Page 79 of Man of the Year

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 wordwebut 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.

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