Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  “I’m sure I’ll join,” I say. “Anthony’s vision is too compelling to resist. What he has in mind? Hell, you of all people should understand — you and Daniel and Clive.”

  Ben’s eyes flick sideways. A tiny thing, but still it’s like he’s slapped a label on his forehead. I suddenly know that Ben’s been invited to the Syndicate, too — but even more importantly, he’s been talking to Anthony. Or to Daniel. Maybe Clive. There’s another party in the wings I keep hearing about, too — Alexa Mathis, a woman of virtually no reputation. People talk about her with reverence she doesn’t seem to have earned. And I’m suddenly sure that if I pry hard enough, I’ll find that Ben knows something about her. Something about Anthony’s grand plan for our trillion dollars of leverage.

  I don’t push the issue. It’s enough that I know another piece of the puzzle — but like true gamesmen, none of this Syndicate’s puppeteers are letting any one person see the whole thing.

  “We should go,” I tell Ben, standing. “I have a meeting.”

  He mutters assent. We start to gather our gear, and the room’s mood slowly shifts from dead serious to its proper center — to the two of us as friends, busting each other’s balls.

  “I’ll tell you what sounds impossible — what you should do, if you want a challenge.”

  I look at Ben. I can’t tell if there’s a joke coming, or if this is something serious.

  “You could fuck Alyssa.”

  We laugh. Because it’s hilarious. Alyssa is scorching hot, but meeting her crushes desire. She radiates efficiency, not chemistry. She’s more like a robot than a person — and not a nice one. The kind of robot that accepts humans as necessary evils until the singularity is achieved, then cuts them open as amusing meat puppets to entertain its buddies.

  I don’t answer Ben. He’s fucking with me like always — teasing me for hiring the Dragon Lady of Publicity without even donning a protective suit of armor. I think she can get me the media attention required to make the deals I want. And I think I can survive her.

  I think.

  I wrap my arm around Ben and we leave, dripping and exhausted.

  Mess with Alyssa Galloway?

  Even I’m not that extreme.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALYSSA

  MY ONE O’CLOCK IS ONE of the Forage guys — Onyx, not Aiden.

  I had a moment of unreality when he first booked my time, but I took a few deep breaths then it quickly passed. I can’t help but be a bit gobsmacked. No one could. I use Forage just about every day of my life, and now one of its founders might become a client.

  And it’s not just the search engine. It’s cloud services, music services, a navigation app, that new shopping marketplace, the whole “Big Brother is watching you — no, seriously this time” aspect of daily life that comes with living in a post-Internet, post-Forage world. I’m too young to remember it being much different, but my parents do. And it’s weird to think that in another few decades — if guys like Onyx and Aiden, Ben Stone, Clive Spooner, and even Alexa (who I still haven’t met) get their way — the modern Internet might be as obsolete as telegraphs are today.

  I try to push it out of my mind. Onyx is only a man. And what’s more, unlike some of my other clients, Onyx is relatable. We’ve known each other for a few weeks, and as part of my discovery process I’ve heard his whole story. His father died when he was very young, and he was raised by his mother. She could have given up, taken assistance, and settled in to take care of Onyx and his brother as minimally as possible. But she didn’t. Instead, she used her evenings to finish a dormant law degree, then kicked ass all the way up the ladder of a New York firm to make partner.

  I can’t relate to how hard that must’ve been as a single black woman, but I can relate plenty as a woman in general. And, thanks to his mother’s example, Onyx seems able to relate to me. I like him plenty. I can relax around him — and in the packed days of my eighty-hour work weeks, an appointment with a client I like is the closest thing I get to a vacation. Or a lunch hour, for that matter.

  Like his business partner Aiden, Onyx also has no serious dings to his image. Both appear to the world as nice guys, if somewhat inaccessible and naturally self-centered. I’ve been focused on uncovering issues that might come to light once the press starts to dig. That’s an issue for an increasing number of my clients — more and more of whom are worth in excess of a billion dollars.

