Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Indira gulps. “They hate Adalwulfs.”
“I get that.” Mr. White–Billy–muttered something about out-bidding the ‘Adal-fucks.’ “The Adalwulfs are behind this bid on Benson. But I get the sense there’s some bad blood.”
“Not just bad.” Indira’s still whispering. “Worse.”
“The worst blood? Now I’ve gotta know.”
She gulps and beckons me to the kitchenette, where she continues to whisper even though we’re the only ones on this floor. Brick is out of his office. “There’s been a rivalry for years. Decades even. The Adalwulfs killed Blackthroat Investments. That was the company–”
“Brick Blackthroat’s dad, Bruce Blackthroat, ran.” I repeat my research. “I know about that. Bruce died unexpectedly, and Brick tried to take over.”
“Yeah, and, uh, it didn’t work out.”
“I read about that.” Brick Blackthroat was only eighteen and untested. “None of the big investors stayed with Blackthroat Investments.”
“Yeah, because Adalwulf Associates poached them. Told them they couldn’t trust someone young and green with their money.”
“Yikes.” So that's why there’s such a feud.
“Blackthroat Investments doesn’t really exist anymore. They only work with family money.”
I snort. “There’s plenty of that.” But I see how Brick Blackthroat and his buddies would see it as a huge defeat. “So they founded Moon Co. It makes sense now, why they’re so intent on getting one over on their rivals. I’ll see what I can dig up on the Adalwulfs. See if we can get an edge.”
“I should’ve thought of that.” Indira scrubs her face. We return to the phones, which are still playing sad elevator music, designed to be annoying enough to make someone want to end the call after the first five minutes.
“It’s all about power plays, right? We just have to play the game.”
“You fit in here far better than I do,” she tells me with a note of despondency. “I have a degree in finance, not psychology. I like numbers, not people. I am so not into this.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“M.I.T. I was hoping for an analyst position, but the only ones that open up are in administration, and my parents told me it was better to get my foot in the door. I don’t really know.”
“No, it totally is. You should talk to Ms. Uptight in HR and mention that you’re interested in an analyst position if one opens.”
“I told her in my interview, but she ignored me. The trouble with this particular admin position is that the chances of me getting fired in the next six weeks are ninety percent, and then I’ve blown my one shot at working on Wall Street.”
She’s probably right, which makes me preemptively sorry for her.
I toss my takeout container in the trash. “I will do my best to make sure neither of us gets fired. You deserve an analyst position. No more babysitting execs.”
If I put in a good word for her, maybe she can get the job she really wants. Would that get me promoted to be Blackthroat’s direct assistant?
Imagining it gives me a thrill of excitement–for the challenge of the job, only. Not because I want to work more closely with Blackthroat. I’m definitely not imagining helping him change clothes again.
No, working for the boss-holes is torture. There’s no way I should be enjoying it, and if I am? I’m more of a masochist than I thought.
Brick
After a long day in the office, I have John Acker, my helicopter pilot, take me to the family property out of state. The Berkshires residence is a place where I can let myself off-leash to run. Where I can get the concrete and asphalt out of my cells and smell the bark of trees and the rich smell of earth beneath my feet.
I go every weekend, often accompanied by one or more members of my executive team. At least once a month Ruby, Eagle and the kids will meet me there for some family time. I don’t usually have to go in the middle of the week, but today, I’m on edge. I know the reason why–she’s short, freckled and entirely too sexy in her modest dresses–but I’m not going to think about that.
The Berkshires property has been in my family for a hundred years and has extensive wooded grounds plus every bit of old-world opulence you can think of, including separate servants' quarters, the helicopter pad, and enough bedrooms to sleep thirty.
“Six-thirty a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late,” I tell John.
“I’ll be here.” He salutes.
I get out of the helicopter and am met by the yips of pleasure from three blue heelers who race out to the landing pad to greet me. The caretakers of the property, Dane and Liz, are shifters. Old-timers who served my father and have known me and my sisters since we were in diapers. They’re servants, but they’re also family. Pack members I would protect to the death, who would do anything for me.