The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  I see all of that now. My eyes, even without much emphasizing liner, still look like giant orbs of insanity. My nose is a little crooked and smiling makes it look like I’m having a stroke. I didn’t notice a lot of that stuff until Steve pointed it out, but now it’s impossible to ignore. And that’s just my face. I barely remember my thought process getting dressed this morning, but I doubt I was aiming for damaged come-n’-get-it.

  I used to take so long getting ready that Steve would get shouty. I wasn’t primping. It just took a long time for me to psych myself out of the bathroom. Is this the least bad it can get? I’d ask myself. And when the answer was finally yes, I’d go. Steve was always a peach before I realized he was a cock. Whenever I told him I was nervous, he’d tell me how he’d take care of me.

  I’ll take care of you, Becky.

  At the time, I thought it was sweet. Only in retrospect did I realize he was saying it condescendingly because he didn’t think I could take care of my damn self.

  I guess I’ll have to take care of you, Becky. You dumb little thing.

  Not that he said it. But the meaning was in his asshole eyes.

  I tug the skirt to lengthen it, but all that does is make me feel like my ass is hanging out — another thing I believe is considered unprofessional for corporate consultants.

  The weird thing is, I don’t remember deciding on this outfit. My head was on the day ahead. Evan said I didn’t have to come in regularly and I don’t plan to — especially when he’s in San Francisco, where LiveLyfe has its main office. It’s not like I’m starting a normal gig, but it still felt a lot like the first day of work. Or, judging by my sophomoric insecurities, the first day of school.

  My head was crowded with What will it be like? Will I fuck it up? And a lot of thoughts about Evan Cohen himself. The last time we saw each other, I’d swear the air was electric. He’s hot as hell, and has this vibe. Something about his confidence, his unshakable self-assurance. You get the feeling that there’s nothing Evan can’t handle. He could face an army of invading swordsmen, then turn and say calmly to me, “Don’t worry, Becca. I’ve got this.”

  Not that I’ve had dreams about Evan saving me from marauders. Not that I’ve woken up with my heart hammering and my pussy wet.

  Somehow, while I was fretting and apparently mentally masturbating over thoughts of spending the whole day with Evan, this outfit assembled itself. It must have been like a scene from Fantasia: animated whore’s clothes flying through the air to a comical soundtrack.

  My feet are crammed into my most sexpensive heels and thanks to them I swear my ass is sticking out a foot or more. I’m going to need to put caution flags on my ass so people don’t run into it. Whenever I back up, I’ll have to beep like a forklift.

  This little skirt.

  This blouse that’s maybe more transparent than it should be, clearly showing my bra through the fabric. Like I’m ripe for a wet T-shirt contest.

  I usually bathe at night, but today I did it in the morning. And I shaved really, really thoroughly.

  Come on, I tell myself. It’s not that bad.

  And it’s not. All I’m missing is my scarlet letter.

  I leave the bathroom. The hall is empty. Thank God. I won’t have to see my co-workers, if that’s what they are. Just Evan. The most important person in the building.

  He’s waiting in the conference room. I saw him go in, but he doesn’t know I’m here yet. When I enter, he turns around and scans me from head to toe. It’s like he can’t stop looking.

  Because I look fucking ridiculous. With my stroke smile and sideways nose and carnival outfit.

  He comes forward, arms starting to open. “Becca! It’s so nice to see you ag—!”

  “I’m wearing underwear,” I blurt.

  Evan blinks. The silence that follows is the longest silence ever, in the history of the universe.

  “I didn’t mean to wear this skirt. I think it might be part of a Halloween costume. I just made a mistake. I didn’t have time to change. If anyone else here has an extra skirt, I can change. I want to change. Just rip it off and …”

  Dammit.

  “I mean, not here. I wouldn’t just rip my skirt off in here, in front of you. Not that I’m saying I would. But it is kind of cold. So, like, if you have a blanket?”

