Page 4 of I Blame the Club

"Please tell me that's yours."

My face crumples, "It's Dhillon's."

I throw the offending piece of hair on the table and Wes jumps up, knocking his chair over.

"Don't let it touch me!" He backs up, trying to increase the space between himself and the table, "And his name is Devon, man. Say it with me."

"Fuck that. I'm going to be sick."

Smothering another gag, Wes covers his face with his hands, “I can’t even look at it. Please, for the love of God, go floss your teeth.”

I cross my arms, glaring at the hair that was trapped between my molars.

“I’m never touching another man again.”

My best friend snorts, keeping his distance, “Doubt it. But maybe go for someone with less body hair next time. Or buy a razor to have on hand.”

I poke at my breakfast sandwich with disgust, "I hate drunk Nico."

"You know what they say. Don't hate the game, hate the player."

"Iamthe player, you idiot."

Wes grins, "Then maybe it's time you played a different game."

Flipping him off, I abandon my breakfast and follow him out the door. The familiar ache of a hangover has my body feeling bruised and dehydrated, but it's nothing new. My weekly routine is well established by now and suffering Sunday morning is all part of the schedule.

Tequila shots. Tabletop dancing. A man or two to play with.

Eat, sleep, repeat.

Despite my recent complaints, I live for being the player. The alcohol, the chase, the fleeting satisfaction of one night. It's a shallow game, but it's the only game I have ever wanted to play.

At least it was until I met him.

Chapter 2

Mo

“That’s a terrible idea.”

I paste a smile on my face as Steven Andrews, the newest prick at MacNeil Incorporated, shoots down yet another one of my ideas. We are in the main boardroom, half of our team filling the leather seats surrounding the conference table while the rest of them have joined online from our Toronto office.

Steven rambles on, listing all the reasons why our company is better suited to Canadian markets rather American ones. I listen half-heartedly, too amused by Steven’s surface-level answers and ill-fitted suit to consider his opposition as any sort of threat.

“…not to mention, we have no idea how to cater to Americans. The investment to do a consumer analysis alone would outweigh any profit we could hope to achieve for at least five to ten years.”

He adjusts the red tie hanging from his cheap black suit as if the colour might distract from the fact he’s put on at least ten pounds since our last meeting.

It doesn’t.

Steven finally sits down, and I let his idiotic words sink in before rising from my own chair. I feel my father’s gaze as I walk to the front of the room, but I don’t glance in his direction as I plug in my laptop and pull up my presentation.

My father may own the company, but I had to work my way up the corporate ladder like everyone else. Doing physical labour for six months was not the most productive use of my time, but I am grateful for the insight it gave me into our operations and what opportunities lie within them.

Steven, on the other hand, was brought in as a Strategic Development Manager two years ago, and besides challenging my every decision, has yet to make any sort of impact.

Hence why he always leaves these meetings looking like a fool.

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