Driving Me Wild Read online

  The upshot of the review: Maxwell was preparing to promote Kyle above me and transfer me back into the Corporate Finance group. “I have to be honest here, Mike. What I’m seeing from Kyle, this guy could take my job some day. I mean, hopefully not here.” A wink. “It would be irresponsible of me not to grab onto this rare talent and develop him.”

  I felt like he’d blasted me in the chest, wanted nothing more than to tell Maxwell to go violently violate himself, but I remained stubbornly upright in my seat. “Maxwell, what if I saw myself advancing further in Investor Relations?”

  His answer turned him into an adult on the Peanuts cartoons–the rest of his words hit my ears as nothing more than “Wah-wah, wah, wah, wah-wah-wah.” Something about how I should be grateful that I’d be two levels higher when I transferred back into the Finance group, how we were now on the same page and my expectations had been fairly defined.

  When I asked him flat out why he didn’t think I could go any higher in IR, he was brutally honest. “Look, Michael, you’re a great internal resource. Taking the next step as a VP-in-waiting, well, it requires a trait or two that I’ve not yet observed in you.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Killer instinct,” Maxwell said, rubbing his chin. “You lack it. Sitting in my chair requires a certain brazen quality.” He turned up a palm, motioning toward me in poorly veiled pity. “You, you’re just too damned nice.”

  It was an ugly truth placed squarely in my face: I wasn’t man enough for the women I wanted, nor for the employers whose favor I sought. After years spent in denial, I was going to do something about it. Planting the mental seeds of a battle plan, I settled back into my seat at Winthrop’s and asked the waiter to bring the molten lava cakes Aimee and I had ordered.

  “Sir,” the waiter asked with a furrowed brow, “you still want me to bring both desserts?” Guess he didn’t think Aimee was coming back.

  “My good man,” I said as I stuffed a twenty into his hand, “bring them both, along with a bottle of your house wine.” When he brought them, I savored each bite of the cakes, washing them down with a glass of the wine before sharing the bottle with two nearby tables.

  Dessert never tasted so good.

  CHAPTER 3

  Aimee

  Less than fifteen minutes after hailing the cab from Winthrop’s, I used my access card to buzz myself through the locked glass doors leading to the Wacker Avenue offices of Todd J. Terry, my boss and leading Professional Sports Pundit.

  I walked nearly every square foot of our 39th floor space, confirming to the best of my ability that I was alone. At nearly nine on a Friday night, the other fifteen employees of Terry Town Productions should have all been out enjoying the weekend. My only other office companion was a female staffer from the custodial service, whose humming vacuum served as a distant soundtrack.

  Sighing and rubbing at my eyes, then shuffling out of my heels, I trundled across the spacious lobby toward my own office. My suite is actually twice the size of Todd’s office, a rare acknowledgement of the importance of my role in the company. As a celebrity sports reporter and pundit with a day job working for True Fan, the national network that’s giving ESPN fits, Todd is more of a figurehead at Terry Town.

  As Chief Operating Officer, the role Todd offered to lure me away from ESPN, I use his reputation and name to get all the work done. All Todd does is show up where and when I tell him to, flashing his million-dollar smile and using his gift of gab to publicize the company’s ventures.

  Shoving aside a half-read marketing brochure, I collapsed into the slick but soft leather of my desk chair. I swept my gaze across an office most professionals dreamt of: an oval space with a wall of windows, it features a bracing view of Lake Shore Drive. I sucked in an anxious breath, my ability to revel in the well-lit nighttime beauty dampened by reverberations of my date from hell and more pressing sources of stress.

  Still seated, I looked down to see my fingers intertwined into an ugly, fiddling ball. I hated ending my friendship with Michael on such a nasty, near-violent note, but our ultimate disagreement had been over our relationship. When you’ve endured as many failed relationships as I have–with my father, my half-siblings, a string of boyfriends and countless half-assed friends–you learn to shrug such things off.

