Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  “She texted. She said her father is fine.”

  “You’re good enough buddies to have swapped numbers?”

  “No. She texted you.”

  “You were snooping in my phone?”

  “I had to reply. Jenna was worried. I told her I took care of you, responding as myself.”

  I blink. Then shake my head ever so slowly. “You shouldn’t have done that. It’s private.”

  “There are many things I shouldn’t do.”

  A quiet moment passes. Because I haven’t taken the coffee, Cole sets it on the nightstand. There’s a stone coaster already in place, and Cole sets the coffee mug exactly in its center.

  He rises. Halfway out of the room he turns back. “I need your help with something. A project I think I’m going to take on. Something that feels important.”

  “I don’t work for you anymore.”

  “I know.” He looks away again. “The bathroom is right up here. Take a shower. You stink. I’ve left toothpaste and a new toothbrush beside the sink. Your breath is terrible.”

  “Thanks,” I say, trying for sarcasm.

  “You’re welcome,” Cole says, as if I was sincere. This time he’s almost all the way out of the room before he stops and turns a final time. “You got another text. From someone named Bartleby.”

  The name sets off alarms in my head. “Shit,” I mutter. There’s an ebony clock on the far wall, and it says it’s already 9:30.

  “Since you’ve already missed your first appointment,” Cole says as he leaves the room, “you might as well stay for breakfast.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALYSSA

  I FEEL GROSS, BUT THERE’S no way I’m showering in Cole’s apartment. The guy’s a womanizing asshole — exactly the kind of person I’d expect to have cameras in his bedroom and all-glass shower. The doors are closed in this private suite, and he seems to have laid out clothes whose origins I can’t even imagine, but the thought of being naked feels ten steps too far.

  I push a competing thought from my mind: that when I passed out drunk, Cole had his hands all over me. He must have, to carry me up here. But who’s to say he didn’t paw my breasts? Or slip my dress down to get a peek? I didn’t wear a bra; I didn’t have one without straps. Looking would have been easy. Hell, I’ll bet my dress rode up while he carried me. It wouldn’t take much to open my panties and have a look at what’s in there.

  Somehow I know I’m wrong, but I eschew the shower and change of clothes anyway. I use a washcloth to wash my armpits, unwilling to hunt for deodorant but knowing I won’t be here much longer. I clean my face as best I can, deciding to leave my fortunately mostly-intact makeup in place. Without my removers and morning kit, I’m not convinced I can get it all off, so I use what’s in my purse to clean what I can, pull my club hair back into a ponytail, brush my teeth with the implements provided, and head out still in my black dress.

  I’ve obviously never been here before, but it’s easy to find my way by following the scent of bacon. Which, shockingly, I find Cole making on his own.

  “Do you like it crisp?”

  “Not totally.” I don’t understand why I’m replying. I should tell him that I’m not eating his goddamned misogynistic bacon, but instead I find myself accepting the plate when it’s offered. There’s already a poached egg sitting atop an English muffin and a circle of ham beside it.

  “The hollandaise isn’t totally fresh,” Cole says, indicating the sauce beneath the egg. “I heard you stirring and didn’t have time to make more. This is from the weekend.”

  I shake my head slowly. “You cook?”

  “With a passion. It takes too much time but I do it anyway.” He shrugs as if to say this is his life and nobody is going to tell him what to do.

  I take a bite of the bacon. It’s thick and somehow different from what I’m used to. Better. Probably from a butcher instead of the supermarket meat aisle.

  Cole makes himself a plate to match mine. He turns off the gas burners, sets the plate on a small table, then pulls out the opposite chair — the one with no plate in front of it — and looks expectantly at me.

  “Sit,” he says when I don’t move.

  I do, eyeing him the entire time. He sits opposite me. He hasn’t shaved. I’m struck by how utterly manly he is. It’s a hard quality to pin down, and I couldn’t articulate it if I tried. But here and now, I see it on his face. It has something to do with the squareness of his jaw, the maturity of his eyes, his serious brows, and his salt-and-pepper stubble, starting to speckle gray across his cleft chin. Cole looks like the kind of guy who could run a business, please a woman, then build a shelter in the woods. It’s an odd combination. But it’s man, clear and present.

  “What?” he says.

  “What yourself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Why are you being like this?” I ask, still giving him the eye.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Chivalrous. Bringing me coffee. Making me breakfast.” I look down. “Pulling out chairs for me.”

  “Is that wrong?”

  “It’s just not like you.”

  “It’s very much like me.”

  “Lies. You’ve never been anything but sexist and crass. You treat me like I’m your assistant. No, wait, that’s not right. Like I’m your bitch.”

  “And you’re not direct with me?”

  “You aren’t ‘direct,’ Cole. You’re a Neanderthal asshole.”

  He looks like he might argue. Funny thing is if I didn’t know Cole a whole lot better than this, I might be persuaded. He sure doesn’t seem rude right now. He seems kind of quiet. He let me sleep in his bed, but didn’t try to fuck me. He gave me time and space to clean up, then cooked me breakfast. But I know how it’s been between us, and he’s not going to flip-flop now and convince me I’m wrong.

