Page 100 of Unstitch

‘I think you know what the answer to that question is,’ he mutters.

‘That’s my good boy.’ I kiss his jaw and release him. ‘Let’s see what the deal announcement looks like, shall we?’

‘If we’re not on the ticket after all that, I’ll be seriously fucked off.’

I laugh a little. ‘Whatever. Now finish your roast, you ungrateful little shit.’

69

DEX

Loeb gets a spot on the ticket. Joint Bookrunner for the Wolff Holdings IPO. Which, given we’re nowhere in the league tables the industry keeps for deal activity in each region, is a huge coup.

We, with several other banks, will be responsible for building the book of investors in the deal, ensuring the shareholder list is high quality—not too full of hedge funds who’ll sell the stock to “flip” it as soon as it begins trading.

It’s been a shitty few months for deal volume, so everyone is ecstatic, and I’m sure our Treasury department is upgrading its forecasts for Q4. Wolff will float on the London Stock Exchange in early November, giving the stock a solid month of trading before the Christmas festivities ramp up and trading volumes start to slide. If we do a good job on this landmark deal, it’ll be a punchy way to begin my tenure as Head of Equities here, too.

It’s only been a week and a day since Max waltzed in and demanded an off-the-cuff, cross-divisional pitch from us before proceeding to ruthlessly extract my soul through my dick in this very office.

He called me as soon as the news hit the wires this morning, both to give me his particularly harsh brand of pep talk and to demand I call him as soon as I’ve spoken to Thum. A part of me marvelled at the fact that Max Hunter now has me on speed dial. That he’s grown familiar with the noises I make when I come, and that I know how satiny the underside of his dick feels against my tongue.

That I can kiss him whenever I want. Call him. Text him.

If the past week has been a crash course in yielding to desires I never allowed myself to acknowledge, let alone act on, then the weekend was full immersion into a cult whose god is Max Hunter. Our god is golden and dazzling and all-powerful, and he can be cruel, too. Merciless, even.

But when he shines that fulgent light on us mere mortals, we know in our hearts we’ll do anything he asks. We’ll do anything to serve him. We’ll lay ourselves at his feet and offer up the sweetest sacrifices, it seems: our dignity; our most shameful, depraved desires; even our autonomy.

He’s right about the labelling part. I chuckle to myself as the image of me, wrapped in a rainbow flag and trying desperately to climb Nelson’s Column comes to mind. He’s funny, too. But he doesn’t mince his words, and he’s equally correct that I need to disclose our “relationship”, whatever that looks like, and that it doesn’t follow that I’m putting a label on myself.

What he almost definitely fails to appreciate, or, if I’m being churlish, refuses to entertain, is that labels are important to me. After all, I’ve spent my entire life denying my feelings and depriving myself of my needs so I can fit the labels I’ve chosen for myself.

The concept of flipping that on its head, of cherry-picking labels that suit the man I am, rather than trying with every fibre of my being to conform to the labels deemed most “appropriate” by the privileged, bigoted bubble of my upbringing, is so weird as to be alien to me.

Thum wanders into my office midway through the morning, I assume to light a figurative cigar together and indulge in a little mutual back-slapping, because it’s definitely a moment to pause. Celebrate.

He takes a seat at my desk and crosses one ankle over its opposite knee. His face is weathered from years of committed rock-climbing, and there’s a huge grin across it.

‘Well, how about that?’ he asks. ‘They must have been impressed with our research.’

‘They should have been,’ I say. ‘It’s really something. And I think everyone did a great job on the meeting, too.’

He chuckles. ‘We certainly rallied. Not that they gave us much time to get our ducks in a row.’

It’s now or never. I know that. My face heats preemptively; my palms prick with sweat. It’s insane that my body acts as though making a standard disclosure is the professional and personal equivalent of voluntarily walking in front of a firing squad.

WWMD—What Would Max Do? He reminded me this morning to own it. Harness every ounce of my entitlement as a white male with an elite education and make my point without the merest hint of apology or attempt at justification.

I clear my throat. ‘Actually, Jochen, there’s a small matter I wanted to mention to you. Just so you’re aware.’

‘What is that?’ He looks at me, his face open. Cheerful. Trusting.

‘I’m in the, um, early stages of a personal relationship with someone on Wolff’s management team. I’ll let Compliance know shortly, but I wanted to do you the courtesy, too.’

He inclines his head. ‘Not a problem. I’m grateful for the heads up. Anyone I know?’

A beat passes. I suck in a breath in a desperate attempt to stop myself from passing out.

‘Max Hunter,’ I say.

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