  That didn’t mean I could immediately shrug off Michael’s accusations about my taste in men, though. I figured I just might spend the night in this calming, majestic space and return to my condo in the morning. Swinging my feet up onto my desk, I searched my phone’s podcast archive for an appropriately soothing option. The Slate Cultural Gabfest’s dissection of the Ben Stiller film “While We Were Young?” The “Fresh Air” interview of Lena Dunham perhaps?

  My deliberations were halted by the unwelcome buzzing of my phone, which replaced my Podcast list with the only number in my address book listed as “Unknown:” Todd’s private cell. It was an identification he insisted on with everyone to whom he gave his number, in case our phones ever fell into the hands of a rabid sports fan.

  I accepted his FaceTime, and his image appeared onscreen: Green eyes, beige skin, gleaming bald head, and high cheekbones. TJT, as I had once fondly shorthanded him, was an unusually pretty man. In his world of sports talkers, it was a cross for which he had spent years compensating with congenial swagger and wicked wit.

  He stared coolly into his phone’s evil eye. “Ms. Chase, how are you?”

  I shrugged. “Overworked and underpaid.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ha, ha. At least you’re not burdened with jet lag.” I knew he had been scheduled to hop a red-eye to San Francisco the night before. True Fan had shipped him out to cover Golden State’s battle with LeBron James and his Cavs.

  “My heart breaks. Such hard work, hanging out in the owner’s box and chatting up multi-millionaire athletes ‘off the record.’ You’ll survive.”

  Todd hit me with a faux wounded glance. “Would you like to give it a try? You might find that just because I make it look easy, doesn’t mean it is.”

  Despite myself, I chuckled. “Look at you, Mr. Sensitive. I’m not one of your onscreen debate partners.” Todd’s two-hour True Fan late morning show, “Terry’s Truths,” had established him as the most provocative, fun host in cable sports. When he wasn’t exasperating sports newsmakers in remote and in-studio interviews, he was going toe-to-toe with less talented if entertaining sports pundits.

  “Oh, I know,” Todd said, eyes focused on the screen again. “Very few believed in me when the rug got pulled. You were one of the few to share my vision about what we could build here, Aimee. I still appreciate that.”

  Todd’s eye contact with the screen wavered, and in the ensuing silence I could feel the weight of our history. Nearly four years ago, at the lowest moment of his career, I had followed Todd out the back door of ESPN. Though he was a top-tier talent with a radio show and a regular contributor slot on “Sports Center,” he had worn out his welcome with aggressive compensation demands and a brief bout with alcoholism. I was a newly promoted Marketing Director with ESPN.com, but had worked with Todd enough to believe in his post-ESPN game plan.

  His words were kind, but they didn’t change the annoying fact that my boss had called me on a Friday night. “So, what’s up?”

  His eyes narrowed, then he stood, the phone’s screen angling up and keeping his face in view. “I know we’re way past business hours, but I’ve got to share some disturbing news with you.” He launched into his bulletin, a first-hand confirmation that an ESPN programming executive we both had history with had been fired for getting an NFL PR staffer pregnant. “Pretty ugly, huh? Homeboy had a hell of a career going, lost it all because of a faulty condom.”

  “Her career was pretty promising too,” I said.

  “It’s just a damn shame when people can’t see past the dangers of shitting where they eat. Sooner or later, it derails their professional progress.”

  My stomach bubbled a bit and I felt my mouth draw ti
ght at the corners. “I think people just have to be smart about setting boundaries, Todd. Aside from people sleeping with their supervising managers or with peers they’ve been told not to fraternize with, there shouldn’t be a big problem.” My words hung there, a defense of my own dating life. I had little time or ability to forge a meaningful relationship, but given the attention I had always drawn from men I never lacked for companionship, conversation or physical intimacy.

  Todd sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Aimee, I’m gonna be straight with you, but first let me reiterate what a valuable employee you are. You can ghostwrite my books and negotiate the contracts with the publishers like nobody’s business, you’re expert at hiring my online programming talent, and you do a kick-ass job managing our charitable fundraisers and programs.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  “Hearing about our mutual friend’s ability to end his career with an errantly shot sperm, that’s a wake-up call. You and I have a lot to protect where the Terry Town brand is concerned.”

