Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Connector

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Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Connector Page 4

by Aubrey Parker


  And through it all, this still felt sensible.

  I got my first flash of trepidation when I entered the lobby and noticed the receptionist. I started to wonder if I was being stupid. What was I going to do — march into this man’s office, tell him I’d heard everything, and insist that he find a way to wedge in my suggestions?

  It was moronic. I’d overheard fifteen minutes of ranting — it was absurd to think I had a bead on Nathan’s problem with this Ashton Moran and his whatchamacallit Syndicate. I’m nineteen years old, less than a year out of high school.

  Who am I kidding?

  So I backed out, and made an excuse to the receptionist.

  But while I was recovering in an alcove, I saw her leave by the elevator — and then, darting back into the lobby, I saw that the receptionist was all that stood between visitors and Mr. Turner’s inner office door.

  If I didn’t knock, I’d regret it forever, no matter how stupid it might make me feel.

  So I did.

  And now here I am, scared shitless while these titans of industry stare this little girl down.

  The assistant circles behind me. Orderly. Slowly. He closes the door with barely a click, but I hear rather than see it. Nathan is still in front of me, waiting for answers.

  The way this is going, they probably should have kicked me out.

  They defaulted to the opposite instead, and may have locked me in.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NATHAN

  I’M WATCHING ALEX WYNN, TORN.

  I’m not usually speechless, but I am right now. Part of me is lost in those ill-defined fantasies from two hours ago, when I’d watched the breathtaking girl in the front row, with inappropriate images flooding my mind. The larger part of me is just trying to make sense of this. I’d be surprised if anyone just walked into my inner office, even someone with business here. But who the hell is she, and what the hell makes her think this is in any way appropriate?

  Ashton Moran and his cunt of a PR agent have raised my hackles. I feel one-upped. And nobody gets one up on me.

  Not anymore.

  So Alex just popping in, now of all times, strikes me as an insult at the worst possible moment. Right here and now, I’m probably the least willing to tolerate disrespect. Now, of all times, I feel a need to push back, to fight someone and claw my way to every imaginable peak.

  Geoffrey must sense my ire; he catches my eye as he returns from closing the door, and gives a barely perceptible shake of his head. His look and gesture agree: Don’t say what you’re thinking. She’s just a stupid kid.

  “What brings you here, Alex Wynn?” Geoffrey asks.

  “Ashton Moran,” she blurts.

  I open my mouth, shocked. Geoffrey puts a hand out as if to hold me back.

  “What about him?” Geoffrey says.

  I see a crack in Alex’s careful, wanna-be-professional facade. She seems to have only had one good shot in her; now its fired, and her nerves are showing. Seeing that crack, I become aware of her bearing, her wardrobe. She wears her girly little suit well, but it’s the sort of thing a teenager would buy off the rack at JC Penny because she sees job interviews in her future.

  I never went through that myself, having always hustled for everything, but I can see it clearly in her dark brown eyes. If the girl ever gets a second appointment with anyone, she’ll be in trouble. She’s unfamiliar with formal wear — and though she’s done well with a limited budget, she’s clearly uncomfortable. The thing’s never been tailored. It’s for sure all she has in her closet. If we send her away now and she decides to come back, she’ll have to go shopping.

  She’s trying to steel herself, but I can only imagine how Geoffrey and I both look as we await her answer. She’s in dangerous waters, and knows it. Saying Ashton Moran to us right now was about as wise as saying Fuck your mother.

  “I heard you talking about him.”

  Geoffrey looks at me, then back at the girl. “When?”

  “In Professor Gentry’s office.”

  “Were you spying on us?”

  “You were pretty loud.”

  “Okay. So why are you here? What about Moran?”

  “I think I can help you.”

  I can’t help it. It’s so absurd I laugh.

  “I know the athletic director at the college,” she continues, clearly scared, talking fast so she doesn’t run out of momentum and find herself mute. “He’s in an organization of collegiate athletic directors, including those from schools in the Big Ten and the other conferences. He’s a likable guy. The kind with a lot of friends.”