  It takes more than eggs Benedict to forgive a guy.

  Instead he says, “I’m glad I ran into you last night.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Because I had something come up. Do you know Anthony Ross?”

  “I know who he is. I don’t know him.”

  “He called me yesterday. Wanted to pitch me a project.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It’s going to need publicity. And not the normal kind. Smart, and under the radar. Your specialty, Alyssa.”

  “Again: nice. But we don’t work together anymore.”

  Cole shakes his head. “This again.”

  I can’t believe I’m in Cole Ellison’s kitchen, eating what might seem from the outside to be a civil breakfast, still wearing last night’s party dress. For a moment it seemed like the start of a day on vacation, and now I’m having to send my hungover brain back to the other half of our relationship — the one in which this guy is a flaming chauvinist. It’s a tough mental act to perform under any conditions, let alone when I still feel half drunk.

  “Don’t act like I’m being unreasonable.”

  “Cole …” I trail off because I shouldn’t need to spell this out. Yet the hangover and situational vertigo almost make me feel like I might be the unreasonable one. I chew my delicious breakfast, glancing up into the eyes of the man who came to Jenna’s (and apparently my) rescue last night. The man who pulled out a chair for me to sit.

  Then he says something surprising.

  “Is this because of last night, after you threw up?”

  Shit. What the fuck else did I do after throwing up? I don’t even have the details of the first part, let alone what happened after I tossed my cookies into what I sincerely hope was the toilet. And what about that? Cole had to carry me upstairs, so did I wake up to barf, or did he hold me above the toilet while I puked?

  And when was I unconscious?

  If I was awake to barf, maybe I stayed awake afterward. Then did something both mysterious and worth mentioning now.

  I put my head in my hands. I don’t want to know.

  “You don�
��t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “I wanted to, believe me.”

  Fuck. I seriously hope what he’s talking about is me asking him to play racquetball or something.

  From the nest of my hands, my forehead still throbbing, I ask, “Wanted to do what, Cole?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “I was wasted. I never drink. I’m not entirely unconvinced that someone didn’t slip something into my cosmo. So no. I don’t remember anything after the hospital.”

  He stands up. “Never mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Seriously. Never mind. You were sick.”

  “Goddammit, Cole. If you want to work with me on anything ever again, then tell me what you’re talking about. You said I did something embarrassing, and now won’t tell me what it is.”

  Cole’s hand is on my now-empty plate. I didn’t realize how hungry I was, but the coffee and food are already soothing the edges of my headache.

  I stand. We’re close enough that I can smell the ghost of his aftershave. “Tell me, Cole.”

  “You said you wanted to have sex with me.”

  My eyes close. A sigh escapes me.

  “You asked if I was going to undress you before putting you in bed, then asked if I could undress myself, too.”

  “Shit. I was so …”

  “You said you’d been dreaming about it every night since the last time we saw each other.”

  Cole steps closer. The table is behind me. I have to go through him if I want out.

  “I wanted to, but you were drunk. I told you that I wouldn’t take advantage, but you didn’t want to hear it. Kept pawing at me and wouldn’t rest, even though I could tell you still felt terrible.” He gives me a little half-shrug. “The only way I could get you to lie down and get your hands off me was to promise I’d consider it once you were no longer drunk.”

  We’re still for what feels like a very long moment.

  Then Cole’s hand comes up and brushes my bare arm.

  That’s all it takes. I shove him away, but he’s so solid that half my momentum pushes me back, my ass shoving the table a few inches backward. It drags across the floor and whines in protest — like a short bark in the still kitchen.

  I step aside, glaring now. “I don’t believe you.”

  “What?”

  “You presumptuous son of a bitch. You’re coming on to me!”

  “I’m just telling you what happened.”

  But did it really happen? Or is he bullshitting me because this is his chance to make a move? Both could be true, and maybe are: I have been fantasizing about Cole, so maybe with my inhibitions down, I confessed. But Jesus — I was shitfaced. Last night’s drunken fumbling isn’t something any reasonable man should turn into a morning proposition.

  We’re colleagues … and that’s a best-case scenario. Mostly we’re a man and a woman who hate each other at worst, and don’t really know each other at best. The idea that he’d think I’d welcome his advances … in the light of day … ugh.

  I was so right to doubt him.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” I say.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Why not?” I gesture to my purse, right beside my party shoes. “I’ve got all my luggage.”

  “Wait. Are you pissed off or something?”

  I laugh, full of scorn. “No. I’m not anything. This is honestly exactly what I should have expected from you.”

  “I don’t get what’s happening here.”

  “Of course you don’t. You never do.”

  “You can’t leave yet. You haven’t even cleaned up.”

  “I’ll clean up at home.”

  “Where do you live, anyway? You never did tell me.”

  “None of your fucking business, Cole.” But as soon as I say it, something ticks inside my mind. Cole’s penthouse is downtown. My office is downtown, not five blocks away. I’m practically right next door to the office now, but I live in Edison Park. This time of day, once I factor in turnaround and cleanup time, it could be two hours before I get back.

