The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  “At least have someone watch her.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t.”

  “You promised.”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Evan. You know as well as I do that—”

  “I said, I promised,’Callie.”

  She shrugs. Drops a stack of papers on the desk. “I guess that’s it, then. There’s nothing to be done. Just tell me one thing, Evan. Is this professional? Or personal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Professional,” I say.

  “Curtis told me you took her to Los Angeles last week.”

  “Yes. For business.”

  “What business?”

  “On that plane ride was when I had my breakthrough on the education project I told you about.”

  “Uh-huh. And you had to be in a plane for that? You had to eat at Bella by the Sea?”

  “What exactly are you implying?”

  “I keep hearing from people, Evan. God knows why they come to me, but they do. Both of your assistants say you’ve been bumping back important calls and appointments, and it seems like you’re spending all that extra time with Rebecca.”

  “Because what we’re building together matters more than the other things.”

  “I got Taylor on the phone. She told me your driver and others get the feeling that you two are becoming an item.”

  “I’m not sure I like you checking up on me, Callie.”

  “I’m not sure I like you lying to me, Evan.”

  There’s a long, heavy silence. Then Callie continues.

  “You have feelings for her, don’t you?”

  “I feel that she’s brilliant.”

  “I’ve met her,” Callie says. “I like her. I’ve read her, too, and when she’s not scaring me about the damage she could do to LiveLyfe, I like her writing. And if you two are a thing now? Then awesome; I do hope you’re happy. But you need to separate your feelings from your business. This isn’t just your future you’re screwing with. This company has a responsibility to its stockholders and employees. You have to think clearly. And based on what I’m seeing …”

  Another silence.

  “Are you with her, Evan? Is that what this is about?”

  “It’s not what this is about.”

  “And are you with her? Do you like her?”

  The truth is obvious. I don’t know if I’m “with” Rebecca or not, but I like her. A lot. “We get along.”

  “The money for her new project. You’ve already authorized it, haven’t you? There’s no calling it back. The cow is out of the barn.”

  I nod.

  “And this?”

  She hands me a printout of my company calendar. She’s pointing at a block of time on Friday night that says, DINNER.

  “I’m having dinner with a consultant.”

  Callie nods. “Are you happy, Evan? With life in general?”

  It’s hard to keep my face straight. Meetings with finance aren’t supposed to be this emotional. “Life, in general, is grand.”

  Callie looks again at my calendar.

  “Use the company card and order the lobster,” Callie says. “Rebecca scares the ever-loving shit out of me, but it sounds like she’s worth it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  REBECCA

  BY THE END OF THE first week, I’m feeling more grounded.

  For the longest time, it seems like things have been up in the air. First Evan contacted me because he was interested in me in some way, though he couldn’t articulate what. Then he offered me a job that wasn’t remotely defined. I got a million bucks for just being there. Finally, Evan got his idea about changing education — and taking it to who I assume must be angel investors in a rich people’s group that Taylor and Sam think Evan’s involved in — but that, too, was ill-defined.

  He put me on this vague “making people love LiveLyfe more” project, and then we had that almost-argument because he wanted to peek over my shoulder. But to see what? I had no idea what I was working on, either.

  But now, blessedly, my ideas are taking shape. Evan has stayed out of my way as he promised, and it seems like he’s told people to cooperate because I don’t meet resistance when I ask questions.

  I’ve decided to go right for the throat. The way I see it, users don’t dislike LiveLyfe at all. They’re frustrated with some aspects because people are impatient. I ask, What works for me? For my own business?

  No reason it shouldn’t work for LiveLyfe.

  I’m making a documentary of sorts. I’m not walking around with a camera like Michael Moore, but I’m taking a ton of notes. Talking to lots of people. Getting to know them. Evan’s assembled a remarkable group. Amazing people with open hearts and excellent senses of humor.

  Why is LiveLyfe hiding its face behind such a professional mask? The public would adore the company behind the curtain.

