Page 8 of False Start

"Well," she begins hesitantly. "I…I really like her, D," she admits. "We're supposed to meet up at Jackie Robinson Park this weekend for an outdoor yoga class." She sighs meaningfully. "I just really don't want to fuck it up."

"You won't," I insist, trying to push my confidence across the phone line to her. "You are awesome, and smart, and a catch. She should be worried about fucking things up withyou."

She laughs lightly and we swap wild stories from the wedding, trying to top each other's. One of Adam's aunts was seen leaving with not one, buttwoof his college friends. Maya's dad dusted off his breakdancing skills in an epic Soul Train line. Instead of cigars, the groomsmen smoked celebratory weed off the balcony, earning a few glares from the building staff.

I stroke Clawdette's coat absently. It's too bad I can't tellmycrazy wedding story. It might top them all.

Chapter five

Cory

Andrewleansoverthedivider between our desks and yanks my headset out of the jack. He snaps his suspenders, looking rather pleased with himself, and I'm on my feet a split second later, grabbing his forearm before he can slump back into his chair.

"You wanna go, Andrew? You're lucky I wasn't still on the call with Saunderson. Try that shit again and see if I don't fuck with your Monte Carlo simulations."

I hold eye contact, so he knows it's not an idle threat. He flips me the bird, but I can see his Adam's apple bob. His fear shines through his false bravado like the sun through open blinds.

"No one's scared of you, Park! And don't think I don't know it was you who put the super glue on my stapler the other day."

I quickly swivel my chair to hide my snicker and plug my headset back in. Silva, the newest trader and only other person of color on the floor, throws a pen onto Andrew's desk.

"Hey!" Andrew protests. The pen narrowly misses the tumbler we all pretend isn't filled with more whiskey than coffee. Andrew takes a shaky sip. Looks like someone's back off the wagon.

Alcohol isnothingcompared to some of the things I've seen around here. 90% of the traders are either high, drunk, or both, andnoton stuff you can buy at the corner bodega.

I supplemented with the occasional coke when I first landed a spot on the trading floor, but it made me too jittery. Too quick to sell when I should be holding. I still do speed before a big presentation—management essentially encourages it—but energy drinks and a quick jerk in the bathroom are my everyday drugs of choice; caffeine for focus and an orgasm to take the edge off.

"That wasme, numbnuts," Silva sneers at Andrew. "Jenna in Compliance told me about your little 'meet and greet' with Syntec Servers. That account wasmine."

Andrew shrugs, completely unrepentant.

"My bad,hombre," Andrew taunts. Silva's expression turns stony. "It was in the afternoon, so I figured you'd be taking asiestaor some bullshit like that.

"Anyway, they practicallybeggedme to take the meeting. Your models were dog shit. 2% returns?" Andrew laughs derisively. "That might be good enough at Hadley Jared, but here, that means your client is fair game."

Collectiveoohsfill the air, mixing with the perpetual scent of testosterone and greed. I wouldloveif we could go a full week without a fight breaking out, but everyone is wound way too tight. Client poaching, sabotage, and even threats of violence are all status quo at Banks Ripley, not to mention the casual racism. The only thing youcantrust is that every single person here will stab you in the back to make even a penny more on the dollar.

Everyone but Bethany, I think, before pushing the thought as far back in my mind as it'll go. Behind the pain, the regret, and most of all, the remorse.

"Park!" my boss yells, and my shoulders tighten. I jump up immediately, despite the dread churning in my gut. It's never good to be called into Robert Perry's office, but it's worse if you make him wait. Everyone ducks their head as I pass, afraid whatever shit I've stepped in will rub off on them. I rap on the doorframe of his office, and he waves me in impatiently.

Robert wears a gray Patagonia vest, a blue Brooks Brothers shirt, an alarming amount of hair gel, and a gold Rolex that glints distractingly from his wrist. He's a walking Wall Street cliché. Weallare.

He's older than most of the team, and graying at the temples, but his presence remains formidable. I do my best to keep my head up and my shoulders back as I enter. I can't let on that I'm rattled; he can smell fear. Like a wolf.

"When you're writing up your reports, do you like to wear a big red nose on your face?" he asks as soon as the door shuts behind me. I give him a confused look.

"Sir?"

"A big red nose," he repeats slowly, as if speaking to a toddler. "Do you wear one on your face?"

"No, sir," I answer.

"How about a hat with a propeller on it? Do you wear one of those to help you run the numbers?"

His sarcasm is unmistakable now.Oh, I see. He's being an asshole.

"No, sir," I repeat. The vein in his forehead pulses and I wait for the punchline.

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