Seventeen
DALTON
W hen I was fifteen, my father sat Lander, Everett, and me down in his home office and offered us our first bourbons. There between the paneled walls and shelves of old books Cavendish men had inherited and not read since the American Revolution, my father, Dalton Franklin Richmond Cavendish the Third (known as Frank by most, but known as Fucknugget by me) told us how to be successful men.
The path involved Princeton University, Harvard Law School, a job at Cavendish, Dawson & Waits (or the White House, in Everett’s case), and a stunning wife who didn’t need attention so long as she had diamonds. It was the path our three fathers had all taken, and like us, they’d started out as infants terrorizing the same au pair.
It was a weird year. Lander’s parents had passed, and my parents had become his legal guardians. Everett’s father was in Richmond, apparently being the Governor of Virginia but mostly being a cuntsack, so Everett stayed with us in McLean too.
For three fifteen-year-old boys who had been best friends their entire lives, the prospect of living together should have been unreal, but we were all having our first bouts of ennui. For Lan and Ev, their lives had been upended. I, on the other hand, was realizing I never wanted to be a goddamn lawyer.
I was outrageously stoned during my father’s life path pyramid scheme presentation, but even if I hadn’t hotboxed my bedroom that morning, all I would have remembered was the bourbon.
My father toasted and we drank: May we get what we want, may we get what we need, but may we never get what we deserve.
The rolling heat on my tongue spread through my body, and the feeling was otherworldly. I like drinking , I said later while staring tipsily at my bedroom ceiling, pretending I was speaking to Lander and Everett, but I was saying it to myself. I like drinking.
The liquor hit the right something I was looking for. Up to that point, nothing had eased me quite so smoothly. To this day, nothing has come close…
…Except for Essie’s pussy.
I run my tongue over my teeth, missing her taste while I watch her through my office’s clear walls. It’s Friday, and I can still feel her luscious thighs clenching my ears.
As usual, Essie’s clacking away on her keyboard in that seamless way computer science majors do. When she glances over, I wave with a tick of two fingers.
She glares.
Before I can react, my desk phone rings.
“Cavendish,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
“She’s here. Get to my office now,” Warner Hannington replies on the other end of the line.
I take one last look at Essie. She’s focused on her model, already bored of me. Fine—for now.
In Warner’s office, the older man is stoic and his salt and pepper hair is slightly less gelled than usual. “She’s not going to be like him,” he finally says once I’m sitting on one of the cream couches on the other side of the room.
He’s talking about Claudia Villatoro, Bernardo Villatoro’s daughter and only heir—the woman who controls the fate of Hannington-Hale.
“Nobody is their father,” I remind Hannington, but neither of us is saying the quiet part out loud: Claudia has more bikini and cocaine pictures on the internet than any billionaire in the world.
Warner looks rattled for the first time in my memory. “The fuck was Bernardo thinking…. And how are you so calm?”
“Aren’t we just having a conversation? We’re not going to save the bank today.” I recline on the expensive couch. “I’ll take care of it.”
Gradually, his jaw unclenches. “You always do,” he replies with the same smile he’s been giving me since we met on the platform waiting for an Amtrak four years ago. I told him his trench coat made him look like a supervillain, and he offered me an internship on the spot. I declined because I told him I needed to get a competing offer first, so he doubled the stipend. Then, I turned it down again, so he tripled it. We’ve been close ever since—and Warner is a genuine legend among men.
Claudia Villatoro glides into the room a moment later, and I really mean she glides. She’s an uncannily beautiful woman: tall with shiny dark hair. She’s not dressed for a bank—or even mourning. Her jumpsuit is crimson to match her lipstick, and the only things more colorful at Hannington-Hale are the regurgitated Jell-O shots the analysts leave in trashcans when they show up hungover.
“I’m going to be honest with you, boys,” Claudia says, glancing between Hannington and me after we’ve set her up with a coffee. “I’m wondering why I should keep my money in your archaic bank instead of liquidating everything and ending world hunger.”
Hannington chuckles until he realizes Claudia is dead serious, at which point he clears his throat. “Well, if it were so simple to end world hunger, someone would have done it by now.”
Claudia’s eyes slip into slivers of compressed disdain, and I’ve been friends with Valeria, Cora, and Essie long enough to know when a woman is about to unleash a verbal takedown that could end in bloodshed.
“Claudia, before we deal with world hunger, can you tell me more about your father’s assets?” I pivot. “I understand you’re the sole beneficiary.”