  They’d engage with it, bond with it.

  They’d build cult status around it like Mac fans do for Apple. I have some ideas on LiveLyfe’s branding to make that happen faster, but for now, I’m keeping them to myself.

  Evan asks about it whenever he sees me, but he’s just poking. It’s one of our jokes.

  “What did you do today?” he’ll ask me when we meet for coffee. Then he’ll raise his eyebrows, indicating that he wants to know all the nefarious details.

  “None of your business.”

  “I noticed you haven’t posted on SteveHasATinyDick for a while.”

  “It’s sort of on hiatus. So I can focus all my attention on your company, and eventually on this plan of yours to make the world a better place.”

  “What do you mean by ‘sort of’?”

  “To officially put my site on hiatus, I’d have to do some stuff. I don’t have time, so I’m just neglecting it. All of my attention is on LiveLyfe and its handsome founder.”

  “Hmm,” Evan says, nibbling a biscotti. “And how are things going in that endeavor to do unknown deeds at LiveLyfe?”

  “None of your business.”

  Three more days go by.

  A week.

  I get more insider info. I interview some of the lead developers and a few of the custodians. Those people are unexpectedly hilarious. I’m already getting ideas for public-facing emails. For video to take, web shows to conduct. People will love the fuck out of this place in no time.

  Ten days.

  I’m meeting Evan every night. It just happened. To anyone on the outside, it probably looks like we’re dating. Evan is sweet, and although I don’t like to commit to feeling happy, I am. I’m waiting for it to break. For Evan to show me hidden true colors, like all the rest of them have. I scrutinize him when we go out to dinner, when we lie together on his enormous bed. I watch his face and try to figure out when things will go wrong. I can tell that he doesn’t like not knowing what I’m doing in my special project — he’s a guy who enjoys control, sharp lines, and privacy. He hates uncertainty.

  Evan wants to pry. But he keeps his promises.

  His Austin apartment is downtown, at the top of a building that looks like an enormous USB drive flipping off the sky. The people here know me. It’s weird. It’s like I’m part of the package for them. I know he has other homes in other cities, but I don’t want to know how many. The paranoid part of me imagines a woman like me in each of those homes, awaiting Evan’s return.

  It’s not true. You’re just being Rebecca.

  I hate feeling needy. But I’m not used to feeling attached to someone without pain to accompany it. The instinctual part of me is trembling inside like a trapped animal. I want to ask Evan for his reassurance, but I won’t.

  I think on that idea, standing on Evan’s deck and staring down at the city below. Why is this about power? And why does deepening attachment make me powerless? Something prickles at the back of my neck, and it occurs to me that what’s wrong is nothing. I’m just uncomfortable without my misery.

  Evan
comes up behind me. The breeze is warm, even this high up. His arms encircle me. His face nestles at the back of my neck, in my hair. I want to ask him if the word I used with myself is valid. Is this a “relationship,” or two co-workers who don’t know enough to keep their boundaries?

  I say nothing.

  “You like it out here.”

  I guess I do. Ever since I started hanging out at Evan’s apartment, the penthouse deck has fascinated me. His place is three floors, stacked behind me like glass Legos. At the railing, I can look almost straight down. Even at my worst moments, I’ve never considered ending my life. But staring down, I’m fascinated by the idea. If I’d had this deck when I was with Joe, the one who hit me, would it have been as enthralling?

  I shake my head, snapping a spell. We’re far back from the railing, and I suddenly want to stay as far back as possible. I’m a different woman now. I make wiser choices. I chose a better man. And if there’s still a sneaking dread behind it all — waiting for the moment when this all sours — that’s just more proof of how fucked-up I am.

  “You’re shivering.”

  I guess I am. And it’s still over eighty degrees out here, even at night.

  “Maybe I’m nervous,” I say.

  Evan turns me. He can hear something in my voice. We’re face to face.

