Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  He shakes his head and laughs.

  Minutes pass. I’m about to ask something idle — perhaps about how things are at home — when Ashton says, “So. Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Then I force myself to add, “Thanks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What’s this about, Ashton?”

  He laughs. I can tell it’s an uncomfortable laugh, though he’s trying to pass it off as carefree. “I got a call from Cole Ellison.”

  My blood goes instantly cold. It’s not anger at the mention of Cole’s name; it’s something else. I remember my dream. It’s not all there, but there’s enough clinging to my memories to form an impression of me and Cole having some kind of angry sex, with me as the aggressor.

  I’m sure that Ashton can see through me.

  I try to calm myself. Yes, we had sex in a dream, but it wasn’t friendly. It must have been my mind’s way of getting revenge — hate-fucking the man who slighted me, getting my way and feeling in control for at least a little while. But I’m in control with Ashton. Same for my other clients. Only Cole makes me feel like I’ve lost it.

  My life is so precisely controlled, it’s like I need a day planner to hit the gym for twenty minutes. I’m tired of the burden that comes with always being in charge.

  So why is that where my fantasies took me?

  Relax. It was only a dream. It was about humiliating Cole like he did to me. God knows I needed the release. I’m only human, after all.

  Ashton can’t know what I did with Cole inside the privacy of my mind. Still, I feel like a woman in a glass display case. A naked girl with her hand between her legs, visions of Cole’s naked body inches from my staring eyes.

  “Oh?” I say, keeping my voice casual.

  My mind goes to the note in with Cole’s apology package — if that’s even what it was. I’m only now realizing that there was no actual apology. No Dear Alyssa to so much as introduce the package and its sender. No I’m sorry I disrespected you. Not even a noncommittal I need you to stay on my team, which wouldn’t admit to any wrongdoing but would at least indicate some contrition.

  All I got was a note toward the bottom without any greeting or signature. It didn’t even acknowledge the items shoved all around it.

  Still on for Tuesday. Call me.

  Does he really think the issue is solved? Does he really think my anger was only a bout of hormones with no basis in reality? He seems to think I just popped off and I’ve surely realized my stupidity by now. Of course she wants me as a client, Cole must be thinking. And when I don’t show on Tuesday, it will rock his world.

  Maybe I should shoot him an email. He’ll be high and dry without me, and he’ll need to scramble like hell to find someone capable of handling PR for Sage Business Systems (a big job, but not too complicated) and Cole Ellison personally (a disaster; he’ll need a Gandalf-level wizard to pull it off).

  If I call and tell him that Tuesday is off, he can add the weekend, Monday, and most of Tuesday to his search. If he joins the Trillionaire Boys’ Club — which I’m sure he will — it’s only a matter of time until undifferentiated publicity comes screaming his way. Without a plan in place to turn that neutral attention into something positive, Cole’s image will suffer.

  And, as we both know, in his Hollywood circles image is everything.

  “And what did Cole have to say?” I ask

  “He said you fired him.”

  I relax. I was afraid he’d say Cole told him that he sent me a vibrator. “I’m glad.”

  “You’re glad you fired him?”

  “Glad he said it. I was half-afraid he didn’t get it — didn’t realize he was fired.”

  “What happened?”

  I tell Ashton the whole story. It’s kind of nice, talking to him. Ashton was nearly as bad as Cole when we met, though his personality flaws were more about his tendency to admire himself in the mirror, both literally and figuratively. It took over a year of working with him before we started seeing eye to eye — and for his eyes to stay away from my chest. To most people, he’s still the same asshole he’s always been, but I’m inside his circle of immunity. And I think his relationship with Jenna has smoothed out his edges. These days he thinks of people other than himself — or at least one person.

  I tell Ashton about Cole’s behavior. Once I get rolling, I even tell him about the package Cole sent, though I omit the vibrator from my story.

  I keep the note to myself, too. I’m not sure why.

  I finish my story, then watch Ashton’s handsome profile, awaiting his response. I’m not in Cole’s inner circle — but Ashton, Nathan Turner, and their buddies all are. Maybe they can intervene on my behalf, tell Cole to leave me alone.

