Finance Bros (Bay Area Bros #1)

1. Ryan

RYAN

I have the worst song stuck in my head. I blame my former stepdad.

He had terrible taste in music. Eighties hair bands.

And I’m not talking Guns N’ Roses or Metallica—nothing that stood the test of time.

I mean Slaughter. Cinderella. Faster Pussycat.

Shit no one my age has heard of but serves as a default soundtrack to my life whether I like it or not.

Tonight, the band is Poison. The song, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” The reason—I’m on a date, and I’m hoping to get laid.

The date is the thorn, the rose—self-explanatory.

The problem? I only know the chorus, so that one part is playing on a loop in the lead singer’s stupid twang, and I can’t shake it.

The law student sitting across from me must have seen something on my dating profile that appealed, so here I am, rolling through the thorns of social interaction in order to lie down in a bed of roses— Bon Jovi .

She’s pretty. Her long, dark blond hair has lighter highlights around her face.

She’s got a few freckles across her cheeks beneath bright blue eyes.

She’s tiny, though. Like super petite. Short and skinny.

I’m no giant, but she makes me feel like one.

Her name is Ruby, which is maybe where the idea of roses came from .

We’ve been quietly studying our menus since the waitress dropped off our wine, which means it’s time for me to ask a thoughtful question in order to seem like I can hold a conversation. “So…law school…”

Ruby smiles, nodding encouragingly.

“What’s that like?” I ask.

“I mean, it’s competitive. Really busy. Tons of writing, even more reading.”

“But you like it?” I ask, drawing on my rudimentary communication skills.

“It’s a love-hate relationship for sure,” she says.

I set my menu down. “Thanks for taking the time out.”

Ruby smiles as she picks up her glass of wine. “Thanks for asking me out on an actual date. Most guys just invite me to their apartments.”

“Oh yeah?”

She shrugs like dating, am I right? “Usually it’s fine, but my ex was the last person to take me to dinner.”

“Oh.” Did I miss a memo? Am I fucking up dating ?

“Seriously, Ryan—it’s a good thing.”

She says that like I’m a damn unicorn, and I’m forced to wonder whether all the other women I’ve taken out think dinner is—what?

Weird? Extra? Old-fashioned? Should I be skipping all this expensive shit—the whole getting to know you song and dance—and inviting them back to my place to get drunk and go to bed?

It’d save time and money, and if that’s how the rest of guys in the Bay Area do it, who the fuck am I to buck the system?

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I blurt out, suddenly defensive.

She jerks her head.

I could have phrased that better. Way better. “I mean everybody has to eat, right?”

“Right.” She averts her gaze and takes a sip of wine. After swallowing, she says, “So you said you’re starting a new job Monday?”

“It’s an internship.”

“Oh.”

“But it could lead to a job—a really good job.”

“You’ve got your MBA, right?”

That’s on my dating profile. “Yes.” I might not look like the type, but I’m good at school.

My whole life, I’ve wanted to be rich. I don’t believe in the saying money can’t buy everything.

Of course it can. Maybe it can’t technically buy happiness, but it can sure as hell get me a ton of distractions.

“What’s the job?”

“Investment banking.”

“Nice. I’ve heard that’s a good gig. Great work if you can get it, right?”

“Right.”

A glint in her eyes accompanies a small smile I interpret as flirtatious. Thank God. I’m not completely blowing this.

“You don’t look like an investment banker,” she says.

“No?” I already know this. “What do I look like?”

She laughs, covering her mouth with one of her tiny hands. “When I saw your profile pic, I thought you might be in a band or something. Maybe a bartender? But I mean that in the best possible way.”

“That’s a terrible picture of me. I’ve had multiple haircuts since. I should update it.”

“It’s a great picture,” she argues. “And who doesn’t like a bartender?”

“Why would you want to go on a date with a bartender?”

“Ouch.” Her next laugh is less amused, more cautious. “What’s wrong with bartenders?”

I shrug and swallow the dregs of my wine.

As usual, my baseline personality is getting in the way of maintaining a decent impression.

My mom calls it “caustic.” Occasionally, someone will like me despite all my rough outer layers, but I’m an acquired taste.

I refill Ruby’s wine, hoping more alcohol will help blur my sharper edges.

I don’t hate the idea of skipping dinner in the future.

