Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  I don’t want the fucking package, whatever it is, but I don’t want her to think she did anything wrong. She has this pleased little smile. Alicia’s young for such a responsible position at a high-rent building — even younger, maybe, than me. So rather than let my irritation show, I take the package. It’s about the size of two narrow FedEx boxes stacked atop one another — just slim enough to tuck under my arm without compromising the drag of my rolling luggage. It’s light overall, but there are a few heavy-feeling objects inside. If Cole boxed this himself, he did a shit job. There’s clearly no packing material, and the crap inside just rattles around loose.

  “Thanks, Alicia.”

  Sometimes my building has an elevator attendant, but they never work this late. It’s fine; I know how to work an elevator and I’m not spoiled enough to insist someone do it for me. I’ll bet it’s not like that for Cole. I haven’t been to his place, but I know it occupies the top three floors of a building that’s already absurdly expensive. Cole doesn’t own it; he rents. Because “he’s a nomad” and “he doesn’t like being tied down.” He isn’t willing to be “owned by his possessions.”

  I call bullshit. For a man who doesn’t want possessions to own him, he sure has a lot. Cole likes to drive himself rather than using a chauffeur, and in the few weeks I’ve known him I’ve already sat in the passenger seat of four different cars that surely cost more than my childhood home

  I open my door and set my crap inside, figuring I can unpack it tomorrow. I wonder if Cole unpacks his own luggage. He probably has a manservant to do it for him.

  And really, why the hell am I thinking about Cole so much anyway?

  The package shifts under my arm. With my hands now free, I hold it properly to look at its front. This is why I’m thinking about him so much. Because I was furious at his maddening, jackass behavior all through my flight, then arrived home to find this … this whatever-it-is.

  I shake the box and it rattles. It sounds like it’s filled with a few medium-sized, moderately heavy items.

  I let the door close. Without sitting, I pull the strip and open the flap. I peek inside, and sigh with annoyed exasperation.

  Inside is a collection of fantastically expensive beauty products from La Prairie: Skin caviar, extrait firming complex, and cellular Swiss, ice crystal cream.

  And there’s more. Josie Maran Argan Oil, Creme de la Mer, and a gorgeous lipstick from the Kanebo Sensai Collection that somehow — impossibly — seems like the exact color I would choose.

  But I’m looking at all of this with my mouth hanging open. He’s stuffed shit into a box without any thought for presentation.

  Uh-oh, I can imagine Cole thinking after I stormed off. I shouldn’t have pissed her off. I really do need her help. She’s prepared a whole PR campaign that could make my company billions, and I have no idea how to implement it myself.

  Then I imagine him racking his apelike brain for ways to appease me. Scratching his big, broad jaw, fingernails raking his salt-and-pepper stubble.

  Apologize? No, that’d never work.

  Tell her she’s good at what she does and that I really do need her? Nah.

  Validate her work? Respect her? Treat her like a human being for once? No, that’s just crazy.

  And then I imagine a cloudy little lightbulb popping up above his caveman head.

  I know. She must be on her period. So how do you soothe bitches when they’re on their period? You give them stuff to make themselves pretty.

  At the bottom of the box is a handwritten note on a full-size piece of paper: Still on for Tuesday. Call me.

  I crumple the paper, shove it back into the box, and laugh aloud. So that’s it? That’s the end of this transaction, in Cole’s mind? He gets to abuse and demean me, then send me this stupid box and assume that everything’s better? Does he think I’m a dog? A toddler whose affection can be bought with a shiny new rattle?

  I won’t call or text or email about Tuesday. If he’s dumb enough to assume I’d still consider us on as a matter of certainty after this passing stab at contrition, then he can be surprised by my no-show. He can sit there and wait, like I did today. Let him see how it feels.

  I toss the products back into the box. Fuck his gifts.