  Ashton’s response disappoints me. “That’s just Cole.”

  “That’s just Cole?”

  “Yes. That’s how he is. It’s how he was when we met. He’s always looking for a challenge, so he always wants to compete. You’ve seen him measure dicks against me a few times now.”

  “Not literally, I hope.”

  “Maybe you should be flattered, Alyssa. He doesn’t fight with people who mean nothing to him. He ignores them. Pushing back means he sees you as a worthy foe.”

  “I’m not supposed to be a foe. I’m supposed to be his publicist.”

  “You’re both.”

  “I was both. I fired him, remember?”

  Ashton shrugs. I half want to deck him for it, but I think he’s trying to suggest I wasn’t as right to kick Cole to the curb as I believed. I figured it was a slam-dunk, and didn’t see how any reasonable person could see that asshole’s side.

  “You think I should take him back,” I say, gaping at Ashton.

  “He knows how valuable you are. He needs you, Alyssa.” Then, to twist the passive-aggressive knife, Ashton adds, “We need you. The whole Syndicate.”

  “If you need me so bad, maybe you let me in?”

  “You’re not a hot young man who the magazines like to photograph. You helped refine the Club’s branding yourself. No girls until we open the wider Syndicate, no matter how smart or pretty they are. And besides, you’re not a billionaire.”

  “A cut of the action, then.”

  I’m joking, but not really. I’m for hire; I’m not an equity partner in anything. But as more of my clients join this Club (and as I acquire more new clients because they’re already being courted to join), I can’t help but feel like my role in the larger group is becoming quasi-official. Maybe I deserve another salary — one from the Club — to go with all the individual clients.

  But Ashton reacts like it’s only a joke, smirking. “Cole is Cole. The trick is to understand who he is: an adrenaline junkie. One of those people who has to get every squeeze from his life. He’s grating, because he thinks he’s entitled. You can’t take it personally.”

  “He treats me like a possession. All of my ideas are ‘cute’ to him. I feel like he’s going to pat me on the head and tell me I’m adorable. There’s no respect — not for my work, not for my time, not for me as a person. He’s the worst 1950s sexism has to offer, and Cole wasn’t born anywhere near the 50s. It’s like misogyny is in his blood.”

  “He doesn’t hate women, Alyssa. And he doesn’t hate you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  A pause. Then, “Okay. Maybe he hates women. Or at least he’s a rampant chauvinist. But he doesn’t hate you.”

  “Oh, I don’t really think he hates me,” I say, now thinking of the long, lingering glances he gave my body in LA. “The problem might be that he likes me too much.”

  Ashton must see what I mean, because he takes a drink and lets the conversational boat drift right by in silence.

  Finally, I say, “I’m not taking him back, Ashton.”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  I laugh. “You’ve used up all your favors with me. If anything, you owe me.”

  “Just think about it.”

  “Okay. Fine
. I’ll think about it.”

  But fuck Cole Ellison. I won’t think about it at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  COLE

  I FUCK TWO GIRLS OVER the weekend, one on Saturday and the other on Sunday night. They’re each around five-nine and dress like professionals. Both have long, slightly curly brown hair and big brown eyes. Their features are narrow, with almond eyes and wide lips that dominate their faces when they smile. It’s only while kicking the second one out of an office I rented specifically for fucking that I finally realize that both girls definitely resembled my ex-publicist.

  It has to be a coincidence.

  But I haven’t heard from Alyssa for a few days — not since I sent her that package. It was full of shit my niece said a classy woman like Alyssa would probably be into, so I’m sort of surprised. I expected something.

  She usually sends me reminders of stuff to do or things to remember to say while in public. It’s always a slow boil with Alyssa; she favors mumbling at ground level over big media blitz campaigns. What’s said on the street matters. She seeds shit through her ninja channels and I’m supposed to put myself into pockets of public note and respond or act accordingly. It’s all very strange, but her other clients swear up and down that it works. Every time. So what the hell; I do as she says.