  Evan is still looking at me.

  “You’re not cold? I’m cold. My nipples —”

  “Maybe we should just get started.” Then, without waiting for my response, he pulls out a chair. “You can sit here. Want some coffee?’

  “Coffee makes me hyper.”

  “So, do you want some?”

  “No. I don’t want to be hyper.”

  “I just thought since you were cold.”

  Evan’s eyes tick down. My nipples are like sights on a gunship. I’m not actually cold. And that’s so much worse because I’m aroused. Evan clearly doesn’t know what to do with me, and now I’m broadcasting horny. It’s so awkward. He’s a hot billionaire, and I’m some crazy, homeless-looking woman he’s probably already regretting giving all that money to. I couldn’t be screwing this up any more than I am.

  “I wasn’t sure how to dress,” I say lamely.

  “You look great.”

  “Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

  And in my head, I hear Steve again: I guess I’ll have to take care of you, Becky. You dumb little thing.

  “I’m serious. I have friends in fashion. Two of them. Ashton Moran and Hampton Brooks.”

  “Hampton Brooks of Disposable Chic?”

  Evan nods. Oh, great. Now I look “disposable.”

  “I’ve got a pretty good eye for these things,” Evan says, pouring me a cup of hot water from a carafe. He drops a teabag into it. It’s a sweet and spicy herbal blend, exactly the kind of thing I’d have chosen for myself. I didn’t ask, but a second later I’m stirring a cup of perfect tea, cupping its warmth. “You have a great sense of style.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. Have you ever thought of modeling?”

  I laugh. It comes out more like a snort. Holy shit, am I a mess.

  Evan lets it go. He sits across from me. At first, I think he’s as composed as I am sloppy, but then I realize he’s as uneasy as I am. He just hides it better. He probably got my tea to calm himself, so his hands and mind would have something to do.

  There’s an awkward silence. I try to remind myself that if I can get my shit together, I’m entitled to some power and dignity here. It’s weird to me that Evan respects my mind, but he does. We’ve been trading messages since our lunch, in preparation for today. It’s not entirely casual. A lot of what he’s asked me are the kinds of things I’d ask someone who knew better than me because I wanted advice.

  Evan wants advice from me? He wants my help?

  Of course he does, Rebecca, I tell myself. He did just give you a million dollar retainer.

  Steve’s voice: That’s just because he feels sorry for you.

  We continue to sit in mutual silence. Evan can’t quite look at me. That energy is back in the air. My skirt feels like it’s shrunk. I just announced that I’m wearing panties because this wasn’t awkward enough without an undergarments discussion, but now I’d swear that I’m not. I feel exposed. Too much skin is showing. Evan keeps sneaking glances when he thinks I won’t notice.

  The small hairs on the back of my neck stand erect. I begin to notice things about Evan that I didn’t the first time. Like the tiny dimple on his chin. It’s subtle; you can’t see it unless the angle is exactly right. I don’t think he shaved this morning. It says something about him, and it’s not that he’s lazy. It’s a tiny act of rebellion. He wears stubble extremely well. I note the cut of his blazer, follow the line of his shirt collar to his neck. I wish he’d dress down a bit, as I have. I’ve seen his tan forearms in photos. I want to see if they’re as sexy in person.

  I don’t know how long it lasts, but the moment finally breaks, after it becomes c
lear that we’re checking each other out. Both of us trying to do so without being noticed, and failing.

  Just fuck him and get it over with, Becky, Steve says in my head. That’s what he paid you so much for, after all.

  Evan stands up. I’d swear there was a bulge in his pants before he moved behind his chair … but why am I looking in the first place?

  “Where should we begin?” Evan asks.

  “I don’t know. I figured you’d steer.”

  He thinks for a moment. “You ever have a pet?”

  I’d swear I misheard him. “Sure. When I was growing up, we had a cat named Bastard.”

