“Spooner has his microchips, but that focus on hardware gives him blind spots,” Barnes says. “And several other members of our board? They have their own blind spots as well.”
“Do you mean the Eros board? Daniel’s company?”
Barnes says nothing, but I imagine him nodding. “I’m the farthest-seeing out of all of us,” he says. “Spooner is a visionary, but he’s not on the board. Those who are, with the possible exception of Alexa, aren’t visionaries. Their lack of long-term vision makes them miss things, the way Anthony is missing the truth of what Forage’s algorithm can contribute to … a certain project.”
His words are drowning in oil. I don’t trust Barnes, but he’s talking about things he shouldn’t know. Anyone wealthy and powerful enough to be in Nathan Turner’s Syndicate — yet alone in the smaller Trillionaire Boys’ Club — should have a name I recognize, so I doubt he’s a Syndicate recruit. He’s connected in some other way. And I’d bet he knows more about Ross’s plans for the Syndicate’s world-changing money than I do.
I don’t want to tell him more than he needs to know. Because I don’t trust him.
But he’s right: it’s the addition of our search engine algorithm to Anthony’s plans that will make it work — that, plus our network infrastructure.
How the hell does this man know that?
“Maybe you should tell me what this is all about.”
“The project is bigger than you know,” Barnes says. “We’ve been working on it at Eros for years. Do you know about the Trevor’s Harem experiment?”
“A little. I heard about it through Caspian, who you should know doesn’t always keep his mouth shut. I know you selected a pool of women, took them to the Colorado mountains, and put them through some sort of contest to win your frontman Trevor a bride.”
“That was the outward appearance. In reality, it was a psychological experiment. The experiment itself was a failure, due largely to the algorithm we used to select the candidates. But as any good researcher knows, we learn as much from failure as we do from success. In this case, it was the need for a better algorithm. Enter Forage.”
“If you want Forage involved why have I had to work so hard for everyone’s attention?”
“Because of their blind spots,” Barnes says. “They don’t know where we’ll all be in fifty years. Or a hundred.”
“We’ll be dead.”
And Barnes, sounding almost cocky, says, “We’ll see.”
“So … what? What’s next, if you have all the answers?”
“Anthony Ross is a true visionary, like some of us. But as with anyone, he has blind spots. There are parts of this … project … that he seems determined to handle himself despite the fact that it started without him, at Eros, and that he’s working in directions we don’t precisely understand or care to.”
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“Ross has one of our devices. A small black tablet. It looks like an e-reader, because that’s precisely what it is … at least on the surface. But he’s not sharing what he’s doing with it. How he’s modifying it for his own plans, which seem to be diverging from ours.”
“And?”
“Based on what Evan has told me, you’ve hit a wall with Ross. You can’t get him to hear your brilliant plan. I, on the other hand, agree that you and Onyx and Forage should be part of this. We need to bridge the gap. For you to get the device, or at least get the two parties on the same page.”
“And what makes you think I can do that, even if I want to?”
“You’re on the board of his foundation?”
I almost laugh. The irony is thick. I got myself on the board because Ross wouldn’t listen to me without a direct connection, and now this Barnes, whoever he is needs me to get Ross to hear him? I’m the one on the outside trying to get in. How the hell am I the key to this puzzle?
“I’m not on the board. I resigned before I was officially appointed.”
I think he’ll protest — urge me to get back up on the horse. Instead, he fires a backup answer. Something he had in his pocket, a second way to get me in with Ross.
“You also have a connection to his protégée. An in with Jamie Kyle.”
“I don’t have an in with her at all,” I say, though that’s not what I’m thinking.
The past twelve hours have been demanding. I barely slept. I’ve been with scores of women, maybe hundreds. But Jamie’s the first to ever haunt me. She’s become a splinter, and I don’t know how to extract her.
“That’s too bad. Because if you did—” Barnes pauses dramatically “—we on the Eros board would support you for our mutual benefit. If you somehow did have a connection to Miss Kyle—” A smaller pause, then: “—your problem, in this matter, would be solved.”
I feel like someone is watching from a camera inside me. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
I hear a smile on Barnes’s voice as he delivers his five final words: “Call me when you do.”
And the line goes dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JAMIE
SOMETHING HAPPENS AFTER ANTHONY RETIRES to his thinking room, tinkering on his many in progress projects.
I go upstairs, sit on one of the upper decks, and look out toward the ocean, thinking of the segment of video footage I deleted this morning.
There’s a book in my lap, my hand laid across its open pages. But I’m not reading, and haven’t been. I sat on the soft outdoor couch, opened the book, and stared at nothing, allowing my mind to wander where it shouldn’t.
I think of what Aiden said to me — horrible things, and yet all of it was right. I don’t listen to commands, but wanted to hear his. I hate being told what to do, but I followed Aiden’s orders without complaint. I’m not easy or loose, and yet he opened me like a nut, knowing just what to say.
And when we were finally together, he knew exactly where to touch me, what to say. He put himself inside me, used me, played me like an expert musician working an instrument.