  But after it’s done and I’m opening the door to hurl it all down the trash chute, I realize I may be being dumb myself. The box is filled with fantastic stuff. Even if Cole is an asshole who thinks he can buy me off in the most sexist way possible, that doesn’t change the fact that I have a couple thousand dollars worth of stuff that I’d actually buy for myself.

  It’s not letting him win if I keep it.

  He’ll never know. It’s not like he’ll ever be in my apartment — or see me again.

  I empty the box — and it turns out I missed a small package that had settled to the bottom. It’s a small silver vibrator in a see-through case, now on full display for my neighbors to see, should they go out for a midnight stroll.

  Because what’s the other thing uptight bitches need? Clearly, they need to get laid — even if it’s by something with batteries.

  With a sudden, blind rage I shove everything into the box, distorting its shape as I jam it full with rapid fists. I stomp over to the trash chute and drop it all inside, slamming the front hard enough that I’m sure someone will poke their head out into the hallway to yell at me. But that doesn’t happen, and after Cole’s gift slides loudly to the bottom, the hallway feels like a graveyard, silent except for the rapid thumping of my livid heart.

  I’m so pissed. Tears brim in the corners of my eyes.

  I spin, then go back into my apartment and slam the door. I didn’t keep his bullshit after all. Maybe it was a foolish decision and I’ve denied myself some luxury, but they all felt tainted after seeing the vibrator. I wanted everything gone, as if it never existed.

  A spot of white catches my eye and I realize I didn’t get all the contents after all.

  The note is still on the floor, partially crumpled, looking up as if it’s laughing at my hysteria.

  Still on for Tuesday. Call me.

  I hoped I was done thinking about Cole, but it looks like he’ll be with me all night after all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALYSSA

  AND HE IS.

  I RARELY dream. It’s like I’m dead for a spell, the world pausing, then resuming in the morning.

  But not tonight.

  I see the dream through my own eyes, though I’m not in control. I watch it unspool like script written by another’s hand — someone who doesn’t know me at all.

  I’m standing in front of Cole. We’re back in Los Angeles, outside that warehouse. I’ve just told him off, and that smug little asshole smile is still smeared on his face. He’s still in a starched white shirt and a red power tie, the same blazer slung over his shoulder like a model.

  And his erection’s still there. My mind only let me remember that detail after I was on the plane, but after replaying the scene so many times, I was certain I’d seen it.

  I was so pissed, I’d given myself a headache. And that motherfucker was smiling as if he knew every inch of me and found my anger hilarious. Staring with a hard-on pointing right at me. Unashamed, as if he had every right to lust over me while I fired his sorry ass.

  What the fuck is wrong with men? I thought on the plane, while fantasizing about teaching Cole a lesson. I thought of kneeing him in the balls so hard that he collapsed, then leaving him gasping for air with his boner decisively deflated.

  But that’s not what happens in the dream.

  I reach down. Hard. Fast. My hand pistons for his groin and I wrap his hard dick in a death grip. Squeezing. Pulling him toward me.

  “What the fuck is this, Cole? What exactly do you plan to do with this?”

  Because this is my dream, he backs off immediately. I’m in charge. I have him right where I want him — and if he’s not careful with what he says next, I’ll rip the damn thing off.

  “N … no
thing.”

  “Then why is your cock hard?”

  “I can’t control it.”

  “I’m pissed at you. You’re an asshole. I’m firing you, Cole. And you think this is the right response? To get hard right in front of me?”

  “I … I …” I enjoy his strong features melting. I love the way he’s been mastered. The way that for once, he’s not calling the shots. Finally, I’m in charge of him. And I’ll show this piece of shit what he gets for thinking about me like that.

  “What, Cole? Do you want to stick it in me? Is that what you want?”

  “No!” His cock throbs harder in my hand.

  Admit it or not, my accusations are turning him on.

  “Prove it, then.”

  “Alyssa, I …”

  I shove him hard enough against the warehouse wall to shake the metal, then squat and pull his pants down without unbuckling or unzipping. It’s tight; he winces. My fingernails, pinched tight against his sides as pants clear hips, leave long, raking red marks on the sides of his thighs.

