The Wild Side Novel – I joked with my billionaire best friend that if we weren’t married by thirty, we would marry. The marriage contract seemed utterly foolish until I turned thirty, and he arrived at my doorstep, wishing me a happy birthday. Things are already taking an awkward turn. I’m not quite sure about the protocol for what to say the day after making out with your best friend at the gas station, moments after you promised yourself for the umpteenth time that you wouldn’t lose your cool.
“What I’m saying is things between us have felt a little different over the past few days. I know you must feel it, too.” “Definitely, yes.” “Look, Meghan, you’re my best friend. A lot of the time, you’re the only person I even like.” “I know I am.” Smirking playfully, she lifts her chin snobbishly, causing me to chuckle. I drop my head and shake it. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me these past few days.” “It’s probably just our friends putting all that pressure on us. And constantly bringing up the marriage pact. And…” It’s my turn to nod. “Yeah. That must be it.” “You’re absolutely gorgeous, Meghan.” She freezes. She swallows. “You’re rather attractive yourself.” I roll my eyes. “Is that a compliment or a clinical evaluation?”
Cash’s POV I push backthe cuff of my custom-tailored dress shirt and glare down at the face of my Patek Philippe watch. I’m running late. Very late. Across the massive mahogany conference table, a bunch of disgruntled corporate executives slam around their whiskey glasses and grumble about having wasted their Wednesday afternoon. Tough luck. Today’s negotiations were a complete bust but that’s not my problem. If those pricks had approached this deal in good faith, we could have easily struck a mutually-beneficial agreement. Instead, they decided to be stingy. So, no deal. I know what my time is worth and I know what Westbrook Wealth Management brings to the table. I refuse to do business with a group of slick-haired swindlers trying to lowball me. In one seamless movement, I briskly glide out of my executive chair and give them a curt nod. “Gentlemen.” And I use that term lightly. I’m unapologetic as I leave the men to their whining and exit the conference room.
Nicky is hot on my heels, an iPad and a slim file folder neatly gripped in her manicured hands. “Traffic is gonna be a mess at this time of day, and you still have to swing by the bakery,” she reminds me as we hustle down the carpeted hallway back toward my corner office. Through the gleaming floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the sun diving behind the skyscrapers embellishing the Chicago skyline. The clouds are dark and thick. That’s not a good sign. I throw her a scowl over my shoulder. “You’re not helping.” She shrugs, struggling to keep pace with my long strides. “I told you I could have gone to the bakery for you.” “And I told you I’d handle it myself.” “The CFO of the city’s fastest growing wealth management company fetching a birthday cake from a bakery halfway across town—on the company dime, no less. Yeah, that’s fiscally efficient,” she bites, unfazed by talking back to her boss. “The icing gets smushed every single time you go to the bakery.” “That was one time.”
“Every time, Nicky. Every time.” Agnes from Human Resources looks up from her fax machine and catches my eye. She gives me a grandmotherly smile. “Good luck tonight, Cash. If everything goes according to plan, next time I see you, you could be a married man!” I crinkle my brow. Uh…um, huh? Nicky snickers into her sleeve. I turn my glare on her. “Do I even want to know what garbage the office rumor mill is spewing today?” She flinches. “Probably not.” I shrug it off. I so don’t have the time to deal with this. “Were the balloons delivered?” I demand as we turn a corner down another long, busy hallway. “For the seventeenth time, yes, the balloons were delivered. They’re in your office.” She pauses. “I still say you should go with roses. Red roses.
Nothing says I’m here to collect my mail-order bride like red roses.” The little devil smirks. My younger sister has never shied away from pushing my buttons. I hired her as an intern here a few weeks back. More and more, I’m regretting that decision. “She is not my mail-order bride.” “What do you want to call her?” “She’s my friend,” I state as we enter my office. And—whoa!—the balloons are here. A lot of them. I may have gone a bit overboard with my order. I have to twist my body like a contortionist just to get around my desk. Nicky sets the tablet and folder on the edge of my neatly-organized wood and chrome tabletop. “Your friend who you promised you’d marry if she was still single at age thirty. Newsflash, boss—as of today, she’s officially age thirty. Time to redeem your marriage pact,” she sings. “Jeez—that was a stupid joke Meghan and I made. A million years ago. You should quit spreading rumors about your superiors if you want to keep your job here. There is no marriage pact.”
