Wicked Bad Boys Read Online Free

in soil from Mars or Uranus, the food ain’t organic.
    Drive your car and do almost anything for the rest of the day, and it’s game over. Fairchild Industries has many of the oil sands refineries and pipelines worldwide that make sure your car and other goods work. They also own eighty percent of all the mines around the world that extract the rare minerals needed for electronic micro-components in the huge smartphone market. They have cornered that entire market, supplying to every major smartphone manufacturer. So take a selfie, post an update on social media or check your work email on that little device, and you are owned by Fairchild.
    To top off their vertical integration—or something I like to call the invisible human behavior monopoly—their manufacturing subsidiaries supply much of the physical components and equipment to all the above industries. Don’t even think about their real estate holdings around the world. Forbes continues to speculate about the total value of the Fairchild Industries holdings, but the truth is, it’s too big and too secretive to ever let net worth details out of the bag. The last external estimate was that each member of the secretive Fairchild family—nineteen of us, if I include Dad, me, Mandy’s purse dog, which believe it or not, is in her will, and her ninety-five year old grandmother—is worth up to sixty-two billion US dollars. The brutal truth is, that number is not even close.
    The sheer scope of this mega-company was enough to turn a brave man like me into a gun-shy, thumb-sucking mess that couldn’t make a decision for three weeks. It took Mandy’s brother to verbally slap the shit out of me, and threaten to fire me before I could function. The thing he said that helped me the most was to have my assistant drop some zeroes off the figures before I looked at stuff. It worked like a charm.
    After that, I was good. Now, I make decisions at Fairchild Industries until the cows come home. This Monday is no different. Except this morning, I have someone on my mind. On my way in this morning, a young woman who was in a rush at the coffee shop next door spilled half her espresso down my favorite suit. My white shirt was probably ruined.
    “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she said.
    She began to dab the stain with the napkins in her hands. It was a mess. I pulled her hand away gently, and for some unknown reason, the briefcase in her other hand fell to the ground. Her tablet and papers went flying everywhere.
    “Shit!” she exclaimed.
    She gave me the evil eye, but then reined in that look, because she probably realized it was all her fault. We both dropped to the floor, gathering up papers and other items around us.
    “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
    We both stood up after everything that fell was safely back in her purse.
    “It’s okay,” I answered that time.
    I stopped for a moment and took a good look at her. She was dressed professionally, wearing a nice brand of pumps. From what fell out of her purse, I pegged her for a law clerk or paralegal. She seemed a little too insecure and too young to be a lawyer—but not insecure or young for me. I could smell her. She had just had a shower, and her dark brown hair was pulled into a neat bun, but I could still smell her shampoo. I took it all in, thinking maybe I needed to get laid. She realized we were standing inches from each other. Maybe she could read my mind, because her cheeks flushed and she took a step back.
    “Can I pay for the dry cleaning?” she asked nervously.
    “It’s alright. It’s my fault.”
    “I bumped into you, remember?”
    “Yes, but I had a hand in that briefcase of yours falling. You tablet screen may need replacing too. I suppose I could take care of that for you. I’d need your phone number or some way to contact you.”
    I probably spooked her, because she took another step back.
    “You know what? It’s okay. I’m—I’m really late, so I have to get to work now. My apologies