Adrift

little gratitude slipped away.

Chapter 5
Gabe
Eager to see what kind of business plan this mini-celeb would put together, my stride hit New York speed through the sidewalks. I checked her stats last night, and objectively speaking, reviewing her like I would a stock pick, she’d done well with her social business. I’d dare say she could be hovering near six figures on subscription revenue alone. Impressive in a fiercely competitive category. Right there on her home page she made it clear she was photos only, no action videos, yet she grew her base to a decent size.
Like probably most of her paying subscribers, I used a fake name and a free email account I didn’t think would ever get traced back to me. Still, I hadn’t yet messaged her. The whole never-anything-in-writing rule had been drilled into me, and sex requests definitely fell in that category. I believed her when she said she didn’t do more than post photos, but I had buddies with OnlyFans accounts in London, where prostitution was legal, and I knew for a fact some did more. I was damn curious to see how she’d respond to an in-person request.
Each night, back in my apartment, I thumbed over to her account to check out any new post she’d made. I’d bet most of the men checking her out in lingerie weren’t thinking about her heading to a meeting for a business investment. But those men didn’t factor in the business head required to be successful in a highly competitive market. Poppy achieved success in one market and now sought to expand into additional industries. Of course, there was a chance she didn’t know jack about the restaurant industry and smoked a pipe dream. But my curiosity piqued. Business plans fell in the category of items I liked to evaluate.
As I approached the front doors to our office building, a man in a suit blocked my path. I stepped around him, my focus on the screen in my hand, open to Poppy’s page.
“Mr. Chesterton. Do you have a minute?”
Poppy in a racy tank cut off right below her breasts downloaded, and the phone slipped from my hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. The stranger bent to pick it up, and I lunged forward, blocking him with my shoulder as I retrieved my phone. One swift side press and the image faded to black. I brushed away the specks of dirt that littered the screen.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I wondered if we could meet. Agent Connor, FBI.” He held out his hand. FBI was far preferable to the SEC.
“What’s this concerning?” I ignored his hand. It felt too strange in post-Covid days for a stranger to walk up and ask for contact. “Where’s your badge?” He raised his right suit jacket and revealed a badge on his belt and a gun holster.
“I’m a part of the team investigating the CROW5 scandal.”
“Why not contact my office?”
“I can do that if you prefer. I thought we might be able to talk outside of your office first.”
A couple of colleagues in business suits stepped past us. A car horn blared, and a siren sounded in the distance.
“I don’t know anything. Nothing that would help you.” I scanned the street for other colleagues.
“Your fund invested in CROW5 and sold before the scandal broke.”
“I’m good at what I do.” I’d halfway expected an SEC inquiry when I timed selling as well as I did, but the information I went on was publicly available. I studied the guy. He looked younger than me, maybe around my age. He met me on the street. And he was cordial, which meant he had nothing on me. No doubt the investigation would cover Belman, as we had been an underwriter for CROW5. I guessed he wanted info on some of my colleagues, but he would hit a wall of silence—from me and every single colleague in my firm.
He slipped a business card out of his inner pocket and offered it, pinched between his index and middle finger. “We’re probably going to ask you to come into our offices and talk about some of Cyr Martin’s parties and the trips you’ve been on with him.”
“Cyr Martin? You’re building a case against him?”
“What else would we be doing, Mr. Chesterton?”
I stepped away. I had nothing else to say without my lawyer present.
Agent Connor called after me, “If you think of anything that could be useful, I’d appreciate a call.”
I didn’t bother with a response. His reflection shone in the glass. He stood there, one hand in his pocket, watching me. A shiver crawled along my back and nestled between my shoulder blades.
Fifteen or twenty suited businessmen and women gathered in front of the expansive elevator bank. I stood to the side, awaiting my turn.
“Who was the guy talking to you out front?”
Brent McGovern, a crony who brown-nosed the entire senior team, crowded near me, voice low enough others wouldn’t hear.
“No one,” I answered, annoyed he’d ask me in front of others. Even if one spoke discreetly, this wasn’t the place to discuss anything at all of relevance. Brent should have known better, and I gave him a pointed look to shut it down.
Brent didn’t work on my floor, but he got in my elevator and stepped out onto my floor. I ignored him as I briskly walked to my office. Last I’d heard, Brent had stepped into what might be more of an administrative role, supporting our managing director. He had some jacked title that said to me I didn’t need to waste time with him.
The twerp followed me into my office. I checked the time. Twenty minutes before the analyst call, and I needed to review the latest earnings report. The weight of the phone in my trouser pocket reminded me Poppy also waited on a response, even if it qualified as a cheerleader shout of support.
“What is it, Brent?”
“I hear you’re flying planes regularly these days.”
“You’re into flying?” I asked as I