  “Maybe?”

  “I was kidding.”

  But I wasn’t. I don’t want to be on this deck anymore. I’ve had agoraphobia before, just like sometimes I get social anxiety strong enough to keep me indoors for days. It’s on and off, but something about Evan’s embrace and seeing that suicidal railing has unleashed a slow panic.

  I can’t be out here. I need to be inside, where it’s safe.

  “I want to go inside.” And I push past him, not waiting.

  Evan follows me through the glass doors. His face is concerned.

  “Are you okay?” he asks once we’re inside, away from the whistling wind.

  “Fine.”

  He studies me. We’ve known each other for a while now. He knows he shouldn’t pry, even if it’s for my own good. Especially if it’s for my own good.

  He opens his mouth anyway. I stop him by putting a hand on his cheek.

  There’s no sound. No motion. Time stops. It’s dim in here — a computerized light setting Evan calls “Zen.”

  “Evan,” I say.

  He waits.

  “Can you do something for me? Without asking questions?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t ask me to elaborate. Don’t ask me why I’m asking. Just do it.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  His eyes have gone grave. This almost sounds like a prelude to one of my dumb jokes, but it’s very much not.

  “Please just tell me all is well. Tell me everything is okay. With me. With everything.”

  “Is something wr—”

  My finger presses his lips. “No questions.”

  Evan blinks, not understanding. I don’t blame him. The request doesn’t even make sense to me. I’m asking for blanket assurance — about everything in the world. But I don’t want to discuss this. I just want to hear reassuring words from my man’s lips, even if deep down I know they mean nothing.

  He waits another few seconds. He can tell I’m freaking out. Not because things are going wrong, but this time because things are going well.

  I can’t handle satisfaction.

  Delight only confuses me.

  “Everything is okay. I promise you, Becca. Everything is okay.”

  I close my eyes. Inexplicably, I want to cry. I feel my eyes water, not understanding this strange emotion. In his words, I hear:

  You aren’t broken, Becca.

  The world doesn’t hate you, Becca.

  You will make it through whatever this is, Becca.

  But most of all — and this one, I suspect he’s saying: I will make it okay in any way I can, even if you won’t tell me what’s wrong. I will fix it. I will protect you, even though you never requested my providence.

  A tear falls, pinched out by my closing eyelids.

  “Becca, what’s …?”

  I kiss him. It lingers.

  We pull apart. I see the track of my tear on his cheek — my pain transferred to him, like a crayon rubbing made by a child. I think he’ll ask again. Instead, he kisses me.

  Hands move. We shuffle backward, me pushing him and then him pushing me. I hit the bed, Evan atop me.

  He stands in front of me as I come up on my elbows. He undresses me in a rush as if this moment might shatter. I do the same to him, having to reach up because I’m sitting, ready to go for his belt.

  It’s not thirty seconds before we’re both naked, Evan rock hard as he lies beside me. His cock brushes my bare thigh as our hands explore higher — my fingers and palms caressing his stomach and chest, his hands on my breasts.

  He rolls me onto my back, his mouth on my tits, flicking my nipples with his tongue. His lips purse around one and then the other, licking, sucking, leaving trails of spit on my chest like a maniac’s roadmap.

  Then back to my mouth. To my face.

  He pulls back and looks at me, his palms on either side of my face. Like he’s studying me, wondering what damaged creature he’s captured and invited into his bed. I feel every bit of him, as his mind watches mine. We’re barely flesh. Just a pair of souls in congress, two sets of thoughts feeling animal magnetism.

  Who are you, Rebecca Presley? his gaze asks me.

  But the second passes and he’s kissing me again, holding me tenderly, one set of fingers under my hair while the other runs along my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder.

  He kisses down.

  Down.

  Across my breasts, my erect nipples.

  Across my belly.

  Down one leg, his fingers feather-light on my inner thigh. Then he crosses over to the other inner thigh, kissing and touching. He avoids my pussy on purpose. I feel myself throb, yearning to have his flesh on mine.