She bobs her head, making her gold earrings swish. “While my father couldn’t keep his dick in his pants—”
My eyebrow shoots up. “Wasn’t expecting a dick drop in this conversation.”
“—he kept tabs on his sperm.” She smirks. “It’s just me.”
“Definitely not expecting anyone to bring up splooge either,” I add.
“ Splooge ?” Hannington blurts out right when Claudia snickers.
“You’re funny.” She assesses me with scrutiny that would make a lesser man wilt. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. What about you?”
“Twenty-five,” Claudia answers, still measuring me. “Harvard boy?”
“Princeton undergrad, Harvard for my MBA.” I tilt my head and pretend to read her. “I’m going to guess Brown for undergrad…and fuck grad school, right?”
“You Googled me,” is her response.
“Bernardo mentioned it once.”
“And you remembered,” she points out, settling against the couch cushions and dragging her fingernails over the cream upholstery. “Why?”
“I remember everything about everyone,” I answer, which is easier than admitting I’ve had trouble sitting still and studying for most of my life, so memorizing things fast got me through school.
Claudia is clearly more at ease than when she arrived. “Alright, boys. I have more money than I need, and I’m uninterested in multiplying it, but tell me why I should let you try.”
“Because your father never thought you could,” I reply, briefly glancing in Warner’s direction. Predictably, he’s gripping the arm of his couch so forcefully that he might poke a hole in it.
“It sounds like you’re insulting me, but I haven’t heard a good dig in a minute, so I’ll hear you out,” Claudia replies, crossing her arms. “But be efficient, Harvard. I’ll interrupt if I get bored.”
“My dad’s a dick too,” I inform her. “After I decided to drop out of Harvard Law, severing a four-generation tradition of Cavendish lawyers, he said I wouldn’t amount to anything. So, I did what any disgruntled rich kid with daddy issues does.”
“Blow,” Claudia ventures.
“Nope,” I reply before pausing. “Well, yes, a fair bit, actually. But I also went to career services and asked what job would make me the most money in the shortest amount of time. Now, I’m here with you, and my father texts me every week, begging to talk.” I put my coffee down and lean in. “Proving him wrong is pure serotonin. Your father never thought you’d do much with his money, which is why he gave it to you. He assumed you’d leave it alone and let his legacy live on.”
“Isn’t that what you’ll have me do?”
“Sitting back and watching isn’t my style. I prefer to be an active participant.” Ask Essie. “Let me manage your portfolio, Claudia. Your father is dead—lucky you. We can still prove him wrong.”
When I’m done speaking, Hannington clears his throat. “What Dalton is trying to say—”
Claudia’s hand rises. “He was clear—and he was correct.” She faces me. “ If I continue to work with Hannington-Hale, I’d like you to be here.”
“That’s a given.”
She bobs her chin. “Good,” she declares before she rises. “Then I’ll have an answer soon.”
As we stand, Hannington shoots me a look. After all, he has no intention of moving Villatoro’s money. But Claudia is in the door, and that’s what the bank needs.
Eventually, his expression eases. “Good job, son,” he murmurs, patting my back—and I’d be lying if I said the validation didn’t give me a rush. Warner grins, and it’s obvious: I’ve made him proud.
I dip my chin in acknowledgement before I face Claudia. “I’ll walk you out.”
We leave Warner’s office, and the entire bullpen moves—a sign everyone was watching the meeting through the glass. Claudia stops at the rail, surveying the rows of desks in the pit. Her eyes tick from one suited analyst to the next, and she sighs. “All this, day after day, to get richer,” she muses. “Surely there’s a better way.”
“If there is, I haven’t found it,” I admit. “Come on.”
Except Claudia ignores me. She’s staring at something.
She weaves past the railing and down the stairs, and once again, the bullpen quiets. Everyone is watching her—this twenty-five-year-old woman with the power to stymie our careers with a finger snap. She navigates through the labyrinth of chairs, bright red and put-together and so out of place.
She stops at Essie’s station.
It takes Essie a beat to notice, but when she sees Claudia, she smiles—and Claudia smiles back.
They’re talking. Nodding. Then, for reasons I can’t explain, Claudia reaches into her purse, takes out a detergent pen, and places it on Essie’s desk with a wink.
Moments later, as Claudia is strolling out of the bullpen, she says loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Next time we talk, I want her there too.”