A meal with me rarely ends well, usually goes a hell of a lot like this, and only sometimes winds up in someone’s apartment.

“Nothing,” I say. “Bartenders are great. Me personally, I’m really looking forward to the internship.

If it goes well it could mean getting my dream job. ” Dream life. Dream everything.

“You’re peaking early,” she says.

I shake my head. “The job’s just the beginning.”

“Then what?”

My microeconomics professor Norah comes to mind.

She was an adjunct at PSU before going back to work at her firm in Seattle—a satellite office of Marks & Baker.

Norah swears she had nothing to do with my getting the internship at the flagship offices here, but I don’t care whether she did or didn’t put in a good word for me.

The opportunity at Marks & Baker is all that matters.

Norah was married while I was taking her class, but she isn’t anymore, and she’s somehow worked her way into these visions I have of my dream life.

She’s gorgeous. Single. No kids. And, more importantly, she’s one of the aforementioned people who likes my personality.

I like hers, too. So much that I actively picture her with me when I say to Ruby, “Dream home, dream yacht, dream vacations.”

“Sounds like you have a whole plan.”

Damn right. “What’s yours?”

“Pass the bar exam.”

“Amen.” I lift my glass for a toast.

The rest of the conversation goes well enough that Ruby invites me back to her place. We have sex with her on top because I’m scared I’ll crush her, and afterward, I crash hard, exhausted from all of it—the wine, the talking, the orgasm. The effort the whole night took.

I’d take a fucked up stock portfolio to sort out over that any damn day. No offense to Ruby. She’s great, but dating wears me the fuck out.

My Apple watch wakes me before dawn, and I slip out of Ruby’s bed in a maneuver I’ve perfected—guaranteed not to wake even the lightest of sleepers. On my way out of her building, I send her a text, thanking her for the night and apologizing for having to leave early.

Once I’m home, I intend to go straight back to bed, but when I arrive, my roommate is already at it, working out in the living room he’s turned into his home gym.

Deacon is a friend of a guy I knew at PSU.

I wound up in his apartment because he was looking for a sublet after his previous roommate moved out to live with his girlfriend.

I’ve been here almost a month, which more or less makes this living situation the world’s longest blind date, which is to say, he and I are still feeling each other out.

From what little conversation we’ve had, I know he writes code for some big tech company, but I only ever see him working out.

It’s six in the morning, and he’s already dripping sweat, his corded muscles shiny and defined as hell.

The dude’s got zero body fat. And I know because I’ve watched him check it. With calipers.

It’s not all for looks—he’s literally training for an Iron Man.

He’s got goals, but in terms of looks, in my humble opinion, there’s no room for improvement.

He’s out most weekends, where I assume he’s putting his looks to good use.

I guess it’s possible he’s got a girlfriend, but I haven’t seen one yet.

“How was the date?” Deacon asks, out of breath .

I look blankly at him, like the fact that I’m just now coming home speaks for itself.

He grins. “Right. Cool. I got um…fresh bananas.”

I continue staring at him.

“In case you’re hungry.”

“No.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Have a good workout.” I slip out of the living room and lock myself in my bedroom.

I need to hit the gym at some point today, too, but I’m trying to chill my brain out before Monday.

Step one was the date, which—while I won’t be marrying Ruby or anything—ended as well as it could have.

Step two is to bank some sleep before my first day at work so I don’t look like some burnout they dragged off the street and put into a nice suit.

Step three is to memorize some talking points, which I figure I can do on a treadmill.

I suck at small talk and strangers. I’m awkward and sour on a good day and rude as fuck on a bad one.

I have this issue with keeping my mouth shut when I don’t agree with something.

It’s a byproduct of deciding a while back that I needed to stop giving a shit what anyone thinks of me.

The problem is I need to make a good impression Monday.

I need to build a filter, put it in place, and make it work.

Using my small shaving mirror, I practice facial expressions in the shower.

A huge smile looks terrifying, but it’s a starting point.

I’m going for bland but interested. Even that, though, is a stretch.

It feels like smiling, too. In its resting position, my mouth is moody and pouty, like I just got grounded for three weeks.

In order to make it not look like that, I have to activate my cheek muscles, which not only feels unnatural, it makes me look like an idiot.

Even when I smile small, it looks like I’m disapproving of something .