Despite this idiot’s stupid question, everything I do is by the book. No insider trading. No fraud. It all comes from a mind that’s been trained since childhood to be strategic and understand economic patterns.
And even if I shouldn’t, for the state of my motivation to maintain a certain work ethic, I do allow myself to take a little credit for HawCom’s success. I’ve been charged with a large job due to my leadership role in the company, but I cherish the opportunity. It’d be hard not to with an uncharacteristically kind and charismatic boss like Jared at the helm.
And for the last four months, I’ve made it a point to cherish everything.
See, I choose to be happy every day.
I choose gratitude and intention in my every action.
I choose the way my life plays out—all of us do.
It took me more than three busy, painful decades and the loss of both parents to figure that out, but now that I have, the freedom in it is impressive.
The truth is, until we die, all of us get to choose our own destiny—
“I swear to God,” Cap grumbles. “I will end you if I wind up in some kind of high-security prison for stock fraud.”
I laugh at the absurdity. “I help you grow your portfolio—without commission, mind you—and you’re threatening murder?”
“Are you deflecting, son?” he questions, always the fucking lawyer. “Because I swear on every-damn-thing, I will—”
“Relax.” I snort. “The only thing illegal about the stock tips I gave you was the fact that I handed them to you on a silver-fucking-platter without asking for anything in return.”
“Speaking of handing shit to me on a silver platter, let’s do that again,” he says, a cunning smile apparent in his voice. “Who is looking profitable for the first quarter of next year?”
“And why should I give you anything, you prick?”
“Because you love me. Because you don’t want to see me become a vagabond, living on the streets.”
“You’re one of the most successful corporate lawyers in North America who already has some of the world’s best advisers handling his money. I’m pretty sure a lack of financial investment advice from me isn’t going to break your bank.”
“Minor details.” He chuckles. “C’mon, dude. Help your best friend and his sweet, lovely, beautiful wife out.”
“Now you’re bringing Ruby into this?” I tsk. “For shame.”
“You and I both know, shameless or not, I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I want,” he retorts, and I laugh outright.
“Are you wanting stock tips or to get me into bed? Because, truthfully, it feels like it could go either way at this point.”
Of course, he doesn’t miss a fucking beat. “I’ll even toss in a candlelit dinner and champagne if that’s what it’s going to take.”
Just for the sake of ending this insanity, I start to open my mouth with a few companies that are worthy of investments in the upcoming quarter, but a shrill voice on the screen of the TV steals my attention. I wouldn’t normally refer to any woman’s voice as shrill because I find it incredibly sexist and demeaning, but I’m telling you, for the sake of painting an accurate description, this particular voice, regardless of its bearer’s gender, is like the distress call of a wounded rabbit. I couldn’t miss it if I were in an underground bunker with six feet of sound-dampening dirt between us. And somehow, somehow, she still made it on TV.
“Thanks, Chris,” she continues, her voice still painful to my ears. “Today is anything but business as usual in sunny Southern California. It seems, folks, that the impossible has happened. Hollywood is abuzz this morning with the most infamous immaculate conception since the Virgin Mary herself.”
My eyebrows pinch together at the ridiculous drivel as I lift the spoon to my mouth. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph must be rolling over in their graves.
“Twenty-nine-year-old famed virgin sexpot, Raquel Weaver, was photographed leaving Beverly Hills Obstetrics today with a noticeable bump front and center on her normally trim figure.”
Brakes squeal to a stop inside my head.
What the fuck? Did she just say Raquel Weaver?
I gape at the television, trying to make sense of why that name of all names just came out of Screechy’s mouth, but the instant a photograph pops up on the screen and all-too-familiar violet eyes stare back at me, I have my fucking answer.
Holy shit. It’s her.
The function of my right hand rendered suddenly useless, the spoon drops from my mouth and splashes into my leftover cereal and milk with a crash.
My shirt is splattered, but I can’t do anything more than wipe at it with a shaky hand and stand, a puddle of spilled fucking milk coating a square foot of surface area on the top of my table.
“Uh…hello? You still there, fucker?” Cap’s voice is a shock to my ear, but I’m too busy scrambling for the remote to register what he’s saying. I thumb the toggle for the volume up button until the voices on the TV are unmistakably clear.
This…the rest of this…I cannot miss.
“Raquel’s team couldn’t be reached for comment, but an inside source believes the actress to be about four months along.”
Whaaaaaaat? Four months along?!
I count back the months in my head.
November…October…September…August…
August fucking fifteenth, to be exact.
Like a NASCAR driver hitting the gas on the green flag, my mind races with memories of that very specific night that happened exactly four months ago.
My lips on hers.
Her hands sliding into the waistband of my jeans.
Her perfectly beautiful violet-colored eyes as I slipped inside her.
I swallow hard.
The last time I saw her—or talked to her, for that matter—was four fucking months ago, and now, Raquel…my Rocky is pregnant?
And she’s fucking famous?
Jesus Christ. Could I be any more out of the loop right now?
Apparently, disdain for television being drilled into your head at an early age is good for business but not so good for your personal life…
Holy. Fucking. Shit. This can’t be real.
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it appears the odds are ever in your favor, you no-condom-wearing idiot…
My heart pounds in my throat, and my breaths come out in erratic pants.
I feel railroaded. Like a man who’s trying to work his way upstream in a canoe without a fucking paddle and against a tsunami-like current.
“Dude, why are you breathing so heavy?” Cap, the fucker, he just won’t go away. “Are you getting a morning wank session in while you’re on the goddamn phone with me?”
“N-no,” I stutter, too damned shocked by today’s news to even know what is happening right now.
“Whatever. I don’t care. You can blow your fucking load for all I care as long as you stay focused on the important shit.” he replies, completely unfazed. “My investments. Who should I be buying into?”
Important shit? Yeah, I’m pretty much drowning in important shit of my own over here.
I am in charge of my own destiny, I remind myself and try to steady my voice as I ramble off some bullshit to keep Cap from realizing I’m awfully damn close to a nervous breakdown.