Big Deal

by Soraya May

  One minute to market open.

  Tom stands up and stretches, as if he has nothing in the world to worry about, as if his career, and my future, and the existence of the company, weren’t on the line in the next sixty seconds. With one hand, Mike scrunches up a piece of paper into a ball; with the other, he’s drumming his fingers on the table, again and again. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  Ten seconds to market open.

  Tom looks over at the screens, and then back towards the waiting group, smiling faintly. “Everyone okay?” The hiss that rises from fifteen throats at this point makes even him step back.

  “Boss, so help me God, if you don’t tell us what’s going on, I am not responsible for my actions.” Billy mutters under his breath.

  “Very soon, Bill. Very soon.” The light in Tom’s eyes is bright now, and he flexes both hands, ready to move suddenly.

  Ding. Market open.

  The screens light up, and the first round of orders from Walters Capital for the Macaulay Bond goes out into the market as the team, and the whole world, watch.

  BUY.

  BUY.

  BUY.

  BUY.

  Fifteen sets of eyes are locked on Tom and I. Dumbfounded, Mike finally finds his voice.

  “Boss, what the hell are you doing? You’re buying more of the Macaulay bonds, putting us deeper in debt, when you know everyone else is going to sell?”

  Tom nods. “Exactly. Just watch.”

  Incredulous, Mike turns back toward the screen, watching the line marking the price plummet lower and lower. As every moment passes, we’re more in the red, losing thousands every minute.

  More buy orders.

  “Are we trying to blow up the firm at double-speed here?” Mike demands, his face red. “Because it seems to me that was going to happen fine without all of us being here, and I could have been home in bed—”

  Tom stands up again, and points at the screen. “Have faith, Mike. Just this once.”

  The price keeps dropping. Red. Red. Red. More red. We’re a million in the red now, two million, the numbers ticking past like the fare in a taxi meter.

  More buy orders.

  Then something strange happens.

  The red stops getting deeper and darker, and starts to shade back to pink. The line stops plummeting, and starts to flatten out.

  Mike stares at the screen. “What’s going on?” We watch as other orders come into the market, from other firms.

  BUY.

  BUY.

  Tom coughs politely. “Mike, you’ve worked in finance for ten years. I think by now you can tell what’s going on. Other people are buying.”

  The smile on his face is the smile of a man who knows the punchline to all the jokes in the whole world.

  “But why the hell would they do that? Why wouldn’t they just sit and watch us drown, if they know…” He tails off, and looks down for a moment. When he looks up, there’s a light in his eyes. “Because. Because they’re watching us. Because they think we know something they don’t.”

  Tom snaps his fingers. “Got it in one, my friend. Now we go fix this thing.” He raises his voice. “Everyone, I want you to get to your terminals now. I want you to buy as much as you can, as fast as you can. Don’t try and hide it; make it as public as possible. I want you to leave a trail a mile wide, a trail you can see from space. The whole world is watching us, so let’s give them a show.” He claps his hands. “Now!”

  Slowly at first, then with increasing vigor, people wheel themselves to their desks, and the room comes to life, fingers on keyboards. Phones ring, and the screens light up.

  “Call people. Tweet, Facebook, Instagram, do whatever the hell you can.” Tom’s voice rises above the clatter of keys and the noise of conversation. “Let everyone know that we’re going to buy everything there is to sell.”

  Eyes on the screen, I watch the line, and the orders flowing onto the screens.

  “Jesus, Tom.” Billy wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “You want to stop the market dropping by buying everything there is? That’s like trying to escape an oncoming train by running straight at it.”

  Tom laughs, deep and rich and long. “It sure is, Billy. I’ve spent my life trying to predict what people will do, and here we are, trying to change it. In the end, the thing that matters most to people is belief. I was asleep to that, but then I met someone.” He takes a breath, and looks at me. “Someone wonderful. Someone who woke me up.”

  Billy’s eyes are saucers, and he looks from Tom to me, then back again. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Tom cuts him off.

