Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  “That’s because he wants to fuck you.” Onyx sort of kicks back and looks off into the distance, the subject already closing. In a minute, he’ll tell me to deal with Cole the way he suggested I deal with anything: by accepting what’s true, then finding a way to work around it. His comment about Cole wanting to fuck me is more a callback to his earlier argument than a warning.

  Onyx looks amused, already mentally moving on. I’m supposed to laugh. But I don’t.

  It’s not just that Cole acts like he wants to fuck me. It’s that he acts like he already has, and he’s waiting for me to thaw out so he can do it again.

  Onyx sees none of this on my face. He raises his glass for me to toast, so I clink and drink.

  “To chilling the fuck out,” he says.

  I try to smile.

  But I’ve got an appointment with Cole later today — and after Onyx’s well-intentioned chat, I’ve never wanted a meeting less.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COLE

  MY BUSINESS STARTED IN LOS Angeles, building customer relationship databases for clients in Hollywood. When we expanded into cloud storage and saw what companies like Netflix and Amazon were doing with digital media streaming, Sage turned on a dime, hopped on board, and became the storage and streaming solution. I parlayed this into that, then that into something else, diversifying horizontally (acquiring my cloud storage competitors) as well as vertically (up and down the ladder of production and delivery) and made my first billion six years ago.

  As billions stacked, I got bored—like we all do, because our businesses become our babies, and most outside life ceases to matter.

  That’s when I said fuck it and became a producer. Sage still dominates Hollywood’s digital media delivery, but from that point on I started making movies, too. I figured it’d be a fun hobby. Little did I know it would make me my third billion, followed by my fourth. Cloud expansion made me a handful more, but since I hit ten billion, movies and all their lucrative backend keeps making me richer.

  I consider telling this to Trysten Prince, but I don’t really want to help him out. He and I are adversaries. He formed his own production company after years of headlining Hollywood and now only works in films that he owns. Artistically, it’s a stupid decision. Financially? Well, let’s say that Nathan has him on the short list for his little Boys’ Club, too.

  “All we want is a testimonial, Trysten. Pyramid Productions uses my servers. You were one of the first to hop on our D2C download package. And look — it’s making you tens of millions each week beyond what you typically see post-release.”

  Trysten scratches his chin. His smile is so wide and bright it almost looks fake. But that smile has earned Trysten’s fame and fortune. His smile alone is probably responsible for half a million pairs of panties getting so thoroughly soaked that they had to be discarded. I’ve thought for a while now that he could diversify into a panty line. Moviegoers could see Trysten Prince flash his smile and leave wet spots on their seats, then on the way out of the theater you could swipe your card through a vending machine for a replacement pair. The man would make a killing.

  “I don’t know,” he says, still smiling as if he knows and agrees just fine. “You’re a competing production company. I’ve lost actors to your movies before.”

  “Actors don’t choose producers, Trysten. They choose movies and contracts. It’s a free market. I’ve lost actors to you, too. The solution? Make better movies and offer better contracts. Don’t be an asshole about saying nice things in public about a service that makes you money.”

  “It’d be a celebrity endorsement. That’s different than a testimonial.”

  I shake my head and half-groan. “Never mind, Trysten. Just … never mind.”

  It’d be polite to protest — to say, “No, no, I’m not saying I won’t do it” — but Trysten just gives me that enormous, panty-soaking smile and nods his farewell. He walks through the door and suddenly I’m all alone outside the warehouse, my eyes squinting in the California sun.

  A golf cart pulls up behind me. I hear a humming motor and the squeaking of brakes.

  “Mister Ellison, sir,” barks a polite voice. I recognize the cadence and delivery, turning to face Ernie the security guard.

  I don’t expect his passenger.

  “This lady says she’s with you, sir?”

  It’s Alyssa. Her hair is messy, windblown. She’s usually pretty square, so the chaotic hair makes her look a few inches closer to wild. It’s a good look on her. It goes with the three open buttons on the front of her blouse, showing me the quarter-moon tops of tits I’ve gawked at often.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.

