~ Clay

“I want the bugs on the Instinct AV software fixed tonight so we can have Version 1.6 released by tomorrow noon and I need the UI for the Mix-n-Max Player updated so it doesn’t look like something from my Grandpa’s attic. Understood?”

I clasp my hands on top of my belt buckle as I sit back in my leather chair, waiting for my orders to register in the mind of the man standing in front of my mahogany desk.

Alex Harper. 25. One of my senior programmers who right now looks like shit with his lopsided Squirtle necktie trimmed with powder from a recently opened bag of Cheetos and his pale blue shirt stained from one Caffe Americano too many. My guess is he hasn’t slept or had a good meal for 72 hours.

In a way, he reminds me of how I was seven years ago – bright, tenacious, sleep-deprived and eager to prove one’s worth. Except I was neater and I never took shit from anyone, which is probably why I’m on the other side of the desk now.

“Yeah, yeah.” Alex nods, fidgeting with his tie as my words finally sink in. “I completely agree. And sure, I think we can get it done.”

“Good.” I lean forward. “Get it done.”

He turns and heads towards the door, leaving more anxious than when he arrived.

I glance at my Breguet as I turn my chair around, facing the window.

7:06 PM.

Not bad. In the past ten hours, I’ve had three meetings, closed one new deal, tested four programs and approved the release of two and made another fifty grand. I’d say it’s been a fairly productive day, one well worth drinking to, which is exactly what I’m going to do when I meet Gavin at The Bar at The Peninsula Chicago in a little less than half an hour.

I sit back, gazing beyond the glass at the other buildings that comprise the peaks and valleys of the Chicago skyline, some of them bearing the names of their owners just like mine.

In the past ten years, I’ve made billions from creating software. I’ve always had a thing for computers. They spoke to me in ones, zeroes, hyphens and brackets and I understood them. They’re simple, really. Speak their language, decipher the code and you can make them do whatever you want them to. That’s what I used to do – program day and night, stare at multiple lines of code as the keys erode beneath my fingertips. Now, people like Alex do the gritty work. As for me, I make sure every piece of software my company makes is good enough to sell and that it’s sold for the highest profit.

That’s my job as the CEO of Maxwell Modern Solutions.

“Mr. Maxwell.” I hear the voice of Christa, my secretary, as she enters my office. “I’ve just sent you the latest numbers from the stock market and the financial report from that startup company you were thinking of acquiring. Here are the hard copies.”

I turn around just as she puts the papers on my desk. “And I’ve also sent your lawyer, Mr. Beckett, an updated copy of the company’s software license as you requested.”

“Thank you, Christa. I’ll mention it when I see him later.”

As usual, she’s working like a well-programmed machine.

“And, um, Mr. Maxwell, I’d just like to remind you that I’m not going to be here for two days starting tomorrow. It’s my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

I’d forgotten about that.

“I’ve already told Jackie from Human Resources to fill in for me,” she adds.

I glance at her. “Sure.”

God knows Christa deserves a break for all the shit she handles for me.

“Don’t worry about it. Give your parents my regards and buy them a nice present with that card I gave you – whatever you think they’ll love.”

She smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Maxwell.”

After she leaves, I turn off my computer. It’s about time I leave as well.

Grabbing my things, I head to the elevator, the door sliding open after a few seconds. I press the button for the lobby and stand in the corner, listening to the faint instrumental music drifting from the speakers on the ceiling.

The Girl from Ipanema.

I’ve heard what my employees have said about the elevator music. Some say it’s the same as the music in Starbucks around the corner, designed to make a person sleepy so he or she can order more coffee. Others say HR chose instrumental tracks on purpose so the elevator occupants could challenge themselves with naming the tunes, either creating a competitive atmosphere or starting a discussion, even sparking a friendship, any of which was good for productivity. Others simply call it fuck music.

Bullshit. Who needs to listen to music while fucking? Not me. There’s only one way I fuck – hard and fast. And the moans, all those garbled pleas and sharp gasps of the woman beneath me are all the sounds I need to hear.

Just then, the elevator stops and the door opens, a blonde in a green blouse and grey skirt grinning as she enters.

“Good evening, Mr. Maxwell.”

“Good evening.”

She faces the mirror on the wall, applying her lipstick. At least, that’s what she’s pretending to be doing. Glancing at her, I can tell she’s appraising me just as I’m appraising her.

I’ve never seen her before. Then again, I have close to four hundred employees so I don’t really get to see them all, even though I’ve refused to have my own private elevator, just to keep in touch with them.

“What department are you from?” I ask her.

No point sharing an elevator with my employees if I don’t chat with them whenever I have the chance.

“Accounting,” she answers, turning around. “I’ve been here for three months.”

“I see.”

It makes sense. The best-dressed people in my company usually come from accounting or HR, the worst from Programming and Networking. Then there are those from Marketing, a creative bunch of people who have their own dress code. Frankly, I don’t mind how my employees look as long as they get their jobs done.

It’s not just how she’s dressed that impresses, me though. It’s how she looks overall. Pretty face. Gorgeous hair. Excellent figure. And she smells good, too. One of those Victoria’s Secret perfumes, probably. If she was any other woman, I’d probably be flirting with her right now, having her pinned against the wall in a minute with her slender legs around me. But she’s one of my employees.

And I don’t sleep with my employees.

The door slides open and I step out. “Good night. Drive safely.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night.”

I tuck one hand inside my pocket as I cross the lobby, nodding at the security personnel on night shift before heading down the stairs to the glass doors.

My sleek Rolls Royce Phantom is waiting on the other side, Danny holding the door to the backseat open. I unbutton my jacket before slipping in.

“To the Pen, sir?” Danny asks once he’s in front, his hands on the wheel.

He’s been with me for three years so, by now, he knows my routine well. After work, he drives me straight to my penthouse apartment on New Burling Street from Monday to Wednesday and every Thursday and Friday to The Peninsula Chicago where I have the Lake Suite booked. On Fridays, I sometimes bring a woman up but Thursdays are men’s nights at The Bar. In the past, those meant drinks with John Abbott, my mentor and business partner and Gavin Beckett, my lawyer. Now, it’s just Gavin and me.

“You know it, Danny,” I confirm. “Best not to keep Gavin waiting.”

If I do, I won’t only have to pay for his drinks but I won’t hear the end of it. The problem with lawyers is they talk too much sometimes.

“Yes, sir.”

As the car starts, I take off my jacket and my tie, tossing them beside me before relaxing against the black leather seat.

I have a good feeling I’ll be at The Bar before Gavin this time. I just hope he doesn’t keep me waiting. Then again, if he does, I might just buy a woman or two a drink. I know I’m not supposed to pick anyone up but there’s no rule against looking or having a conversation.

Who knows? I might just meet an interesting woman tonight.