I keep thinking about it, even though I don’t want to. I see the act, and the preamble. Sometimes it strikes me as shameful, but often it’s hot.
Sometimes, hearing Aiden in my head, I resent and despise him. But listening makes me culpable. I may not want to admit it, but I was definitely eager to follow his orders.
I scroll through the visions, sensations, and feelings. I close my eyes in the gentle breeze, and remember. I’ve never felt so swept away — so transported to another time, dimension, and place.
But more than anything, my mind finds that kiss, lingers on the quiet way we dressed. Aiden was different after. My brain wants to insist that a guy like that should be victorious, gloating, cocky. But Aiden was none of those things.
He was different.
Like I was.
Why did he kiss me?
It felt passionate, almost aggressive. But it was more than that, too.
My phone buzzes: Caitlin.
what r u up to?
I text back: Nothing much.
encintas. the bakery. 20 mins. u know it bitch
I reply with a thumbs-up. I know exactly where she means, and half an hour later I arrive to find that I’ve beat her to our usual table. It’s funny, how quickly we’ve formed a routine. In only days, we’ve found a regular table at our usual place.
I’m sipping a Bombay latte when Caitlin arrives behind me.
“Where’s mine?” she asks.
“You were late.”
“You could still get me a latte.”
“I left it inside. It’s in one of the trash cans. See if you can find it.”
Caitlin goes inside, waits through the line, and gives me a few extra minutes to think in the California breeze.
Of course Aiden is still the first thought to colonize my mind.
Caitlin returns, and sits down opposite me. “So,” she says.
I look at her. Her expression holds no obvious signs of anything.
I’d better g
o for the throat of the issue. She deserves to know who she’s dating, and I can’t pretend that everything is okay between us.
“How’s Rudy?” I ask. It’s a strange opening question, but this Band-Aid needs to be ripped off.
“Better.”
Curious. She seems to be answering a question I didn’t exactly ask.
“Better?”
“His arm is broken, but they were able to set it okay. And his face looks worse than it is.”
“Oh.” I’m suddenly nervous. Not only is Rudy messed up; he apparently spun Caitlin a line that she’s assuming I understand.
“Thanks for taking him to the hospital. His insurance sucks, and I don’t think it would have covered an ambulance ride.”
“Um, no problem.”
“He said the guy just ran off? Did you see who hit him?”
“Hit him?”
“With the car?”
Hell. So this is the lie I’m being asked to weigh in on? Rudy could have given Caitlin a more believable lie. He seems to have told her he was the victim of a hit and run, but how does a car hit someone and mess up his face and one arm without causing any other bodily harm?
I hope he didn’t feed his doctors the same line of bullshit.
“No,” I say.
“You saw it happen, though.”
“Not really.” But: shit.
She shakes her head. “And in the L’Auberge parking lot! That’s supposed to be a classy place. He said he’d had a few drinks. Do you think he wandered in front of someone? Maybe they didn’t even see him.”
I sigh. I don’t want to hurt Caitlin’s feelings.
But fuck that. For all I know, I narrowly avoided a rape.
“Rudy didn’t get hit by a car last night.”
“What do you mean? He told me he got hit by a car.”
Of course he did. Because if he told you the truth, he’d be confessing to his misdeeds.
Don’t tell Caitlin. Please.
“He … someone did that to him.” I stop, unwilling to dip more than a toe.
Caitlin narrows her eyes, not yet understanding. I think: Damn. This is more uncomfortable than I imagined. But I don’t know why. We’ve both talked shit about Rudy, and Caitlin clearly considers him a boyfriend of convenience. I need to tell her exactly what happened for her own good.
“Someone beat him up,” I clarify.
I won’t tell her who — not yet. Rudy is petty and vindictive, and if this turns on him, I can easily see him trying to sue Aiden for some excess millions. Right now, it would be his word against Aiden’s. I want to be careful, for now, about admitting I was a witness.
“Someone beat him up?”
I nod.
“Why wouldn’t he tell me that?” She shakes her head. “Was he drunk or something?”
“He had a few drinks, but he wasn’t drunk. Buzzed at most. He knew what he was doing.”
“Well, then … what happened?”
This time, my sigh rattles longer, delaying the inevitable for a few extra seconds. Then I tell Caitlin the story, omitting Aiden, for now obeying my instincts and hiding my savior’s identity. I tell her that “someone” pulled Rudy away and that I jumped in my car and sped off without looking back. It’s nearly true. I feel strange and guilty withholding the truth, but I’ve told her what matters. I’ll deliver the rest later.
But right now, Caitlin’s expression makes me pause.
“He just … started hitting on you.”
“Yes. Cait, I’m so sorry.”
“With no provocation.”
“No prov— Wait, what do you mean?”
“Were you drunk?” Her eyes are harder than I’m used to. Almost severe.
“What? No!”
“So you weren’t flirting with him.”
“Of course not!”
“Because, you know, I’ve noticed you doing it before.”
Her face is so intense, I’m not sure what to make of it. This must be one of those jokes I don’t get.
“Are you being serious?” I ask.
She answers by standing so fast our cups rattle in their saucers. “Yes, I’m being goddamn serious! What did you think I meant, Jamie?”
