Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  But — if I’m honest — Cole seems worth knowing. Worth liking, even, as hard as that is for me to admit.

  “This is all I have, PR-wise, Alyssa. This is what I need your help on most.”

  “You haven’t even said you were doing it. You just wanted to tell me what Ross told you.”

  “True, but—”

  “I understand why he’s so popular. He’s not just a stone cold fox of a man. He’s some sort of a brainwasher, too. He’s certainly hypnotized you.”

  He laughs a little.

  “Let’s talk about Sage business instead. Let’s talk about what we had going before I fired you.”

  I meant it as a joke, but a cloud crosses Cole’s face. It’s as if he’s remembered something unpleasant, and the idea of our quarrel has triggered it. Something troubling.

  “Alyssa,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “Remember yesterday morning? When you said chivalry and being kind wasn’t like me, and that being an asshole to you very much was?”

  “I just meant that I’d never seen that side of you before.”

  “Nobody does.”

  I pause, feeling like there’s more to this that he hasn’t yet said. Cole didn’t simply agree that his kind side exists. Instead he gave me a sideways response suggesting it is very much part of him, but he keeps it hidden. Nobody sees that side. But why?

  “You must think I’m bipolar. I’m awful to you; I’m nice; I show up watching you while you’re taking a shower. I’m civil and polite, then barge into your office and … you know.”

  “Maybe you’re just complex.” But he’s right. I’ve thought that and plenty worse.

  “Truth is, Alyssa, I like that you’re strong, but I fight against it. I don’t think I’m a healthy person. I’ve always had to win. I’ve always had to do the hardest things, even if they weren’t the smartest, just to see if I could do them. I see your strength and want to compete with it. Hell, the only reason I really got to thinking about you in new ways at all was because Ben Stone said offhandedly that … you know what? It doesn’t matter what he said. It doesn’t matter that I go back and forth. I could tell you about my childhood and my dad and what he thought about winners and losers, but who the hell wants to hear it?”

  I lean in without meaning to. I’ve never known any of this. “I want to.”

  “Nobody, that’s who,” he says, as if he didn’t hear me.

  “What’s going on, Cole?”

  “The last person I cooked for was almost twenty years ago,” he says, his voice suddenly quieter. Then: “You would’ve been a kid.”

  “Who was it?”

  He shakes his head, already killing the topic. “All that matters is that I’ve been here before. And I’m only seeing the pieces now.”

  “And?”

  He looks into the distance, seeming to stare through the opposite wall of the coffee shop.

  “You challenge me.” His tone sounds almost as if he’s talking to himself, testing an argument. “That must be why I picked you up the other night: because I like a challenge, and Ben was right about you.”

  “What the hell was Ben Stone saying about me?” I’m not sure I like the implication — being the topic of some long discussion, yet nobody’s telling me the whats, whys, or hows of it all.

  “It’s just about the challenge. About the sex. That’s why things have turned in this direction.”

  “What direction? What the hell are you talking about?”

  This has something to do with kind Cole. Something to do with him cooking. Something to do with an event almost twenty years ago … that Cole sure doesn’t seem to want to think about right now.

  “You were right to fire me.”

  “What? No. I … I overreacted.” I’m aware that I’m betraying myself. Diving under the bus for his benefit even though I know he was wrong and had been for months. But I can’t help it. After this afternoon, Cole has his hooks in me.

  “This is a mistake.” He stands and starts grabbing his stuff, picking up his garbage and tossing it into the trash.

  “Cole, talk to me! What’s a mistake?”

  But before I can rise to stop whatever the hell just happened, Cole is out the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ALYSSA

  ALL OF A SUDDEN, COLE isn’t returning my calls. It feels strange to pursue him after running away, but I guess I’m just like Cole in that way: I don’t like to back down from a challenge.

  I also don’t like that he walked out on me. Just who the hell does he think I am? In theory, the client is always right, but Cole and I stopped being “just clients” a few days ago. Now we’re …

  Well, shit. I don’t know what we are.

  But the impression that I’ve somehow destroyed the client relationship that I was so recently saying I didn’t need, didn’t want, and deserved better than hangs heavy over me as I toss my garbage and gather my things from below the small table. I’m not even sure how to feel about it as I walk back up to the office, as I spend the rest of my afternoon, as I lock the doors and leave for the day.

  I’ve tried texting and calling, but have heard nothing back.

  Maybe we’re through working together after all.

  The man really is bipolar or something. He wasn’t kidding. I’ve never known someone so hot and cold, so up and down. Maybe that’s all this is: the latest in a series of downstrokes in our up-and-down symphony. Maybe he’ll show up tomorrow and repeat today’s dirty little lunch break. Or maybe, since he at least knows my building, he’ll show up tonight.

  Yes, front desk? I need the apartment number for Ms. Galloway. I have a package for her. No, no, I’d rather not leave it at the desk. I’ll just deliver it directly to her back door.

  But somehow I doubt it. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but it’s definitely something. We were doing fine. Cole had lost his edge and was finally not so terrible to be around. His description of Anthony’s theories made me want to laugh at their 1) audaciousness or 2) naiveté, but otherwise our appointment was the easiest and most enjoyable I’ve had. Then I said the wrong thing, and he started dropping vaguely downbeat hints about his past.

