses. “They don’t submit photographs with the resumes.”
“Pity.” The ball went up and down.
He tucked the resume back into the folder, then leaned and cleared his throat. “Do me a favor, Tanner,” he said with a sigh. “Keep your dick in your pants this time, will you?”
I caught the ball in my right hand while looking at him. I put on a confused face. “Henry, what are you talking about? My dick is always in my pants.”
“Except when it’s inside some random woman that’s struck your fancy,” he said, rolling his eyes. Henry had always considered himself to be like a wise uncle to me. He gave me the look you’d give a child with burnt fingers as you’re explaining why they shouldn’t have touched a hot stove eye.
He said, “Look, I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do.”
“Or who to stick my dick in,” I added with a grin. I shook the ball at him. “Henry, relax. Do you need to squeeze my ball?”
“Not even remotely funny,” he said, tugging off the glasses and tucking them inside his suit jacket. He blew out a long breath. “You know what I’m talking about. You can screw all the actresses and models and strippers you want, but this time, please, for me, don’t screw anyone that’s a part of this deal.”
I had had a brief dalliance with the wife of the CEO of a company we had sought to acquire several years ago, and it caused quite a stir in the business world.
Okay, maybe “brief dalliance” is not the correct term. Her husband caught be fucking her from behind on his desk right before the papers were to be signed.
Regrettably, the deal fell through.
Henry never let me live it down.
I swung my chair around and planted my elbows on the desk. I squeezed the ball between my hands and smiled. “But Henry, if you can’t screw your business associates, or their wives or daughters or girlfriends, who can you screw? I mean, what’s the point of having all this money if I can’t screw who I want?”
“You’re worth two-billion dollars, Tanner. You can screw just about anyone you want. I’m just asking you to keep it in your pants until we’re finished with this deal.”
I held up three fingers in a Scout’s salute. “Henry, you have my solemn pledge that I will do my best to keep my dick in my pants until this deal is done.”
“Wish I could believe that,” Henry said. The phone in his pocket buzzed. He pulled it out and slid open the screen. “The team from Goldman & Stern are here. They’re waiting for us in the executive conference room. Come on, you need to meet them.”
I made a sour face at him. The only thing I hated more than reading lengthy reports from expensive consultants was actually meeting with them.
I hated consultants.
Especially management consultants.
They were all so arrogant and smug, like they knew some horrible secret that could fuck up your business and they wouldn’t share it with you until you wrote them a fat check.
They were like leeches, sucking the blood from real businesses because they weren’t smart enough to start their own.
They were like the little fish that swam behind sharks so they could eat their scraps rather than fend for themselves.
They were all just so… consulting.
You get the point.
I hated fucking consultants.
And I was using fucking as an adjective, not a verb…
Hmmm… had I ever fucked a consultant? I didn’t think so, but there was a first time for everything.
I leaned back in the chair and brought my bare feet up to rest on the desk. Henry winced at the dirty bottoms of my feet.
He was second in command and dressed in three-piece suits.
I was the boss and I typically came to work in ratty jeans, tennis shoes, and t-shirts.
I picked up my phone and wiggled my toes at him. “You deal with the Goldman people. I’m waiting on the call about the Ferrari.”
“Tanner, they’re here to meet with the both of us,” he said, shoving my feet to the floor. He dusted off his hands and growled at me. “Now put on your fucking shoes and let’s go. And behave yourself.”
“God, you’re such a kill joy,” I said, looking under my desk for my tennis shoes. By the time I found my shoes and put them on, Henry was already out the door.
I picked up the stress ball and took my time catching up.
“Okay, let me do the talking when they get here,” Stan Robbins said, lowering his voice and waving his hand at the rest of us seated at the table next to him.