  His tongue crosses the chasm and finds me. It starts low, licks high. Flicks my clit. Then with his mouth still on me, a finger slides inside. I grip it like a cock, my entire lower half alive with electricity.

  Evan’s finger turns and hooks back. Presses a soft spot on the inside of my pussy that I didn’t even know was there — except that when he does, with his tongue on my clit, I come immediately, shouting across the empty and dark apartment.

  “Come up here,” I beg.

  He rises slowly, his mouth lingering along my body. He detours at my tits again, taking one in each hand, rubbing as the orgasm crashes below.

  “I want to be inside you,” he whispers.

  “I want you,” I reply.

  His breath on my ear: “I want my cock in your tight little pussy. I want to fuck you so bad, Becca.”

  “So fuck me.”

  “I want to fuck you until I come inside you.”

  “Fuck me, Evan.”

  But I can feel the smile on his lips. He’s toying with me. Making me wait on purpose.

  I reach between his legs, fondling his balls before taking his hot cock in my hand and pulling him forward. Spreading my legs wide, pressing its tip against my wet pussy lips. Dragging him in.

  Once the tip licks my folds, Evan drops his facade. I move my hands around to his ass to pull him tight, but he’s already entering me. Filling me up. I want to bite his neck as he slides inside, but I can only gasp.

  He thrusts. I focus on the feeling of Evan inside me, Evan leaving me. His cock thrills me. I’m already coming again.

  Faster.

  Then slower. I can tell he’s holding back. I can see the focus. But I’m on the cusp, about to come. Evan knows. He’s making me wait.

  “Come with me. Please, Becca. Come when I come inside you.”

  My eyes close. Open. I’m drowning.

  He comes. Me, too.

  Waves seem to roll over us, holding our breath until it passes.

  He doe
sn’t pull out. I don’t want him to.

  And eventually, I drift into a lazy sleep with Evan still inside me, full and finally complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  REBECCA

  THE NEXT DAY, AS HAPPENS with both nightmares and fears, I feel much better. Part of it is the sunlight — worries always seem so much more sinister in the gloom. But the rest is Evan. I hate to admit it, but the same thing that made me worry last night makes me feel safer now. I’m getting attached, and I know my history. I make poor choices. What at once seems right inevitably goes so wrong.

  Steve, writing me poetry then using my company money for hookers.

  I tell myself Evan is different. He cares about me. And what’s even more ridiculous: I believe it. This time it will be different. Despite the devil on my shoulder, I honestly feel that this time, things will work out.

  Evan believes in me. He liked my mind first and body second.

  He’s a man of his word.

  And look at me, working for my pay instead of receiving his money without conditions. I told him I don’t like to take things I haven’t earned — and Evan, perhaps recognizing the same thing inside himself, let me earn what LiveLyfe is giving me.

  Now that I’ve delved deep enough for long enough, my project fascinates me. Somehow Evan has created a culture that mimics his values. These people are barely “managed,” by any usual definition. I don’t see Office Space style bosses, lording over their inferiors with a coffee cup and demands for pointless ritual and paperwork. I see self-directed people. Folks who work hard without complaint, believe in the mission, and largely manage themselves.

  The company is huge, and yet every inch that I’ve seen — at least here in the Austin office — has Evan Cohen in its genes.

  And there are miracles to meet the effort.

  I met a custodian named Paul who likes to work overtime and not report it. He takes pride in clean offices that most would only take in their own home. He lifts coffee cups to put them on coasters while cleaning at night. He moves equipment to get behind it, and when I pointed out that nobody would even know, he said, “I will.”

  Last year, Paul had a heart attack. His insurance wouldn’t cover most of his hospital stay, claiming a pre-existing condition. But Paul told me that somehow, those bills got paid. He asked how it happened, and the hospital said it was a party who wished to remain anonymous.