I check the time again. I should have hit the road hours ago. “So I’m supposed to believe that you’re driving the next six hours to deliver a birthday cake to a friend?” “You can believe whatever you want to believe, Nicky,” I deadpan, growing tired of this little chit chat, especially when I’m running so late. “Admit it—at night, you lie awake thinking about wedded bliss with Meghan Hutchins.” “At night, I lie awake thinking about how much happier my life will be once I fire you.” My sister dramatically throws her head back and emits a heavy sigh. “You’re twenty-nine years old, Cassius. You can admit to having a crush on a girl.” Sylvester from accounting pokes his head into my office, purple satin shirt gleaming and green polka dot tie swinging. He props a hip against the doorjamb and folds his arms across his chest. “Ooh! What’d I miss? Cash’s off to do that whole arranged marriage thing?
So fricking hot.” He fans his cheeks and wiggles his narrow shoulders. I telepathically shoot eye-daggers at his face. He clams up and skitters off down the hallway. Nicky titters under her breath. I snarl and narrow my eyes at her. “Sorry,” she mumbles. She’s not sorry. Grabbing my dry cleaning and the balloons, I head for the door. On the way to the elevator, I nearly run head on into my father who’s wandering out of the executive break room, dairy-loaded bagel in hand. “Daddy, lay off the cream cheese, would you?” Nicky chides in a low voice. “Remember what the doctor said.” He looks like he might argue but we all know he’s mush in Nicky’s hands. Dad may be a hardass with my brothers and me, but my sister can get him to do practically anything she wants.
“Can’t catch a break around this place,” the old man grouses. He takes one big bite out of his afternoon treat and dumps the rest into the recycling bin under someone’s desk. He turns a grave expression toward me. “So the Blanchet Trust negotiations fell through this afternoon?” “Yep.” Avoiding eye contact, I stab the elevator button. I can feel him staring at the side of my head. “Well, that’s a shame…” he says carefully. Nonchalant as f-ck, I shrug. “You win some, you lose some.” The elevator arrives and thankfully, it’s empty. But if I thought I’d get rid of my meddling family members so easily, I was wrong. My father and sister climb onto the lift right along with me and my three thousand helium-filled balloons. “I reviewed the terms the company proposed,” Dad says, craning his neck around the balloons to catch my eyes. “We could have made a few concessions. At least, for the sake of closing the deal.” I turn and stare at the elevator panel. I prod the ‘ground floor’ button half a dozen times.
Can this thing move any slower? “Those penny-pinching pricks were trying to undervalue us, trying to cut down our portfolio management fees. I won’t stand for it,” I snarl. “I’m confident that we can quadruple their money in the next eighteen months. But I won’t put in all that work for free. They have to make it worth my while.” I scowl at him. He scowls at me. “Maybe you could have taken them out for drinks?” Nicky intervenes oh-so-helpfully, trying to play peacemaker. “You might have gotten them to loosen up a bit, y’know, in a more social setting.” My voice goes even rougher as my annoyance continues to rise. “Our company’s reputation speaks for itself. I don’t have time to pander to time-wasters who aren’t serious about what they want. I don’t have to smooch anyone’s hip.” I set up a firm, un-f-ck-with-able boundary long ago—whoever has the nerve to demand even a moment of my precious time had better make it worth my while. I’m a busy man and there aren’t enough hours in the day for bullsh-t. “Jeez. Don’t bite my head off.” Nicky throws her palms up in surrender. “It was just a suggestion.
Since the whole stubborn-grumpy-prick vibe doesn’t seem to be getting you anywhere.” She turns to our father. “What’s that Grammy always says about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?” Dad’s face goes red and daggers of frustration shoot from his eyes. “You know how your brother is,” he says to Nicky like I’m not standing right here. “Set in his ways. You can’t convince him of anything.” He stomps a foot. Lately, my father and I have been arguing a lot. Mainly about strategies for growing the company. We hardly ever see eye to eye on the topic. I should be in charge. He should be retired by now. I square my shoulders, ready to go to war with him—as usual—but the hostility in the elevator dissipates when he sways a little on his feet. A slight frown ripples across his forehead. He lowers his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. Nicky and I exchange a look. I open my mouth to say something, to tell Dad that he can’t keep getting himself worked up this way. And beyond that, it’s dam- time for him to slow down. But my sister subtly shakes her head, reminding me that now isn’t the time to get into it.
The elevator arrives on the ground floor. I wrestle my balloons out the door and try to hurry off with a quick goodbye, but my dad hustles on right alongside me, beating away the balloons that smack him in the forehead. A teasing grin takes over his weathered face. “So…off to cash in your marriage voucher, huh?” I groan. “Does everybody in this office just sit around gossiping about my non-existent love life?” With my free hand, I loosen the knot of my tie. “Not everybody,” Nicky quips. “You might find someone in the mailroom who doesn’t—no, wait—don’t they have that bet going on downstairs?” Dad smirks. “Yeah, I put fifty bucks in the pot.” “Whaaat?! I only put in a twenty!” Nicky groans. “The pay sucks around here. I’m gonna have to skip a couple lattes this week to up my bet.” I point a glare at her. “Your smug little attitude won’t serve you well in the unemployment line, Nicky.”