  “You said two,” she says. “At the lot.”

  I look at my watch. It’s hot today, so it flashes against the starched white of my sleeve rather than the charcoal gray of my blazer, which I’ve slung over my other shoulder. It’s 2:45. Of course I told her to meet me here. She was in LA and so was I, both on separate business. I don’t normally come down in person to bark at shit-headed little actors who think they’re producers now and try to act better than me, but I figured this was two birds, one stone.

  Alyssa is glaring at me.

  “Keep your panties on. I guess I just ran a little late.”

  “A little? You didn’t think to give me a guest pass, you know. You weren’t answering your phone so I just sort of sat there, assuming you’d figure it out. I was at the gate for a half hour before …?” She raises her eyebrows at Ernie.

  “Ernie,” he says helpfully.

  “Before Ernie finally helped me out. The woman at the guard shack wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  “Sally?” I say. “Oh, yeah. Sally’s kind of a bitch.”

  She’s out of the golf cart now, her arms crossed. I’m sure she’s trying to show me how angry she is, but all I can think is how her crossed arms are pushing up her tits. What is it about tits? They’re blobs of fat, and I’ve seen millions. Thanks to my job as producer, I’ve even seen the closed-set tits of some of Hollywood’s most inaccessible actresses.

  Still, I can’t stop staring at Alyssa’s. I guess Ben’s earlier joke is still on my mind. He made me think that Alyssa might be a sexual creature. Hard to imagine, but I seem to be trying.

  I’ll bet she’s insane between the sheets, Ben joked as we parted ways. I’ll bet she lets loose once she’s naked. I’ll bet she has like ten guys on call, and they come in and service her like a pit crew working a Formula One car. Probably stand around her in a circle at the end, then jerk off like she’s a big human funnel.

  I though that was hilarious at the time, but now that Alyssa is standing in front of me I can’t stop picturing every one of Ben’s ridiculous jokes.

  She uncrosses her arms and instead perches her hands on her hips. She’s clearly pissed. Her color is up; she seems downright flushed.

  Ride the Alyssa, was the last thing Ben said to me, overacting the words as if he were doing a commercial for a roller coaster. The adrenaline thrill of a lifetime.

  “Are we just going to stand here?” she asks.

  And Ernie says, “Mister Ellison, sir? Do you want me to take you anywhere?” But he’s looking at Alyssa’s furious back, and I know he must be thinking all the things everyone thinks about Alyssa Galloway. Ernie’s relieved that he’s found me so he can unload his bitchy cargo. Last thing he wants is for me to take him up on that offer and let this angry bitch back into his cart.

  “Thanks, Ernie. Just leave her here.”

  Alyssa’s mouth opens halfway, and she narrows her eyes. She thinks I’m talking about rather than to her, and that I’m treating her like luggage. Not an unfair assessment.

  Ernie glances at Alyssa one last time, probably trying to decide whether she’s going to breathe fire or allow his escape. Then the brake disengages and the golf cart hums away, back to the gate.

  “So that’s it?” she says.

  “You wanted to meet. We’re meeting.”
>
  She looks around. We’re behind a studio warehouse.

  “What?” I ask. “You want to go somewhere else?”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Okay.” I’m no longer paying attention. I think I caught sight of Trysten. I’m not getting that testimonial, but I want to see what he’s up to. I’m curious. Some people say Trysten is gay; they say he’s far too well put together and good-looking to be straight. But he’s not gay, no way and no how. People say it because they’re jealous.

  Personally, I want to see what kind of car he drove here, and whether mine are all better.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “No.” I look back at Alyssa. “Okay. Now I’m listening. What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “So we’re done? That was fast.”

  She gives me an exasperated harrumph sort of noise. It’s very womanish.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Alyssa. You’re the one with all the plans and schemes.”