  Because thanks to Nathan Turner (and, I gather, thanks to that rockstar guru Ross), these billionaires are all joining the same club.

  The media is going to be very interested, and soon. If Nathan has his way — and if I do my job — there’ll be a firestorm around the seed members of what they call the Trillionaire Boys’ Club. We need the attention to attract the softer, less media-friendly Old Guard billionaires, but press attention is always a double-edged sword.

  From the outside, it might look like these wealthy guys are all banding together in hopes that they can tip the world’s balance of power in their direction.

  It’s only half true.

  “So. Alyssa,” Onyx says as he relaxes into his chair on the patio of Le Meurice. “What’s on tap for today?”

  “You wanted to talk about Mia Stover.”

  Onyx opens the beer and wine list. “No, I mean what’s on tap.”

  He’s talking about beer. Hilarious.

  “I read everything you sent me,” I say.

  “That’s good. I like when people appreciate my emails.”

  I pull a tablet from my satchel. Onyx eyes me past the beer list but I keep poking until I find my research. “Okay. It looks like your Miss Stover is—”

  Onyx raises a hand. “Wait.”

  “Okay.” A long moment passes, then another. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Shh.” His brow is bunched. He’s intently focused, as if listening for something in the breeze.

  “Seriously.”

  “I said wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Hang on. Almost.”

  I wait. But I feel my internal clock ticking. To get a block of my exclusive time like this, he’s paying Banner $2,200 an hour. That breaks down to $36 per minute. He’s wasted nearly a Benjamin on nothing.

  “There,” he finally says. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The sound of the stick finally falling out of your ass.”

  I roll my eyes. I resume poking at my tablet, scrolling through my background information on Mia Stover, the girl Onyx told me he once left behind. She could be a problem once he hits the front pages again. No stone isn’t worth turning, just to make sure that my clients don’t face any nasty surprises. Jilted females especially. Girls are dangerous when pissed. I’ve seen it more than once, from both sides.

  Onyx gently plucks the tablet from my hands, folds the cover, and puts it under his seat.

  “I need that,” I say.

  “No you don’t.”

  “Don’t just put it under your seat. Someone will step on it.”

  “Are you anticipating a lot of foot traffic under my chair?”

  “Give it, Onyx. If you crush it and I lose my stuff—”

  “Oh, come on. Do you really think Forage doesn’t already have records of all your private computer information?”

  He’s joking, but that’s the sort of thing people say about Forage. It’s the reason we need to be particularly careful with his public image — hence the need for me to have my tablet, so we can solve the potential problem of a neglected Miss Stover.

  I leave my hand outstretched, then let it drop after a few seconds. I put it back in my lap, staring at him. “I don’t want to make a scene.”

  “I invited you to lunch, Alyssa.”

  “I’m not going to date you.”

  “I don’t want to date. I want you to chill the fuck out.”

  “Why?”

  “On the record, the answer is Because if you have a breakdown, you’ll be no good to a
nyone.’

  “And off the record?”

  “I think you need it. Settle down. You won’t do lunch unless you’re officially on the job, so I’m not casually asking you to join me. I’ve hired you. I’m paying you a lot of money, so you need to do what the hell I say.”

  “You’re not paying if I’m only eating lunch.”

  “I am, because that’s not all you’re doing. You’re on the job, like I said. And you have to do whatever I say so long as I’m paying.”

  I’d normally balk at a statement like that, but I know how Onyx means it.

  “Fine,” I say. “So let’s make the most of our time.”

  “You have to do what I say,” Onyx repeats, “so in this important meeting for which I am paying a small fortune, I need you to do one thing and one thing only: order whatever you want and eat it slowly. It’s your job to enjoy it.”

  “I have to enjoy it?”

  Onyx nods. “The client is always right.”

  “Can we at least talk?”

  “Sure. Just not about my shit.”

