I turn the key in my fingers. “Where is it?”
“About six blocks away.”
“Not downtown?”
“You wouldn’t accept a place downtown. You wouldn’t take a place you can’t afford with your own money, and you wouldn’t let me subsidize your rent. It’s a step up from here; it’s clean, it’s safe, and you’ll pay the same as your neighbors.”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t quite say thank you because it’s not really for me. And yet it absolutely is. Hunter said so.
“Thanks, I guess,” I say anyway.
“So you’ll take it.”
I nod.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You shouldn’t thank me.”
“I was sure you’d refuse. I thought you’d see it as accepting a handout. But it’s not. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone?”
He smiles sadly. “I want to apologize for how you found me last. But that, I’m sure you won’t accept.”
I say nothing.
“I want you to be happy. Just that is enough. You’re an amazing person, Ang. You don’t deserve to be saddled with all the garbage from your past.” He looks toward the house again, and his eyes narrow. “Or garbage from mine.”
I look up at Hunter. My eyes meet his, and that’s when I see it: he didn’t do what I assumed he’d done in that apartment when I saw him last. I’m as sure of it as I’m sure he’s standing before me. He’s in serious pain. He medicates to hide it. But he’s still a decent man, through and through.
And no matter his mental state, I know now that Hunter would do nothing to hurt me.
“You didn’t touch her, did you?” I say.
He knows what I mean. He doesn’t quite agree, though; he just sort of shrugs like a shy little boy afraid of judgment.
I want to touch his hand but I don’t dare. I felt strong a moment ago; now I’m fragile like glass.
I was so sure, yet again, that this man had betrayed me.
He’s an inconsiderate monster.
He thinks only of himself.
I’m thinking this while I run my fingers along the key to my new apartment, imagining the freedom he’s given me.
With nothing more to say, Hunter gives a little frown/smile, nods, and starts to walk away.
“Hunter,” I call.
He turns again.
“You’re not that guy,” I tell him.
I walk toward him. Maybe I’m being foolish. Maybe I’m being naive. Maybe I’m thinking like a stupid little girl looking to be taken advantage of, but I find the strength to take his hand anyway.
“You’ve changed a little,” I go on, “but not into what you’re afraid you’ve become.”
“Thanks,” he says, touched.
“I just thought you should know that.”
He nods. “It’s because of you.”
I blink. I meet his eyes.
His hand in mine, he says, “I don’t know if you’re right and I haven’t become that person. But I was before I met you again. Your selflessness ruins me.” He smiles a little. “It’s hard to be jaded and angry when you’re around.”
I say nothing, because in the way I counterbalance his ego, he counters my self-sacrifice.
“I found that out the hard way,” he says.
“How?”
“After you left, I broke up with Samantha. Formally, this time, and with no going back.”
“You did?”
He nods. “Because I realized I was only with her for one reason.”
“What’s that?
“I don’t like the way I see myself. Sam was bad for me, no doubt, but at least she admired me and what I represented. At least she wanted me. At least she saw me as powerful and strong. And when she was gone, I only had my own eyes. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror — who I too easily become, left to my own devices.”
Hunter squeezes my hands. I know he’s thinking of our short time together, and the difference in the way he must have seen himself then, through my eyes.
“I’m better when I’m with you.” A small, barely-there smile, mostly bittersweet. “I love you, Angela.”
He turns to go, but he can’t turn fully because he’s stuck, his hand clasped by a naive little girl whose heart is foolishly breaking.
“I’m better when I’m with you,” I echo. “And I guess in a way, I’ve always loved you, too.”
He won’t lean in to kiss me. I’ve scared him too badly.
So I take the lead and kiss him first.
ONE YEAR LATER
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUNTER
I’m Hunter Fucking Altman. I can buy and sell people. I’m the meanest, most selfish, most cutthroat son of a bitch in the world. I desire my own destruction. I’m worthless. I’m shameless. I’m abhorrent and wrong and greedy.
