“That’s not my fault.”
“Sure it is. You’re the one who’s not going.”
“But this is the first time I’m not going. The others aren’t my doing.”
“So what?”
She’s so annoying about it, I finally offer to buy her post-lecture burrito. I give her ten bucks in cash and wait for change, but Jenna says she doesn’t carry cash and that she’ll need to give me change later. But of course she won’t.
“Where are you going that you can’t make it?” She’s mollified by my ten-dollar bribe.
I’m ready to answer, but stop because Corey’s just walked into our room, waiting for us to join him. He doesn’t even knock. We’re two cute nineteen-year-old girls, and this guy just soldiers on in. What if we’d been having a naked pillow fight? What if we’d been exploring our budding sexuality? No wonder we both think of Corey as if he’s gay. If he’s straight, he’s playing a helluva long con. We played topless on the beach over break, and thought nothing of it. Maybe Corey was sporting wood the entire time.
“Hey,” he says, sitting on the edge of my desk.
“Alex isn’t going to history,” Jenna says.
“What? No! You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Jenna says, eyeing me.
Corey continues. “You’re a lying bitch and I hate you.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s no big deal.”
“I feel so much better for being abandoned,” Corey says to Jenna, “now that she’s told us it’s no big deal.”
“You’re both assholes,” I say.
“She says we’re assholes, Jenna.”
“We should just go without her.”
“Let’s.”
“She’s not even invited,” Jenna says.
“Even if she wanted to go, she couldn’t. She’s not allowed.”
“Okay,” I say, grabbing my purse. “I’m outta here.”
Corey seems to notice my outfit for the first time. He looks me over from bottom to top. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes,” I say.
He’s still studying me. Now he doesn’t look quite so detached. I’m a poor college kid, but I still have some money, and yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to dress for the big boys. I hit the mall alone and emptied my savings of more than three hundred bucks to fill three modest sized bags. I’m wearing a slim red dress that’s perfectly, professionally sexy. I’ve also spent some time doing my hair instead of pulling it into a pony tail, and it’s hanging around my face in large, loose curls. I’m wearing more makeup than usual — especially lipstick, which matches my dress.
And neither Corey nor Jenna could possibly know that I also stopped into Victoria’s Secret and bought new panties … just in case.
“Where?”
I don’t have a lie prepared. I didn’t think I’d need one with Jenna, though Corey makes me feel like I do. Besides, I really don’t need to lie. In a way, this is his doing.
“I have an appointment with Nathan Turner.”
Corey’s face darkens. “Really?” His upbeat voice doesn’t match the look in his eyes. “Why?”
“To follow up on your excellent work, Corey.”
“Already?”
“You’re not the only one who can broker a deal.”
I resist the urge to point out that this is what Corey should want for me. He knows about Moran and Nathan, in broad strokes if not the confidential details. Logically, his success is something I’d parlay with Nathan, but right now his gut apparently feels differently.
“So … what? You’re going to his office or something?”
“His penthouse, actually.”
“His apartment?” Corey says it like a crime.
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, I mean, you’re going to his apartment.”
“I think we’ve established that.”
Corey looks to Jenna for help. This is a bad move, because Jenna says exactly the wrong thing.
“He wants to bone her,” she offers.
“He does not want to bone me.”
“Of course he does.”
“Well, then that’s his issue.”
Jenna, as if she’s socially retarded, turns helpfully back to Corey and says, “And she wants him to bone her.”
“I do not! This is a professional appointment!”
“Please,” Jenna says. “Look at your bad self. I practically want to bone you.”
“No, you want to bone Ashton Moran.” I’m ignoring Corey’s strange looks, trying to keep it light and deflect. This is about Jenna, not me. I’m keeping things professional — Jenna’s the one with ambitions on a billionaire.
“Well, of course I do,” Jenna says. “Maybe we could all get together, seeing as I want to bone you, too.”
“I don’t think you can bone me,” I tell Jenna. “Nor Ashton.”
“You’re right. He’d have to bone me. He’s got the bone.”
“Right.”
“So he can bone me while Nathan bones you.”
“Jenna …”
“And then you and me, we could press tacos.”
I give her an exasperated sigh. “You’re making Corey uncomfortable.”
“Oh, Corey’s like a brother.” Jenna waves a dismissive hand.
I catch Corey’s look from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t seem to appreciate being thought of as a brother. I don’t want to stare, but I think he’s pitched a tent. He moves his backpack to cover his lap.
“I want in there, too.” His tone is light, like he’s making a joke, but is also a little jealous over his exclusion — not a joke at all.
Again, Jenna waves her hand, dismissive enough to shut him down. To me, she says: “Come over here.” She’s holding out her hand, low down, palm up, fingers beckoning in a pantomime of tickling a clit. “I’ll warm you up for Nathan before you go.”
“It’s not like that, Jenna; now knock it off!”
Jenna won’t let it go. She leans toward Corey, oblivious.
“Look at how she’s dressed. Doesn’t she look DTF?”
“DTF?” Corey asks.
