by Amy Brent
I took a sip of the watery iced tea that came with the salad and looked out the twentieth-floor window at the hazy Chicago skyline.
“I’ll bet he’s a major douchebag,” I heard myself say.
I couldn’t help it.
Whenever I thought about men these days the word “douchebag” automatically came to mind.
In fact, the word “douchebag” was becoming synonymous with the word “man” in my mind.
Man, douchebag.
Douchebag, man.
Call me jaded, but in my mind, they were one and the same.
I took another bite of the lettuce and munched as I sighed. Why do men have to be such douchebags, I wondered. Aren’t there any good men left in the world? Surely, they’re not all gay or married.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating just a little bit. Maybe not all men on planet earth are douchebags. Maybe it’s just the males of the species that I have personally met over my twenty-four years on the planet were douchebags.
They didn’t all start out that way, of course. Some of them were perfectly nice in the beginning. They seemed to evolve into douchebags after they met me. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was the common denominator. Maybe I took perfectly nice guys and turned them into total douchebags. I was patient zero!
I licked the dressing from my lips and reached for the tea. Maybe that was my special power, I thought. I had the power to turn perfectly nice guys into douchebags.
Nah. Who am I kidding.
I don’t have special powers.
Men are quite capable of becoming douchebags all on their own.
They certainly didn’t need any influence from me.
The most recent douchebag in my life was my ex-boyfriend, Scott, who dumped me after dating for five years because his mother didn’t think I was good enough for him.
He actually said those words to me.
“I’m sorry, Candice, but Mother doesn’t think you’re good enough for me.”
“I’m not marrying your mother, Scott,” I shot back. “The question is, what do you think?”
The prick didn’t hesitate. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I think Mother is probably right.”
And with that, he turned and walked out the door and never looked back.
I was like, are you kidding me, mother f*cker?
I’ve dated your douchebag ass since freshman year at college, saved my virginity for our wedding night, and two months before the wedding, I’m not good enough for you?
Seriously?
F*ck you!
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.
Tanner Wright
“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.
“Billionaires do have their own particular sets of problems, don’t they?” Henry said with a sigh.
He crossed his legs and brushed lint from his knee. Henry wasn’t a billionaire, but he’d gotten rich when Wright Enterprises went public five years ago. He could have easily spent twenty-five million dollars on a car, but he would never do so because he felt it was an overindulgence and a complete waste of money.
I remember him
asking me once, “Why buy a fifty-thousand dollar Rolex when a fifty-dollar Timex tells the same time?”
My answer, of course, was, “Because a fifty-dollar Timex won’t get you laid!”
The truth was, I had more money than I could ever hope to spend. Wright Enterprises was now one of the largest conglomerates in the world, with business holdings in practically every country on the planet.
I had made billions of dollars and could buy anything and anyone I wanted. And at the moment, I wanted that fucking Ferrari GT!
“We need to talk about the Anderson acquisition,” Henry said as the humor melted from his face. That was Henry. Enough frivolity! Back to the salt mines!
He reached into the briefcase that was sitting next to his chair and brought out a thick folder detailing our impending acquisition of Anderson Telecommunications, a regional telc0 in Arizona that had fallen on hard times.
We were going to acquire Anderson for pennies on the dollar. We’d either fix it if we could or tear it apart if we couldn’t.
It would be our first foray into telecommunications, so Henry was edgy. And rightfully so. I paid him to worry about such things so I didn’t have to.
“Is there a problem with the acquisition?” I asked, watching him balance the folder on his knee. He set a pair of reading glasses on the tip of his nose and opened the folder. He removed the first page and looked down his nose at it.
“I’m looking to prevent problems,” he said, sliding the page across the desk at me. “As we discussed, since this is our first telecom acquisition and neither of us are experts in the industry, I thought it would be a good idea to get an expert set of eyes to look over Anderson’s financials and interview the management team before we signed the final deal.”
I kept a red rubber ball sitting on my desk. It was supposed to be a stress ball, you know, a rubber ball you squeeze whenever you’re feeling stressed. The truth was, I rarely felt stressed. But I had the attention span of a tsetse fly and if I wasn’t constantly doing something with my hands, I had a hard time paying attention.
I squeezed the ball in my left hand and picked up the sheet of paper in my right. It was a letter of engagement from Goldman & Stern, the company who would handle this part of the due diligence.
I held out the paper and summed up my take on it. “So, we’re going to pay Goldman & Stern ten million dollars to do the due diligence on Anderson? Tell me again why we can’t do all the due diligence in-house? Why isn’t our corporate legal department handling this?”
“We are doing the lion’s share of the due diligence in-house,” Henry said. “But as I said before, some details that are specific to the telecom industry are out of our wheelhouse. Paying G&S ten-million to uncover skeletons in closets and mistakes on balance sheets is money well spent.”
I wouldn’t hesitate to spend twenty-five million on a car, but hated wasting a dime when it came to my business. It was mostly a formality because the acquisition was pretty much a done deal, but Henry was a stickler for covering our asses and I was grateful for it.
I scanned through the project description and a list of the people who would be doing the work. I sailed the paper across the desk at him, then leaned back in my chair and tossed the ball into the air.
I said, “Fine, whatever you think is best. Do you know anyone on the team Goldman is sending over?”
Henry picked up the paper and set it on top of the folder. He peered down through the glasses at the list of names. He ran a finger down the list. “Yes, the senior people I’ve worked with before. Stan Robbins and Juliette Ruiz. Bob Gaines and Irving Hunt I know by reputation. I don’t now recognize this last name. She must be new. Candice Carlson.”
“I’ve never heard of Candice Carlson either,” I said. I caught the ball and tossed it into the air again. “Did they send her resume?”
Henry opened the folder and wet his finger to fan through the pages. “I have resumes on the key players. Let’s see… Candice Carlson. BA from Penn, MBA from Harvard. Graduated with honors last year.”
“Fresh meat,” I sighed.
Henry ignored me and kept reading. “She joined Goldman right out of Harvard, so she has to be top notch. She has been on several teams that have consulted for Goldman in the telecom field.”
“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 firs
t 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.
Candice
“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.
Stan was in his fifties, tall and gaunt, with thinning hair and a tendency to stick his sharp nose squarely up the client’s ass. Stan was the senior telecom consultant at Goldman & Stern and my immediate boss.
Juliette Ruiz, a sour-looking woman in her forties, was Stan’s second in charge. Juliette, who was so thin her clothes hung off her like a hanger, hated everyone except Stan. And if she hadn’t reported to Stan, she would have hated him, too. They were Goldman’s power couple when it came to telecom. Together, they had over fifty years of telecom experience, and were leading the team conducting the final due diligence for Wright Enterprises’ acquisition of Anderson Telecommunications.
Bob Gaines sat next to Juliette with his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. Bob was a balding forensic accountant who had the look and pallor of a mortician. It was a fitting comparison because Bob could find financial skeletons in even the darkest of corporate closets. He not only looked like a mortician, he had the personality to match.
