Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  I’m tired of feeling so beat up. I’m terrible at cutting loose, so hopefully Jenna doesn’t expect too much, but I could use a drink. After all of this bullshit with Cole, the idea sounds lovely.

  “Really,” Jenna says, saving me the embarrassment of calling me on my surprise.

  I don’t ask why. We’re not even close to being friends, and during Ashton’s PR campaign she probably hated me. It’s possible — likely, even — that Ashton urged Jenna to take pity on me and show me a good time, feeling (in a sexist manner, I’m sure) that I needed to loosen up. But screw it. I can accept their pity if it means a change of pace.

  And honestly? I could stand some loosening up.

  Work has been nuts with my existing clients, and more keep knocking at my door — mostly Nathan Turner’s billionaire friends. The thought of going back to Cole feels more ludicrous with every passing hour. I already have more work than I can handle, so why should I go bottom-feeding for assholes?

  Except that Cole won’t stop infiltrating my thoughts.

  I accept the invitation. I must do okay making myself presentable, because when Jenna shows up at my place she tells me I look fabulous. It’s a different look for me. I usually go corporate: professional with a hint of femininity. This look is more clubby. I’ve guessed at most of it, since I’ve never been a clubby sort of person.

  I made my hair fluffier, pinned it partially back, and applied more makeup around my eyes. I’m wearing a black dress with spaghetti straps. It hugs my curves more than I’m typically comfortable with, and I’m in heels that are taller than normal, with thinner spikes. But I look good. Like a girl not too long out of college, not yet too old to have forgotten whom her free-spirited self still sometimes wants to be.

  Jenna promised a bar, but we end up in downtown Chicago, at a place called The Layback. It’s closer to my definition of a club. I mention this and Jenna says that it’s not a club, that I’d know a club when I saw one. We can talk here. There are couches and the music is subtle rather than booming. Good. I want to relax, not strain my voice all night, shouting into Jenna’s ear.

  When we’re settled on a couch, I ask Jenna how she found the place — and, unspoken behind it, is the more pressing question of how she got us in. There was a long line outside and I’ll bet that cosmopolitans in this place cost forty bucks, yet the bouncer and the well-dressed attendant behind him barely glanced our way as we entered.

  “It’s one of Ashton’s places,” Jenna says.

  I sort of want to follow that question up. In the past, I’ve heard Ashton talk a lot about his “places,” though I never asked specifically where they were or what they were called. I lumped them together in a big mental bucket called places Ashton found sluts to screw.

  “So,” Jenna says, after I don’t reply.

  “So,” I say. Then: “Thanks for inviting me out.”

  “Of course!”

  “I was a little surprised.”

  “Why?”

  I don’t want to say Because clearly you don’t like me, so instead I say, “We’ve just never really met socially. It’s always been business.”

  “Maybe that should change. You’re a big part of Ashton’s life.”

  “Only in the way my accountant is a big part of mine.”

  “This is different,” she says. “And besides, we owe our relationship to you.”

  I can’t hold Jenna’s eyes after that. Technically it’s true, but it’s a bit like a stabbing victim thanking her attacker because she likes the doctor who stitched all her wounds.

  “Well,” I say, embarrassed. It’s not a sentence, and barely a response.

  “You seem uncomfortable,” Jenna says.

  “Why would I be uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m mentioning it — I’m wondering why you are.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “That’s what Ashton said you kept saying when he saw you on Friday, but he said you were also acting weird.”

  I know what she means. On Friday, I still had Cole hangover. Tonight’s reason is simpler: I’m terrible at stuff like this. I never go out, or hang with friends without an agenda. Being in this club, in this little black dress, is strange for me. I’m out of my element. I don’t know what to do with my limbs. Should I hold my drink and sip it nonstop so my hands have something to do?

  This place has the feel of an upscale meat market. I’m not looking for dates, but a lot of the handsome, well-dressed guys here obviously are. I feel on display — probably because I am. There have been eyes on us the entire time, and I don’t know how to act with all this attention. How do people relax like this? Jenna seems casual, as if we’re two people sharing conversation. I feel like I’m on an audition.

  I finish my cosmo and raise my hand to a passing waiter.

  “Honestly,” I say, leaning close, “it’s weird to have all these guys looking at me.”

  “Your fault for looking so smokin’. Take it as a compliment.”

  Thanks, Jenna. For confirming that I’m not paranoid and that everyone is staring at me.

  In three minutes, my second cosmo is gone.

  It went so fast I order another.

  “So,” Jenna says, “are you seeing anyone?”

  Normally, I have a battery of defenses for that exact line of inquiry. First I’d chuckle, then tell her there’s no time for dating. I’d deflect if she persisted, and talk about how she’s so much younger and prettier than me. It’s a great defense, because it pumps me up (as a busy professional with more important things on my schedule) without knocking the other person down (as a young hottie with plenty of options).

  But tonight I don’t laugh. “No,” I tell her.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “Too busy.”

  “There’s always time for the things you want.”

  “I don’t really want it.”