  Then he left.

  During my drive out of the city, I decide that I should be glad. I’ve been wanting to shake Cole from my roster. I have more clients than I can handle, and he’s consistently been the worst. Whatever happened in the coffee shop today, it did me a favor.

  But then my mind turns to this afternoon. To the previous morning, both before and after my shower. To Tuesday night, when Cole took Jenna to the hospital and me to his house. Gave me his bed. It was all lies and deception.

  Or was it?

  Why has so much about the way I think of Cole changed … for the better?

  I’m better than this — not better than taking Cole’s abuse, which is how I normally feel, but better than being unceremoniously dumped as a publicist. I’m in demand. Nobody walks out on Alyssa Galloway.

  I summon my inner bitch — the side of Alyssa that gets results or walks home with someone’s severed testicles — and call a company called EverCrunch. They’re in data compression, but I also know there’s a ton of buzz about a company so relatively small. It takes some rooting, but eventually I get the CEO on the phone.

  “Mr. Stone? My name is Alyssa Galloway.”

  Stone’s voice pauses, then returns through my car’s speakers.

  “Hello, Ms. Galloway. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I’m sure he has. This boys’ network talks about me like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “And I’ve heard a lot about you. You were referred by my client, Cole Ellison.”

  Stone sounds unsurprised. That’s when I realize Cole must have talked to him. Or maybe I got Stone’s personal phone instead of a company line, and they’re out getting drinks.

  What does that mean? What should it tell me?

  “That’s very kind,” he says. “But I’m not looking for a publ
icist.”

  I take a deep breath. This will be tricky.

  “Actually, this is more personal. I was talking to Cole earlier today and he mentioned that the two of you discussed me. That maybe you were advising him on hiring my services, and how—”

  “Yes.” Stone is artificially curt. He may have anticipated this call.

  “From a feedback standpoint, I’m curious what you may have said to convince him to start working with me on—”

  “He was already working with you when we talked.”

  “Then what you may have said to—?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Galloway. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re referring to a private discussion.”

  There’s nothing here. He really must have talked to Cole, because Stone clearly knew this inquiry might be coming. I thank him for his time, then end the call, feeling stupid. Not only did I hit a brick wall; I revealed my intentions. What, top shelf publicists now go around begging for explanations from jilted clients?

  I have another option. I call Jenna and ask her if she’s free tonight. Surprisingly, she is. Both Ashton and her roommate Alexandra are out of town, and her classes are over for the day.

  College girls shouldn’t be able to get bored, but that’s how Jenna sounds. So I turn around and pick her up. Because I don’t want to get drunk again, I take Jenna to dinner. It seems impolite to cheap out, but what the hell — we’re pity friends now, right? Bonded by drink and an emergency room visit?

  Neither of us wants anything fancy, so Jenna pitches Chipotle. She never gets to bottom-feed now that she’s with Ashton. It’s foie gras or nothing, she jokes, and a girl can only eat so much goose liver.

  It takes me a while to steer the conversation. I don’t want to seem eager, as if I called her up to talk about Cole Fucking Ellison — which of course I did. But over the course of fifteen minutes of conversation, Jenna can clearly see through me. Enough that I’m uncomfortable.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Actually, he’s a giant asshole.”

  “So you do like him.”

  “I’m intrigued by him, maybe,” I say as compromise. I definitely don’t like Cole, but I don’t hate him like I used to. And besides, I am trying to track him down right now, so there’s that.

  But Jenna’s a relentless detective. Ten minutes later I’m admitting to everything. I didn’t give her explicit details of, compressing our romps into succinct summaries like “… and then we had sex.” But otherwise she weasels everything out, and I’m left feeling like a goddamn fool in a fast-casual burrito joint filled with college kids. I thought this part of my life was behind me.

  “Don’t feel like you’re crazy. I didn’t like Ashton at first, either.”

  “I don’t like him, Jenna.” Like is a simple word with a dozen meanings, but to me it still sounds like middle school. Back then, my friends and I said things like No, he doesn’t just like you — he like-likes you. Such vagaries and immature protestations went hand-in-hand with things like “going with” someone as an embryonic form of almost-dating.

  It sucks. I’m not twelve anymore.

  “Whatever,” Jenna says.

  I fight an urge to argue harder.

  Jenna thinks she has me pegged and is brushing away my protests. “Point is, I see what you’re getting at.”

  “I just don’t like losing a client without knowing why,” I say.

  Jenna gives me the most sarcastic, eyebrow-raised, who-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-fooling-bitch sort of look. Her gaze is so intense, it’s as if she smelled my bullshit and now she’s shoveling it back onto my head.

  “A client you had sex with. Twice.”

  “He started it.”

  “And who made you breakfast.”

  “Just … do you really have thoughts about it, or not?” I probably sound like I’m begging. Pathetic.

  Jenna reaches across the table and rubs my shoulder. I only feel a little condescended-to. “Yes. But it’s Cole’s shit, not yours.”

  “But I need to know.”