  “Onyx, this is worth discussing. You just ran out on this girl. You left her like she meant nothing at all, despite—”

  He raises a hand again. “I’ll make you a deal. If you stop talking yet again, like some sort of racist, about how I’m a black man who ran out on his obligations—”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Then I won’t point out, like a sexist, that your default mode is nickel-plated cunt.”

  I meet his dark eyes. “You did run out on her. It’s not a matter of opinion. It’s—”

  “Racist,” he interrupts.

  I stare him down. Finally, I decide it’s not worth the fight. But it’s strange. I’ve never been tricked into relaxing and enjoying myself before. I’m not sure I can do it.

  The waiter brings water, then wine, which I didn’t order. I suspect Onyx is trying to loosen me up because he thinks I’m too bitchy.

  After a few sips I’m able to start letting go. Onyx isn’t like that. His mother was the strongest woman I’ve probably ever heard of, and he says that everyone called her an uptight bitch and worse, owing to her skin color.

  I’m eating my salad by the time conversation resumes.

  “So how are things?” Onyx asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine how?”

  “Lots of new business.”

  “What about personally?”

  I laugh.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Okay. I decided to re-watch Sex and the City.”

  “Slow down. Your social life is too much of a whirlwind for me.”

  “What about you, then? What are you up to, if I’m so pathetic?”

  I shouldn’t have called his bluff. I know that Onyx and Aiden both still work insane hours despite being at the phase of their careers where they could easily coast, but his list of rattled off social engagements feels like the rat-a-tat of a retaliatory machine gun. He’s doing all sorts of stuff outside work, even if it sounds like half of it involves bedding women. I, on the other hand, have my half-hour of TV in bed each night. And I usually fall asleep before the credits.

  “So, again,” Onyx says, “tell me how you relax.”

  “I don’t want to relax. I love my job.”

  “Do you, really?”

  “Yes!”

  He makes a face. I’m annoyed. Onyx is pretty egalitarian, but he still doesn’t know what this is like for me. I run in an old-boy network, and I have to expend twice the effort as my colleagues to earn the same results. Doing a “pretty good” job gets me to even, the stage where my bosses pat me on the head and say I’m doing reasonably well for someone with so many hormones.

  “I do like it. But I also have to put in a lot of work so that I can like it. Right now, I’m top of the firm. But every time something goes even a little bit wrong, I have ten men jumping down my throat. You know about this thing with Ashton?”

  Onyx nods. He doesn’t really know Ashton, but as far as billionaire circles go, Ashton was and remains my flagship client. Not long ago, I tried an admittedly manipulative campaign based on him falling in love, and for a while, it went great and everyone was cheering my name. Then there was a slip, and suddenly the exact same campaign was seen as stupid, foolhardy, and — unspoken, but implied — just like a woman.

  I saved it, and Ashton’s already nearly doubled Hurricane Apparel’s business because of my work. But what do other publicists say in the wake of that multi-billion-dollar triumph? They make jokes. They say I wrote scripts well for Ashton because girls are into romantic bullshit. They say I had sex with him to save the situation — which, by the way, is the assumed reason I climbed through the firm so swiftly in the first place. They call me Dragon Lady.

  It’s like I can’t win. If I’m happy, it’s because I fucked my way to success. If I’m stern and strong and assertive, then I’m a bitch on my period.

  Onyx says, “I heard some of it.”

  “Even Ashton didn’t appreciate all that went into it. Interviews I set up, pre-interviews, the networking before it. Seeding and cultivating rumors, often with bloggers, that need to germinate at just the right time. Hours on the phone kissing ass. Endless meetings. And half the time when I’m schmoozing on a client’s behalf and the contact’s a man, he makes a move, assuming I’m flirting. Then if I turn the guy down, the whole thing falls apart because suddenly I’m a cocktease.”

  “It’s your fault for being so hot,” Onyx says.