  I shifted uneasily in my seat. “Todd, what have I done?”

  “Look,” he said, shrugging unconvincingly, “we both know you’ve dated your share of guys with ties to the sports and entertainment industry.” I smoldered as he patiently listed four of the men he knew I had dated in the past eighteen months–the NFL director of player personnel, the newly-retired Chicago Cubs pitcher, the son of an NBA team owner, and the major-label A&R music executive. “I am not here to judge you or them, never mind that none of you had a clue what you wanted out of those relationships.”

  I shook my head in disbelief, cheeks warming as if on a burner. “I should hope you’re not judging, because my personal life is none of your business.”

  Todd rocked from side to side, his focused gaze boring through the phone screen. “Aimee? If it affects my business, it is officially my business.”

  I took a few carefully managed breaths before answering. “I don’t understand how my personal life affects Terry Town.”

  Todd cleared his throat, scratched at a temple. “Look, I’m mentioning your past only in the context of a present-day warning. I need you to be more selective about dating people in the industry. Hell, I’d prefer you stop dating anyone tied to the industry. When these relationships go sideways, shit pops off fast and infects business dealings. Today’s news is just a reminder of that.”

  I shrugged. “I feel like I’m being punished for enjoying life as a single woman.”

  Todd shook his head. “Naw, don’t even try it. I’ll be mentioning this to all the Terry Town employees the next few days.” He paused, seemingly scrutinizing me across the thousands of miles. “I didn’t expect to touch this much of a nerve.”

  Guilt and shame on each shoulder, I willed myself to keep staring at the screen. Todd had unwittingly hit a big nerve, one exposed by the fact that the guy I had been seeing lately–the married man I had been hooking up with while having friendly dates with poor Michael–was exactly the type he was warning me away from.

  Ian “The Commissioner” Wallace was the most famous and successful man I had ever dated. He brought more than money and power to the table: just shy of six-three and nearly as sculpted as the millionaire athletes whose fates he controlled, Ian was the type of man who entered every situation determined to win.

  That confidence extended into every area of his life, especially in the bedroom.

  For reasons beyond that, Ian was the only man in recent memory I considered a real catch. Our on-again, off-again relationship first erupted when he was a single, hotshot attorney for the league and raged at full boil despite his subsequent marriage, the birth of his daughters and his appointment as head of the nation’s most profitable professional sports empire.

  The more I thought about the complicated landscape of my dating life, the darker my mood grew. I didn’t need Todd to point out the obvious. Assuming a casual posture, I tamped down my sense of indignation and politely assured him that I would never embarrass Terry Town or harm its brand.

  It was hard not to wonder if Todd actually knew about Ian and me, but the more we talked the more it appeared he had no such knowledge. Based on his parting words, though, I feared he had a sixth sense: “I count on you more than all the others, Aimee. You do not want to let me down.”

  By the time we hung up, I surveyed my office, treasuring it a bit more than I had even ten minutes earlier. I had promised Todd not to embarrass him with a poorly chosen relationship, and I had every intention of delivering. My role at Terry Town was a dream job, one that would be nearly impossible to replace if Todd ever pink-slipped me. I had burned a few bridges when I left ESPN–people who had invested in mentoring me acted like spurned lovers. From what I had heard since, there weren’t a lot of major sports media businesses looking to roll out the red carpet for me.

  I couldn’t picture life without my relationship with Ian, but I refused to picture it without my job. I hoped I would never have to choose.

  CHAPTER 4

  Michael

  My sixteen-year-old nephew José, a coiled, muscular kid who clearly inherited my brother Warren’s build, had helped critique my look as I prepared for my ill-fated date with Aimee. After spending the day at his baseball team’s two tournament games, we’d returned to my condo so he could stink up my kitchen boiling hot dogs while I got myself together.

