What happened you ask? Dying to know?
Well, I’m going to tell you, from the very beginning, and you’re going to want to scream and say, this isn’t going to end well. Let’s all take a moment and say, “Wes, you’re an idiot.”
Good?
Perfect.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, here’s how it all went down . . .
Chapter Two
Dear Modern Gentleman,
I’ve recently been given the opportunity to reinvent myself. Without going into details about my past, I want to drop the nerdy persona that’s stuck with me since middle school and transform myself into the epitome of The Modern Gentleman. The problem is, I’m having a hard time staying out of the friend zone. Any guidance would be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Permanent Friend
Dear Permanent Friend,
While you’re busy switching from Reeboks to your very own pair of Stuart Weitzmans, there is a general rule of thumb you need to remember when interacting with the opposite sex. Brand this motto on your soul: a gentleman on the streets, an alpha in the sheets. What does that mean? Hold the door open for your girl, but when she passes through, give that ass a gentle slap. Let it be known you are every bit the upstanding man she dreams of but you will ravish the hell out of her when you get home.
Good luck, Gent,
The Modern Gentleman
WES
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“Let me get that for you.” I jog to the glass door that leads into the offices of HYPE, the leading news and social media company in the country.
“Thank you, Wes. You’re so sweet.”
“My pleasure.” I nod at Mary, the mother hen of the office, as she walks through the door, holding her morning coffee from the seventh floor. We’re on the thirty-third floor, but she insists the best coffee in New York City is on the seventh floor of our building. We don’t own the seventh. It’s full of accountants, but according to Mary, the people with the numbers make the best coffee. I don’t dare fight her over it.
With my very own coffee in hand—black from the local café around the corner—I pass reception and greet Esmerelda with a wave, since she’s already fielding a slew of phone calls. She smiles politely and finger-waves back.
“Wes, man. Catch the game last night?” Terrance asks as he passes me in the hallway.
“Yanks killed it, man. That rookie is giving the AL a run for their money. I’d be surprised if we’re not eating hot dogs this fall.”
As I make my way down the hallway toward my office, I greet everyone by name.
“Dalilah, is that a new dress?”
“Jo, how’s Danny? Is he over the pox yet?”
“Rose, please tell me you left more of those heavenly brownies in the break room.”
If you learn anything from me, let it be this: get to know the people around you. You never know whose day you might brighten by remembering a small tidbit about their life.
I walk through my morning routine, making the rounds, engaging in small talk, straightening out crooked ties, and handing out quick winks to those who catch my eye. When I reach my office, Caden meets me at the door, his tablet in hand, and an annoyed look on his face. The man is a workaholic, has zero time for anything outside of the office, and should be on the fast track to chief operating officer. But Frank Bellaton, our current COO, has to retire before that happens. So for now, Caden works his ass off with very little acknowledgment.
“What’s got your brow all busted today?” I ask in greeting.
Eyes fixed on the tablet in front of him, he doesn’t even look at me when he answers, “Frank called for a creative meeting this morning. He had another dream last night.”
“Oh Jesus.” I try to hold back the eye-roll that comes with mention of Frank’s dreams, but it’s damn near impossible. “Who’s going to be the sorry soul he picks on this time?”
“Who knows? No one’s safe. Remember when he made Jennifer redo all her quizzes because he had a dream they should be in a circular format rather than square?”
“Took weeks off her life.”
“Exactly.” Caden shakes his head. “He should let the directors deal with content and focus on running the damn company.”
Frank is not a reliable leader, but he has the occasional flash of brilliance, which is why the board of directors keeps him around. Too bad they know nothing about his “dreams.”
Whenever he comes into the office with a starry-eyed look, wearing his purple crushed-velvet jacket and gold shoes, you know he’s about to turn someone’s job upside down. And change is the nature of our jobs. As the leading source for news, entertainment, lifestyle, and mindless quizzes that tell you what Disney Princess you most resemble with five simple questions, we are constantly evolving to meet our readers’ demands. Thankfully, my advice column, which helps dudes transform themselves into gentlemen of class and sex appeal, never changes. Guys ask questions, I answer them. Simple, popular, and makes me a damn good paycheck.
“When’s the meeting?” I walk into my office and fire up my computer.
“Five minutes.”
“Fun.” I don’t bother taking a seat at my desk. Instead, I snag my own tablet for notetaking, coffee still in hand. I’m going to need it. Frank likes to take his time during these meetings. “Want to head over to the conference room?”
“Yup, just waiting on you.” Caden still has his head buried in his tablet as we step out of my office, but he maneuvers around the halls like a god, never running into anything.
“Hear from Roman this morning?” I ask, pausing to sip my coffee.
“No, but I heard from him last night.”
“You got a call too?”
Caden chuckles. “Pretty sure everyone in Manhattan got a call from him last night. What did he say?” Caden lifts his head for a second, squinting as he tries to remember. “Something about six shots with fire inside of them.”
“That’s his new favorite shot, a B-52. Irish cream, Kahlua, and Triple sec. He had six? Hell, when he called me he was only up to four.”
“Should I be offended that he always calls you first? I feel like I’m an afterthought after he’s fucking ripped.”
I chuckle and pat Caden on the back as we make our way down the hall. “Dude, you don’t want to talk to him six shots in. He’s way too emotional. You get fun Roman when he says whatever is on his mind. I get Roman who can’t stop crying into the phone.”
“He doesn’t cry, does he?” Caden chuckles.
“Practically.”
And speak of the devil. When we turn the corner into the conference room, Roman is sitting toward the back of the table, sunglasses on, a white button-up shirt barely buttoned, slightly crinkled, and his signature black hair askew. There’s no way he went home last night—his usual five o’clock shadow looks like a full-on beard.
He’s leaning his head into his hand, which is resting on the table next to him, the very picture of an eager employee, obviously. He groans and rubs his temple as we approach. Death consumes him. It’s hard not to notice.