  I figure maybe she took the weekend off, but she’s still a ghost on Monday, so I send her an email. I don’t feel like riling her up — she’s such a bitch when she’s annoyed — so I need to compose an email that touches base while saying nothing.

  She can be such a hot-tempered cunt; anything might set her off. If I follow her instructions without precise guidance, she usually says I did it wrong, and yells at me. If I miss some detail, hence failing to follow instructions to the letter, she yells at me. If I ask questions, it’s like she thinks I’m second-guessing her judgment. So she yells at me.

  But if I don’t ask enough questions, then I implement wrong, putting us back at square one … and she yells at me.

  Alyssa’s been bitching in my ear so much since I hired her that it’s strange not to have that constant yammering. I’m sort of adrift. I need to write this email, but it has to be perfect. Inquisitive without being nosy. It needs to prove my interest, yet not presume to know the plan better than her.

  So I send her a question mark.

  From: Cole Ellison.

  To: Alyssa Galloway.

  Subject: [blank].

  Message: ?

  And I hit send.

  Hours pass. No response.

  She must be busy. Maybe with another client. Alyssa is incredibly hard to read. Sometimes she’ll perk up if I explain something to her long enough, and sometimes she’ll harbor a grudge. She’s always bitching about respect. She acted so offended the other day, when I was only screwing around. But I hired her, and I pay a shit-ton. Sure I make jokes, but I always follow her plan. How the fuck could I possibly not respect her?

  And why does respect factor into this anyway?

  Goddamn women. Goddamn women and their rules.

  But I know that train of thought, because I’ve considered it before — mostly while 1) wondering if it’s okay to try and fuck my publicist, or 2) if the answer to #1 is no, deciding whether I should fire her and hire a man so there won’t be an issue.

  But no other publicist would be one-tenth as competent as Alyssa.

  I send her a text.

  I go to my contacts and click on Alyssa’s LiveLyfe profile.

  I go through the photos.

  Then I end up beating off while looking at the photos, even though she’s way too Ice Queen to show much more than a tiny bit of cleavage online.

  After I’m done, I start to wonder why I just did what I did. Alyssa is technically attractive. She has a good body, based on the bits she shows. Her personal style isn’t nun-like; she has great legs and a terrific ass, and when she’s off the clock she wears skirts and slacks and jeans that hug it just enough.

  But Alyssa isn’t showy. She has plenty, but doesn’t flaunt it.

  So yes, she has the whole package. But she’s definitely not sexy. Not by any traditional definition, where sexy requires a certain kind of attitude. That’s why I usually think of her as having an ice cube dispenser for a pussy.

  It’s not that she isn’t hot. It’s that she seems so supremely uninterested.

  For a fraction of a second, I wonder if it’s possible that Alyssa’s a virgin. Not for lack of opportunities, but for lack of … you know … being an accessible human.

  But I’m sure she isn’t. She acts like a bitch, not like a virgin.

  Thinking it out gets me semi-erect again. The logical steps are stupid-simple but involve her legs opening, a wet little slit, and someone putting his dick inside it.

  I wonder what positions she’s done. She seems so goddamn asexual, at first I think it must only be missionary. But then I figure maybe she has a secret wild side, enough to at least mix it up a little. How wild are you to stick your ass in the air and take it doggie style? How wild do you need to be to climb on top of your partner’s hog, slip it in, and ride him like a bucking bronco?

  I get a mental picture of Alyssa’s always-well-behaved hair flying everywhere as she fucks on top, her sure-to-be-awesome tits with their pert and sometimes-pokey nipples bouncing up and down. It’s so out of character that I almost laugh. Instead my semi fills the rest of the way up and again I’m poking the keyboard with my cock.

  I look at the boner tenting my expensive tailored slacks, and think, Alyssa? Really?

  I wonder if she shaves.

  The phone rings, jarring me from odd thoughts about my publicist and her grooming conditions. It’s so odd to think of Alyssa having a bare pussy — soft to the touch, blushed with arousal.

  I let the phone ring a few times before picking up. It’s my office phone, so I don’t know who’s calling. But Roland wouldn’t have sent the call in if it didn’t matter, so I’m reasonably sure it isn’t a telemarketer.