  “Good for him.”

  Now that I’ve spoken, she’s ignoring Geoffrey, fixing me with an almost desperate look. If this were a cartoon, I’d see her heart hammering out of her chest.

  “I did some research. Hurricane Apparel has a lot of high-profile celebrity clients with the pros, but they haven’t managed to penetrate much of collegiate athletics, which is mostly dominated by Under Armour. I made a call to Mason — the guy I mentioned. Kept it casual, but I’m good at asking the right questions. Like I figured, Hurricane has already made a few pitches. Of course they would. Because who’s the perfect, highly visible market for athletic clothing that’s connected to apps? Not adults. College kids.”

  I stifle my immediate response, which is to tell the girl she has no idea what the hell she’s talking about. Because what she’s saying is right: the college market would be huge for Ashton’s company — and if she’s telling the truth, he hasn’t cracked it yet. The rest of what she’s implying is fuzzy at best, but at least she’s grabbed my attention. And whether or not she’s just some uppity bitch who thinks she can play with the big boys, I have to respect her guts. Coming here with this is stupid and ballsy. The kind of thing I’d have done, back in the day.

  “Look.” Alex goes on, seeming not to know what to do with her body or hands, seeing as we haven’t offered her a seat. “Right now, it sounds like Moran has you over a barrel. But what if you could turn around and offer him something he wants anyway: access to a market he’s after but doesn’t have, instead of a greater share of your Syndicate?”

  Geoffrey makes a noise that’s a little like a sigh, and finally points her to a chair. But my response is the opposite of resignation. The word Syndicate makes me furious. Ashton Moran fucks with my business, and now this girl is sticking her nose right inside it.

  “Have a seat, Miss Wynn,” Geoffrey says. He glares at me as he slides into a chair next to Alex. “And have a seat, Mr. Turner.”

  I consider shouting at him, but I pay him to be a control rod. I want to scream at the girl, shout her down, kick her posturing ass out. But it’s not the right reaction, and I know it.

  So I sit, crossing my legs, picking the crease in my slacks until it lies perfectly.

  “Maybe you should tell us what you think you heard,” Geoffrey says.

  Alex looks at me, then Geoffrey again. “You’re trying to amass over one trillion dollars in assets.”

  I say, “Why would we try to do something so stupid? Nobody has that much money. Ben Stone of EverCrunch is worth two billion. Evan Cohen, founder of LiveLyfe, is one of the richest people in the world — but even his worth, which dwarfs Stone’s, is ‘only’ fifty-two billion. A trillion is two hundred times that much, and few people are as wealthy as Cohen.”

  “That’s why you’re getting a bunch of billionaires together,” Alex says. “That’s the reason for your Syndicate. You pool your resources.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “According to what you blurted out at least twice, to change the world.’” She tips her head, and I see boldness peek through her fear. “Or to buy it.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re naive.”

  Alex shakes her head. “I’m the connection you need.”

  “You’re a kid.”

  “I know people. I’m good at this, like you.”

  I direct half of my laughter toward Geoffrey, so he can share in my appr
eciation of how far up her own ass this girl is.

  But Geoffrey isn’t laughing. He’s watching her seriously, seeming to see something I don’t.

  He asks, “What makes you think you could help? No disrespect intended but … who the hell are you?”

  “I have a friend. He’s a great negotiator.”

  “I’m a great negotiator,” I say.

  “Yes, but Moran knows you want him in your group. I heard you say you walked away from Joseph Wilcox. I looked him up, too. Synapse Micro? He’s worth more than Moran. So I have to figure you want Moran for other reasons, if he won’t get you as far toward your target of one trillion.”

  I don’t want to corroborate her assumption, but she’s right. Moran is young and cocky in just the right way. If we’re going to form a Boys’ Club first and a Syndicate second, I need Moran on board.