  He laughs a little, but I’m serious. My mom is weird, too.

  “I have two dogs. Both rescues, but it was the mother that was rescued, and she was pregnant at the time. I got my two as puppies. Does it ruin my reputation as a titan of the tech industry to admit that I love puppies?”

  It’s like a blanket has been draped over my shoulders. I shake my head, but I still don’t know why he’s telling me this.

  “How did you name your cat, Becca?”

  “He came in through a dog door the previous tenants put in the back. My mom said, ‘Get out of here, you bastard!’ He didn’t. The rest was history.”

  “My method was different. I took the pups home and played with them. I let them chew up my couch and pee on my doormat. They slept in a crate in my bedroom. After a week of living with them, I figured out their names, and they became Tucker and Alice.”

  The story warms my heart and makes me less nervous, but I’m still confused. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because sometimes you have to live with something for a while before you know what it is. I know it’s probably strange to you that I’d hire you without a plan, and it’s probably odd that I asked you to come in today without an agenda. It’s because I’m content to wait and see what we discover, just by watching and letting things percolate. It may look undirected, but this is just how I work, whether I’m naming a pet or … or whatever this is.”

  “What is this?”

  “That’s just my point. I don’t know. I only know that there’s something here.”

  Here.

  Between us.

  Without warning, Evan takes me by the wrist. His touch is electric. He leads me to the window, wobbling on my too-tall heels. Side by side, we look out at the city.

  “Austin keeps growing and growing,” Evan says. “The whole place has changed in just a decade or two. I’ve been coming here for years, and I’ve seen it evolve. Part of me misses the way it was, but it’s never going back. This is the future. But it’s linear. More people coming in to do the same things — or, in some cases, to chase a city that no longer exists except in memory. That’s how people think. They only know the next small step. What you and I need to figure out is what’s needed that nobody’s thought of yet. All those people out there, just going through the motions of normal life, changing entire landscapes with the force of their banality. Despite its rapid change, our society is coming to a standstill. These days people have little to believe in, so they believe in the relentless march forward of the same old thing. It sounds like a paradox. But as a people, we’ve never been in more of a frenzied rush to go nowhere.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. But Evan is still holding my wrist, and his fingers are moving subtly. Stroking my skin. Quietly. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, but every ounce of hesitation has left him. When Evan talks about his work — and particularly his vision — he becomes like a rock. It’s fascinating to watch. And I do, with my eyes on his profile instead of the city.

  He turns toward me, catching my stare. There’s another minuscule moment. There’s passion in him. For the mission, and the world. Seeing that is an aphrodisiac. I still have no idea what Evan has in mind for our project, but his energy has such a pull, I’m dying to drink it.

  “If you could change one thing about the world, Becca, what would it be?”

  It’s too big of a question. I wish he hadn’t asked it, because just thinking about such a big question makes me feel small. I’m not worthy. It’s too much pressure.

  He sees my expression and smiles. It melts something inside me. We move closer. He takes my other wrist, our hands moving against each other.

  “There’s no right or wrong answer. Just tell me the first thing that enters your head.”

  “I’d tell people to stop being assholes,” I say.

  “Do you think they’d stop because you told them?”

  “Then I’d teach them to stop being assholes.”

  It’s ridiculous. It’s nothing anyone could affect, and not remotely in LiveLyfe’s circle. We’re not social workers, and I’m not the kind of girl who hosts an international anti-asshole summit. Still, Evan holds my hands and my eyes and says, “That’s a worthy goal.”

  We watch each other for a long, quiet moment. His gaze is direct, unflinching. Mine darts around.

  It’s hard to breathe. “What now?”

  “We’ll have to find you a project,” Evan says. “Something to get you started. Something to nurture the things you’d like to do.”

  “I don’t know what I’d like to do.”

