Page 35 of Finance Bros

“No.”

“You dress like this all the time?”

Why is he noticing? Why does he care?Don’t think about it.“Sometimes I wear a suit.”

He huffs. “Right.”

I’ve come prepared to brainstorm after my noon gym session with Calyx. He had a ton of hashtags for me and a list of possible handles for both me and Malcolm. I already know which ones we’re using, but I still need to pitch the stitch idea to the group.

First, we watch Malcolm’s videos.

Leaving him alone was the right choice, much to my dick’s apparent delight, forcing me to enter a state of cognitive dissonance while I watch the way he perfected the lean on the wall, complete with the occasional run of his hand through his thick hair, a rub of his morning stubble, or a stroke down his chest.

His voice is low and rough—like he just got laid and is about to crash—as he aims those aqua eyes at the camera lens and talks about 401ks and Roth IRAs. He gets particularly sexy when he mentions a website he uses to follow market trends—like he’s trying to get the web developers into bed with him. I’ve got a semi by the time we get to the end of his content, and I want tosayworks for me, but I bite my lips together and wait for Bailey’s assessment.

“The one where Stephanie licks your chin is priceless,” she says.

A fucking dog named Stephanie. But shedoeslook at Mal like he hung the damn moon and all the stars just for her, so Bailey’s not wrong.

I need to change the subject, so I tell them about Calyx’s idea.

Malcolm dismisses it with a scoff. “Like you would do that.”

Excuse him?“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you acted like you were allergic to being the one to do the videos before.”

“I did not. I just didn’t jump at the chance to rip off my shirt and show off my pecs quite as fast as you did. I don’t mind making a few videos.”

Bailey perks up. “Then show us the goods. Are you pasty? Because we can’t have pasty.”

“Then hire someone else,” I tell her. “I don’t look good with a tan.”

She sighs. “There’s always filters, I guess.”

“I don’t need a fucking filter,” I say.

“You have tattoos any place besides your arms?”

I stare at her, and she holds my gaze in a challenge that feels a hell of a lot like a dare.

Fine.I stand up and peel off my sweater and the black t-shirt beneath it. I keep my eyes on Bailey, yet I’m fully aware of how Malcolm looks quickly away. With my sweater wrapped around my wrists, I let her examine my upper body. She squints at the tattoos, her gaze moving from one to the next. The crescent moon outlining my right pectoral muscle, the nautical compass above it and the phoenix on the left that extends to my shoulder.Straight down the center of my torso is a sword with the handles beneath my collar bones and the tip stopping at my navel.

“Damn.”

Malcolm looks up, and my muscles tighten involuntarily. “When the hell? Where’d you get the money for all that?”

It’s a fair question. I easily have twenty grand worth of work on me, but the artist who tattooed me in Portland took a hefty amount off for alternate forms of compensation. She and I almost had a thing going, but school was always getting in the way for me to be more than anything but a casual hookup. Still, I’m half of her portfolio. “None of your business,” I tell him. To Bailey I ask, “Can I put my shirt back on?”

She laughs and nods. “Please.”

I do, smoothing back my hair once my sweater is covering me.

“And you said you have a cat?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Please say it’s a black cat.”

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