Wealthy Playboy (Cocky Suits Chicago Book 7) Read online

  Wealthy Playboy

  Sloane Howell

  Alex Wolf

  Wealthy Playboy Copyright © 2020 Alex Wolf and Sloane Howell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be resold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Publisher © Alex Wolf & Sloane Howell October 2nd, 2020

  Cover Design: Chelle Bliss

  Editor: Spellbound

  Formatting: Alex Wolf

  Contents

  1. Wells Covington

  2. Meadow Carlson

  3. Wells Covington

  4. Meadow Carlson

  5. Wells Covington

  6. Meadow Carlson

  7. Wells Covington

  8. Meadow Carlson

  9. Wells Covington

  10. Meadow Carlson

  11. Wells Covington

  12. Meadow Carlson

  13. Wells Covington

  14. Wells Covington

  15. Meadow Carlson

  16. Wells Covington

  17. Meadow Carlson

  18. Wells Covington

  19. Meadow Carlson

  20. Wells Covington

  21. Meadow Carlson

  22. Wells Covington

  23. Meadow Carlson

  24. Wells Covington

  25. Meadow Carlson

  26. Wells Covington

  27. Meadow Carlson

  28. Wells Covington

  29. Meadow Carlson

  30. Meadow Carlson

  31. Wells Covington

  32. Meadow Carlson

  33. Wells Covington

  34. Meadow Carlson

  Epilogue

  Also by Alex Wolf

  Also by Sloane Howell

  Wells Covington

  Wells Covington

  I fuck women in pairs because odd numbers bother me.

  One of the lucky ladies from last night stretches her arms up toward the headboard like a cat, then rolls over onto her friend and goes back to sleep.

  This is my life. Nothing to complain about, at all.

  Orson, my personal, well, everything, meets me in the living area of the suite I always rent during the week. At least, when I have early meetings in downtown Chicago. I couldn’t live without this guy keeping the mundane tasks of my life in order, and his British accent makes it perfect. I feel a little like Batman.

  “Sir, do you prefer the Tom Ford or Brioni?” He spreads two suit bags over the sofa.

  My eyes flit back and forth between the two of them. “Which one is best for crushing a piece-of-shit CEO’s hopes and dreams before breakfast?”

  “The Brioni, sir.” He picks it up and hands it to me.

  I laugh and take it from him. “Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re power walking to the elevator. I like to get ready as fast as possible. Efficiency is key in life. If I can knock ten minutes off my morning routine every day for the next fifty years, that’s one hundred and eighty-two thousand, five hundred minutes, or roughly one hundred and twenty-seven extra days of doing more productive things than making sure my hair is perfectly slicked back for a meeting in which I’m the only one capable of firing myself.

  Orson and I ride down the elevator to the lobby, then walk toward the front of the hotel.

  “Can you take care of the women?”

  “What do you require, sir?”

  “Feed them breakfast, then they can be on their way.”

  “As you wish.” He stops at the front door.

  I turn to face him. I’m not really sure he realizes how much he means to me, but I’m terrible at communicating things like that. I’ve never had what the world would call great social skills. Enough to get by, but showing affection is difficult and awkward and usually a waste of time. I don’t understand why people crave it so much. Well, I understand it, the logic just doesn’t compute.

  “See you at the house later?”

  “I’ll be there after feeding the women.”

  I laugh. “Thank you.”

  He nods, turns on a heel, and heads back to the elevator.

  I walk out into the Chicago morning air, over to my car and driver. I’ve perfected this routine a million times, so there’s nothing interesting about it. What will happen when I show up at Dresden Retail’s headquarters, will be the interesting portion of the morning.

  I step into the back of the car and have a seat as the driver maneuvers us through the city. Swiping through my phone, I hit up my usual morning routine, checking Bloomberg, Twitter, CNBC, and several other applications. Next, I begin to whittle my emails down and put out any fires before they become something that could consume an afternoon. Investors are needy pricks, and I like to anticipate those needs.

  As we turn down the street toward Dresden, my heartrate spikes, in a good way. Dopamine fires through my nervous system, a rewarding chemical that my body welcomes. These types of situations drive what I do. Finance is scientific, but there’s also an art to it, much like chess. Performance is often necessary—drama, manipulation, seeing three steps ahead of an opponent. It’s the key to a large return and a reward of excess resources. It’s never about the wealth, though. That’s the trophy. Playing the game is the exhilarating part. Winning is everything.

  The driver pulls up to the front of the building and lets me out. I stare up at the skyscraper in front of me and grin.

  Time to go to work.

  I walk through security, all business, expressionless face, and take the elevator to the executive floor. Personally, I think it’s a bit chivalrous for me to make this move before a board of director’s meeting. I’m doing this CEO a favor and helping him avoid embarrassment.