  “Come on! While you’re all sleepin’, the saints are a-weepin’. Faster!” Tom claps his hands again, the ringmaster in the circus.

  The orders come in, and the phones ring, and slowly, gradually, the world goes slightly nuts around us. At first, it’s the price stabilizing; the drop slows from a torrent, to a trickle, and then it flattens off.

  We hold our breath and watch. Then, very gradually, the line starts to rise.

  The price is going back up.

  Clapping and cheering breaks out across the room, and Tom puts up a hand. “Don’t stop. We’re still millions in debt, and there’s only one way out. Keep going!”

  His phone rings; he looks at it and laughs aloud, then shows the screen to the room.

  Rick Parsons, Global Finance

  “Good morning, Rick. Yes, I do know what I’m doing. Say, you guys aren’t wanting to sell, are you? Because if you are, we’d love to— Hello? Hello? Rick?” Tom clutches the phone to his chest theatrically. “Oh dear. It sounds like some players in the market aren’t happy with what’s happened here.”

  Mike waves an arm. “Tom, I’ve got Lightfoot Partners calling. Don’t know how they got my number. Do I answer?”

  “Oh, the energy boys? What’s the current price for the contract?”

  “Four-forty.”

  “Right. Before they say one single word, offer to buy from them at four-fifty. Everything they have. Go!”

  Mike bends over his phone, muttering into it. Minutes later, he looks up, grinning. “You wouldn’t believe it. They wouldn’t sell. They wouldn’t sell. Thirty minutes ago, they were selling as fast as they could, trying to bury us, and now they’re telling me they won’t do a thing until we tell them what we know.”

  Tom spreads his arms, expansively. “Tell them if they call again, Michael, that everything we know is in the market. I’m sure they’ll love to hear that.”

  We keep watching, and people keep phoning.

  Bear Stearns.

  Merrill Lynch.

  Firms I’ve never even heard of, all trying to find out what we know. Facebook messages, Twitter, LinkedIn, everything.

  “Tom, there’s an interview request.”

  “Tell ‘em we’re busy.”

  When the hashtag #whatdoestomknow starts trending, there’s a whoop from the crowd, and he acknowledges it with a wave of his arms.

  The price keeps climbing, climbing steadily, until that moment when someone shouts ‘We’re back in the black!’

  More cheering and clapping. Tom holds up his arms, then turns back to the crowd.

  “Okay, now we start selling. We might not be underwater any more, but we’re still holding a hell of a lot of assets, and this stunt has made the whole world jumpy. Sell things off slowly and carefully, nice and easy.”

  In a dream, I watch as we start to sell off we’ve just bought. Tom’s in constant motion, walking from person to person, gesturing, clapping shoulders, pointing at screens.

  Finally, the price stabilizes, and Tom holds up his arms again. “Okay, let’s back it off. We’re okay now. Billy, where are we?”

  Billy taps at his computer, and scribbles on a piece of paper. “Boss, we are pretty much back where we started. Maybe a little ahead. Maybe a little behind.”

  Tom exhales. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have never been so happy to do a morning’s work and not make any money out of it.” He
turns to me, smiling. “Impressive work for your first project, Ronnie Haas.” I grab him around the waist, and kiss him in front of everybody, promoting a fresh round of cheers.

  “You and me, Ronnie Haas. You and me. Now and forever. What do you say?”

  Yes, please. I smile. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  There’s a hush behind us, and I see people’s eyes flick to the doorway. Tom turns around.

  “Morning, Bob.”

  “Morning, Tom.” Bob Walters, the founder of the firm, stands in the doorway. He’s not a tall man, but from the way he walks in, it’s pretty clear who owns the place. “Busy morning, Tom?”

  Tom shrugs. “Pretty hectic, Bob.”

  “It’s been a…surprising morning for me, Tom. I woke up expecting to watch my firm lose two hundred million dollars over my breakfast, and then to call those bastards at Global and beg them for mercy. Instead, I watch you and your team going berserk, and the rest of the market, inexplicably, seeming to follow you.”