“‘Down To Fuck.’”
“Oh,” Corey mutters, blushing.
“I mean, if she came into your office looking like that, you’d want to fuck her, right?”
Corey mumbles something incomprehensible.
“Right?” she insists.
“Uh, sure.”
“She knows it. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “This was in the business attire section.”
“Business attire for slutty assistants,” Jenna says.
“I’m not his assistant.”
“Business attire for slutty interns,” she corrects.
“Aren’t you two going to be late?”
“Not as late as you’re going to be when Nathan Turner’s big dick gets you pregnant,” Jenna says.
“Ha ha.” I grab my purse, making to go. This won’t end. My attempts to redirect things toward her obvious crush on Moran blew up in my face like a backfiring tailpipe.
“Headed out, huh?” Jenna says.
“Yes. I’m leaving you fools.”
“Make sure you have lip gloss. You’ll need lip gloss after you suck his dick.”
“Very funny.”
“Did you remember to shave?”
I run my hand down my legs, bare below the knee. Corey’s eyes follow, then snatch away when I catch him.
“I didn’t mean your legs,” Jenna says.
“Bye, Jenna,” I tell her, exiting.
I look back just once. Jenna is still laughing at me, but there’s a curious expression on Corey’s face. I might be imagining things, but to me it looks almost like a warning.
Keep your distance from that man, his eyes tell me. You think you know what you’re doing, but you’re wrong. He makes his living manipulating people, and right now that’s what he’s doing to you. Don’t fall into his trap, or you’ll get hurt.
But Corey doesn’t get a vote on how I go about my business, not given the way he’s usually afraid of his shadow. This is his fault. I refuse to be timid and reserved just because I’m a woman.
And goddammit, I’m nineteen years old.
I’m an adult, and I can make my own decisions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NATHAN
IT’S ANNOYING, THE WAY I keep checking my Patek Philippe watch — and the rhodium and carbon fiber clock on the mantle — as two o’clock nears.
I have things to do. A million things to do. I don’t even have time to check my email, and that’s where so many connections are made. I’ve automated everything to save time: set it up once, then taught Geoffrey how to either do it himself or outsource it to someone competent.
That’s the way my calls and texts are handled, the way my appointments are made and my social calendar is taken care of. But the Syndicate has changed everything — all of the things I used to do are now like chores in the background. That’s right in a way; I hustled to amass my first billion, but now I’m playing a game that’s literally a thousand times bigger.
My day-to-day won’t matter at all when my network’s worth reaches a trillion. Then I could burn all that I’ve built, and it wouldn’t matter at all.
I’m so busy these days, I don’t stand for my own tailoring. Geoffrey found a guy with my exact build, tried an alteration on one of my suits, then calibrated once I found time to try them on. Now I use that same stand-in for all of my tailoring, because I’m too busy to stand in one place.
I barely attend my own meetings. I don’t answer my own phone.
I have to do my own workouts, unfortunately, but I have three personal trainers, a nutritionist, a cook, and several cross-discipline instructors for the sports I enjoy most, all at my disposal to tell me exactly what to do and when.
Geoffrey translates vague descriptions of clothing into wardrobe choices for the next day so that I don’t have to think.
Every fucking second is accounted for. My life has no wasted moments.
Yet here I am, sitting on my sofa with my laptop, ignoring the work at hand.
I keep looking at my watch, and glancing at the clock. Waiting for a knock from the single person the doorman has been instructed to allow entry.
She’s one minute late.
She’s two minutes late.
I thought about her all night long.
Alex Wynn is a distraction. I keep saying that to Geoffrey. But even though he’s supposed to be my gatekeeper — the man who has more sense than me sometimes, whose job is in part to save me from myself — Geoffrey’s done nothing to prevent this. I told him that I wanted to start coaching Alex, because if she was going to nose her way into my stuff, she should at least know what she’s doing. I told him that Alex was a wildcard, and that her unpredictability could sink us if she isn’t properly molded — taught the Nathan Turner way of doing things.
Geoffrey should have nodded, said, “Yes, Nathan, I agree,” and then set her up with any one of the faceless minions beneath me. She could have earned a real-world education that would eclipse the bullshit she’s learning in school, and it wouldn’t have cost her a dime. It all could have happened without my involvement, just a random series of emails or texts.
Instead, I answered when Alex called earlier. And I made the appointment.
Geoffrey sees it all and says nothing. He lets Alex sink her hooks in me, as if he’s trying to sabotage all that I’ve built.
I thought of her on my drive — alone, in my Bugatti — back to the office yesterday.
I thought about her through the rest of my demolished afternoon.
I thought about her over dinner, wondering what slop she was eating in her cafeteria while I ate charred lamb leg, with gnocco alla romana, shaved fennel, celery and vincotto. I even considered calling her to start our lessons early. If she’s to be my student, the least I should do is teach her to eat finer foods.
I thought about her in the evening.
I thought about her all night long, and then all day until she called — with me, Nathan Fucking Turner, waiting by the phone like a pathetic teenager.