  When I walk through the front door, he’s leaned up over his secretary’s desk—smiling, not a care in the world. She looks as one would expect an employee to look when the CEO is hovering over you—nervous, uncomfortable, trying to be nice.

  His eyes dart over to mine, then he smiles. Fuck, this guy is creepy as hell. It helps ease what little of a conscience remains in my soul. He’s a pompous dickhead too, and that’s saying something, coming from someone like me. He’s coasted through life on his father’s name and nepotism. My achievements are through hard work.

  It’s okay. I’m about to destroy his future. Well, that’s untrue. It’s going to hurt for a while. I’m sure he’ll land on his feet somewhere down the line, though. His type always does.

  He walks up and holds out a hand. “Covington.” He does nothing to hide the contempt in his voice. “Didn’t realize we had something on the books.”

  I take his hand. “We didn’t.”

  He just stares back at me.

  Let him do it. Patience.

  Here he goes. His lips curl up into a smile.

  “If you think you’re getting control of the board, you’re mistaken. Might as well just turn around and march your ass right back out the door, if that’s why you’re here. Otherwise, if you want a tour, I can have Maggie set you…”

  “No tour necessary.” I draw this out not because it’s needed, but because it will send a messag
e. He’ll tell this story for years, and I want CEOs of companies with which I’m invested, to have a healthy dose of fear. Complacency is an enemy of profits, and I live for profits, nothing else. This asshole runs around with other people I do business with. If they want my capital, the fear comes with it. It’s a package deal.

  “Then, I guess we have nothing else to talk about. Enjoy the, uhh, floor.” His eyes dart around, then he turns to walk away.

  Now, it’s time.

  “Oh, but we do.”

  He whips around, this time his face is red. Anger and frustration as anticipated. “Get to the point then. I’m busy.”

  I shake my head at him. “Do you lose your cool so easily when managing operations? No wonder I’m here.”

  “The hell you talking about? This some kind of test?”

  “Oh no.” I shake my head. “The time for tests is done, as is your tenure at Dresden.”

  He laughs, but I can see the insecurity written all over his face. “Did you not hear me? I have the votes.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you did have the votes, yesterday morning. I’m sure you kissed all kinds of ass, and made all kinds of promises for the quarter, threw your family name around.” I pause. “Begged, even.”

  His face goes pale, then comes denial, as it usually does. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Why would I walk into your office and bluff? That’s beneath me.” I step up closer to his face. “I don’t play a hand unless I’m sure I will destroy.”

  He shakes his head, as many men do when they feel power and wealth slipping through their fingers. “Don’t believe you. I talked to…”

  I cut him off. “You talked to Shirley and Dan yesterday, convinced them with cherry-picked data and threats to vote your way. Yes, I know. But what you don’t realize is I’ve watched you for months, and your managerial talent is fucking lacking. Look around this place.” I make a show of craning my head around. “This is the twenty-first century and it looks like the company is a hundred years behind the times on management diversity. Not that I give a fuck. I’m driven by numbers and performance, but optics affect numbers and performance. You’ve had three run-ins with sexual harassment claims I’m sure you paid to go away, nearly every senior position is an old Caucasian man, and that’s nothing compared to the fact your entire strategy with a retail company is to build more stores and ignore all things digital. You’re a fucking dinosaur in this industry.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. On all that. Just like you little hedge fund babies, trying to come into a place that actually makes products, for Americans, a company that builds things, contributes to society… And you want to swing your dicks around like you actually know anything about business.”

  “I know you lost another ten percent of market share last quarter. How you lost double digits in one quarter is astonishing in itself, but I’m tiring of this conversation. It’s boring.” I glare right at him. “You are boring. A fucking cliché. So, let’s get to how I made it possible to eradicate you from the company your family built, that you’ve destroyed. Yes, you had the votes to secure your position for another quarter. But what you fail to realize, is you have a narrow manufacturing line that accounts for eighty percent of everything you sell. Not only did I buy your suppliers, yes, I control the American companies that make all those American products you do nothing but sell.”

  His face goes white as ash, because now he knows it’s over.

  I continue. “To make sure you didn’t weasel your way out, I found your three biggest debt holders, and convinced them to convert their debt to shares so I would have the votes. I promised them with their support, I would take inventory of the firm’s assets and begin selling off holdings, and take this company apart piece by piece, so shareholders can still get a return on their investments, since they’re not getting shit from your leadership.”

  He looks like he might cry. It’s beautiful, and he deserves every fucking ounce of it.

