Chapter 1: Conner McGee

She told me her name was Polly. Or Dolly or Molly or something like that. I can’t really remember it too clearly now. In fact, the whole night is kind of a blur. I remember that it was really, really loud in the bar, and so crowded you had to elbow your way through. And we had to yell and lean in close to hear each other speak.

It was New Year’s Eve, after all, and the packed crowd was already rowdy and drunk by the time I arrived. I was more than a little drunk myself. So was she. All I can remember clearly now is gazing into her gorgeous green eyes, the freckles that dotted her perfect little nose, her plump lips… I remember wishing that I could rip off her clothes and make mad, passionate love to her right there on the bar. Now that would have been one hell of a party favor!

She had red hair… flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and hung across her face when she looked up at me. She would give me this little seductive glance each time she tucked her hair behind her ear, as if she were inviting me to do it for her. I wanted to touch her cheek with my fingertips. I wanted to put my tongue in her ear and trail it down the slope of her elegant neck. I felt an ache for this woman I barely knew. I can’t really explain it even today.

Her eyes were the color of jade and her lips, holy fuck, those gorgeous lips. She wore red lipstick and would slide her tongue slowly across her lips when I looked at her. I wanted to suck on her tongue. I wanted to slide my tongue into her mouth.

And then there was that body. That killer fucking body. She was tall and curvy and had big tits and this round ass that I wanted to dig my fingers into. She was wearing a tight red sweater and black skinny jeans and knee-high boots. I stood there trying to carry on a conversation with her, but my brain had already started undressing her and sending signals to my cock to get ready to play.

Okay, hang on, let me back up a little bit to give you the whole story so you don’t think I’m a total asshole just out on New Year’s Eve looking for something strange to fuck. I mean, that ended up being the case, but there’s far more to the story than that.

I was not just out cruising to get laid that night. To the contrary, I had the numbers of a dozen girls in my iPhone that I could have called if I just wanted a quick fuck. When you’re a young, good looking, rich investment banker in New York City, there is no shortage of pussy at your disposal, even on New Year’s Eve. I could have booty-called a dozen girls, but I didn’t. Like I said, I did not start out the evening planning to get laid by anyone, especially a gorgeous redhead I had never met before or seen since.

I was in the back of my limo headed to the annual New Year’s Eve shindig at my friend Reed Helstrom’s penthouse in midtown Manhattan when I got a text from Andy Whitlock, an old college buddy who happened to be in town for the night. He was hanging out with friends at O’Grady’s, an Irish pub across town away the chaos that was Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Did I want to come by for a quick drink? I figured, why the hell not. The night was young and maybe slumming a little before going to Reed’s swanky party would be fun. The one thing I’d come to learn about drinking with rich assholes like Reed was, the drunker they get, the bigger assholes they become. Myself included.

I had the driver drop me off at O’Grady’s and told him to drive around until I texted him to pick me up. Even though O’Grady’s was blocks away from Times Square, the sidewalk was still teeming with revelers, most of them drunk off their asses or well on their way. I pushed my way through the crowd and went inside to look for my friend, Andy. I found him belly up to the bar chatting up with two gorgeous women. One of them was a curvy black girl with beautiful brown eyes and the other one was Polly. Or Molly. Whatever.

I think my mouth hung open when I saw her for the first time Naturally pretty, with the aforementioned flaming red hair and fair Irish skin and eyes so green I thought they had to be contacts (they weren’t). She seemed to do a double take when she saw me, as well. She watched me as Andy put me into a bear hug, then glanced at her friend and wiggled her eyebrows. I took it as a sign that the night might get very interesting.

Andy introduced the black girl as a former coworker from his contract law days in DC, Monique Griggs. I knew Andy was the biggest pussy hound no matter where he worked, so Monique was probably an old flame or recent fuck buddy. The way she was hanging onto Andy’s arm told me she was more than just an old coworker. Good for Andy. She was drop dead gorgeous. Monique shook my hand and introduced the gorgeous redhead as her roommate. It was so loud I missed her name, but did not miss her smile. Or the way her eyes locked onto mine.

Andy and I chatted for a minute while the girls ordered another round of drinks (on Andy’s tab) and I shucked off my coat and gloves and gave them to a passing waitress for safe keeping. She looked at me as if I’d shoved a dog turd in her hand rather than a two-thousand dollar overcoat, and told me in no uncertain terms that taking my coat was not her fucking job.

When I held up a hundred-dollar bill her expression changed and she gladly took my coat and promised to keep it safe. I told her there was another hundred for her if the coat and gloves made it back to me when I was ready to go. It’s one of the things about being super rich. You get used to people waiting on you and doing everything you tell them to do. If they resist, you simply pull out a wad of hundred-dollar bills and start peeling them off until they see things your way.

When I turned back around, Andy was making out with Monique like two teenagers in the backseat of a car, leaving me to talk to the redhead, who was holding a glass of red wine to her lips and swaying to the loud music that was coming from the overhead speakers. She was being coy, pretending to ignore me. I got the bartender’s attention and ordered a double bourbon, straight up, and leaned an elbow on the bar to give her a smile.

“So, what did you say your name was?” I asked, leaning in so she could hear me. I took a deep breath. She smelled glorious, like soap and wild flowers.

