Page 62

SIXTY-ONE

NICK

I wait by the car for Phil to come out.

What’s taking him so long?

Annoyed, I check my watch. My work phone beeps. I have two. One is my “Nick-The-Driver” phone. The other one is Geoffrey Rosenberg’s official number. I can’t trust Phil with handling any type of business conversations. Not even a text. His burner phone is merely for our communications and for his occasional adventures that I monitor closely. At meetings, he leaves his phone in the car. I’m always by his side. If anyone needs anything, his default answer is, “Talk to my assistant. He’ll handle it.” It’s given him a mysterious reputation.

The door opens, and Phil, dressed to a tee, finally walks out of the house. But his sunken face is the opposite of what I need him to project today.

I nod and open the back seat door for him. He doesn’t deserve riding in a Maybach, having a driver, or being treated like this. But, hey, the show must go on.

I close the door behind him and get in the driver’s seat. Impatiently, I drive toward the gate, and as soon as we are out on the road, I let my anger out.

"That little housekeeper knows about you,” I say, sucking my teeth in annoyance. “How?"

In the rearview mirror, I see Phil hang his head. Two days ago, he was spitting out insults in his drunken delirium. Now, his tail is between his legs. This guy is a classic addict.

He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. Clueless, as always.

"Well, she's dust,” I say. “Because of you."

His eyes, sad and pathetic, meet mine in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean, dust ?”

I swear, if I could kill with my stare, he’d be dead in a second. “I mean what I mean. Just like the other ones who got a whiff of your past. She’ll have to disappear.”

I brake at the red light intentionally hard, making him almost bash his face into the front seat.

Right away, his alarmed eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "Jesus Christ! How many more?—”

My anger spikes tenfold, making me see red. Before he finishes, I reach back, grab him by the flaps of his suit jacket, and yank him toward me, making his stupid forehead bang on the front seat.

I let go and fix my suit jacket. "So goddamn irresponsible,” I grit out and gun the engine on green.

"I didn't say anything!” he shouts, leaning forward, the tiny drops of his spit hitting my cheek.

“Oh, you shout at me now?”

I would've punched him, but visible bruises are bad for businesses. So I reach back again and punch his chest with the back of my fist. A weak punch, but it hurts. Oh, yeah, baby, it hurts.

Phil yelps in pain, holding his chest. He leans back and scoots to the farthest corner of the back seat, where I can’t reach him.

“You never learn, do you? Geo, " I add bitterly.

"I'll text the house manager and tell him to fire her,” Phil says, opening his phone.

There it is—stupidity in its rawest form.

I brake hard. Phil surges forward, and I reach back, yank the phone out of his hand, and slam it on the dashboard, then toss it onto the floor of the passenger seat.

"So tired of your shit,” I grunt and take a deep breath, trying to calm myself but then remember that I saw an unfamiliar number on his call log yesterday. That pisses me off again.

“Who’s the chick you’ve been talking to?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “I have the number in your call logs. I can trace it to the name. Just tell me we don’t have another problem.”

"Mariah."

“Mariah what?”

“Mariah Dove.”

“Mariah Dove, huh? Another fuck-toy? Does Mariah know that you are a fraud?"

“N-no.”

"What does she call you?"

"Geo."

"And does Mariah invest in crypto?”

He sighs quietly.

I laugh in disbelief. "You kidding me? You are giving her the insider information?”

Christ, he doesn’t learn. That’s why I need to get rid of him ASAP. This is the fifth skirt he’s been feeding the currency exchange intel. Maybe sixth—I lost count. Insider trading is illegal, but I know his argument—he’s helping out because at the end of the day, this game has an expiration.

I turn up house music on the speaker. Music distracts me. Phil hates it. Perfect.

The Palisades Parkway is a steady drive, which is unusual for this time of the day. That’s the only thing that levels my mood. For the next half hour, I try to calm down, despite the New Jerseyans’ and New Yorkers’ shitty driving. When I get to FDR Drive, the traffic thickens, but the driving takes my mind off the liability in my back seat.

Really, I can’t play a tutor any longer.