  “Let me work with you,” the girl says. “Me and my friend.”

  “There’s nothing you can do that we can’t.” Even as I say it, I’m wondering if that’s true. Moran is threatening me, so it’s not like I have much pull with him. Him going to the press about my idea of a Trillionaire Boys’ Club filled exclusively with the young, hot bad boys of finance isn’t exactly incriminating, but it would shatter my cone of silence.

  People would be knocking next, wanting to interview me for a feature. The Syndicate would become a joke before its trendy seed group even got off the ground, and the billionaires I’ve worked hard to board would bail. We’d never form our underground Boys’ Club, and thus never get the Old Guard to nudge us to our trillion dollar target.

  The completed Trillionaire Syndicate will rule the world —but until it’s completed, its bones are fragile. Fucking Ashton Moran’s publicist’s big mouth could ruin it all … unless someone offers the guy another bargaining chip to get him on board. Win-win if it works. Moran, being one of the new generation’s baddest bad boy billionaires, gives our group its branding. It makes the Trillionaire Boys’ Club a thing worth joining, for all the stragglers.

  “He won’t know that my friend and I are connected to you until it’s too late for him to care,” Alex says. “We’ll broker a deal that has nothing to do with your Syndicate, or with you at all. So there’s no reason not to let me try.”

  “If he figures it out, I’ll look like an asshole,” I say.

  But she makes a good point. And now that I’m coming around to her side, the girl’s posture is changing. She’s sitting taller, crossing her legs, eyes somehow like an animal scenting prey.

  “Fine,” I say.

  The girl tries to keep her cool, but she smiles anyway. Like a kid. She stands, intuiting that our meeting is over.

  I watch her rise, now more interested than angry. I see the way the fabric moves over her legs, the heels sending her ass out just so. I watch her blazer dance, wishing she hadn’t worn it so I could see more.

  It makes me want to agree with her.

  And that, right there, gives me an idea.

  “If you’re going to do this,” I say, standing, “you’ll do it my way.”

  She turns to look at me.

  “Come back tomorrow,” I say, my eyes straying to her neckline and the top of her maddeningly concealed cleavage, “and I’ll teach you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALEX

  I RETURN TO MY ROOM and catch Corey in the dorm, hanging with Jenna in our little common area. Some of the other girls are around and there are no other guys, but no one minds. We accepted Corey as one of our own a while ago — especially after our winter trip to the beach.

  I make small talk instead. Jenna asks where I got to, because we had a third class later in the day. She went, I ditched. Missing two classes in the same day? That’s a banner day for Good Girl Alex Wynn.

  Corey almost seems to suspect — maybe because of what we discussed over coffee — but neither of them wants to talk about school, so the topic passes. My chance to tell Corey what to do goes with it. My triumph feels like a secret.

  I got into Nathan Turner’s office! I made a deal with him! Not bad for a 19-year-old college girl, just over a semester out of high school.

  The evening feels weird, so I turn in early and go to bed with the truth inside me. Changing out of my dress clothes (which I explained away as meeting someone) gave me the feeling of being spied on; I couldn’t shake this sense that Nathan was watching me in my room the way he’d observed me throughout our interview, and that he was sitting there cross-legged while I took off my jacket, top, and bra.

  Once it was all off, before I shrugged on my robe for the shower, I stood there naked, savoring my nudity. The feel of being watched had gone nowhere, but now I actively played to it.

  I imagined his eyes on my breasts, his eyes watching the spot where my legs met.

  I bent to retrieve a dropped piece of paper and pictured Nathan behind me, taking in the view.

  A thrill filled me, quiet and secret, visions unspooling without permission:

  The phantom billionaire standing in his suit, unbuckling his leather belt, unfastening his pants. His cock out as he rises and comes toward me.

  I reached back, pressing fingers against my soft flesh — imagining it was him, pushing into me.