  Smoothing out my suit, warming to its snug, flattering fit and admiring the soft waves of my stylized haircut, I had stood tall in a hallway mirror. “José, tonight I just might be bringing home your future aunt. Aimee is a really special lady.”

  The kid had leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed. “You got a picture of her, Uncle Mike?” When I pulled one up on my phone and passed it to him, he gave a sharp whistle. “Yo, she is special.”

  “This isn’t just about her looks,” I said, grabbing the phone before he tried to send the pic to his own phone. “This is a lady with brains and guts, one who sets high goals for herself. She’s got an impressive career, and she overcame some serious barriers to achieve it.” I turned back toward the mirror, perfecting the knot in my tie. “She’s worked so hard to get ahead, frankly I think she’s lost sight of the fact she deserves love.”

  José smiled, his wispy moustache sparkling. “You really care about her, huh?”

  “I’ve known her for a long time,” I said. “She’s not had the best luck with men, you know? When we were in high school, she dated some guys who didn’t give her the respect she deserves. I think she may have repeated that pattern a few times over the years.”

  José frowned. “So what makes you think you’ll break it?”

  Over the years I had taught the kid how to ride a bike, tie a tie, shop for a decent suit, and how to just plain survive the toxic Westside neighborhood that was his home, but José was already in danger of wearing out his welcome. “You sound like you’re questioning your uncle’s wisdom,” I said as I turned to face him.

  “Naw, Uncle Mike,” he said, waving his hands to accentuate just how innocent he was. “I’m just saying, is all.”

  “Sit down,” I said, taking a seat on the arm of my couch as he took a rest on a nearby cushion. “You’re old enough to hear about a conversation I had with your grandfather when I was closer to your age.”

  As I shared with José, the summer I left for senior year at American University my father called me into his office den and offered me one of his fat Cuban cigars before handing me an industrial supply pack of Trojan condoms. My father, Vice President of Public Relations for the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, sat before me with that box and probed my eyes like an attentive physician.

  “Michael, believe it or not, you’re going to burn your way through these.” He held up a hand as I tried to protest. “I know you haven’t been as lucky as you like with women, but you need to watch out. You’ll see this year, some things will change.”

  Even at twenty, I was a skeptic. “Yeah right, Dad. Whatever.”

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p; “Listen–women don’t like what’s good for them when they’re young, son.” He tousled a thatch of his dark, graying hair and leaned back in his chair. “When they’re your age, girls want someone who offers danger. Someone who sends a chill up their spine and strikes a little fear into their heart. They can’t help it.”

  I resisted the urge to tune out my father’s accented English; he had immigrated to the U.S. at the age of twelve, but grew up in a proud Bridgeport Irish enclave that had kept the rhythm and inflection of his native people close at hand. I’d already heard his academic hypothesis about why women went for “bad boys” more times than I could count. “During the college years, son, as graduation nears, something changes.” He flashed a knowing grin.

  I kept eye contact with my father and resisted the urge to remind him as I had before: Somewhere between the Boomers and the Millennials, the rules of the dating game he played had been wiped away.

  “Michael, at some point women start thinking about how to find a man who will bring home the bacon, be a good father to his children. They also figure out it pays to find a man who’s not a habitual cheater.” He ran a hand through his wavy mane. “That’s where you’ll come in. When women you know reach that stage, they’ll be beating down your door. And that’s when you’ll need these,” he said, patting the box of Trojans.

  “That was nearly a decade ago,” I said as I completed the memory for José, “but I think your grandfather’s predictions are about to come true tonight.” Sad truth was, I had only recently thrown out the remnants of that industrial-size Trojan pack, but the kid didn’t need to know all that.

  My intercom buzzed with word of the arrival of José’s friend Victor, whom he had invited to hang out for the evening while I was out with Aimee. As I reminded him of all the food I had stocked up for them and showed him how to use my Netflix streaming subscription, the kid cut me short. “You’re getting me schooled up,” he said, “in case you don’t make it back here tonight, aren’t you?”