Page 2 of Fair Trade (New York Monarchs #2)
one
Six months ago
I should go home.
The day has been long enough as it is. But I can’t seem to peel myself off my barstool while aimlessly stirring my untouched dirty martini.
I thought a stiff cocktail would make me feel as though I was just a normal New Yorker having an overpriced drink at a fancy hotel bar instead of someone who’d left her boss’s wake.
God, I can’t believe he’s dead.
Arthur Stonehaven, owner of the New York Monarchs and the man who single-handedly changed my life by offering me a dream job as general manager of a New York major league baseball team, passed away in his home in the UK.
His granddaughter, Daisy, asked that his friends stateside come together to memorialize him today.
It feels odd to grieve for a person I’d barely known.
Even weirder when it was made quite evident that Daisy herself hardly knew the man she was honoring.
It wasn’t the ideal way to finally meet her in person, seeing her standing in front of a small crowd, alone, attempting to come up with nice words for her estranged grandfather.
I don’t know why I thought jumping in would be a good idea. Not like I had much more to add to the already awkward welcome speech turned eulogy. But my less than graceful ramblings got the attention off her, and the grateful look in Daisy’s eyes was well worth it.
After, she mentioned she might be able to get me a meeting with the new team owner on Monday, and I’d take any chance I could get to make a good first impression on my new boss.
But tonight, it’s not about work. Tonight is about treating myself. I’ve spent my whole life aspiring to be half as successful as I am now, and I need a second to myself before my life becomes unrecognizable.
The fact that I’m even allowed the luxury to mope over a thirty-dollar cocktail is an achievement in itself.
Waltzing into the glitzy hotel I only ever dared to look at from the street corner while growing up in the city was never part of the plan tonight.
But walking straight up to the hotel lounge, picking a stool in the center of the bar, and ordering a drink without even looking at the price made it feel like I was finally living in the New York City that only blond, white women on TV and movies experience.
Not Dominican girls from Harlem.
Though, if I’m honest, the overall vibe so far has been a bit lacking.
The soft jazz playing on a loop is putting me to sleep more easily than my melatonin can.
The actual bar is smaller than I anticipated for a hotel so grand.
And the company in this place is nothing like the neighborhood spots I’ve always frequented.
I won’t run into anyone I know here. Which is a bit alluring on my last night of living a somewhat normal life.
But it is weird that there will be no sudden appearance of a random cousin, blood related or otherwise, or any of the ladies who blow dry my hair on 125th Street, and I certainly won’t be bumping into any of the usual guys I date.
The guys I dated , because I’ve just signed a million-dollar deal to become the first female general manager in the MLB, and my new schedule, which includes traveling with the team, will assure that there will be zero time for dating.
Not like my love life was thriving before Arthur made me an offer no one in their right mind would turn down, one that ensures I’m about to be thrust into the spotlight.
Our season is about to start, and there is no chance I’ll allow anything to stand in the way of my focus.
Unfortunately, that memo has yet to be sent to the men at this bar.
I try to look completely enthralled by the three olives in my drink while expertly avoiding the eye contact of the man a few stools to my right who’s been trying to get my attention all night.
I’m surprised he’s still trying after I turned two of his friends away.
He moves in my periphery, but one can hope that he’s making his way to the exit.
“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt—”
Ugh, bachelor number three is up to bat, I guess.
“—but I wanted to ask if I could buy you a drink.” He slips into the space between me and the next barstool over as he leans a forearm on the bar and offers an overly cocky grin that I’m sure has served him well in the past.
One day I’m the coach for the women’s softball team at the local community college, and the next I’m wondering if my Hannah Montana cover has already been blown.
Did he read my GM announcement in the paper last week? Or see the Sports Illustrated cover I posed for in a hot pink pantsuit? Is he a Monarchs fan? Or perhaps a plain run-of-the-mill finance bro?
I don’t know why I even bother asking myself these questions. Even if he were the man of my dreams, handwritten by the creators of my favorite rom-com movies, it still wouldn’t matter.
Because as soon as I signed my seven-figure contract, I became married to my job, and happily so.
Although I’ll have to figure out what I’m going to do about sex.