If anyone deserves an acting award, that's me for playing a lackey for a year. And women in Manhattan should receive an award for being the number one gold diggers in the world, right after those in LA. I can be the smartest, most handsome guy in the room full of rich old ugly assholes, and women will never pick me. Because, yeah, a driver.

Take Natalie. The second she heard I'm a driver, disappointment crossed her face. She hid it well. Must be professional. If I were Rosenberg, she would have put out the moment I offered her a job.

Bitch.

Maybe I’ll fuck her before I pump her with drugs and send her to Neverland.

As I take the Broad Street exit into Manhattan’s Financial District, I turn down the music.

Phil is quiet, sulking. That needs to change. I need him confident and at his best for the most important meeting of this endeavor.

"Listen, I didn't mean to snap,” I say with as much reluctant politeness as I can muster. “It’s…” I pause, deciding on the best word to use, and sigh with feigned remorse. " Stress , you know. We've been doing this for over a year.” I cringe at the word we but continue. “One mistake, and it all goes out the window. One more meeting, and we are rich. What we are doing is more important than other people, right? We deserve this.”

Phil’s cowardly eyes shift to meet mine in the mirror, and I flash him a smile. Not overly cheerful but apologetic. He needs hope, at least for the next three or four hours.

“You’d never be able to make so much on your own,” I say. “And I’d never be able to do this without you.” Bullshit, but this pep talk has to work its magic. “We are going to be rich, okay?” I assure him. “So rich that you will have ten Mariahs hanging on your arms. Sipping cocktails in Rio. Riding a yacht in Morocco. We’re almost there. You know that, right? I’m freaking out right now.” I’m not, but that’s irrelevant—I need to relate to this guy. “I’m on edge, and honestly, I’m shaking. I’m petrified. But this is all we’ve worked for."

Phil’s gaze softens. “Yeah, I know."

To be fair, he didn’t do any work, but just like a punished pet, he needs reassurance from the master. It’s the carrot after a whip.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” I say. “The tension gets to me. But we can do it, Phil. You and I.” I look into the mirror and meet his gaze. I hold it, nodding, as I connect with his inner power animal. His is a raccoon, or maybe a worm, but it is what it is. “We’ll be mega wealthy.”

I reach behind my seat and offer him my fist for a fist pump. He obliges. He’s used to my outbursts. And he desperately wants that promised piece of the cake.

I pull my Maybach to the curb in front of the financial building, which should already be swarming with investors waiting for us. Soon, we will make history. That will make me a billionaire while leaving thousands of others bankrupt in a matter of days. C’est la vie. Humanity never learns from its mistakes of trying to get rich on questionable promises by doing nothing for it.

Parked, I unbuckle, lean back between the front seats, and fix Rosenberg’s hair. "Good. We are good." I inspect his face and suit. He’s like a child, seriously, a grown man with peanuts for balls, but he does look GQ, and he carries himself well. That is, when sober and with proper guidance. “Are you ready, Mr. Rosenberg?” I ask in my most respectful voice.

He nods.

I nod back. “We are going to make history, yes?”

He snorts, but his smile is getting more confident. “Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you!”

“Yes!” he says louder.

I grab him by the back of his neck and bring his forehead to mine. “I didn’t hear you, you rich bastard!” I shout with a smile.

“Yeeeeees!” he shouts back with a grin.

“Are we going to be filthy rich?” I roar.

“Yeeeeeees!” Phil roars back, shaking with anticipation.

And the show is on, ladies and gentlemen!

Thank god for the soundproof glass and tinted windows in my car.

The valet is already waiting by the curb. I jump out of the car, unhook my keychain, toss the rest of the keys at him, and open the passenger door.

"Mr. Rosenberg,” I say with an important face, holding the door for Phil. When he gets out, I whisper, “Let’s take this world by storm.”

The fool is already puffing out his chest, his practiced cocky face on as he confidently buttons up his ten-thousand-dollar suit, fixes his cufflinks, and raises his chin.

Damn, occasionally I do like his third-rate acting. But it's the last time I'm opening the car door for this worm.