PROLOGUE
BRAM
I have a stupid-as-shit crush on my best friend’s sister.
I know the exact moment it happened too.
It wasn’t when I first met her, no, that was when I first found out she liked to wear tube socks with shorts. Nor was it the second time I ran into her, because she was a sour, bitter girl with an attitude that struck me dead in the nut sac. But even in her scary rampage, I thought she was pretty and interesting, but a crush? Not so much.
No, it happened many times after the first. I was a senior, and she was a sophomore in college. A nervous sophomore, who forcibly ventured out to yet another frat party, captured by her friends, and held hostage to have a good time.
She was a fish out of water, and I couldn’t help but keep my eyes fixed on her as she awkwardly bumped into drunk assholes and tripped over empty beer cans, fixing her glasses that kept getting displaced from their perfect perch on her nose.
She was unlike any girl I had ever met. Strong-willed, obnoxious at times with her intelligence, cunning, and never too scared to back down. She intrigued me, held my attention, made me want to know what was spinning around in that beautiful head of hers.
I had to find out.
That night changed everything. Maybe it was the beer coursing through me, or the sheer curiosity in the girl who looked completely and utterly out of place, but I was drawn to her. I knew, in that moment, that I had a choice to make: either continue to sit with Lauren Connor and listen to her boring-as-shit stories, or remove my ass from the leather couch and say hi to Julia Westin.
Can you guess what I did?
Chapter One
BRAM
Any other man in my position right now would not press the button to the eleventh floor that leads to my friend’s apartment.
They would walk away, tail tucked between their legs, probably researching all the ways not to be me. Especially right now.
But I’m not like most men.
Never have been.
Sure, I have my moments. I like money and power. It’s why I own a shit ton of real estate in New York City and continue to invest, turning money into more money. I’m thirty-three and could retire now if I wanted to. But the real estate game is addictive and I love the chase, the runaround looking for the next best investment.
I also like to fuck. What man doesn’t? I’ve had many random fucks, never looking for more, because there hasn’t been one person to make me want to settle . . . well, besides one, but we’ll get to her.
And like most men, I love sports. Football, baseball, basketball . . . college sports, professional. The Olympics. Hell, throw me some synchronized swimming and I’ll watch the shit out of that.
My love for sports is why I’m here actually, walking the plank like a dead man, waiting for my sentencing.
“Hold the elevator, asshole.” The Irish lilt of Roark McCool bounces through the lobby right before he presses his large hand against the door of the closing elevator.
I make no attempt to hold it for him. That’s the kind of friend I am.
When he steps in, he eyes me up and down and starts chuckling. Reason number one why I didn’t stop the elevator. His gaze fixates on the twelve-pack of beer gripped at my side. Nodding toward it, he asks, “Thought you could bribe us with beer, did ya?”
An exchange student from Ireland, we met Roark at one of our frat parties our sophomore year. The minute we realized he could drink what seemed like a keg a night and not show an ounce of a hangover the next day, he was an instant match with our group of friends. The dude is one hundred percent Irish and has the hotheaded temper to go with the Guinness running through his veins.
Plus, how could you not be friends with a guy who’s named Roark McCool? It’s impossible.
“Nah, just making my contribution to the night.”
“Don’t think we’re going to take it easy on ya. A bet’s a bet.”
“I know.” I hide the smile that wants to peek past my lips.
A bet is a bet and the assholes better hold me to that bet, especially since I have a plan.
Losing was a decision I didn’t take much time to think about. The minute I knew what was on the line, I had no doubt who would be the ultimate loser in our fantasy football league.
Yes, three powerful executives, derived from a frat house, living in penthouses in Manhattan all participate in a fantasy football league. It’s our guilty pleasure, the one thing that provides a break from the constant and grueling grind of work for a few hours a week.
Every football season, we gather around the table, make a bet, draft our players, and then play out our season. In the past we would bet money, winner take all, but once we all maxed out our bank accounts, we wanted to start betting on more interesting things . . . like tasks.
We all have more money and possessions than we need, but experiences, you can never have enough of those.
That’s why I wanted to lose this year, to earn the chance of the best experience we’ve ever bet on. Oh yeah, I put up a front about it, scoffing at the idea, but fuck I could not wait to lose.