Dad throws an arm around my sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get HR to check the box next to ‘hurt Cash’s feelings’. Then you can come work in my office, where you’ll be appreciated.” “Aww, thanks, Dad!” The little brat beams and my own father high-fives her. “By the way, do I get a pay raise?” Dad thoughtfully considers it. “Nepotism will be the downfall of this place,” I hiss under my breath. Nicky ruefully shakes her head. “Y’see? There goes the pot calling the kettle black again.” That’s where she’s wrong. My rise in the ranks of this company has not been a free ride. My father may be the one who founded WWM but I’ve sure as he-l paid my dues, working my hip off all the way up the ladder. And I plan to keep climbing. I have big goals for the firm’s future. I just need to get Dad to see the vision I see. That’s a discussion for some other time, though. I snap out a gruff response instead of prolonging this pointless argument. “Stuff it. Both of you. Or I’m not coming back.” Stopped in the middle of the lobby, my father feigns shock, slapping his palms to both sides of his whiskered face.
“Oh no! How ever will you find purpose and meaning in your life if you aren’t chained to your desk eighteen hours a day, six days a week? Might you actually find a hobby or two to revolve your life around?” Dad and Nicky throw their heads back with laughter. I have no time for their bullsh-t. So I keep walking. Straight for the door. Richard, the security guy, offers me a grave salute as I stroll past the front desk. “Good luck with all that arranged marriage stuff tonight, Cash.” Goddam-. I don’t stop shaking my head as I’m fleeing the building, desperate to get out of the city before the traffic holds me captive for the night. After a quick stop at the bakery, I hit the highway. The worst part of the six-hour road trip is being left alone with my thoughts.
Thoughts that keep creeping in, trying to hijack my lifelong friendship, and take it to places that terrify me. Thoughts I find myself battling to push aside for every one of the next five-hundred plus miles. The further I drive from the safety of Chicago, the more tied up I get in my imagination. I’ve entertained the idea of marriage and kids, I guess. But it’s always been something out there in the distant future. Far down the line. Something I could delay just a little bit longer. Something for some other day. But with each mile I drive, that landmark seems closer and closer on the horizon. Too close. It’s terrifying. I snap out of my introspection as I swerve onto my exit. Through the drizzle hitting my windshield, I glance up at a large, familiar highway sign looming above the roadway. Welcome to Honey Hill, Iowa. A strong gust of wind rattles the crooked sign as I drive past it, entering my sleepy hometown. I flick my indicator and make a quick right turn. I pull into the local gas station to fill my tank.
A sense of nostalgia wraps around me. So many memories in this place. In a hurry, I hop out and start fueling up. No fancy electric car for me. I drive a sleek luxury vehicle that demands premium gasoline every few hundred miles. Totally worth it. While I’m pumping my gas, my phone beeps. It’s a text message from my sister-in-law. Well, technically, my ex-sister-in-law but as far as I’m concerned, Alana is still family. Alana: The weather’s looking pretty bad and it’s starting to get late. Are you sure you’re coming? I glance up at the darkened sky, inhaling the rain-scented air. I’m hoping to make it to my destination before it starts coming down for real, but my chances are looking slim. Me: For the millionth time—yes, I’m coming Alana: Ok Alana: I’m getting nervous. I just don’t want her to be disappointed Me: I won’t disappoint her Never. She’s my best friend in the world, dam-it.
Me: Stop worrying I hurry inside the gas station’s convenience store, using the restroom then browsing the sad-looking shelves and trying to decide whether I should grab anything else for Meghan. I pause in the meager beverage section and pick up a bottle of red that looks decent. I grab some soda, too, in case she’s not in the mood to drink alcohol tonight. I march dutifully past the dozen different brands of condoms, willing myself not to even take a peak. But when I’m halfway down the aisle, something draws my eyes back to the protection display. Heat throbs in my crotch. Dam-. It’s been a while. Stop it, prick.
Meghan is my friend, and I don’t want to show up and make things weird with her tonight, especially on her thirtieth birthday. I want to simply enjoy catching up. Hanging out together. Like always. Like friends. It’s just everyone else messing with my head, and making me lose my cool. Have I ever imagined intercourse with Meghan? Sure. Yes. A time or two. Or twenty…thousand. I mean, Meghan’s hot. But I’m no fool. I’d never compromise our friendship just for a chance to get in her pants. Finding a woman to have meaningless intercourse with is relatively easy. If I really want to get laid, I don’t have to try that hard. But a friendship like the one I have with Meghan? That’s one in a billion. I could never put a price tag on it. And there’s no way I’m doing anything to put it in jeopardy.