Celeste also called, following her earlier thank-you for my college speaking gig with an offer to pay a visit. I know the code; her “visits” end in sweat and spent fluids. But I turn her down, tell her I’m busy. I don’t even know why until I’ve hung up, again answering my own phone even though I shouldn’t.
My mind continues to cycle.
Alex turns me on so much, it’s hard to think. I find her so hot, I feel practically sunburned. But it’s more than that.
I wonder if it’s that I think she could be an asset to the company. She has guts. Oblivious to the truth that she’s in over her head, she keeps right on swimming. She’s tough. She’s hard. She’s pushed back every time I’ve squared off against her. I dragged her into a closet to shout her down, but she stared me in the eye and backed me into a corner.
Nobody stares me down.
Nobody challenges my decisions or commands.
Nobody takes me by the balls, because I’m always three steps ahead.
Nobody but Alex.
I watch another minute tick by on the clock.
I’m eager because she’s such an asset. We can have our fun; God knows we both want it. But sex is still only sex, and a girl is still just a girl. The reason I keep thinking of her — the reason I allow her to waste my minutes and hours and days, spooling my mind in her direction — is because she’s such an obvious asset.
There’s no other explanation.
Another minute ticks by, now four past the hour.
There’s a knock on my door. And finally I feel better, because now at least I know what’s coming.
School is in.
And the lessons can begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALEX
THE DOOR OPENS, AND I feel like apologizing.
It’s a weekday, so I assumed Nathan would be in his usual attire: a suit and tie, bespoke and immaculately tailored. But we’re in his home, not his office. And while I’ve shown up in a tight red dress that’s arguably businesslike and certainly upscale (for me, at least), Nathan is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
I’ve never seen his bare arms. Both times we had sex Nathan only undressed enough to matter. The second time we met, he had me naked above the ankles, right there in his chrome and leather office. But Nathan, once zipped up, was more or less ready for the boardroom again.
His arms don’t belong to a rich man. They’re lean and large and full of shifting, rounded muscles. When he reaches forward to greet me, his tan skin slides across them, each movement eliciting a powerful twitching from beneath.
His jeans are plain but something in the stitching and cut marks them as clearly expensive. Despite his casual manner, Nathan looks perfect from bottom to top. I feel both under- and overdressed.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, looking down. I can’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d be in a suit.”
“What does it matter?”
I can’t say why, just that it seems to. I can only move just-so in this dress, and he seems so at ease. I wonder if somehow he orchestrated this on purpose as some sort of mind game, then decide I’m being paranoid.
I watch him watch me, unabashed. Then he turns and shows me into a cavernous living room that must span two stories, two of its three walls all windows. I can see stairs ascending, so there must be a floor above this one. How big is this penthouse? And how much must it have cost?
As I follow Nathan, I watch his back beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. It’s just the right amount of clingy without being too tight. It fi
ts his broad torso perfectly, as if tailored like his suits. I marvel at his body. How does he find the time for such discipline? I’ve never dated a guy with such an impressive back, but then again I’ve only dated mindless boys.
And that, I think as Nathan brings me to the room’s sofas, is maybe the point.
I’ve only ever dated boys.
Nathan is a man.
He doesn’t offer me a seat. Instead, he sits, looking up at me. After a moment, this makes me uncomfortable, so I move to sit in a chair positioned off to one side.
But Nathan shakes his head. “No. Stand there for a minute.”
So I do, feeling awkward. Like I’m on display. Then: “Can I sit now?”
He shakes his head. There’s zero attempt to hide his gaze. He slowly looks me over. His eyes are like hands upon me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m appreciating you.”
I’m so uncomfortable, I laugh. “You’re weird.”
Nathan’s eyes snap to mine. “It’s not weird for a man to appreciate a woman. It’s not weird at all.”
“I feel like you’re staring at me.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“But—”
“Alexandra.”
“It’s Alex.”
There’s a tiny little smile. Then Nathan says, “Do you know how much money a billion dollars is?”
“Of course I do.”
Nathan shakes his head, his eyes still roaming my body. He speaks only after meeting my eyes. “No, you don’t. You think you do. Intellectually, you understand the concept. But tell me something: do you use PicShare?”
I’m not sure if this is a trap. On one hand, PicShare is the hottest social network out there right now, and everyone seems to use it. But on the other hand, it’s a network that’s most popular with kids. And right now, I want to seem like a woman to Nathan, not a kid.
“Yes,” I say, cautiously.
“Michael Beyers — the guy who created PicShare and still owns it today. How much do you think he’s worth?”
“Two billion?”
“One hundred sixty million.”
I wait for more, knowing there’s a bigger point on the way.
“Most people think anyone can be a billionaire, with enough luck and hard work. But the truth is, it’s an inconceivable amount of wealth for most people. Michael Beyers is very rich. He will never need to work again, and his service has helped change the world. But even so, he barely has one-sixth of a billion dollars. It’s an impossible amount of money.”
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Connector Page 9