  “It’s a funny game, Bob.”

  “Tom, what the hell just happened here? I want the truth.”

  “Of course.” Tom walks forward, standing in front of the team. “The truth is, Bob, I went rogue. I came in early and set up a series of orders on the computers without my team’s knowledge. I then instructed them to carry out my orders without informing them of what I was doing.”

  He smiles wryly. “I’m completely out of control. I will tender my resignation immediately, and I should be publicly held responsible for this debacle which has led to Walters Capital making a profit of more-or-less zero dollars on this deal.”

  Bob Walters looks around the room, eyes scanning the upturned faces. He settles on me. “What about her?”

  Tom holds out both hands. “Bob, she’s not even here. She’s not an employee, and you know there’s no way non-employees can get onto the trading floor without anyone knowing.”

  The old man nods, slowly. “So, you’re telling me that this entire scheme was dreamed up by you, and someone who isn’t here, and the two of you—”

  “One of me.”

  “Alright, one of you—are responsible for this deal making absolutely nothing?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you’re going to resign.”

  “Absolutely. In exchange for an agreement not to prosecute, of course.”

  “Of course.” Bob furrows his brow. “You’re aware, aren’t you, that the board will be furious?”

  Tom’s smile is broad and sunny. “I expect so, Bob. I expect so.”

  “You’re also aware that neither you, nor the lady who isn’t here—” he indicates me, “will ever be able to work in this industry again?”

  “That’s an unfortunate but necessary consequence of what’s happened, Bob.”

  There’s a long silence. The small man paces up and back, between the rows of computers. Finally, he looks up.

  “Very well. I’ll make a statement to the press—who have been beating down my door, by the way—denying any knowledge that this was going to happen, and holding you personally responsible for everything that’s happened here.”

  “Sounds good to me, Bob.”

  He turns and walks away, toward the doors, phone in hand. When he gets to them, he looks back.

  “Tom, it seems to me that you’re not only responsible for this firm failing to make any money in this deal, you’re also responsible for saving it.”

  “Could be, Bob. That could be. You should discuss that with my successors.” Tom gestures to Mike and Billy, watching open-mouthed. “I suggest these guys here.”

  Bob Walters’ gaze flicks over to them, and back to Tom. “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  The door closes behind him. Hands in his pockets, Tom strolls over to me. He’s trying to act casual, but the look in his eyes says different.

  “Well, sweetheart, what shall we do with ourselves now? Any plans for the weekend?”

  I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him again, long and full. “Only with you.” Behind us, Mike and Billy chuckle.

  Tom grins. “With me, huh? What would you say to visiting Paris? It so happens I won some money recently, and these guys—” he indicates behind him, “were telling me I should take my girl away on a trip. What do you say? Besides, it looks like we both seem to be out of a job.”

  I take his face in my hands. “My job, Tom Macaulay, is keeping you out of trouble. And I think it’s going to be a full-time occupation.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Waitaminnit. You keeping me out of trouble? This was your doing right from the start, remember?”

  Behind us, conversation in the room starts up again, as the business of the day gradually picks up, and things return to normal. I take Tom by the hand and wink at Mike and Billy. “I think we’re going to need to discuss this in private.”

  Letter From Soraya

  Dear Reader,

  I really hope you liked Ronnie and Tom’s story. It took me a while to write this book; so many people emailed me to say how much they liked Ronnie in ‘Professor Trouble’, and they wanted to know what happened to her after that, that I knew I had to carry on her story.

  But, Ronnie is such a quirky strong-willed kind of girl that I knew I needed a story that did her justice; showed her growing up (but retaining her independence and sense of what was right), and found her a man who was a match for her. Ronnie and Tom belong together—you can count on that—but it won’t always be smooth sailing for them; there’ll be some arguments and some making-up needing to be done.

