by Alex Wolf
At the same time, something could very easily go wrong with the whole deal. His last sentence rings in my head, over and over.
“You don’t want me as an enemy.”
It’s true. I don’t. It’s not like I went and picked a fight with him for fun. I don’t understand why I’m so drawn to him either. I know exactly how men like him operate. How can I be so attracted to someone who will do anything to win, someone who’s so corrupted by the finance world and the power that comes with that. Men who will destroy anything in their way, just to get what they want.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll go to the dinner, hear him out, give answers, and make a logical decision.
Yep. That’s exactly how this will work. I want to know the story with those FBI agents, why they were smiling at him. There’s something going on there too.
Wells Covington
Why the fuck am I so nervous?
I have two hours before the date with Meadow. I’m sitting in a gigantic mansion, in my own personal sports bar inside my house, with a walk-in, custom humidor attached, full of the rarest cigars in the world. I shouldn’t have a hint of anxiety, and yet in my gut is this feeling I’m not accustomed to. It’s not even anxiety, per se. It’s more like a good type of worried.
Very eloquent explanation there, dipshit.
Usually, when I make an investment, I’ve done all the homework. I’ve worked the problem from every angle and verified the math. I’ve accounted for every possible risk, to the point there is no chance it will fail. Many times, there is guaranteed arbitrage, where it’s impossible for me to lose money, regardless of any possible catastrophe that’s not world-ending.
This, though. This is different.
I feel like an underdog. Like I’m entering into an arrangement where it’s likely the outcome won’t be favorable. One would think I’d be bothered by this, but on the contrary, it’s a rush. A dopamine spike. The uncertainty is intoxicating, floods my veins.
Orson walks in with two options for me to wear.
I take way longer than I usually would to select a fucking set of clothes. I pride myself on my appearance and efficiency in achieving it, but it shouldn’t matter this much. It does, though. I don’t like to lose. I won’t lose, and I want to look perfect for her.
Meadow Carlson will be mine.
This whole scenario is the reason. I’ve never felt this with a woman before. They usually bore me. I just want to fuck them, see what they’ll allow me to do, then it’s just dull afterward. I’m not an asshole about it. I treat them right, do polite things. I don’t just roll them out of bed and tell them to get lost, but it still doesn’t make them interesting to me.
Meadow is different. She’s the opposite of boring. I want to know more about her. I want to know where she got that brain of hers, what makes it tick. She’s like fine art. You want to get inside the artist’s head, understand what led them to create in the manner they did.
Dominic got back to me earlier. Said she runs an impact fund, but keeps it hushed. That didn’t surprise me. It made some sense of how she calculated and sabotaged my project. Which leads me to the next thing. Normally, if an investment goes bad, which is rarely, I lose it. I have to check out for a day or two, get upset, drink, put Lipsy in charge, and go wallow in despair. Then I review everything a million times until I find out where it went wrong and ensure it never happens again.
I look up and realize Orson is standing there, staring. I’ve been ignoring him.
It’s not unusual. I’ve been described as hyper-focused on more than one occasion by more than one psychologist.
“What’s going on with you, Orson? What’s new in your world?”
He quirks up an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“You heard me.” He must think I’m batshit crazy right now. We never do the small talk thing, even though I care about him more than just about anyone in the world. Orson, Lipsy, Dexter, and Cole Miller. That’s about it, as far as a social support system goes. I tend to despise almost everyone else. “What’s going on with you?”
He walks over and takes a seat next to me. “You all right?”
“Yes.” I shake my head at the same time.
Orson laughs. “It’s okay to be nervous, sir.”
I start to deny his accusation, then stop myself. “She’s different.”
“So it seems.” He leans back, regarding me with amusement.
“Well, are you going to give me one of your pep talks? Or say some British shit that helps me succeed tonight?”
He laughs again. “Afraid I’m not much of an expert on relationships. How is she different?”
“She fucked up a half-billion-dollar investment the first day I met her.”
Orson nods. “Well, that is a bit of a difference from the usual women you accompany.”
This time I laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.” I sigh. “She’s smart. Fucking genius level smart. Never met anyone like her.”
“So, you recognize yourself in her a little?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Well then, I think I would advise authenticity on your part. If she’s anything like you, she’ll sniff out deception a mile away. Maybe that’s another reason you’re drawn to her. She holds you accountable, forces you to be yourself. Demands the truth.”
I sit up straight. “You’re right. Fuck, she keeps me guessing nonstop. Impossible to read. Usually, I know exactly what people want from me, then I make sure the transaction is advantageous to my needs. I can’t do that with her. I fall flat on my face if I try. She sees right through it.”
“Well then, seems like you have a game plan figured out then.”
I stand up and pat him on the shoulder. “Good talk. We should do this more often.”
“I’m always here, sir. For whatever you require.” He walks to the door. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll pull the car around.”
“Okay.” I think for a second. “Wait.”
Orson turns around. “Sir?”
“I think I’ll drive. Take the night off. Do something fun.”
