1
As I weavemy Ducati through the usual madness of New York City traffic on a Wednesday morning, I make a decision.
It’s safe to say I’m different to my brothers in many ways. My brothers always describe me as the “nice” one out of the four of us. The “romantic” one. The one who’s most likely to believe that something like true love actually exists, despite the train wreck of our parents’ legacy. I’m the one who supposedly still has faith that good things can happen. According to my brothers, they’re the cynics and I’m the optimist.
But the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Because over the past few months, all three of my cynical-to-their-bones brothers have fallen head over heels in love.
I’m happy for them. I’m over the moon that fate has somehow proved them wrong. That each one of them is capable of falling so hard and so fast that all three of them had rings on the poor girls’ fingers before they even knew what hit them—and, in at least one case, or possibly more, they’ve already knocked up their wives-to-be because they’re incapable of thinking about anything except getting that particular job done.
And I, the only one of us who isn’t—at least wasn’t—allergic to the words “relationship” and “commitment,” am still thoroughly unattached, disillusioned as fuck and pissed off that my “optimism” has obviously jinxed me.
Here I was, thinking it was worth waiting for The One. I’m the only brother who hasn’t relentlessly slept my way around the island of Manhattan because I idiotically convinced myself that I’d prefer to actuallyfeelsomething for the person I’m having sex with.
No longer. That game plan has done nothing except provide me with endless disappointment.
The decision locks into place, right here on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 34th Street.
I’m no longer going to wait for that one elusive, perfect woman who never shows up for me. My brothers can drool all over their one-and-onlies, freeing up the New York dating pool for yours truly.
Fuck it.
I’m going to go out and find myself some unsuspecting girl with fake tits and dollar signs in her eyes, like they all seem to do. I’m going to stop pretending that the woman of my dreams exists.
And I’m going to get fucking laid.
It’s been way too long.
It’s not that Ican’tget women to fall in love with me. I can, very easily. The only problem is, most of them are after me for my looks or, obviously, my money. My brothers and I happen to be some of the wealthiest and most successful investors and businessmen in New York City. So was our father and so was our grandfather. It’s well known that a shitload of zeroes are attached to my many bank accounts, which of course is a super-powered magnet for every woman with a heartbeat.
Being the fool that I am, I’ve mostly avoided meaningless sex because I was hoping I would find…well,meaning. Love.Truelove, even. The kind of love you’d kill or die for. The kind that completely blinds you to everyone and everything except the one true love of your life.
The kind of love that staunchly, relentlessly eludes me.
Unfortunately, my brothers know me too well. Iama fucking romantic. Icraveit. I want to fall in love so badly I feel like I can’t breathe some days. Like there’s a huge hole in my heart and my life that only she—a phantom lover who probably doesn’t even exist—can fill.
It’s depressing. And infuriating.
Where the fuck is she?
I’ve clearly got it all wrong. The only people around here who are falling in love are the die-hard skeptics who don’t even believe in it.
I pull my Ducati into my parking space in the private parking garage under our building so abruptly I can smell burnt rubber.
It’s another point of difference between me and my brothers. All three of them prefer to be chauffeured around in their limos. I like the chaos of the traffic. The soundtrack of the city reminds me that there’s a world outside our glass box that doesn’t give a damn about our investment portfolios or our share values.
Not being a slave to city traffic also means that on mornings like today when I’m earlier than usual, I can stop in to get coffee at the coffee shop around the corner from our office that has proven to be by far the longest relationship of my life.
It’s the first place I became a regular when I started working in the city, long before Cash poached me to be CFO of his company.
Our family company, Maddox Equities, which owns its own city block including the skyscraper that houses the company’s headquarters, is directly across the street. I started working atMaddox Equities the day after I graduated from Harvard, as we all did. As we were all expected to do, whether we chose it or not.
Alexander, the oldest of the four of us, still runs the family business. It was always his destiny to be CEO.
Cash and our father butted horns too often to work together easily and Cash wanted out. Since there were more crazy family dynamics than evenIknew what to do with, especially before our father died—and I’m considered the “diplomat” and the steadying force in our family—Colton and I jumped ship as soon as Cash offered it.
The skyscraper across the street from the main hub of my family’s empire happened to be for sale. So we bought it and began building Invested Enterprises from the ground up. It’s been incredibly hard work. We’ve worked our guts out and weathered more than a few storms, but it’s all been worth it. Business is most definitely booming.
So the Daily Grind and I go way back.