  Before I go, please take a moment to review ‘Big Deal’ on Amazon or on Goodreads. For a new author, reviews really make all the difference in helping people find my books, so I really do appreciate you doing it. If you’d like to get in touch, you can email me at soraya@sorayamay.com, or contact me on Facebook — I’d love to hear from you.

  Until next time,

  Soraya

  About the Author

  Soraya May writes contemporary romance with silly jokes, sweet (but strong) heroines, and likeable (but sometimes infuriating) heroes. She grew up on a remote New Zealand sheep farm with only books and animals for company, and she’s been using her imagination and making her own fun ever since.

  Soraya has been a dance teacher, project manager, fashion model, voice actor, cancer scientist, technical writer, and short-order cook, not necessarily in that order. She believes that there is no such thing as ‘too many books’, or ‘enough dance shoes’, and the only thing in the world she really can’t stand is beets (called beetroot in NZ). Not even her cat likes beets, and that cat will eat most anything.

  Join Soraya’s mailing list for the FREE extended epilogue of ‘Big Deal’: find out what happens next for Tom and Ronnie! Warning: may also contain free stuff, giveaways, silly jokes, and minor grumbling about beets.

  Listen to the ‘Big Deal’ soundtrack on Spotify!

  Stay in touch:

  @SorayaMayWrites

  SorayaMayAuthor

  sorayamay.com

  soraya@sorayamay.com

  Read an Excerpt from Professor Trouble

  Emily thinks her new class with a visiting professor is going to be pretty dull: Latin Literature taught by some old British fuddy-duddy. Except Will Spencer isn't what she expected: he isn't old, and he isn't a fuddy-duddy...

  Stay out of trouble, they said. But Emily Masterson, sitting in the front row of my class, was the kind of trouble I didn't see coming.

  I bet I’m the only college professor in all of Britain who’s punched his boss for being an asshole. But he got up again, and hit back pretty good—he knocked my ass three thousand miles across the Atlantic. Now I'm in exile for a semester, teaching bored college students in New Hampshire.

  It’s only a semester, they said. It’ll blow over, and you can come back to your real job.

  All I need to do is stay out of trouble.

  Especially the kind of trouble that comes in a cute little package, with red
lips, and round hips, and little polka-dot skirts.

  Especially when that trouble is in my class looking at me as if I’m the most important thing in her world.

  Especially when she's my new student, and all the things I want to do to her are completely forbidden.

  Stay out of trouble. Right.

  Chapter 1

  “Late on your first day of class, honey?”

  Trying my best not to ignore Mrs. Tanner, I burst through the main doors of the Languages building. She’s an ideal receptionist, with a cheerfulness that borders on the pathological at times, and she’s been kind to me, but right now I don’t have time to talk, or indeed slow down. Self-defense class says that the best way to run in heels, even kitten heels, is to take them off, but this is only good advice if you’re running away from something. If you’re running toward it, and you need to arrive looking presentable, things get more complicated.

  I clatter up the stairs and make the turn for the Medium Hall. Stupid name. If there was a Small Hall and a Large Hall, fine. But there isn’t. At least name it after some old dead guy. As I do, I feel an ominous click in the buckle of my left shoe. Two more strides, and the problem is clear; my shoe buckle is coming undone, and like a race-car running with a bald tire, that’s going to end badly.

  Hiking my bag higher on my shoulder, I bend to fix it without slowing, turning my movement into a sort of crab-wise hop. This works better than I’d expected, although it gets me funny looks from the few students who aren’t already in class. I feel a surge of irritation for them - not only are they not in class, they don’t even seem to be worried about it. Assholes. The least they could do is feel guilty.

  The furious hopping continues until I twist the strap and shove it into the side of my shoe, where my foot ought to keep it pinned until I can get to class. I increase my pace again, and wonder briefly if this is all really worth it just so I don’t make a bad impression with some wizened elderly Brit. William Spencer. Talk about an old dead guy name. Still, that’s what I get for taking Latin Lit.