  His cock bounces, inches from my lips.

  “Go limp,” I tell him, gripping his balls. “Go limp, if this isn’t turning you on.”

  My hands are wrapping his balls.

  I look up at Cole. He looks down at me with his deep blue eyes.

  Not so cocky now, is he?

  But of course he is cocky. He’s all cock and nothing else. I realize I want it.

  I threw away Cole’s cosmetics in a fit of rage — but there are other things I’ll take, if he’s stupid enough to offer.

  “Don’t stay hard if you don’t want my lips on your cock.”

  And I press my lips against him. The tip of his dick is soft atop its steel-hard foundation. I suck a little. His balls tighten, tugging away from my grip.

  “Lose your hard-on,” I say with my lips still brushing him, “if you don’t want me to take it into my mouth.”

  He stammers, but I take it without permission. His hardness gives it to me. And fuck him if he has a problem. Fuck him, if he’s more animal than man — if he’s such a fucking ape that his brain can’t command his biology. This cock in my mouth is like a joystick. With the glide of my lips along his shaft, I could control him forever.

  Cole’s balls tighten and his cock swells, stroked by my lips and hand. I hear his breathing go shallow and pause, his legs flexing. He’s going to come. But to hell with that. I’m pissed at this asshole. He’s not allowed to come until I get what I want.

  I stand, my body close to him. I rip off my blouse, unfasten my bra, take Cole’s large hands and lead him to my breasts. Then I stare him down, eye to eye.

  “Is this how you treat me?” I demand. “Is this all the respect you have for me? Am I a toy for you to play with and laugh at?”

  “I … I’m sorry, Alyssa,” is all he seems able to say.

  My hand returns to his cock, rock-hard and now slick with my spit. I jerk it up and down, refusing to be gentle.

  “You sure don’t feel sorry.”

  “I was wrong. I do respect you.”

  “Is that why you’re always staring at my tits? Well, Cole, here they are. Show me what you’d do with them. How you’d touch me.”

  Despite my anger, his hands feel amazing, my nipples hard beneath them. My pussy is throbbing, in need of attention. I pull him closer. And through my skirt, I rub my mound with the head of his cock.

  “Lift my skirt,” I tell him.

  “I shouldn’t really—”

  I give him an evil little grin, anger mixing with lust as my pussy soaks my panties. “Oh, come on, Killer. I thought you were a man?”

  He does as he’s told. His hands leave my tits and raise my skirt. But then he goes too far, slipping a hand inside my panties. I feel his cock pulse against me again, as if he could come all over me at any time.

  I slap his hand away, despite how good his finger felt on my clit. Then I lower my panties, dragging them past my knees. I finger myself for him, spreading a little as he looks down.

  “Do you want it? Do you want my pussy, Cole?”

  I don’t wait for him to answer. I grab his cock again and pull him toward me.

  Because it doesn’t really matter what he wants.

  I push Cole’s bare ass against the corrugated aluminum wall. I pump his cock, backing off whenever he seems close to finishing. Then I press my body against him. My jerking arm is between us. I use his cock as a sex toy, rubbing my lubricated clit against its head. I bite my lip. My own orgasm is cresting, waves of sensation shaking my legs, tightening my pussy against him, making my ass clench.

  “Alyssa …”

  I press against him before he can say more, sliding his cock inside my wet pussy. I reach around him, grabbing his firm ass, humping myself along his shaft. It doesn’t take long. I come harder than I ever have in my waking life, screaming his name.

  “Keep going, Alyssa. I’m going to come inside you. Oh god, Alyssa … I’m going to come inside—”

  I step back as my orgasm finishes. His cock flops out of me, wet with my juices.

  “Get over here,” he says, arms out. “I need to come.”

  I shake my head as I turn to walk away.

  And I say, “Then do it your goddamn self.”

