Bond Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

and the humiliation alone was enough of a reason to quit. I flipped open the binder for the Series 3 exam, which covered futures and options, and read one of the practice questions: “What would a farmer in Iowa do to hedge himself if he was worried about the effect rising grain prices would have on pork belly futures?”
    Pork belly futures? I thought I was working on the Treasury bond desk. What do pigs have to do with anything?
    â€œI don’t know what’s going on lately with some firms allowing their analysts to fail the tests and still keep their jobs while they study for a second try, but that’s not how we do things here. You pass all of them on the first try in October or you’re fired.”
    Great.
    â€œAs you know, we are business casual here. I trust that you’ll dress appropriately. If you wear a tight skirt and someone smacks your ass, don’t come running to me or to HR about it. This is a place of business. Not a nightclub. The team is fantastic, one of the best in the Business. They work hard, play hard, and are some of the funniest human beings you will ever meet in your life. Personally, I think being a little crazy is what makes us so good at what we do, so prepare yourself for just about anything. It may seem like a tough group to crack, but once you earn their respect and are accepted, there’s no better group of people to work with.”
    Yeah, especially if they smack me on the ass.
    â€œOther than that, keep your head down, work hard, and stay out of the way. Use your brain, and you’ll be fine. Are we clear?” He finally took his feet off the desk and turned his gaze on me.
    â€œYes, Chick. We’re clear.”
    â€œOne more thing. I’m not your father, and I really don’t give a fuck what you do with your personal life, but I don’t encourage interoffice relationships. You’re a good-looking girl, and it won’t surprise me if half the floor hits on you, but I expect you to be smart. I do not expect you to date anyone on this floor, certainly not anyone on my desk. The last thing I need is a weepy employee fucking up right and left because she’s upset that someone here didn’t return a phone call. Capiche? Let’s go.”
    Chick stood without giving me a chance to answer. I had never in my life met anyone who seemed so nice and so completely insane at the same time.
    We walked out onto the floor, a giant room shaped like a horseshoe with enormous hermetically sealed windows and ceilings high enough to accommodate a circus tent. I wasn’t expecting the floor to look the way it did. Every time I’d gone to work with my father, I had never stepped foot on a trading floor. Bankers were kept separate from everyone else. They had inside information on mergers, stock offerings, and acquisitions and had to be segregated from the traders to ensure that inside information stayed classified. Banking floors were clean and tidy—all polished wood, plush carpets, and private offices. They even used a different elevator bank. The stories my dad had told me about my new work environment didn’t begin to do it justice. The difference between the Cromwell Pierce trading floor and the Sterling Price banking floor was staggering. This place looked like it was stuck in the ’70s. The walls had probably been white once upon a time, but they were now a dingy shade of cream. The Formica desks were chipped and stained, broken corners revealing the brown cork underneath. The fact that these desks were basically Generation One Cromwell was something I tried not to focus on; because if I thought about how many people had sneezed, coughed, eaten, and God knows what else all over them for the last forty years, I would have to come to work in a plastic jumpsuit wearing latex gloves.
    I kept my eyes on the floor as I navigated the obstacle course of rows to our “desk” in the back corner of the room. I could feel the