The Millionaires Read Online Free Page A

as unmistakable as a fork in the eye, “if this isn’t a confirmation
     call, you better start praying to heaven above.”
    “I-It is, sir,” I say, fighting back a grin. “Just a confirmation.”
    “Fine. Goodbye.” With a slam, it’s over.
    I turn around, but it’s too late. My brother’s already gone.
    * * * *
    Racing out of The Cage, I scan for Charlie—but as always, he’s too fast. At his cubicle, I grab on to the top edges of his
     wall, boost myself up, and peek inside. With his feet up on his desk, he’s scribbling in a spiral green notebook, pen cap
     in mouth and lost in thought.
    “So was Tanner happy?” he asks without turning around.
    “Yeah, he was thrilled. All he could do was thank me—over and over and over. Finally, I was like, ‘No, you don’t have to include
     me in the
Forbes
profile—just having you make the top 400 is all the thanks I need.’”
    “That’s great,” Charlie says, finally facing me. “I’m glad it worked out.”
    I hate it when he does that. “Go ahead,” I beg. “Just say it.”
    He drops his feet to the floor and tosses his notebook on his desk. It lands right next to the Play-Doh, which is only a few
     inches from his collection of green army men, which is right below the black-and-white bumper sticker on his computer monitor
     which reads, “I sell out to The Man every day!”
    “Listen, I’m sorry for freezing like that,” I tell him.
    “Don’t worry about it, bro—happens to everyone.”
    God, to have that temperament. “So you’re not disappointed with me?”
    “Disappointed? That was your puppy, not mine.”
    “I know… it’s just… you’re always teasing me about getting soft…”
    “Oh, you’re definitely soft—all this high living and elbow-rubbing—you’re a full-fledged baby’s bottom.”
    “Charlie…!”
    “But not a soft baby’s bottom—one of those completely hard ones—like a sumo baby or something.”
    I can’t help but smile at the joke. It’s not nearly as good as the one three months ago, when he tried to talk in a pirate
     voice for an entire day (which he did), but it’ll do. “How about coming over tonight and letting me say thank you with some
     dinner?”
    Charlie pauses, studying me. “Only if we don’t take a private car.”
    “Will you stop? You know the bank would pay for it after everything we did tonight.”
    He shakes his head disapprovingly. “You’ve changed, man—I don’t even know you anymore…”
    “Fine, fine, forget the car. How about a cab?”
    “How ’bout the subway?”
    “I’ll pay for the cab.”
    “A cab it is.”
    * * * *
    Ten minutes later, after a quick stop in my office, we’re up on the seventh floor, waiting for the elevator. “Think they’ll
     give you a medal?”
    “For what?” I ask. “For doing my job?”
    “
Doing your job?
Aw, now you sound like one of those neighborhood heroes who pulled a dozen kittens out of a burning building. Face facts,
     Superman—you just saved this place from a forty-million-dollar nightmare—and not the good kind either.”
    “Yeah, well, just do me a favor and tone down the advertising for a bit. Even if it was for a good reason, we were still stealing
     other people’s passwords to do it.”
    “So?”
    “So you know how they are with security around here—”
    Before I can finish, the elevator pings and the doors slide open. At this hour, I expect it to be empty, but instead, a thick
     man with a football-player-sized chest is leaning against the back wall. Shep Graves—the bank’s VP of Security. Dressed in
     a shirt and tie that could’ve only been bought at the local Big & Tall, Shep knows how to hold his shoulders back so his late-thirties
     frame looks as young and strong as possible. For his job—protecting our thirteen billion—he has to. Even with the most state-of-the-art
     technology at his fingertips, there’s still no deterrent like fear—which is why, as we step into the elevator, I decide to