  “Hello?”

  “Cole? This is Anthony.”

  “Who?”

  He laughs. The laugh is deep and slightly raspy, and as genuine as they come, as if he and I are old friends and I’m being silly pretending not to recognize him. I find myself lulled, at least enough to stop thinking about Alyssa’s pussy.

  “Anthony Ross. It’s good to talk to you again.”

  There are so many ways I should mock those two simple sentences, but for some reason I don’t. For one, the idea that he’d say “talk to you again” as if resuming a conversation from yesterday is crazy. We only met once, for thirty seconds, at an anonymous fundraiser.

  But there’s something about Ross that I recall noticing even that first day we met, however briefly. He makes great friends instantly; that’s the only way to put it. I felt a genuine connection to him then, same as now. No wonder he has so many millions of followers and fans.

  “Likewise,” I say, even though it’s a very un-Cole sort of word.

  “Hey, listen,” Anthony says, his cadence as fast and enthusiastic now as it is onstage at one of his seminars. You’d think his personality is an act because nobody is that positive and motivational all the time. Turns out, it’s not. It’s how Anthony Ross actually is, and he doesn’t even seem to have an evil scheme behind it all. “I’ve been toying with the idea of doing a film.”

  “You want to make a movie?”

  “A film,” he corrects. “Movies are for talented actors working from good scripts. What I have in mind is more of a documentary. And I don’t do scripts.” He laughs that genuine, infectious laugh again. It’s a wheezy thing, strained by his untold hours speaking onstage. Still, it makes me smile. Ross is famously spontaneous. Supposedly he once showed up at a recording studio without a plan, then sat down and reeled off a 15-CD seminar program off the top of his head.

  That’s not what I do, so either Anthony doesn’t know or doesn’t care. My business has its roots in delivering product for tradition
al mainstream cinema, and now I’m dabbling: making Hollywood movies with professional actors. I don’t do seminar films, or documentaries for famous motivational gurus.

  But instead of pointing this out, I ask Anthony to tell me what he has in mind.

  So he does — and for some reason, Anthony’s ideas make me think about Alyssa all over again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ALYSSA

  MONDAY ENDS. TUESDAY COMES AND goes.

  Tuesday afternoon, I get a phone call. It’s Jenna Green, so at first I assume this has something to do with Ashton. But what I brokered between Jenna and Ashton is over, put on the back-burner and left to simmer. The press can believe what it wants about them, and is doing so just fine without my interference. Through that lens, Jenna’s call doesn’t make sense. But then she turns me around and points out how I’ve got this all wrong, and I laugh — probably a good sign, given how tense I’ve been all day about Cole’s “We’re still on for Tuesday” thing.

  I was somehow sure he’d call after I missed our appointment.

  But he didn’t, and by the time Jenna phones I’ve decided that Cole must have finally gotten the point. I opened an email on Monday that could have been sent by mistake, given that a single question mark was the only thing in it. I didn’t answer, or get another. Now our missed appointment has come and gone. I might be in the clear.

  Maybe I’m finally through with Cole for good — unless Jenna is calling because Ashton asked her to.

  But she isn’t calling about Cole. She’s not even calling about Ashton.

  She’s calling to invite me out for drinks.

  “Who else is going?” I ask. I’m not big on groups. And I know a lot of people but don’t have many friends. I’ve gone out before and run into people I’ve warred with professionally — some businessperson or another whom my campaigns used as grist for the mill. It’s never fun, running into people you’ve publicly shat on.

  “Just you and me,” she says.

  “Really?”

  Jenna laughs. But is it really that strange? She seems so much younger than me, but she’s 20 or so (21 on her fake ID, if she’s inviting me for drinks) and I’m only 28. It’s just eight years’ difference, but it feels like decades. Jenna goes to college and hangs out; I work ungodly hours and juggle billions of dollars in clients. I’ve had to fight like an animal to get where I am, making too many enemies along the way; Jenna is easy-going, and everyone seems to love her.