I’m thinking this as I watch my beautiful wife sip wine on the patio, near sunset, as our new children’s hospital takes shape in the distance.
I approach from the rear. My hand drags through her long, dark-brown hair, mussing it. She looks up at me with a fake scowl, her exotic eyebrows bunching above her soft eyes. Then she takes my hand and pats it, pulls me close, and gives me a kiss.
“Surveying the empire, I see.”
She nods. She used to bristle at jokes like that, but she’s finally come to realize that’s all they are. Jokes don’t change what we’ve done with her foundation, or our responsible business practices. The irony is that, really, little has changed in the way I allocate funds. Angela’s foundation now gets the lion’s share of my donations, but that money always had to go somewhere. Dreadnought Records always did business responsibly. I learned those lessons, interestingly, from Duncan. He’s an asshole and my best friend, but his family climbed to the top because they understood that good business is always long-term. And I knew from my father that treating people like shit felt awful. Hardly a genius revelation, but it definitely made an impression.
We’ve always believed in win-win. Angela helped me to see the good in what I’d already done. She helped me to be able to look in the mirror and know I was still worth something, regardless of my past.
“Coming along nicely,” she says.
I sit in the chair beside hers. Then I say what I came out here to say. “I heard from Dad.”
“Just him?”
I nod. Breaking from her mother has been hard for Angela, but it’s for the best. Maria and Bill are still married, but Bill got over himself enough to attend our wedding. Maria refused. Ours was a Hell-bound union, she apparently said, for more reasons than one. Angela kept the rent secret for as long as we could manage, and the one about our relationship for just as long. But the press eventually broke the story and ratted us out.
Interestingly, no one seems to care that we’re technically steps. It’s been mentioned, but in a quirky, almost whimsical way — as if we’re crazy folks doing fun-loving, eccentric, billionaire couple things. Turns out that being family on paper only mattered to Maria.
“Does he want money?”
I shake my head. “Interestingly, no. I can’t decide if he’s playing a really, really long con or if he’s really starting to get it.”
“My mom doesn’t get it.”
I reach out and squeeze her hand. “Your mom thinks the Jews are plotting the world’s downfall. Our patronage of them is just one of many things she doesn’t get.”
“Patronage. Is that what it is?”
I take a sip of Angela’s drink. She pretends to slap my hand away.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or charity. Dad is the perfect amount of proud. He’ll let me keep paying their rent and expenses, without being greedy enough to ruin it by wanting … I don’t know … a Bentley or something.”
“I can see your dad in a Bentley,” Angela says, nodding.
“He’d just keep swearing at it. Telling the Bentley it’s worthless and it’ll amount to nothing.”
She laughs a little, smiling proudly. I
would never have believed there’d be a day when I’d be able to joke about the way my dad used to talk to me, but Angela’s given me the strength to laugh about much of what I see in the rearview.
“So,” she says, “what’s next for this absurd family of ours?”
I look at Angela’s growing belly, where the next generation slumbers, then out across the city itself. My domain. My empire. Our empire.
“Today, Los Angeles …” I begin.
“Tomorrow, the world,” Angela finishes.
I slouch down, and together we watch the sun slowly set, holding hands, dreaming of all our tomorrows together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE CONNECTOR
I watch Hunter Altman kiss the dark-haired woman he’s been walking with, open the door for her, then cross the street alone. I let him gain a few paces before I turn and resume walking ahead of him. I know where he’s going. Following people is for chumps. A much better means of pursuit is to know them well enough to arrive first. Do that, and what happens will feel like your idea rather than theirs. They’ll always subconsciously understand the need to catch up, to even the score. And for a negotiator like me, those little advantages are everything. All games begin and end in the mind.
It’s the only real estate that truly matters.
