Total pages in book: 189
Estimated words: 174749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
What the fuck am I even bothering myself with this shit for? I’m acting like a lovesick kid in high school. Yeah, Vivian was a great fuck. She has a fucking smoking body, sure. She’s got tits you just want to grab and squeeze and suck. An ass you want to smack. Legs that go on forever. Jesus, even her fucking neck is beautiful. And that pussy. Jesus fucking Christ that tight pussy is worth its fucking weight in gold.
But at the end of the day, this woman knows what it's like out there. Hell, she’s played the field a lot longer than me. This is one powerful broad we’re talking about here. She used to be a fucking Democrat. Then she became a Republican. Then she went Independent.
Don’t look at me like that, okay? I did my fucking research on her after we fucked. I know what kind of person I’m fucking dealing with. And let me tell you; you do not want to fuck around with her. That’s for goddamn sure.
Of course I’ve learned it's important to know all about my enemies. I mean, they may not be enemies the way some of the people here had enemies when they went out to fight in wars. But if they’re like the people who were out there in the shale oil fields of North Dakota when I was first wildcatting, or the corporate boardroom snakes that I had to deal with, they were a whole different level of dangerous.
Too many fucking times, people came at me with a hand reached out for a fucking embrace while they smiled and hid a knife behind their back. The only that fucking saved me was knowing what they were all about. And I mean knowing every single fucking thing. What they liked, didn’t like, who they fucked, who they loved, you name it. So if another wildcatter was trying to steal me out of my claim to a piece of land, you can be damn sure I fucking knew that he had a mistress in Montana while his wife was waiting for him in Tennessee. A few years later, if a private equity banker was trying to take pieces of my company public and forcing my hand, I knew how to deal with him because I knew all his fucking deepest darkest secrets. I knew that he was visiting a fucking Thai massage place every other day during lunch for a rub and tug. I knew that he had incorporated himself to pay less in taxes. So when he did finally push too far, I knew exactly how to snap back against him.
That's how I know who I’m fucking dealing with Carter and Vivian. Jesus Christ, Carter Andrews is a real piece of work, you know that? Son of the real estate developer that built Andrews Estates in the Bronx. Yeah, that hell hole that cops were even afraid to go into almost 30 years ago. Sure, it’s cleaned up somewhat now, but it used to be a piece of shit. The NYPD had a fucking precinct office across the street because they were there every fucking night. Someone was always getting stabbed, shot, beaten up, or raped. They used to sell drugs in the stairwells. Hookers used to walk up and down the fucking walkways inside the Estates during the fucking day. The bitch of it is, that the Estates were built in the 1950s as a place for returning veterans from Korea and all the other wars to settle down in. Have a nice, comfortable middle class life. And sure, it may have been like that for a while. But then like all fucking wealthy billionaires, the property was built, the city paid all the fees and shit that the developers charged, and then because it was affordable housing, people just forgot about it. And by forget, that means they forgot about the people who ended up moving in there too.
How do I know all this?
Because I fucking grew up there. I fucking walked past the Irish gangs that roamed the hallways, looking to recruit me. I used to walk back from school with books inside a pizza box so that the kids wouldn’t hassle me. Because if they saw me with books, they would have kicked my fucking ass.
But then I started growing up. I started working out. Playing sports. And I started getting bigger. That’s when it got even fucking worse. Now they wanted to pick a fight to see if they could beat me.
My parents both had jobs, mind you. They both worked every day of their lives, till they died. God rest both their souls.
But I never forgot where I grew up. And why it was like that. Because people stopped caring about the everyday American. And those people had no fucking voice.