  “You called this meeting. Then you seem to have forgotten all about it.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “You are here. I was outside the gate.”

  “Oh, come on. Hot girls get past security all the time by being creative with the guards.” I look her over to indicate the goods she’s surely hiding. It takes a mental leap of faith to get past her icy facade, but once I shift my mental gears and pretend that Alyssa’s an ordinary person, I can easily see how red hot she is. I bet she’d give great head if she could keep from using her teeth. I’ll bet her pussy, if you trust it not to have murderous spikes, is vice-grip tight. Alyssa’s so wound-up, I’ll bet her orgasms shake plaster from the walls, if she’s capable of coming at all.

  “That’s just … that’s great, Cole.”

  “Oh, what?” I groan. “Are you pissed at me or something?”

  “No. No, I’m not. It’s perfectly reasonable and respectful of you to demand I take time out to meet with you — then ignore your phone while I stand outside looking like an asshole.”

  I take out my phone, wake the screen, and see seven missed calls from Alyssa.

  “And you know what else? I don’t resent being treated like an errand girl. I don’t mind when you insist that I show up somewhere without asking whether I want to, or the little side tasks you figure I can do along the way. Or the games you play, like when you scheduled our meeting at Chemise when Ashton and Jenna just happened to be there, so you could poke him.”

  “We had fun that night, didn’t we?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve worked too hard for your bullshit, Cole. I don’t need you.” She turns to leave.

  I’m pretty sure this is that bullshit chick walk so many of them do, where they try to show you how much they dislike you by making a spectacle of sauntering off. If I don’t stop her, she’ll have to turn around, then try and make peace, or at least ask me how to find the front gate. She’s headed back the way Ernie drove her, but the carts take a looping path to avoid small spaces a pedestrian can easily weave through. She’ll end up lost for sure.

  I watch her ass for several steps. It really is magnificent. Now that I’ve broken the seal on seeing her as a woman rather than a robot, I’m finding it hard to stop noticing Alyssa’s many fine — if grating — attributes. Like that ass and those legs.

  I think of what Ben said when we were screwing around:

  I’ll tell you what you should do, if you want an extreme challenge: You could fuck Alyssa.

  It was a joke. Of course. But then why is my cock betraying me, and rising to the parody of an occasion?

  “Alyssa …”

  She raises one hand without turning. Her meaning is clear: Fuck off, Cole. I’m done with you.

  “Alyssa, don’t be stupid. I’m just screwing around.”

  This makes her turn. “Really, Cole? Is that what you call wasting my time? Is that what you call making me wait for you like a goddamn cocktail waitress? Is that ‘messing around,’ like I’m just one of the boys?”

  A lecherous grin climbs onto half of my mouth. I don’t have Trysten’s marquee smile, but I’ve got a good one. That smile plus my blue eyes have landed countless girls in my bed.

  I look Alyssa up and down. “You’re definitely not one of the boys.”

  “Oh, well. That’s great. You know what, Cole? Go fuck yourself. Just … have a nice career.”

  “Come on. I’m giving you a compliment. What kind of world is this when a man can’t give a woman a sincere compliment?”

  “And that’s your idea of a sincere compliment?”

  “Of course. When someone says, ‘You look nice today’ — now that’s spewing bullshit. Appreciating you is putting my money where my mouth is. Or putting my mouth where—”

  “Nice knowing you, Cole.”

  “Jesus, Alyssa. It’s a motherfucking joke.”

  This must be some sort of a breaking point for her, because she finally turns back and marches straight for me. I keep the smile on my face and my hands where they are, but I’m not going to lie — my arms are flexed and ready to protect my balls in case she starts kicking or clawing. Which I figure is a 50/50 proposition.

  “That’s the problem with you. It’s why I turned you down for months before agreeing to even meet with you. You really do think it’s a joke, don’t you? Does it really not occur to you that it might not be so goddamn funny to me?”