  I wake up sweaty, unsure for a moment what’s real and what isn’t. The dream escapes, though some part of me — the part that’s more bold and less ashamed — tries to hold it.

  But it goes anyway, and I’m left with only a vague sense of guilt.

  Why did I dream that?

  I hate Cole Ellison with a passion.

  But despite the shame, and the sense that I’m betraying myself and my integrity, I slip my hand inside my panties and do what it takes to bring sleep faster.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ALYSSA

  I’M AT IT ALL FRIDAY, then conclude the traditional work-week by attending a big, boring charity gala with Ashton Moran. He’s there solo because it’s so big and boring that he doesn’t want to subject anyone else to it. Ashton’s my client, so we end up standing together by an enormous blossom-shaped explosion of shrimp cocktail, drinks in hand.

  Two things strike me.

  The first is that I have no female friends. I knew that, of course, but only in an abstract way. It hits me anew as I’m wasting my evening with Ashton. I’m not here as his accessory; I got my own invitation, and it entitled me to a plus-one. I’m obviously not dating, but it would have been simple to bring a friend.

  Except I have none. Only clients and family.

  Right now, my clientele is made up of all men, save for one exception, and all them know each other. The sole woman on my roster hates me but values my skills as a publicist, so we only communicate through email. Most of the time it’s me and the boys. We hang out in quasi-social situations when we’re not working, and still it’s all business.

  I’ve been in smoky cigar rooms. I’ve been reluctantly offered after-dinner brandy, the offerer’s face always suggesting that women shouldn’t partake of such fine spirits. I’m neither old nor a boy, and yet I’m a spectator to the most antiquated of old-boy networks. And isolation breeds isolation — the more time I spend with stuck-up rich men, the less relatable I am to women, who see me as a traitor.

  Jesus, ladies. I’m only trying to earn a living.

  The other thing that strikes me, as I stand beside the shrimp cocktail with Ashton making snide observations about the other guests, is that he isn’t all that bad. And it’s not just his buffed public image that makes him tolerable. Part of it is probably because he has changed in recent months — that part being Jenna’s doing — but the rest is simple comparison bias.

  After spending time with the pompous Cole Ellison, even Ashton Moran seems like a gentleman.

  “Do I need to circulate?” Ashton asks me.

  “I don’t know. Do you want to circulate?”

  He laughs. Of course he doesn’t. Neither of us want to be here. In the past, he would have wa
nted to be here, but after that incident at Clive Spooner’s Microdyne house I think Ashton’s lost his appetite for hedonism and snobs. This party seems unlikely to devolve into the former, but it has the latter in spades.

  “We can just stay here,” I tell him.

  “I don’t see the point of coming, if all we do is stand by the food.”

  “You’re here,” I remind him, “because they want to thank their generous donors.”

  “They could thank us by not making us come.” Ashton looks around the room, surely thinking the same thing as me: This banquet is so expensive it renders the charity moot. The sponsor could have cut out the middleman by skipping this reception and donating the same amount to charity — then the other donors wouldn’t be necessary, and nobody would be required to waste an evening.

  I wonder who these events are for. Who are they pleasing? I can’t think of a single soul who’s ever enjoyed one.

  “Jenna says hi, by the way.”

  “Really?”

  Ashton looks at me for too long. He probably thinks it’s a strange thing to express surprise over, but I thought Jenna hated me. The fact that she apparently said something and Ashton remembered to pass it on is, in a strange way, pleasantly heartbreaking. Especially given the way I’ve been feeling.

  I smile. “Tell her hi back.”

  “You doing okay, Alyssa?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You just seem kind of strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “I guess I’m used to you yelling at me more.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “It’s like I told you to knock it off and you actually did.”

  This isn’t the sort of thing I should try and defend. It might be most appropriate to be offended or bothered that my client’s major impression of me is that I’m a yeller.

  But who am I kidding? I am a yeller.

  “It’s just because we’re not working on a big campaign right now.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you want me to yell at you?”