JAMES CHESTNUT
The heavy crystal of my glass clinked softly against the ice as I poured a measured amount of amber liquid.
"I am telling you, James, the FDR Drive is turning into a complete parking lot," Sterling complained, dropping his expensive leather briefcase onto one of my sleek leather armchairs.
My lead corporate lawyer loosened his silk tie, completely exhausted from navigating the mid-day New York traffic.
"You should really look into utilizing the helipad more often," I said smoothly, handing him the glass of fifty-year-old scotch. "It saves me at least an hour of staring at the taillights of delivery trucks."
"I hate helicopters," Sterling grumbled, taking a long, appreciative sip of his drink. "I am absolutely convinced that metal boxes with spinning blades were not m