  I shrug, wearing my most boyish expression.

  “Look. You pursued me. You called me on the phone. I’ve got a full client roster, and it’s constantly growing. I don’t have enough hours in the day, and each one is precious. So maybe you can tell me, wiseass — why should I spend even one more of those treasured hours with you when I could be helping someone who honestly appreciates it? I’m the most in-demand publicist in my firm — maybe the most in-demand publicist outside of New York, and even then I’m a close second or third. I make miracles happen. Your friend Ashton? I doubled his company’s sales. Doubled his personal net worth. That all came from a campaign that I created. So go ahead, asshole. Tell me. Why should I keep you as a client instead of dumping your ass when I have so many better things to do?”

  “I’ll pay for your time.”

  I keep my eyes off her chest because she’s staring right at me and I’m still afraid for my balls, but I have to admit — her getting more pissed is only making me harder. Maybe Ben’s joke held a kernel of truth. Maybe “Riding the Alyssa” would be the ultimate extreme sport.

  She looks shocked. “Fuck my time!”

  “You just said—”

  “Fuck my time and fuck you! You really think this is about me wanting payment for the time I spent sitting around for you? This is about you respecting me. Which obviously, you don’t.”

  Again I raise my pacifying hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Women want respect.”

  “And long walks on the beach? And shopping? And bubble baths? And having men tell them they look pretty while they do the housework? And having discussions about our feelings?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, exhaling. “Glad we understand each other.”

  Something hits me in the chest. I flinch, because I’ve never quite stopped expecting her to grab my balls and squeeze until they pop. But then my hands go to the thing she’s slapped against me and I see it’s a binder. Something she pulled from her bag at some point while I was thinking about what she has between her legs.

  The binder has my name, and my company’s. It must be the record of our work together — the history of our short business relationship, along with what must be her ideas for my forthcoming PR campaigns.

  “I deserve better than this. I don’t have to take your bullshit. Goodbye.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  But she’s turned away again, and this time I can tell she’s not bluffing. She won’t return to me on her own and if I call her again, she won’t even turn.

  Screw it.

  Instead of wasting my time on futi
lity, I watch Alyssa’s spectacular ass move side to side beneath her short black skirt. I watch her long legs, stable atop precarious heels. I picture what she’d look like, right now, if she bent forward to pick something up. I imagine her doing it naked, legs slightly parted.

  When she disappears around the bend, I’m fully hard.

  I need to fuck something, and quick.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ALYSSA

  MY FLIGHT TO CHICAGO TAKES four hours, and I lose two more by leaping time zones. It’s midnight by the time the company driver drops me off at my apartment. I thank the doorman — a late-night guy I don’t see often — and nod and smile at Alicia, who runs the front desk during second shift. She nods politely back, deferring to the stillness of the hour. Then she sort of startles and calls my name, raising a hand.

  “Miss Galloway. Sorry. I forgot. A package arrived for you.”

  I’m instantly puzzled. Our mailboxes are across the lobby, and frankly I don’t give a shit about mail right now. UPS and FedEx both put notices in the mailboxes and leave any packages with valet, whose station is right beside them. I don’t get why anything would have been left with the front desk.

  “Courier,” she explains, seeing my face. “About two hours ago.”

  I look down. The package bears a Sage Business Systems return address. My name is written in the middle of the front in an angular hand that I immediately recognize as Cole’s. There’s a moment of vertigo, then annoyance.

  At first I can’t imagine how Cole could have got anything to me two hours ago, but then I realize that of course he could. Even if we both flew from LA shortly after our botched meeting, Cole flies private. He wouldn’t have had to wait through security lines or arrive ahead of time. His private jet is probably faster than the behemoth I flew on.

  And of course, when our meeting didn’t happen, he wouldn’t have had to wait over an hour and a half for the scheduled departure time. He could head to the airport (a smaller, private airport, perhaps), hop on the plane, and announce to the pilot that they’d be leaving early.