  I snapped up when I heard Jenna outside the door, then quickly donned my robe. The shower felt as odd as the preamble; a blend of excitement and shame, guilt dogging me as water ran down my body. What the hell was wrong with me? I’d never been boy-crazy, and this was a man I can’t stop thinking about.

  Then Nathan Turner visits my dreams.

  He’s as I last saw him, sitting in his chair, moments before he rose to declare that tomorrow, he’d teach me. But this time, instead of standing, Nathan unbuttons his fly and takes out his cock. He looks at me with something near condescension, as if I’m screwing up just by standing here, still wearing my off-the-rack naive girl’s version of conservative business attire. His blue eyes watch me, running over my body as if he can see through it. Through me.

  He knows I can’t do as I claim — that I’m an imposter.

  Get on your knees, he says.

  Slowly, I do so. It’s not easy in my heels.

  Crawl over here.

  I come on all fours. His hard shaft throbs in anticipation, a tiny shining spot at its tip.

  Put it in your mouth and make me come.

  I shouldn’t. I’m here for an education. For business. For connections.

  This is a professional interview.

  But I swallow his cock without a word, like a good girl. The tip of his dick touches the back of my throat.

  Nathan pushes up into me. I use both hand and mouth to stroke him. The more I suck, the hotter and wetter I am. I shift to hike my suddenly cumbersome dress skirt all the way up around my waist, then slide my fingers into my panties. I sigh and twitch, brushing my clit, then diving deeper.

  I’m soaking.

  Nathan’s hips buck up into me. I tighten my grip, working harder and faster. Then I feel a gush of warmth as he fills my mouth, jerking below me as the aftershocks come.

  I finish at the same time, pussy gripping my fingers, clit sensitive as they roll across in a lubricated exit.

  Swallow it, Nathan says.

  I’ve never done that. But Nathan’s eyes are intense, so I do as he says.

  It’s hard to do without spilling. I keep my chin down but roll my eyes up to look at Nathan, lips and fingers wet. I’m a bit out of breath. My chest is heaving.

  And he says, Very good. But practice makes perfect.

  Then he leans back and adds, So do it again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ALEX

  I LAY IT ALL OUT for Jenna and Corey over breakfast. I’m convinced they’ll both think I’ve done something wrong — which is probably why I didn’t breathe a word last night — but both are surprisingly supportive. Neither thinks I’ve acted rashly because I’m inappropriately attracted to Nathan Turner. Neither bashes me for dreaming of giving a blowjob —probab
ly because I don’t tell them, but it’s hard to believe everyone can’t see it on my face. I keep wiping at my lips as if there’s something there. And I keep remembering our pending appointment with a jolt, wondering if I’ll be able to keep the blush from my face, sure on some level that I’ll be unable to control myself.

  But Jenna and Corey betray none of the embarrassed conflict I’m feeling, giving no indication that they know I’ve already soaked one pair of panties this morning. I’ve never felt so out of control, and it bothers me. I’ve had boyfriends, but I never thought about any of them like I’m already thinking about Nathan.

  Fantasy is one thing, and reality another. In the real world, boys are awkward, clumsy … sometimes unkempt and even smelly. But the more this rattles around in my head, the more I realize what I’m feeling is new, different from what I’ve experienced so far … which I’m increasingly sure would be amateur hour compared to the realization of my inappropriate fantasies.

  Something truly and honestly adult — maybe for the first time ever.

  I tell them about the deal. Not about the Trillionaire Syndicate Nathan’s working to form — or the smaller, younger, hotter “Trillionaire Boys’ Club” that will be its first seed — but I tell them the rest. That I saw a chance to connect Nathan to Ashton Moran, and how Bob Macklin in the athletic department could be our ticket.

  At the mention of Ashton, Jenna gets excited. It’s hard to dampen her obvious crush on a man she’s never met when I suspect I’ve got the same on a man I met only yesterday.

  Then I drop the bomb — about how I’ll go back to finalize things and get my marching orders today.

 

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