Just before I turn, Hunter slips on a pair of sunglasses. Even from a distance I can tell they’re expensive, but not outrageously so. His clothing is even more covert than his eyewear. He’s wearing jeans and a fitted tee, nothing fancy like the suits he used to wear each moment of every day. But he looks good. Understatedly good — the kind of good-looking that seems casual but isn’t. Because of that, I can tell Hunter’s appearance matters to him. He might not be quite the materialistic man he was, but it’s obvious that he’s still acquisitive enough for what I have in mind.
What we have in mind.
I walk a block toward our mutual destination, then look back as I round a corner. Hunter is still half a block behind. He strikes me as an unassuming sort of man — different from the troublemaker Caspian, Trevor, and Daniel led me to believe he was … and always has been.
And that makes me wonder. A reformed cad, by my definition, isn’t necessarily an improvement.
Are you sure he’s still one of us? I asked Caspian. Are you sure he’s the best next candidate for our seed group?
Caspian nodded, in his silent, cold-blooded way.
He keeps a low profile these days, I said. I had one of Caspian’s old Rolling Stone issues in my hand — the one with Altman on the cover. It was dated over a year ago. Dreadnought Records is still … well … a dreadnought, but Altman no longer hogs the spotlight. So I tapped the magazine and said to Caspian, We need people with high profiles. Flashy, showy types, who attract the media attention we need to make this Syndicate work. Big net worths, obviously. And even bigger egos.
Then I said to Caspian what I’d said several times before: We should recruit Ashton Moran next. He’s the biggest asshole in the pond. He’d be perfect.
But Caspian shook his head. Moran thinks he’s better than you. He’ll fight. He’ll demand more than his fair share because, as of right now, you still need him more than he needs you — or any of us.
But Altman seems like such a nice guy now, I say. Now that he’s with … what’s her name?
Hunter is still a son of a bitch when it counts. Then Caspian spread his arms, indicating himself, and smiled. Look at me, Nathan. Has domesticity made me any less of an asshole?
Well, there was no arguing with that one.
So I agreed. Caspian knows Altman, so he’s willing to vouch. Altman is 31, which makes him young enough. I’m not into dudes, but I guess he’s attractive, and the girls all seem to agree. Caspian swears Altman is just arrogant enough (even after finding this “love of his life” or whatever) to make the PR splash our Syndicate needs to attract the big fish.
And most importantly, we peg Altman’s net worth at $2.1 billion — more than twice what’s required to join our club.
I arrive at the Hill of Beans where, each day since I’ve started watching Altman, he’s stopped after leaving his woman at yoga. Every day he gets a double espresso, three sugars, and sits in the booth by the window, which he’s paid to have permanently reserved.
But today, after Altman gets his coffee, he comes to his private booth and looks down, confused. He seems to be wondering if he should say something or let it go. There’s a sign on the table marking it as off-limits, but I’ve plopped myself down anyway. Maybe it’s best not to be asshole enough to argue, he seems to be thinking.
If he says nothing to me and lets me steal his spot, I won’t even bother talking to him. This Syndicate is for doers. For those who take more than they give. For people with larger-than-life personalities. It’s not for those who are willing to get walked on … no matter how much pussy they’ve dragged out of their ramshackle pasts to pacify them.
But Altman doesn’t disappoint me. He doesn’t say excuse me or pretend like I might believe there’s been some mistake. Instead he stares me down and says, “You’re in my spot.”
“Sit down, Hunter,” I say with a smile.
He’s surprised to hear his name, but then he looks me over and must assemble some idea of who I am. I’m wearing a suit as fine as any of those he once paraded around in. My sunglasses cost more than some cars. My shoes can’t be purchased without a special account. And if Hunter was paying attention, he just saw the black AmEx in my wallet when I closed it on his approach.
I’m a player.
I’m everything he used to be, and a sneak peek at his future to come … if he wants it.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“My name is Nathan Turner, and I’m a connector.”