  That’s half true. I don’t want what I’d currently be able to get — and although I might like what I can’t get, I have neither energy nor interest enough in spending the effort to know. Maybe there are fairy tales out there, and I’m tipsy enough that I won’t outright deny the appeal. But how the hell is that supposed to happen for me? It takes everything I have just to stay on top of my work.

  I’m grateful that Jenna doesn’t contradict me. It’s obnoxious when romantics attack the loveless, trying to convince them that everyone always wants hearts and flowers and rainbows.

  “I hope you’re getting laid, then. Because hell … I can’t imagine the stress of your crazy job.”

  Now I laugh. A girlish giggle. “Jenna!”

  Jenna giggles, too. “I’m just saying it as a friend.”

  That touches me. I think I might be a little drunk. My third glass is empty, and these drinks are strong. I rarely drink and apparently have no tolerance. Fortunately, the same seems to be true for my new friend, or she’s just been drinking faster. Because right now we’re both a bit lit, and I’m fighting a strong urge to embrace Jenna and tell her that she’s the sister I never had.

  “I don’t have time for that, either,” I tell her.

  “It takes like ten minutes!”

  “I mean all the stuff that happens before and after. You’ve gotta set it up and everything. Maybe you could loan me Ashton.”

  “Too far!” Jenna says, still laughing.

  Guys are looking at us more than before. Did I only have three drinks? I think there may have been some I’m forgetting.

  “If only they came like single-serving packages. For the busy gal with no time to waste.” I’m suddenly inspired. “Like a male hooker!”

  “They do sell them in packages,” she says. “They’re called vibrators.”

  I laugh again. I’m a little uncomfortable, remembering the discarded vibrator Cole sent me, but it’s not a bad sort of discomfort.

  “You have one, right? Tell me you have one, Alyssa.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes you do.�
�

  “I don’t!”

  “Butt plugs, then,” she counters. “You have a drawer full of butt plugs and nipple clamps.”

  “Gross!”

  “What then?”

  “You know.” I’m giggly as all hell now, enjoying the conversational taboos.

  “You hump the washing machine when it’s running, don’t you?”

  Another laugh. Then I whisper, “Just … you know.” I lean in and whisper. “Just my fingers.”

  “That’s it. I’m buying you a vibrator!” Jenna is apparently too tipsy for volume control and speaks into a break in the music, broadcasting my embarrassment to everyone around us. I’m mortified, as ten or so cute guys look our way. Some seem uncomfortable with our inebriation, but most are half-smiling, probably wanting in on whatever is happening with the two girls on the purple couch.

  We both look away, still snickering. Eventually the surrounding area returns to quasi-normal and I’m left thinking about getting laid, booty calls, vibrators, and long warm baths with wandering fingers. The alcohol has made me tingly.

  Jenna’s phone buzzes. She apologizes, then tells me she has to take it.

  I figure now is as good a time as any to head for the bathroom.

  Luckily, I’m less drunk than I thought. I can walk fine, and I take some naughty pleasure by noticing the turning heads as I pass. This dress exposes so much skin. It slides across my body like soft, smooth hands. I probably do look good.

  God knows, right now I certainly feel good — much better than I’ve felt in a very long time.

  I’m nearing the short, blue-lit hallway to the restrooms when a voice surprises me.

  “Alyssa?”

  I turn.

  Because Jesus hates me, the speaker is Cole Ellison.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ALYSSA

  I’M GUESSING THAT COLE, UNLIKE me, is here on business. He’s wearing a black suit and a crisp red tie, and there’s an older man at the table with him who looks as out of place here as I feared I’d be before we came.

  But liquor’s made me bold, so I say, “Hey, Cole. Who’s your date?”

  His expression doesn’t make sense. For once his intense blue eyes are neither condescending nor wolfish. He looks … concerned? His mouth is slightly open. One lock of black hair has fallen out of his carelessly parted coif to dangle across his forehead.

  Finally he speaks. “Alyssa, this is Terrence Bradford. Terrence, this is Alyssa.” He doesn’t say who each of us is — probably because he doesn’t want to admit to having a drunken party girl for a publicist. An ex-publicist.

  I extend a hand. Terrence, slow to respond, raises his own. We shake, limply.

  “What are you doing here?” Cole asks.

  “Free country.”

  “Yes, but …” He looks around. “Are you here with someone?”

  “Jealous?”

  He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s asking whether someone is around to drive me home. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. It’s better when he looks like he hates me than whatever this is.

  “I’m here with a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  My phone dings and I see a new text from Jenna: where r u?

  I start to respond, but Jenna must have already seen me; I hear her calling from across the club. She heads my way, and when she reaches me she looks panicked, her inebriation gone.

  “We’ve gotta go,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “My dad. He’s been taken to the hospital.”

  I look down at Jenna’s phone. I’m having a hard time assembling my thoughts.

  She tugs at my arm. “Come on, Alyssa!”

  I don’t know what to do. My head is swimming, but I’m still thinking of our dirty little discussion from three minutes before. I’m thinking of how fun this has been, and how it’s nice to feel like I have a friend.