  I sniff at myself while grabbing my purse. Is there any chance in hell I could just go to the office now? I’ve already lost the morning to hangover and what now seems to have been a seduction breakfast. I’ve already missed my appointment with Bartleby, which I’ll need to reschedule after a profuse apology. Two hours is a lot of time. I’d—

  Oh, motherfucker. Are you kidding me?

  I pull out my phone and check my schedule. I have another appointment in barely an hour. I can miss that one too, or show up looking and smelling like a party girl who threw up and spent a shameful night in some asshole’s bed.

  “I need to go,” I say, reaching down to put on my shoes. Because that’s going to make this easy — rushing in heels.

  “I’ll take you to pick up your car. It’s not far.”

  “Jenna drove. It’s her car, not mine.” And with that, I feel a new motherfucker drop into place atop the original. Jenna was supposed to take me home. So how the hell am I going to get all the way out to Edison Park without a car? I briefly consider calling Jenna and asking if I can run down to the club and borrow it, but the logistics are broken. Even if Jenna is close (she might be at the hospital; I don’t actually know what was wrong with her father), I’d have to meet her and borrow the keys, then get to the club again.

  I’ll have to take a cab to my place. It’s the only option.

  Cole has already seen my predicament. “Then I’ll take you home.”

  But after his last little stunt, I don’t want Cole to know where I live.

  That’s when I realize what’s wrong: Cole already knows where I live.

  He has to know, because he sent me a package.

  True, he might not know my specific apartment. The package went to the front desk, not to my door. But if it was a case of not knowing my room number, couldn’t he have taken me to my building? Then asked anyone there where my apartment was?

  Maybe he didn’t do that because he didn’t know my building had a well-informed staff. It was late, after all, so maybe he thought he’d drive all the way out there just to find himself carrying a drunk girl into an empty lobby, then have to turn around and return to the city.

  Or maybe he did know my building was staffed around the clock, but was trying to save me the embarrassment — people I run into every day seeing me in such a pathetic state.

  But Cole didn’t cop to any of those perfectly reasonable reasons for not taking me home last night. Instead, he told me he didn’t know where I lived. He said “exactly” — “I didn’t know exactly where you lived” — but Cole is a snake.

  He didn’t take me home for a much simpler reason: He wanted an excuse to get me here.

  I look at his face. It’s almost innocent. I hate him all over again.

  So why is the idea that he lied to bring me here a turn on?

  I stuff the feeling down. I won’t say it if he doesn’t. I’d rather not have the fight.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let me take you home.”

  … to the home I already know about. To the home where I sent you a vibrator, which I meant for you to use while thinking of me.

  “There’s no time. I have an appointment.” Again I turn.

  “Wait. You’re not going to your office, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “I think I have sweats in my gym bag.”

  “Sweats?”

  The idea is sort of tragically hilarious. I’d look like a homeless person during my meeting. The homeless publicist strikes again! Banner’s exorbitant bill is in the mail.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say.

  Cole shakes his head. His face is still almost kind, almost protective — as if he’s saving me from my big idiot self.

  I should call him on his bullshit. Tell him I know that he lied.

  But I don’t.

  And when he takes my arm to lead me out of the room, I still react to h
is touch.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I have clothes you can wear.”

  “You have women’s clothes?”

  He gives me a look that says he’d rather not explain why women leave extra clothes in his place. “I’m sure I have your size.”

  “But I’m … gross.”

  We’re back at the bathroom off of what, in any other place, would be the master bath off the only master bedroom. He practically shoves me inside, because half of me is still resisting.

  “That’s what the shower is for,” he says with a smile.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ALYSSA

  I HATE TO ENJOY ANYTHING Cole has to offer, but I find myself unable to feel otherwise.

  Breakfast was great, until I decided he was trying to sleep with me. Last night’s chivalry was almost sweet, until I decided it must be part of a longer con — a plan to reveal my embarrassing come-ons last night, then try to capitalize in the light of day. And this shower he forced me to take after I realized he’s probably been lying all along? It’s heavenly.

  I try to hate the process for thirty seconds, somehow convinced that taking pleasure from Cole’s lavish shower would be tantamount to letting him win. But after all three of the shower heads are on me, I change my mind. It may be rationalization, but I start to think it’s okay for me to enjoy this. After all, I need to get clean before my meeting; the shower is necessary. Cole won’t know whether I did this grudgingly or with relish — and even if he did, it’s still only a shower. It’s not like kissing him for fake-rescuing me after for-real-rescuing Jenna. It’s not like falling into his arms just because he managed to flawlessly poach some eggs.

  I’m thinking all of this with my eyes closed, losing myself in the feeling of warm water running down my naked body from three directions at once. They’re shower heads, but with my eyes closed I can’t help thinking of them being held by a trio of servants I’ve commanded to stand around me in a circle, forced to do my bidding.

  There’s no comparison, in my well-off-but-not-extravagant life, for this kind of luxury. Two shower streams would be lovely. But three? It’s downright hedonistic.

  “So do you want to hear about the Ross project?”