He sits. I’m sure he has no idea what he’s getting into, but true to his bold nature, Hunter sees me as a challenge rather than a threat. “Okay, connector. Why the hell are you in my booth?”
“I have an opportunity for you.”
“Really.” He says it almost deadpan. He must get pitched ideas all the time. But never like this. Never ideas this big, with the leverage to literally change the world.
“Yes.” I’ve got a quarter on the table, so I flick to spin it. I wait a long, uncomfortable moment until the quarter wobbles. Then I spin it again. Hunter waits. When I look up, he’s staring right at me.
“Hunter,” I say, “do you know Anthony Ross?”
“I know the name. I don’t know him personally. Do you work for him or something?”
I shake my head. I work for me.
“And do you know his stated mission? What he claims as his life’s purpose?”
Hunter shrugs as if he doesn’t care, which I’m sure he doesn’t. But he will. We all will.
I pick up the quarter. I make it dance across my knuckles. And I fix him with my own hard stare.
“I’d like to make you a proposal,” I say.
“Okay.”
“There’s a group I’d like you to join. Your friends Caspian White, Daniel Rice, and Trevor Stone are already on board.”
“Then why aren’t they coming to me instead of you?”
“Because this is my thing. Not theirs.”
Hunter waits.
I go on. “So are you interested?”
He laughs derisively. “Maybe you should at least tell me what this group of yours is about before trying to sucker me into it.”
“You only find out what it is,” I tell him, “if you say yes.”
Now he starts to stand. I stop him with a glance.
“But I’ll tell you the name if you’d like.”
He’s bobbing his head, patronizing me, already mentally out the door.
“I call it the Trillionaire Boys’ Club,” I say.
And now, I finally have his attention.
WHAT IS THE TRILLIONAIRE BOYS’ CLUB?
Join the Syndicate and find out.
>> GET YOUR COPY OF BOOK ONE: THE CONNECTOR HE
RE <<
SHIT YOU SHOULD KNOW
I wrote this book a while ago. Not terribly long, but long enough. It was even published, briefly, under a different name. I pulled it down for retooling, while I was trying to figure out exactly who the hell Aubrey Parker was as an author and what he stood for.
You do these things when you’re new. I have a few pen names, and each time I’ve started one I’ve gone through this. It’s a strange time. You know who you are — and by that I mean “the real you,” who lives with your friends and family in real life, where maybe nobody even knows you’re a writer. But you don’t know your stories yet. You don’t know your worlds yet. And you sure don’t know your readers yet.
During the time between writing Almost Wrong and publishing it for real, I read it twice. Both times, I absolutely loved it. (This is typical, by the way. Some writers hate their own work, but not me. I’m one of my own fans. Conceited, I know.) The difference was that the first time I read it, I was on my own. The second time, I’d met and gotten to know you, my wonderful readers. And so I couldn’t help but imagine this story unfolding before your eyes — trying to see it as you’d see it.
It was a crazy feeling. It was like opening an ancient box of photos with your spouse, sharing times from before the two of you were together. It makes me a little nervous, showing you my earlier work. But knowing you as I’ve gotten to over the past year, I re-read Almost Wrong with a sense of delight, too, because I was sure you’d love reading it as much as I loved writing it.
Anyway, because this book existed before I wrote The Boss’s Daughter (the first book I released as Aubrey), I knew that whenever Almost Wrong finally saw the light of day again, it had to fit into my catalogue. Fortunately, that meant I had many chances to seed this book’s characters into the Inferno Falls narrative before showing it to you.
The first time you met Hunter Altman was in the Trevor’s Harem series (my four “Burning” books.) As with the rest of my catalogue, none of the titles are true prerequisites for one another. Other than the four Trevor’s Harem novellas (so far), each book is a standalone. Still, there’s a definite progression if you’re a reader who likes to go through books in even a loose sort of order, so I had to work up to Almost Wrong. To fit it in. To work for it, really.
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