Because I’ll be damned if I accidentally force myself into a vow of celibacy before my thirtieth birthday.
Because I love sex.
I really do. I just don’t love the men I have to deal with in order to get an orgasm that isn’t delivered by a sex toy.
My ex-boyfriends never understood that I liked it rough in the bedroom. Ignored me when I asked for dirty talk, instead whispering sweet nothings as if I were a delicate flower. But there’s nothing fragile about me.
Because when it comes to sex, I want to be railed. Give it as good as I get and ride them like it’s my first and last rodeo. Instead, I’d end up on my back like a starfish, watching them get overexerted by missionary.
I quickly learned that I’d have to get myself off once they were about to come… before even attempting to make sure I got there first.
And somehow, even after my less than stellar experiences, I still loved dick. But I haven’t found the right one. The one attached to a man who will speak the filthiest words in my ear while pushing me to my breaking point.
If only it were that easy.
I’ve only had sex with men I dated, too chickenshit to entertain the idea of a one-night stand.
But now, as I look toward the exit that opens up to the fancy hotel lobby, I can’t help but picture going upstairs with a stranger and getting exactly what I want without all the pretenses.
Being well and truly fucked without having to endure the mutual half-assed attempts to meet up for drinks or dinner later in the week when we’d both rather to skip to the part where we’re naked and sated.
The more I think about it, the more I believe this might be exactly what I need. So I decide to give the generically attractive man before me a long perusal, reevaluating him under a different lens.
A clearing of a throat reminds me that I have yet to respond to bachelor number three.
“As you can see, I already have a drink.” I smile softly as I point to my full martini.
“Ah, yeah, but it seems like a crime for a woman like you to be sitting alone at a bar.” His eyes drop to my conservative cleavage, eyes straining as if he can somehow conjure x-ray vision.
I suppress an eye roll at his lack of discretion.
You’re trying to get laid , not swept off your feet, I quickly remind myself.
Before I can respond, he continues. “You know what?” He knocks on the bar once and waves down the bartender, who is currently drying a wine glass. “Bring us something fruity, like a sangria,” He winks at me. “And a tequila, neat.”
The bartender and I share a look, as if saying can you believe this guy?
I immediately decide that I like her and will be leaving her a hefty tip.
It takes superhuman strength to control my facial expressions now. Because not only do I loathe when a man orders on my behalf without consulting me first, but I absolutely hate the fact that this man thought ordering me a sugary drink was the way to go.
One, because he didn’t clock that I was already drinking hard liquor, so he clearly hasn’t taken a moment to think of what I would actually like to drink. If he pays no attention to detail, how can I trust him to read my body while we’re having sex?
Second, I prefer to eat sugary snacks, not drink them in my alcohol, since I have polycystic ovary syndrome. Unlike my cousins, my PCOS is mild for the most part, but put me in a room with a carb, and it’ll try and find a way to sweet talk itself onto my hips.
But you would have to pry Dominican birthday cake out of my cold, dead hands if you think I would ever give that up.
And third, it’s abundantly clear that he believes I would enjoy a “girly” drink because, well, I’m a woman.
That might not strike some as a big deal, but as a woman who is currently entering an extremely male-dominated field, yeah, I’m going to have feelings about that.
Orgasms, Luisa. There’s still a good chance he might know how to find a clit.
Maybe. Possibly . I think to myself as the bartender places the sangria in front of us and pulls out a short glass for the tequila.
I muster up the fake smile I reserve for the older white men who love to call me little lady and don’t miss the opportunity to point out how I’m usually the only woman in the room, and ask, “So, do I get a name, or are you only here to offer drink suggestions?”
He leans in as the glass of tequila is gently placed next to the sangria.
“The name’s Tucker.” He leans even closer, whispering the next part.
“And you are Luisa álvarez, a real ball buster.” He grins.
“I mean, to enter the big boys’ club over at the Monarchs…
” He whistles low. “I can only imagine the things you can do.” His tongue swipes the top row of his expensive veneers as the poorly veiled insinuation settles into my bones.
Won’t be the first or last time someone accuses you of sleeping your way to the top, girl, so buckle the fuck up.