  “So now I’m asking for it? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Jesus, Alyssa. I’m on your side. Why are you being so defensive? Are you pregnant or something?”

  I almost shout at him, but then a wide, mischievous grin crawls across his face and it’s clear that he’s messing with me.

  “Look,” he says. “You can hate it all you want. You can think it’s unfair, and it is. But hate it or not — unfair or not — there are truths out in the world that you need to accept as fact. Figure them out, then work around them. That’s the way Aiden and I built Forage. We wanted this super-elegant UI and had ideas for the algorithms we wanted to implement based on all sorts of behavioral theories we’d meticulously researched. But in the end we scrapped them all, because our assumptions and desires didn’t line up with how the world really is. We have to accept that sometimes, even when people know the specific website they want to visit, they’ll go to Forage and search for it rather than simply going there. People do stupid shit. Don’t try to fight it. Just know it, and do your best to work around it.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Truth, Alyssa? Here it is: Most straight guys are gonna want to fuck you. You’re hot. Like stupid-hot. Worse, a lot of those guys who want to fuck you are going to think they have a shot at fucking you, so they’re going to try their best stuff on you whether you want it or not, which you’re not going to want like 99 percent of the time. My mom? She was a strong woman, too. So lots of guys wanted to fuck her as she came up in the law firm, but a bunch of them didn’t like that they wanted to fuck her because they were white bigots with a problem, so they just fucked with her instead of fucking her. Same’s gonna happen to you, just without the racism.”

  “Thanks, Onyx. I know this. I’ve been an attractive woman in a man’s world for a while now.”

  “No, you don’t know it,” he says, holding up a finger. “You don’t know it. You can’t know because you’re not a man. Every guy is going to be affected by you, except maybe the gay ones. If they’re nice guys, they’ll be extra nice because you’re pretty whether you do anything for them or not. If they’re mean, they’ll be extra mean. But every single one will want you. Hear me? If sexual energy is dangerous, you’re not truly safe from any man.”

  “What about you? Do you want to have sex with me?”

  He looks me over. Part of it is playacting for comic effect, but probably not all of it. “Most definitely.”

  “But you’re not.”

&nb
sp; “I got a good governor on me. I can rein it in, but I say this as a friend: don’t assume for a moment I haven’t thought about it. Repeatedly. And a lot of guys, they can rein it in, too. But you need to know this, Alyssa. You’re gonna get special treatment one way or another. Some guys will lust after you, and others will resent you because of their lust. Don’t fight it. Accept it. Know your enemy. Go in with your eyes fully open.”

  This time I don’t rebut him. What he’s said both disturbs and enlightens me. I’m not sure I like what I’ve heard, but it settles in all the same. In a way it’s empowering. The world now seems different.

  “Now when I tell you to relax, I mean it. If you’re going to face the shitstorm that comes when the Boys’ Club makes its first splash, nobody needs you breaking down. So please.” He nudges my glass toward me. “Settle the fuck down for an hour and drink some wine.”

  I sip. The glass is empty before I realize it, and Onyx is signaling the waiter for a refill.

  “Now,” he says, “tell me about your social life again.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Your work, then. Do you really enjoy all of it, or are you bullshitting me?”

  “I like working with you.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And your nightmare clients?” My eyes must darken, because Onyx cocks his head. “What?”

  “I really only have one right now. You get me best, and I’m used to Ashton and the others. So there’s just Cole Ellison. One nightmare client to rule them all.”

  “You don’t get along?”

  “His money gets along with my advice just fine. But he’s a pig. He’s great-looking and knows it. A bit older, so he has that distinguished thing going on, which my publicity strategy keeps wanting to suss out and exploit to his advantage. He has this I earned it vibe. Before I knew him, I’d have said he was attractive. But now …”

  “Now what?”

  “I feel like I’m working in an office in the 1950s, walking around in miniskirts and making copies while guys pinch my ass. It’s in the way he talks to me. The way he watches every little thing I do.”