I’m not going to blow rainbows and unicorns up your ass—it was hard work at first, trying to strategically lose without being obvious. The last three years, I’ve won, and it’s been fucking great to watch my friends scramble and groan over the points I racked up every week. But this go-around, shit, it was hard and at one point, when my secondary players started doing really well, I was nervous as shit that I wasn’t going to lose. Somehow I pulled a loss out of my perfect ass and took the big L.
For once in my life, I’m earning this loss like a goddamn win.
The doors open up to a monochromatic and sleek apartment that overlooks downtown Manhattan. A plush white rug spans the length of the living room, reminding me of all the nights I’ve spent sleeping face-planted, ass in the air, on the plush motherfucker.
We might have money and run billion-dollar companies, but fuck if we have any class.
Maybe it’s why we’re not invited to many events around the city.
Hand clasped on my shoulder, Roark pushes me into the apartment and guides me toward the kitchen where Rath is already cracking open beers and celebrating.
“There he is,” Rath calls out, looking toward us. “Dead man walking.”
I plop the beer on the counter and let out a heavy breath, because I’m that good of an “actor.” I have to keep things authentic, after all.
“Christ, how long am I going to hear about this loss?” See that right there? Oscar worthy, especially with the added slump in my shoulders.
Rath, the winner of this season, looks between us and says, “I think you get to hear about it all year, just like when the rest of us lost. You never let us live it down.”
True. I’m a sore winner.
“Maybe you can take pity on me.”
Rath shakes his head. “Not happening. I set up a courier to bring you a reminder every day for the next month, a reminder of how shitty you played this year, just in case you forget.”
“How fucking noble of you.” I crack open a beer and take a giant swig.
“Who benches Russell Wilson?” Rath shakes his head at me.
I groan. “I told you, it was an accident.” That was no accident. I sat that charitable motherfucker right on the bench . . . and then donated some money to the children’s hospital he visits because he’s an inspiring man, and I was hoping for some good karma so my decision would be the final nail in the coffin for me.
It was.
I shake my head and walk to the table where there is a bowl of chips and guac. We still eat like frat boys. Beer, chips, pizza rolls; it’s all we need. No man ever really grows out of that frat-boy food, unless a good woman comes along who can cook and therefore offers incentive to eat properly. And we all know what incentive I mean.
I scoop a plentiful amount of guac on a chip and pop it in my mouth, chewing for a second before I swallow. My friends keep their eyes on me, crooked smiles gracing their smug faces as they watch my every move. I need to pump up the self-hatred, bring on the angry eyes.
“Will you assholes stop staring at me? I get it. I lost. Let’s collect on the bet and move the fuck on.”
Rath steps up to the table and motions to the chairs. “Boys? I think we have some rules to discuss, don’t you think?”
“We do.” Roark takes a seat next to me, sitting in his chair backwards and propping his arms on the back. “Bram isn’t leaving this apartment until we finalize every last piece of the bet.”
We might act like a bunch of immature idiots a lot of the time, but we are businessmen at heart, which means when we make a bet, we get that shit drawn up by lawyers and notarized. Having all gone to Yale, we’ve learned the ins and outs of being shrewd and relentless when it comes to business, so every year we apply the same tactics to our bets. It’s so we make sure the loser follows though without any hiccups.
When the contract rolled around this year to sign, I couldn’t find a pen quick enough.
“Okay, boys, are you ready for this?” Roark rubs his hands together, looking like a cocky motherfucker. Little does he know . . .
“Can we add a stipulation to the contract?” Rath asks. “Something like he must document everything for us?”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
“No stipulations,” I say. I don’t need any of what I have in mind documented.
Rath hands out legal folders to each of us with the bound contract inside, with every page laminated. Told you we’re official. “We already laminated, dude, so no stipulations.” Lamination always seals the deal. Literally. “Now, please open up to page one.” Rath takes control of the meeting, like usual.
The smartest between all three of us and the biggest tycoon, Rath has always led the group. A preppy yet sporty nerd, he brings the ideas to the table, the true brains with a shrewd business model. He’s dangerous, ruthless, and incredibly intelligent, making him vastly lethal in the business world.
Over the next few minutes, Rath lays out the rules and stipulations of losing, how I have to follow up on my bet in the next week, give updates, all that bullshit. And then he gets to the good stuff.
It’s hard to hold back my smile, to tamp down my excitement, but fuck, for the first time in a while, I finally have my excuse to talk to Julia Westin again.
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