  “You bond. You articulate. You get people without understanding why. You make connections like nobody else I’ve ever seen because you’re honest like nobody I’ve ever known. It’s an honesty I think you take for granted because it comes so naturally. It’s wonderful. And to be honest, it breaks my heart a little.”

  There’s a pounding in my chest. I can feel my pulse everywhere: in my neck, in my toes, in the hands Evan is now holding.

  “Why?”

  “It makes people love you,” he says, “but one of these days, someone is going to use your vulnerability against you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  He moves a hair closer.

  “Whatever project we find, Becca,” Evan says, “I want you to give it your all until the answer — for what all of this is — reveals itself. But I want to make sure it’s the right project. And I want it limited in scope.”

  “I thought guys like you always wanted to go big or go home?”

  “Yes,” he says, and now his voice is too soft, too quiet in the big conference room. “But this is the most connected company in the world right now. This isn’t a blog. You open yourself too much here, you’re asking for trouble.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have hired me.”

  Evan shakes his head. “Do what you do, and I’ll watch the scope. I won’t let you dangle out there alone. I want to take care of you, Becca.”

  Something changes.

  I want to take care of you, I hear Steve whisper.

  Our hands slide apart. I’m stepping backward with my fists clenching before I realize what’s happening.

  … because you’re just a stupid little girl who can’t take care of herself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EVAN

  REBECCA’S SHIFT IN MOOD IS like a snake uncoiling to strike. One moment we’re inches apart, hands together, feeling the something between us. The next she’s this furious thing, looking ready to claw my face off.

  With warning in her eyes, Rebecca says without inflection, “What?”

  “I want to take care of you,” I repeat.

  She acts like I’ve thrown acid at her. I reach for one of her hands, but this time she doesn’t just back away. It’s more of a whipping motion.

  “I don’t want anyone taking care of me.”

  “Becca, what did I—?”

  “DON’T CALL ME BECKY!”

  I blink. I didn’t call her Becky, but I can read her well enough to know that’s the last thing I should say. I’m not sure what’s happened, but I need to tread carefully. She’s a bomb on a countdown — a vial of nitroglycerine that’s been shaken like a can of Coke.

  I move toward her, but every step is small and light. I’m on eggshells. Someone has snatched the sweet, beauti
ful, vulnerable woman I was talking to, and swapped her with this maniac.

  I don’t mean to raise my hands, because it plays into what’s going on, making it clear that she’s the aggressor. But they do so all on their own because that’s what you do when people need calming.

  “Please. Just tell me what I did wrong.”

  “What is this, Evan?” She’s not fury-crying, but I can see it’s close. There was a thin twig inside her, and somehow, I’ve managed to step on it.

  Was it my big question? That I asked Rebecca hers? Is it the whole of this strange experience — the way I’ve brought her here with no clear agenda?

  I wasn’t making any of that up; it is how I work. That is how I name my pets. Things don’t have a meaning until they have a name, and you can’t name something until its truth reveals itself.

  I was already feeling something brew when I did … well, whatever I did to trigger this change. Now it feels like we’ve never been farther, and that this might be over before it can start.

  I watch her eyes. I see that I’m the problem, the enemy. But I can’t look away. This is a mortal challenge, and looking away displays weakness. But I can’t help noticing that in anger, those deep blue eyes are more beautiful than they are in peace. There’s a sharp, instinctual being at her core, like a native brandishing a sharpened spear. More than vulnerable. It’s real.

  “It’s a job,” I say. Hands up, trying to hold my ground. Losing a little.

  “Is it pity?”

  “Pity?” At first, it’s like I’ve never heard the word. “No, of course it’s not—”

  “How did you find out about me?”

  “I saw your ad set on LiveLyfe.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I’m telling you the truth!”

  “Did you talk to anyone about me first? Get the inside scoop? Figure out what I like and what I don’t? I knew the head of LiveLyfe wasn’t just going to stumble across …” Becca doesn’t finish the thought. She turns away, going for her bag, shoving it closed.