His eyebrows quirk up for a split second, then he levels me with his gaze and nods. “Very well.”
“And give yourself a five-thousand-dollar bonus this week. Call it a counseling fee.”
“Already did that this morning. Good luck on your date.” He walks off before I can say anything else.
Old prick. I bet he really did it too.
I get dressed, chuckling in the process, and stand in front of a full-length mirror. Hair is good, outfit is great, dark jeans and a button-down, sleeves rolled up. Slightly casual, but still classy. Usually, when going out, my number one goal is to fuck someone that night.
I stare at myself in the mirror and realize, I don’t even care about getting laid. In fact, I’d level the odds at ninety-nine point nine nine percent I won’t. I just want to know her better, make her like me.
That’s the one thing that scares me; craving her acceptance. It also excites me.
I pull up to Meadow’s building in my Tesla Model X. I figured it was the best choice, even though I wanted to drive the new mid-engine Corvette that was delivered yesterday. I mean, for fuck’s sake, her name is Meadow. If she doesn’t care about the environment, nobody does. Not to mention I can still go zero to sixty in two point nine seconds if I flip it to Ludicrous mode, and it has cool bat wing doors on it.
I ride the elevator up to her floor and, fuck me, the feeling in my stomach. It twists in knots by the second. You’d think I was back in the sixth grade, all tall and gangly, trying to impress a girl with calculus. I laugh at how far I’ve come in my mind, only to circle right back to that nightmare.
The entire walk to her door takes forever. This building is far more modest than I would’ve imagined. It’s nice, middle-class, but I know Meadow is wealthy. She might dress like a chic hippie, but she runs an impact fund. Her media outlets, of which I’ve been featured in many times, always unflattering, have to pull significant ad revenues.
She’s not broke is what I’m saying.
I mumble to myself, “The fuck does she do with all her money?”
When I get to the door, I focus. I debated bringing flowers during the forty-minute drive here, but I don’t want to look like that big of a pussy. That’s way more lovey dovey than I think I’m capable of, even if I do like her. Plus, Orson said to be myself.
I hover in front of her door for a moment, staring down at her doorbell.
Push it. What the fuck?
Here’s the thing, though. It scares me how much I want this woman. I know I’m not an addict. I can do drugs, then not do drugs. I can drink and not drink. I’ve forced myself to refrain from investing for a month, just to see if I could do it, to manage my impulses. I know I’m not addicted to those things.
With Meadow, I’m uncertain.
I’m not sure I can let this go with her if she rejects me. I’ve never wanted anything this bad.
That’s what scares the shit out of me. Because I may be able to win her over, date her, fuck her, fall in love with her, all that stuff. But what are the odds that it all works out in my favor, that we grow old and die together, everything just as it should be? Astronomically bad. She’s a bad investment, and yet…
I push the button.
“Just a second!” The words sound like they came from the other side of her apartment.
When I hear footsteps, my heart matches them, thumping in my ear.
First date. This is an important moment, this right here.
I focus my mind on remembering her, how she looks, the second she opens the door. For whatever reason, I want that locked in my memory forever. The whole moment, this entire thing, it just feels significant to me.
I would never wager on a gut feeling, but my gut is rarely wrong, and it’s telling me this is the start of a new chapter of my life. This is a defining moment, some kind of transformation from within.
When she opens the door, all the breath sucks out of my lungs. I pride myself on not showing reactions, not giving away any emotional intelligence to opponents, day in and day out. It gives me an edge.
There’s no stopping it here, though. It’s the second I see her smile, her honey eyes locked on mine, lashes slightly fluttering, cheeks slightly pink. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing special about her outfit or the way she’s dressed—light makeup, summer dress. It’s not designer. Her hair color is her own. No plastic surgery or augmentations. She’s the exact opposite of every woman I’ve ever been physically attracted to.
I think it’s mostly the eyes. They’re so disarming and I just get lost in them.
“Hello.”
I blink a few times, and my mind blanks on me, like I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’m such a bumbling idiot around her, just seeing her face.
She grins at me, in that sly way of hers, like she’s going to play dumb but knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
My throat closes off, but I manage to get out a, “Hi.”
“Want to come in for a second? I need to grab my bag.”
Finally, my brain decides to possess an electrical signal and I say, “Sure.”
I take a few steps inside as she walks off to a room, and I look around the place. It’s very minimalist and cozy, I guess. It’s the exact opposite of anywhere I sleep. There’s a sofa, bookshelf, a few pieces of art that look like something you buy at a store and not Sotheby’s.
Meadow returns with a small handbag.
“There’s no TV.”
“Smartest man in the world, ladies and gentlemen.” She laughs.
I don’t even dignify her little dig with a response, but I do grin.
She looks at me like is that a serious observation that requires a response? Finally, she says, “I read. When I’m at home. I like to minimize distractions. Something tells me you don’t watch much TV either.”
I take a step toward the door and continue the conversation as we walk down the hall. “CNBC, that’s about it. And Peaky Blinders.”
“What the hell is a Peaky Blinder?”
