At the center of the Chicago Loop stood Ellis Oil Tower. It was 10 p.m. and a single light remained lit on the thirty-fourth floor—one of nineteen floors owned by Grant Hill Investments. Patrick Davis, wearing his round rimmed glasses, sat in his plush leather chair vigilantly monitoring stock tickers scrolling across the screen of his trusty, yet aged, IBM ThinkPad.
Patrick was the only one in the office without a MacBook. At forty, he was set in his ways. Not a soul attempted to change him because beyond his mannerisms flowed a river of gold. Patrick's success could never be confused with anything other than raw talent. Grant Hill's early major investments in eBay and Google had secured Patrick's large glass desk and the sprawling office that had become the envy of every employee.
He had never been in a romantic relationship and had only kissed a girl when he was in his twenties. He also had sex that night; he just didn't remember it too well. It all started with the necessary roommate he didn't want and a celebratory dinner he had refused to attend. Patrick was twenty-four and had just graduated from Wharton with an MBA. Harrison, the unwanted roommate, dragged him to a bar after the dinner to celebrate. He coaxed Patrick into drinking more and more, causing Patrick's inhibitions to crack and the games to begin.
The next morning Patrick woke up in a hotel room with his head banging and an over-filled condom sticking to his abdomen. He remembered enough from the night before to know he'd fucked the attractive, curly-haired brunette whose sleeping body still clung to his. Maneuvering away from the naked brunette, he kissed her lips, grabbed his clothes, dressed, and dashed from the hotel room.
A week later, Goldman-Sachs New York hired Patrick. However, even though he was a solid investor, his extremely introverted personality made him a laughing stock among the alphas who dominated the elite firm. This was everything he had assured himself the real world wouldn't be like. After a year at Goldman-Sachs, an executive at Grant Hill's Chicago branch, Mike Paterson, stole Patrick away.
Mike understood Patrick and decided to employ his unusual but lucrative skills while also mentoring him. When Mike was promoted so was Patrick. Mike built an environment that catered to and grew with Patrick.
After fifteen years at Grant Hill, Patrick's office was as large as Mike's but isolated by a gatekeeper assistant. Limiting his interactions with people, the assistant in the outer office was his only contact to the hundreds that answered to him. Patrick was now one of two Executive Partners and one of the three top bosses at the Chicago office—the second Executive Partner managed the office while Patrick managed the investment side. Mike Paterson, now the Managing Partner, was Patrick's only immediate boss. Patrick's success in growing billions in profits for the Chicago office frequently left the New York head office's profits in the dust, resulting in their frequent recruiting efforts of him.
Everyone else had gone home five hours ago. Patrick sat at his desk watching numbers and writing down solutions on a notepad before shredding them and retaining all the data photographically. Below his desk, the shredder was buzzing at maximum speed to dispose of the notes.
A knock on his office door soon distracted him. "Mr. Davis...sorry for interrupting, but I need to go now. I am sorry, sir. I would stay longer, but I have a family emergency," said Ashley Limpkin, his executive assistant.
Patrick didn't say a word. He simply nodded, ignoring the gorgeous, southern California, blue-eyed blonde. At five-eleven, she was an inch taller than he was. Today, her sizable, natural bust was hidden underneath the blazer she had purchased on impulse. Not that she was afraid her boss was looking at her striking, statuesque body.
When Patrick hired her three years ago despite her limited experience, she had assumed she'd have to tackle the usual sexual advances that would be made towards her. When none came, she had briefly assumed he was gay because shy men weren't known for advancing in management. Over time, however, Ashley learned that Patrick's confidence spilled out in his work, especially during meetings, when discussing data and trends; he was outspoken and clear when discussing business and work—a complete contrast to how he was anywhere else.
She had dropped the gay theory after a month, realizing Patrick was an extreme introvert who felt safest and happiest in his work. She felt sorry for him, and she did her best to assist him by adapting to his work style. He never asked her to stay late, but she worked late anyways. Tonight was the exception; she needed a break. "Do you need anything before I leave, sir?"
He indicated no by shaking his head.
"Night, Mr. Davis," she said, turning, her long blonde hair rippling.
"Goodnight, Ms. Limpkin," he said, finally raising his head, his eighties hairstyle sitting atop a cute enough face. "Good morning" and "good night" were the two things she was sure he would say—and some days were the only things Patrick would say to her, as he preferred to communicate with people via email instead of in person, even if they were just a few steps away.
Ashley walked to the elevator bank. As the elevator doors opened, she remembered something and was about to turn her designer heels around and head back to the office, but then decided against it. Instead, she pulled out her Blackberry and sent an e-mail to Patrick to remind him that the new second Executive Partner would be starting the next day.
A second later Patrick received Ashley's e-mail alert. Both Mike Paterson and Patrick were responsible for hiring Jack Elliot—the new Executive Partner—who seemed extremely outgoing and full of himself, the type of guy that could, and would, get any woman. In the end Mike was won over by Jack, despite Patrick's objections to the discrepancies in Jack's financial history.
After exiting the lobby Ashley strolled over to the polished black Mercedes S-class parked outside the Ellis Oil building and knocked on the window. Seeing Ashley, the driver brought down the passenger window. "Eric, he's going to be up there late again. I apologize for him," Ashley said to the older man.
"That's why I get paid the big bucks, Ashley. I'm fine. Do you need a ride anywhere? I could drop you off and be back for Mr. Davis, I'm sure."
"No, if he comes out and sees that you're gone, he'll freak out."
"If it's for you, I'm sure he'll be fine with it...this once."
Ashley didn't understand but she got in the back of the Benz anyway. "Alistair's Bar," she directed. "Are you saying he likes me? It sure doesn't seem like it. What does he say?"
"No, he doesn't talk about you at all."
"I don't get it."
"You're the first assistant in the ten years I've been driving him that he doesn't complain about. In the first two weeks, yes, he thought you did everything wrong, but it seems like you adapted quickly. At first, I thought he would fire you like the twenty others."
"Well, I guess that's good. When you think about it, I'm lucky. All the other assistants knock on him, but their bosses are constantly propositioning them. It's a cesspool up there. He's actually a good boss."
"Mr. Davis is what I call asexual. In the years I've known him, all I've ever seen him do is work and nothing else—no girls, no boys, nothing."
"Jesus...that's sad."
"Well..." Eric said.
"What?"
"For a while I thought he was seeing someone. He leaves work the normal time, once every other week. He sends me home and walks. I later found out he started seeing a psychiatrist a few years back." Eric pulled up in front of Alistair's and left the motor running.