  But now Cole has polluted everything. I felt bold before seeing him, but now my confidence is waning. Now Jenna’s pulling at me like a toddler yanking at her mother’s hem.

  Cole and the old man are watching us. I can’t move.

  “How did you get here?” Cole asks.

  I want to say, Mind your own business. Instead I say, “We drove.”

  Cole stands. He reaches into his pocket. Something jangles — something metallic. Keys.

  “We’re almost done anyway, Terrence. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “And Ross?”

  “I’ll talk to him once we’ve figured out the rest.” Cole’s eyes return to me.

  Whatever Cole’s talking about, I think he’s suddenly realized he needs me in on it, too.

  But I don’t work with him. His business with Ross? He can sit on it.

  Cole is pulling papers off the table, squaring the edges, and dropping them neatly into a messenger bag beneath the table. Terrence, is following his lead.

  Cole turns to me. “Do you have coats?”

  “Why?”

  The jangling reaches a crescendo as Cole pulls the keys from his pocket, dragging the messenger bag into place over his shoulder.

  “No,” I say, suddenly realizing what’s happening here. “Continue your meeting.”

  “Alyssa!” Jenna whines.

  “Don’t argue with me, Alyssa,” Cole snaps, nodding a farewell to the other man. “You’re too drunk to drive. My car is with the valet.” He turns to Jenna. “Which hospital?”

  “Mercy.”

  Cole pushes past us and heads for the door. Jenna follows like a sad little puppy. I’d stay where I was, but Jenna grabs my arm and drags me along.

  Cole hands the valet a bill. It must be a big one, because the kid hauls ass as if he’s on fire. There’s a roar from the right: Cole’s car, apparently, revving to life.

  “We’re not going with him,” I say.

  “He’s right,” Jenna says. “I’m kinda buzzed.”

  The car squeals into position in front of us. A gunmetal gray sedan with a matte finish, unlike any paint job I’ve ever seen.

  “We’re not riding with him,” I say. “Do you know who that is?”

  Cole opens the door and calls for Jenna by name.

  “Of course I know who he is. Do you think I’d want to go with some strange guy?” She gets in the car, beckoning to me with both hands.

  I try to glare at Cole, but he gives me a slow shake of his head that says Not now.

  Jenna scoots over and I pile in beside her. Cole slips into the driver’s seat and we race off, me and Jenna behind him like passengers in a chauffeured limousine.

  The ride is fast and furious. Cole works the shifter like he’s in a race. The engine, so loud outside the cabin, gives way to a raw feeling of power inside. We ride in silence, save the purring of shifting gears. It barely takes five minutes to get to Mercy. Cole gets out, as if to open the back door, but Jenna hops out. She shouts back, saying she’s sorry and that she’ll call me, then hurries into the hospital.

  Cole arrives at the car door she left open. “Would you like to come up front or stay back there?”

  “Neither. I’m getting out.”

  Cole slams the door, then returns to the driver’s seat. Without looking at me he says, “Stop being a bitch for a while and accept a favor. I’m taking you home.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALYSSA

  I WAKE TO STRANGE LIGHT and no idea where I am.

  My head is throbbing like a rotten tooth. I’m surrounded by what feels like acres of luxury linens. Everything is in shades of gray, from the comforter to the sheets to the pillowcases to the deep rug I glimpse beyond the edge of the bed.

  This isn’t my apartment. I’ve never seen this place before.

  “Feeling better?”

  I look over and see Cole, dressed down from his suit, holding two cups of coffee. He’s in jeans and a plain white tee. The light leaking through the vertical blinds must mean it’s morni
ng, maybe even later in the day.

  Yet I remember nothing after the hospital.

  “How did I get here?”

  “You passed out in my back seat. I wasn’t sure where exactly you lived so I brought you here.”

  I look around with fresh eyes. Cole’s apartment. It’s exactly as I would have imagined, down to the vaulted ceilings.

  “How could I—?”

  “Then you threw up. Fortunately, you did it in the right place.”

  That sounds right. There’s a nasty tang on my teeth. It’s acidic and makes me want to retch.

  I’m assailed by a thought, having to do with this bed and Cole’s changed clothes. I peek beneath the covers. I’m still in my little black dress. If I was molested, the tracks have been covered.

  “We didn’t …?”

  “I don’t go for vomiting women.”

  “How did you … I mean, did I walk up here from the garage?” This is more than intellectual curiosity. I literally have no idea, and want to know.

  “You were out. Out. How many drinks did you have, Alyssa?”

  “Three? Five?” I don’t remember.

  “Don’t drink much, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “I carried you,” he says.

  “My phone was in my pocket. You could have called someone.”

  “I know your parents aren’t in town. It was simpler to call myself.”

  I breathe quietly for a few moments, taking all of this in. It’s a bit unreal. I was out with my new friend and old client (of sorts) Jenna, and then we were being rescued by the last man in the world I want to save me. I know we dropped Jenna off, but the rest is a fuzzy nothing. I suppose I passed out. Then Cole pulled me from the backseat into his big arms, pulled back the covers of this bed, removed my shoes, and laid me down. I somehow doubt he slept beside me.

  “Jenna …”