I scoff like I can’t believe she doesn’t know of the Shelbys. “Cinematic excellence.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise. I’m sure you’ve never been there.”
We walk up to the curb, and Meadow turns to face me after she sees the car. “Nice choice from your garage.” She nods at the Tesla.
I shrug, knowing nothing will get by her. “Charged it with solar. Not to worry, it’ll be a carbon footprintless date to ease your worried little soul.”
Meadow laughs as I open the door for her. “Know your opponent, Covington?”
“I prefer to think of us as an alliance now.”
“Yeah, I bet you do.” She buckles her seatbelt as I walk around to the driver’s side.
After pulling down the driver’s side door, we take off down the streets of Chicago.
“Figured you’d have a driver.”
My eyes roll over to hers then back to the road. “I usually do.”
“So you can be more efficient with your time?”
I flip the switch to Ludicrous mode on the Tesla. It’s time to make her a little nervous. “No. It’s more of a safety concern.”
Meadow’s eyes widen as she processes what I just told her.
Too late.
I punch it and we blast down the road. No sense in being able to do zero to sixty in under three seconds, unless you actually go zero to sixty in under three seconds. The force of acceleration throws us back into the seats, and Meadow’s hand flies out and grips my forearm, her small, manicured nails digging into my skin.
Fuck, it feels amazing too. I don’t want to stop, but I know she’ll demand to be let out of the car if I push my luck.
“Goddamn it, Covington!” Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them.
I try to hold in the laugh building in my chest as I bring us back down to the speed limit.
She gives me a little backhand to the shoulder and glares over at me. “Way to start off a date, asshole.”
“Hadn’t tested it out yet. Figured you’d appreciate the transference of all that electrical energy to the wheels.” I smile and continue before she can respond. “So it is a date?”
She blinks a few times. “About to be the shortest one in history.”
“Nonsense, I’ve already had shorter than this.”
She tries to hold back a grin and just shakes her head at me while I keep my eyes on the road.
“Was just testing the power of solar—”
“Just… stop, okay?”
I finally laugh. “Fair enough.” I glance down at her fingernail marks on my skin. Fuck, I’d love to have her put some of those on my back. The funniest thing is, I really don’t even care if I get laid tonight or not. I’m just, happy. Happy being near her. When she’s around me, I don’t feel like myself. I’m a better version, if that makes any sense.
It’s dangerous because I have to be a certain way to run my business. You can’t show weakness, empathy, in the hedge world.
There’s just something about this, though. This whole moment. Her in the passenger seat, me driving, in control of the situation. It’s so foreign, yet I don’t want to be anywhere else right now.
Finally, I pull up to the place, far sooner than I’d like.
Meadow’s eyes light up when she sees the sign, but she says, “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Her eyes dart around for a second; no doubt she’s trying to think of how to approach this. “Al’s Italian Beef?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
She turns in the seat to face me. “I want to hear your methodology for this selection.”
I shrug. “Easy, it’s the story behind it, with which I’m sure you’re familiar. The business came about during the Great Depression when Al Ferrari needed to stretch a roast to serve a wedding reception. So, he sliced the meat thin and served it on thick Italian
bread. It’s right up your alley. Finding value out of little, to better the community in time of need.”
Meadow stays quiet for a moment.
“Or it could be that I saw several Al’s Italian Beef containers in your trash can when I surprised you at your office last week. Either works.”
That gets another smile out of her. I’m making her smile an awful lot, for someone who purports to not enjoy my company all that much.
This whole date is a lot like playing chess against a grand master like Kasparov. She has not brought up the big project downtown, even though it’s her entire reason for being here. She hasn’t even alluded to it. She’s playing her opponent, and I have to respect that. She’s building empathy, making me think she’s enjoying this. But I can tell. It’s not working how she wants it to. She wants to loathe me. Her brain screams it at her, but this magnetic attraction between us, it’s pulling on her the same way it is on me.
Interesting.
I’m sure she’ll wait until we’re approximately fifty percent through the meal and will mention the project, if I haven’t brought it up by then. I don’t see her holding out longer than that.
I raise up the Tesla wing door and step out, then walk around to get her door for her. I hold out a hand, but she gets up by herself. I’d expect no less from Meadow. She doesn’t need a man’s help to get out of a car. Secretly, she likes the chivalrous gesture, even if it feels like a manipulation.
This may be the first time I’ve felt a hint of control when it comes to her.
Her phone rings as we walk inside. Meadow silences it immediately.
“You can take that if you need to.”
“Thanks for the permission, Covington.” She stuffs her phone back in her little clutch bag.
“You’re welcome.”
She shakes her head as we look up at the menu. Which is a meaningless gesture, because when you go to Al’s, you’re getting the beef sandwich. Everyone knows this.
Meadow keeps smiling, probably more than she wants to. But I can’t help but notice I’m doing the same. I’m not much of a smiling person. Definitely not at work, unless Lipsy and I are behind closed doors. The only other time is when I hang out with Dexter and Cole, or when Orson cracks one of his dry jokes.