  I have no sympathy for him. He was responsible for every employee in this company and he failed them, with poor decision after poor decision. He’s like an asshole cheating partner, stringing someone along instead of cutting them loose so they can move on. Institutions like this need to die off. They’re a drain on the economy and hold us back, all so this prick can have a personal piggy bank. In my scenario he’ll still make out with millions and millions of dollars, he just won’t get to make bad decisions that affect his workers and shareholders.

  “You can’t do this.”

  “I am doing this.”

  “This is my legacy. My family’s company. I’ll be a pariah. It’ll ruin our name.”

  “You should’ve thought about that a long time ago, not now. It should’ve been on your mind with every single decision you made for the past five years. You were complacent, lazy, privileged.”

  He looks up at me.

  “And now, you’re fired. So go get your things. Security will see you out, and I’ll have your checks sent to you. You’re welcome.”

  He balls up his fists, and just maybe I underestimated him. This did just get interesting.

  I take a step toward him. I’m six four and he’s five nine. It wouldn’t be a contest. I glare down at him and lower my voice where no one can hear. “Don’t embarrass yourself twice in one day. Have some fucking dignity.”

  He finally stomps off. “This isn’t over. I’ll see you in court.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.” I walk over to his secretary’s desk.

  She clearly heard everything, and judging by the smile on her face, all the bullshit people reported about that guy was true.

  “Tell Cory Roberts he’s in charge until he hears from the board this afternoon.”

  “Okay then.” She flashes me a smile.

  I walk back to the elevator.

  My phone rings as I step off. It’s Lipsy; aka Brian Lipscomb, my second in command at the firm.

  I hold the phone to my ear. “What is it?”

  “Parker Project. We’re exposed.”

  “How exposed?”

  “Sharon Stone is giving Michael Douglas an interrogation delight.”

  “Fuck, that play is becoming a pain in the dick. I’ll stop by. It’s on the way.”

  “See you in a few, boss.”

  I hang up the phone. Goddamn it, this might ruin my morning. The Parker Project. Should be easy money. We’re converting an old hotel into a high rise on Michigan Avenue. Complete renovation, head to toe, with lake-view condos. It’ll turn a piece-of-shit old building into a revenue-churning machine for the city of Chicago. I already have interest from all over the world, businessmen with offices in the city who want a luxury apartment while they’re in town, foreign oligarchs who like to flex their oil money in the windy city.

  Seventy-five percent of the units were contracted before I put a dime into the place. Yet, it’s been one goddamn legal snag after another and there’s a pattern to it. Depending upon the severity of this little problem, it might actually push this guaranteed profit haven’s projections into the red.

  I don’t like people fucking with my business, and someone is. My money is on Bennett Cooper, but I don’t rely on guesswork. I worship at the altar of facts, science, and logic.

  Lipsy greets me at the curb when we pull up.

  I say, “What is it?” as I step out of the car.

  “Oh, you’ll enjoy this in a morbid way.”

  I raise an eyebrow and start toward the building.

  Lipsy hurries to match my pace. “Part of me wants to hold out, let the tension build, then watch you react when you see it.”

  I shake my head at him and grin.

  We pass some local media vans and reporters as I head toward the building. What the fuck are they doing here?

  Their smug faces turn to smiles when they see me. One of them steps in my path. “Any comment, Mr. Covington?”

  “Fist yourself with your mother’s hand,” says Lipsy. “We’ll find you when we
have a comment.”

  I snicker, but it’s short-lived. My mind is on the project, but somehow Lipsy always lightens the mood just enough.

  The reporter’s face turns pink and he keeps walking with his camera man trailing behind. The Chicago Tribune hates me. We go back a long way. I’m nothing but a Manhattan, one percent, corporate raider who pillages their city siphoning resources and destroying the middle class. Their words, not mine. They always conveniently forget I grew up here with nothing.

  “Lipsy, what the fuck happened?” I ask as we walk through the front, but before he can say anything, I freeze right in my tracks.

  Lipsy turns and stares at my face, partially smiling, taking in my reaction with a morbid fascination like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning. It’s just who he is.

  My jaw clenches. More of the media run up and snap photos before being shoved away by a few police officers who approach me.

  Finally, I cock my head slightly to the side, taking it in, trying to find the meaning in it. Not the actual meaning of the literal words, but the motive behind what is spray painted across the brand-new, twenty-five-square-meter marble wall we just had installed. It’s not just any marble either. It’s Lux Touch from Pietra Firma and John Hardwood designs. It’s a work of art, symbolizing the luxury you get when you pay the price for one of our units.

  Every inch of it consists of black marble, finely cut diamonds, mother of pearl, abalone shell, and black onyx. It retails for one million dollars per square meter. I don’t even need to do the math to know it’s a twenty-five-million-dollar wall, because I wrote the fucking check.