“I didn’t,” she said, wine glass at her lips.

Ah, so that’s how this was going to go. “Okay, then tell me now.”

“You can call me… Molly,” she said, giving me a sideways glance. I knew that wasn’t her real name, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to know what to call her later when I was fucking her from behind. She batted her eyes at me from over the wine glass. “And what was your name again?”

My name was Conner McGee, but for some reason, I said, “Brad. You can call me Brad.”

She eyed me for a moment as if she knew I was as full of shit as she was. She licked the wine from her lips and smiled. “So… Brad. What do you do for a living?”

Conner McGee was a wealthy investment banker who worked as the youngest partner at one of the top firms on Wall Street. He lived in a ten-million-dollar penthouse on the Upper East Side and banked a hundred-million dollar a year in salary and bonuses. Brad, however, was just a normal guy.

“I work in banking,” I said. “Small firm downtown. Nothing major.” I took a sip of the bourbon and studied her eyes. They were like green pools with little brown specks. “And what do you do for a living, Molly?”

She set her glass on the bar and turned toward the crowd. Her head bobbed to the music. She was being coy, I could tell. That was fine. I enjoyed the view of her profile. “I’m a paralegal,” she said. “Small firm downtown.” She grinned at me. “Nothing major.”

I smiled and finished the bourbon, then ordered another for myself and another glass of wine for her. I held out her wine glass, so she would turn to face me. I was enamored of this girl for some reason. Probably because girls never played coy with me. Girls came easy when you were Conner McGee. Everything did.

I said, “Molly the paralegal.”

She grinned. “And Brad the banker. Aren’t we the odd pair?”

Smiling, I said, “Yes, we are. Are you originally from New York?”

“No, Boston,” she said, head bopping to the music. “You?”

“Born and raised upstate.”

“That’s nice,” she said, starting to sound a little bored. I looked around. There were a dozen guys eyeing her, like hyenas on the prowl, just waiting for me to strike out.

“Where did you go to school?” I asked, wincing at my own words as they left my lips.

For the love of god, I sounded like a total social retard. I felt like an idiot making small talk, but it had been so long since a girl had made me work for it, I didn’t really know what to do.

Thankfully, Molly was not the kind of girl I’d have to woo. She knew what she wanted. And obviously had no problem saying so.

“Tell you what, Brad the banker, line us up a few rounds of shots and we’ll play Truth or Bullshit.”

“Truth or Bullshit?” I gave her a playful frown. “I’m not familiar with that game. How does it work?”

“Oh, it’s super easy to learn,” she said, leaning over the bar to wave down the bartender. “We line up five shots of tequila each, I tell you something about myself, and if you call bullshit and it is, I have to take a shot. If you call bullshit but it’s not, you have to take a shot. Then, it’s your turn to tell me something. We take turns until the shots are gone or we puke on our shoes. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” I said. “Why don’t we just line up a bunch of shots and knock them back?”

She gave me a scolding look. “Now where would be the fun in that?”

“Good point,” I said as the bartender came over. I tapped a finger on the bar. “Ten tequila shots. And another red wine for her and another scotch for me.”

He gave me a funny look for a second. The look turned into a smile when I slid two one-hundred-dollar bills across the bar. A minute later, we each had five shots lined up in front of us and our other drinks. I told her to go first.

She tapped a finger to her chin and pooched out her lips thoughtfully.

She said, “Okay, let’s see… I have six toes on my left foot.”

I chuckled and glanced down. She was wearing knee-high boots. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said, looking hurt. “Don’t make fun of girls with six toes.”

I blinked at her. “What? No, I was just… hang on…” I smiled. “I’m calling bullshit.”

She giggled and picked up her first shot. “You got me, Brad the banker.” She shot back the bitter tequila and sighed. “Okay, your turn.”

I looked deeply into her eyes as if I was thinking up some dark secret. What she didn’t know was that I made my living sorting the bullshit from the truth. I was very good at it. I could also dispense bullshit with the best of them when I wanted to.

But I didn’t have time for games.

I wanted to get this girl in the sack, not play fraternity games with her at a dive bar.

I picked up my first tequila shot and said, “My name’s not really Brad.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed. “No shit. Truth. Drink up, Brad.”

The game ended quickly because we wanted it to.

Five minutes later, the shot glasses were drained, and we were both drunk.

“So, what next?” I asked, wiping my mouth on a napkin. “More party games or can we just cut the shit and get the fuck out of here?”

She took a long sip of wine, eyeing me over the glass, then set the glass on the bar and grabbed my tie, which probably cost more than her entire outfit. She pulled my head down to growl in my ear.

“If you hope to fuck me before the night is over, Brad the banker, you’re gonna have to get a lot more interesting or get me a whole lot drunker.”

I smiled. Bingo. “I think I can do both,” I said.

She cocked an eyebrow and pursed her lips.

“And you’re gonna have to dance with me. Do you dance, Brad the banker? Or do you just like to stand around and watch other people having fun?”

I pulled back with a devious smile on my face, glad she had broken the ice.

Broken the ice?

Hell, she had pulverized that shit like a Waring blender.

I shot back the bourbon and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, then gestured toward the crowded dance floor.

“Alright then, Molly the paralegal. Let’s get this fucking party started!”