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As Hector walks off and I hear him knocking on the next cubicle, I reach for my phone.
I hear you’re making an appearance at McGinty’s tonight.
Dylan’s busy so I don’t expect him to answer right away, but within minutes, I see the three dots and then his reply.
Monthly tradition, though I hate that it takes priority over our after hours work.
Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed to miss them too.
But getting together with the people from work is important. Especially with the rumors. I feel like I’m finding my place here and getting to know everyone, so being invited to go out with them is a must-do, even if it’s still a bit of a work function, not a friendly outing. I was initially worried the news of mine and Dylan’s behavior at the fundraiser would’ve preemptively poisoned people against me, but for the most part, it seems people at this level don’t know about it. Or they simply don’t care. Whatever the case, I’m thankful for it because I think I could really be good friends with some of my coworkers, and tonight is another step in the right direction.
Me too. I was excited to tell you about my morning.
Our after-work meetings always end in toe-curling orgasms, but they start with Dylan and me talking through my investments. He says I’m doing an even better job than he’d hoped, but he’s also guiding me as I learn more. I thought my success this morning would be worth a ‘great work’, at least, or an orgasmic bonus at most, so I’m disappointed to not get to share it with him.
European markets?
Yes! It was amazing!
He goes quiet for a moment, and I think he’s gotten caughtup in something else, but then he says,Checked your numbers. Great work, Raven.
There it is—the warm, bubbly feeling in my chest when he praises me like that. I can’t help the smile that slips onto my lips.
Thank you. See you tonight.
I do a happy spin in my chair before grabbing my lunch from my locker. I go back to my desk to eat while I see what else is happening on the markets this afternoon. And before I know it, the bells are ringing across the globe to close out another day. I do some recording and analysis of my various portfolios and wrap up.
Before long, thoughts about the day get tucked away as I step into McGinty’s, heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk, then dulled on the wooden floor. It’s an institution in the Financial District, an authentic Irish pub that traces its roots all the way to 1847, when Sheamus McGinty brought his family to the USA from County Cork.
I’ve been here before more than once. It’s a pub that’s garnered a reputation similar to Lionfish, just the junior league version. It’s the place where young, hungry up and comers in the Financial District share a pint after a day’s hard work.
It’s also got a reputation of being a bit of a frat house, and as I join the sea of dark suits and the waves of faint cologne hit me in the nose, I’m reminded of the last few times I’ve been here.
Tonight, there’s an actual band on the stage, playing traditional Irish music, and I give them a glance before scanning for people I know. Thankfully, I see Hector waving at me from across the room and head that way.
“Raven!” he calls, greeting me loudly. He’s gathered by the long, black oak bar, his coat already ditched somewhere and his sleeves rolled up his forearms, which highlights his Rolex watch. “Glad you could make it. First one’s on the company! Guinness?”
It’s not one of my favorites, but it seems to be apropos, so I nod and a moment later, the bartenderhands me a pint.
“Cheers,” I reply, clinking mugs with him. Three other people around us hold their glasses up too, smiling and clinking with us. I’m not sure if they even work at Sharpe or are maybe just financial district types out for a nightcap after work.
Hector takes a sip, bobbing his head to the music. “You don’t look like the Irish music type.”
“I used to work here, back in college,” Hector says, grinning at my surprise. “I know, I know. It’s the locs, right?”
“Something like that,” I admit, and he laughs.
“You’ll see when I get up there and start belting out some Dropkick Murphys!” he vows, his voice rising as he completes his statement. It’s greeted by a roar of approval, and behind the bar, a staff member rolls her eyes. “Worker’s Song, Worker’s Song!” he chants, and a few take up the rally with him.
“Worker’s Song?” I ask when he quiets, and he nods. “Sorry, I’m unfamiliar with it.”
“Best ‘fuck the rich’ song recorded in the past twenty years,” Hector says quite seriously. “Pretty awesome bagpipes, too.”
I nod, deciding to take his word on that because my musical tastes run a little more popstar and a bit less… bagpipe.
More people arrive, and the party really begins, though no one gets too wild. It’s more of a ‘who do you work for’ and ‘how’d you do in the markets today’ than ‘let’s get as shit-faced as fast as possible’ vibe.
Right at six forty-five, the doors open and Dylan arrives. A cheer goes up from everyone, and Dylan looks around, nodding and smiling.