  She shakes her head. “He told Ashton one night when they’d been drinking. In confidence. It’s not my story to tell.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “Ashton told you.”

  “That’s different.”

  Of course it is. I know that.

  I shake her hand off my shoulder and fold my arms across my chest. “Then what am I supposed to do? Just fumble around in the dark, no idea what’s going on with him? No idea what his shit is?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Well, here’s a novel idea: you could ask him yourself.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ALYSSA

  I’M IN THE LONG DRESS coat I sometimes wear to the rich-people events I’m invited to, standing in Cole’s elevator. The last time I wore this coat, it was to a Ladies’ Society luncheon where the hostess’s maid served sandwiches the size of matchbooks, each on colorless bread that still wasn’t as white as the family’s bloodline. I wore these red heels to that luncheon, too. I remember because it matched my dress. I don’t own anything else quite as expensive.

  But that dress wasn’t right for the occasion.

  The elevator dings upward. Nobody’s in the box with me. I’m arriving at an odd time — almost nine, meaning it’s too late for after-dinner arrivals but not late enough for the party people to return from their fancy revels. Once I got in at lobby level, I was in the clear. Most people don’t get on an elevator partway up a building to ascend farther unless there’s a roof terrace. Of course there’s one in Cole’s building, but it’s private. He owns it all.

  I’ll be fine on this elevator ride. The cab over was the hard part. This time of day, it was easier to leave my car where it was rather than try to find parking. But I was uneasy when I got in, and then the entire ride over.

  I get out on Cole’s floor, and approach his door, feeling butterflies in my stomach and telling them sternly to Cut the shit already. The door is a fine, heavy wood; it’s the kind of door you’d expect in a mansion, but it’s here in this hallway. I raise the knocker — polished brass — and I knock.

  Cole answers, looking shocked to see me. I’m sure he’s wondering how I even got up here — and what the hell I’m doing, given the way things turned out?

  I’ve never done anything like this. I’m definitely, absolutely not sure it’s the right choice. There’s an excellent chance I’ll ruin my pride and my professional reputation in one fell swoop — and this for a man I thought I could and very much should do without.

  “Alyssa.” It’s all he says.

  If I don’t do it now, I’ll lose my nerve. And running away is the only ting more humiliating than what I came here to do.

  I open my long coat, shrug it from my shoulders, and stand before Cole with nothing on except my bright red heels. “You were right,” I say before he can speak. “I need this. I want it to continue.”

  He looks shell-shocked as he shuts the door behind me. His eyes take me in from bottom to top, pausing in all the right places. His gaze is like warm hands touching my body.

  “I can’t,” he says.

  “You can. You have. Twice.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” His words and the way he’s keeping his distance say no. But his eyes and stiffening cock say yes. “There are things you don’t know about me.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I tried to get them out of Jenna, but she told me to come to you.”

  His eyes narrow. “She told you what exactly?”

  “She told me it wasn’t her story to tell. She told me to come here. To ask you about Rachel.”

  He looks completely baffled now. “How did she—”

  “Ashton,” I say. “If you expect him to keep a secret from his woman, you’re crazy. Real men don’t keep secrets from their women.”

  He stiffens, bristles a little. Yes, it was a bit of a dig at him, and obviously he felt it. “If you think insulting me will get you what—”

  “Cole,”
I say. “I’m standing here in my heels and nothing else. I’m literally naked in front of you.”

  I expect that he’ll take in the sights again, but his eyes stay on mine.

  “Tell me,” I say, quietly but with conviction. “Tell me, because I’m not leaving until you do.”

  And he does.

  He tells me the tale of young Cole Ellison, who dreamed of becoming a chef — who had his entire career planned, and had even been accepted to culinary school. The story of a young man, engaged to be married, who chose a woman with grander ambitions than his — a woman who didn’t care to sit back and support his dreams. A woman who pushed against Cole’s career, demanding he “earn his keep” and do better for their forthcoming union. A woman whom Cole, through his competitive nature, pushed back against.

  Somewhere in the midst of his story, we move to sit on the plush sofa. I leave my coat where it fell. He’s stripping himself bare in front of me; the least I can do is return the favor.

  He tells me about the chaotic breakup, and the depression that followed.

  And finally, I think I know this man. I might understand him.

  I understand his ex. I wouldn’t want to subordinate my life to a man, either. But where she and I differ is in choosing our poison.

  I think Cole left me earlier because he thought I’d become like her — that he’d push me and I’d push back and we’d cross lines that ought not be crossed.

  But that’s not how it’s going to be. I am not Rachel.

  I move into Cole. I press against him. He seems reticent, his posture rigid. But his hands move to my skin, and his touch is like fire.

  Gooseflesh rises. I want him to kiss me. I want him to take me, here and now.

  “I don’t really like the idea of you—”

  “Shh …” My finger goes to his lips. My heart is running a million beats per minute. I’ve never played this role. He could send me packing; I’d feel like a fool and would never recover. But I kind of like that, despite my being the aggressor, I’m still a fragile glass finger in his palm. I’ve done what I can, but my moment of power is over. Now Cole controls me. He could break me with a word.