Still sitting, looking around at the many turning heads, I say, “I’ve never flirted with Rudy. I wouldn’t.” I don’t add that he sort of repulses me. Let her believe it’s because he’s off-limits.
“I’ve seen it, Jamie. You flirt with him all the time!”
“Cait, I never—”
“It’s obvious he likes you, okay? Same as Sam Jacoby liked you in fifth grade, same as Taylor Watt that summer I came back for camp!”
I blink, gobsmacked. I’ve always been plain and uninteresting — practically a repellant to boys.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You came on to him! Admit it!”
“Cait!”
“You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you? Always making fun of him, like I couldn’t do any better. All Rudy jokes, all the time, and—”
“You did it, too! You started those jokes!”
“—and then you swoop into town, and he’s all into you, and sneaking peeks behind my back, and suddenly he’s asking about you, about how we used to be when we were girls, and shit … you know how subtle he is. It’s clear as day what he’s after.”
I stand, because she’s starting to back away. People are staring.
I raise my hands, trying to calm her. “I didn’t do anything. I swear it.”
“So he attacked you. Just like that. With no encouragement.”
She’s starting to cry a little, and I don’t know what to do. Is she sad or angry? Crushed or hating me? I want to comfort her, but I think she might slap me.
“I help you out, give you a date because you need someone there with you, and this is how you thank me? By moving in and stealing my boyfriend?”
“It wasn’t like that! He—”
“He just couldn’t keep his hands off you. Just couldn’t resist, right? Who can blame him? That’s how it’s always been with us, right? We meet a guy, and which one of us does he want?”
“That’s not true!”
“You’re such a little bitch, Jamie. And a tease. I remember what you told me — how guys had to work for it, how you were saving yourself for so long. You wanted to torment them, like teasing a hungry dog with food. Except you did it with that sweet, angelic little pussy, right?”
I finally put my hands on Cait, push her away from our audience.
She immediately reacts, swatting at me, crying, fighting to get away. Where the hell is this coming from? Cait has always struck me as so confident. Never so vulnerable.
“Listen to me!” I want to shake her. “He didn’t just hit on me! He … forced himself!”
“Because he couldn’t resist, I guess. Waved it in his face, I’ll bet.”
“This is serious! The guy who … dragged him off me? He might have saved me from … from …”
“From a good time?”
“He’s dangerous, Cait! Do you hear me? Get your goddamn pride out of the way for a second and hear me! Wake up and accept the fact that he’s—”
Caitlin slaps me. The sound is more shocking than the sting.
There are gasps behind us, but I don’t turn to see our witnesses. My eyes are on my friend, who’s staring me down. Her makeup is running. She looks regretful, but ready to do it again.
“Cait—” I say.
She turns and runs, like a little girl fleeing the devil.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JAMIE
MY FEET HIT THE PAVEMENT and I begin to forget.
I lace up my running shoes in Anthony’s mud room — approximately five thousand times more spacious and less muddy than the entirety of my place in the Falls. I still have a week in Del Mar, but it’s too late; I’m ruined and already used to the space and relative quiet of Anthony’s mansion. I like that there’s a gate, and half a mile of dedicated road before I’
m likely to see another human, let alone a car. It gives me time to unspool my troubled mind, and let it all go.
The road winds downward, and I pass other impressive homes on the way — though none, of course, hold a candle to Anthony’s. I wonder whether I should feel privileged, or like an imposter, then decide it doesn’t matter. I tell myself that it doesn’t make a difference what anyone thinks of me.
I almost believe it.
But I don’t, and as I move from smaller to larger roads with squeaky-clean sidewalks and quaint little shops, I see my thoughts for the bullshit they are.
Do I really think I can dismiss Caitlin as a lost cause? We’ve been friends forever. I’m right and she’s wrong, but her obstinance — not to mention her slap — don’t change things between us. I don’t have to take the high road, but I do have to take a road.
Caitlin is one of my best friends and, although that relationship could implode, we both know it can’t just disappear.
But I’m seeing red as my feet strike concrete and people blur by me. Her boyfriend assaulted me without provocation, but rather than getting an apology, I got a verbal beating and a different kind of assault. I’m twice insulted. Nobody’s on my side — not even Anthony, though to be fair, that’s because I didn’t tell him what happened. I don’t want to worry my mom or bother Mia, so my only choice is to keep this inside.
Although …
Honestly …
… there was one person who had my back.
Aiden Page.
I force myself to move faster as my thoughts shift in undesirable directions. Right now, I’m as angry at myself as I am at Rudy and Caitlin — mad at my lazy mind for going to unwanted places, and thinking inappropriate things. I came to have a vacation, and all I’ve done is manage to get myself into trouble.
All I can think of, it seems, is what a giant mess I’ve made.
One friendship, ruined.
One relationship, maybe broken up.
One self-image, shattered.
The moment I succumbed to whatever voodoo magic Aiden cast over me, I lost track of who I was and what I stood for.
“You’re fast,” says someone beside me, moving up to pass.
The Philanthropist (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 5) Page 8