The door opens. My father enters and again I’m struck by the change in him. He has more lines on his face since Mom split for the coast. His hair is grayer. He still has that tall, handsome look that older women appreciate, but to me it’s heartbreaking whenever I see him. For me, sarcasm’s a mask.
“You think that’s funny, joking about guys in here?”
“Pretty sure it is, Dad.”
“Not to a father.”
I sort of shrug and sigh at the same time. “I’m twenty. Don’t let this room fool you into thinking I’m still a little girl.”
“So this is a service you’re providing? Your jokes are meant to jostle me out of my complacency and acknowledge the fact that you’re now an adult?”
Sort of. Truth is, summer just started and I really have had guys in here already. They’ve literally gone out the window.
Well, one guy. Jean. It’s a girl’s name, but he’s hung like a helium tank, so I let it go. One of the miniature tanks. Not those five-foot-tall things that are as big around as a person. Because ouch.
“That’s right, Daddy.”
He cocks his head. Usually when I say “Daddy,” I’m trying to manipulate him out of something. Like his car (I ran into a big corner mailbox with mine) or his permission (because even though I’m an adult, I apparently need to check in if I want to stay out late and still be allowed to live in this house).
But the head-tilt goes away when I say nothing else, and he sits in my desk chair, across from the bed, just now noticing that I’m painting my toenails.
“Thought we could have a chat.”
“Okay,” I say. “Is it about the birds and the bees?”
He winces. I’m not at college anymore, so maybe I’d better knock off the sex jokes. I’m sure my dad likes to pretend I’m still a virgin. All fathers do. But really, fuck that.
Before Mom left, she worked for an accountant she loathed. Dad’s a home inspector, so he came and went, but pay was shit and he was always scrambling. Now he manages home inspectors instead of doing the inspections himself, but because his people work in questionable areas and are often annoyed by defects uncovered by the inspectors, Dad thought it prudent to post an office address that wasn’t his house. Now he’s a lot like Mom was: working long hours away from home, dealing with assholes, and never fulfilled.
This is what I have to look forward to when I become a full-fledged adult?
No, thanks. I’ll have fun a while longer.
“What are you going to do about your car, Jenna?”
I look out the window. It’s visible in the driveway, looking like a shark got its passenger side front corner. “Adore it?”
“How are you going to get it fixed, I mean?”
“Pray?”
“We talked about you getting a summer job.”
“Oh, yes. I remember how that discussion went.” I return to my nails. “Scintillating.”
“I’m not going to pay for it, Jenna. So if you want a car for next year …”
“Maybe I can get a bus pass.”
“How will you get to school?
“I’m sure Alex can come out and get me.”
“That’s gotta mean four extra hours for her to drive,” Dad says.
“She’s a giver.”
“What about your rent?”
“My scholarship has a housing stipend, remember?”
He’s running out of whatever this is he’s trying to say. “Well … what if you had to pay rent here?”
“But I don’t.”
“I have to pay the mortgage.”
“It’s paid off!”
“Jenna …”
“Daddy,” I mock.
He looks like he’ll protest. Instead he shifts on the chair. “How’s that boyfriend of yours?”
“Jean? He’s not really my boyfriend.”
“You sure seem to spend a lot of time with him, if he’s not your boyfriend.”
Truth is, Dad could put that in the past tense: I seemed to spend a lot of time with him. We’re broken up now, I guess. But I don’t want to tell Dad because “breaking up” implies we were once together, and that was never really the case. I didn’t want an exclusive commitment, or really any commitment at all. So what the hell; I gave him his freedom and he gave me mine. When we were together, we were together. We always used condoms. Better than making broken promises.
Like the kind my parents made to each other.
I shrug, attempting to close the whole Jean issue.
“Maybe we could have him over for dinner,” Dad says.
“I’m not really with him anymore.”
I feel a pang when my father’s face tinges with pity. He and Mom are both sure that their breakup has messed me up. That’s why I get all these questions with subtle double meanings. But I don’t like exploring whatever my parents think is brewing beneath my surface. I’m a sarcastic wiseass who loves to have fun. I drink before I’m old enough; I stay out late; I enjoy myself. What’s the harm?
“No big deal,” I say, to forestall my father’s inevitable concern.
“I worry about you, Pumpkin.”
“Don’t call me that, Dad.”
He shakes his head. His slow smile must have been a ladykiller when he and Mom met, but now it’s seasoned and makes me sad. I’m reminded of how everything changes in time. How everything ends, and all things decay.
“I can call you what I want. Father’s privilege.”
I don’t like where this is headed. Calling me by my childhood nickname? His soft, concerned voice? The declaration that he worries about me? I don’t want to have this talk. Not now, and maybe not ever.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m doing awesome.”
“You are.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I hear his doubt.
“What’s up, Dad? For real this time.”
He watches me, then says, “You’ve barely left this room since you came home, except to go out partying at night.”
“That’s what people my age do.”
“You don’t want to get a job. You don’t want to help out around the house.”
“You want me to vacuum or something? Just say so.”
“And here I thought you were with this boy, but now you’ve broken up.”
“Dad. It’s not like Jean was my long-lost soulmate. We were just …” I trail off, because I can’t finish that sentence the way I was going to, which was having sex with no strings attached. Instead I offer my father something safe: “Hanging out.”
“Were you seeing anyone back at college?”
“Oh. Wow. We’re about to have a Massengill moment, aren’t we?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my daughter.”
Dirty trick.
“I’d really rather not talk about it right now. Okay?”
“Maybe later.”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe then, we can talk about a job, too.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know what he’s doing. He thinks I’m hiding my depression. He thinks the divorce has shattered my worldview, seeing as I grew up believing my parents were the perfect couple. I only learned during the past year that it was all a lie, that they were toughing it out until I went off to school and they could finally be rid of each other.
I asked Mom about it once, when she was still living at home but the writing was already covering the wall. She said a lot of things, but the one I keep coming back to — probably because it seemed so inappropriate for a mother to tell her daughter about her father — was the idea that Dad didn’t satisfy her. She didn’t use those words, but that’s how I took it. He’s still handsome, I think, and he made good money when they met. Dad is kind and considerate, always looking out for other people. By all definitions, I figured he was quite the catch. But Mom kept saying that she “didn’t have enough fun” when she was young and still could have.
I was a teenager when she t
old me, but I still knew that was a sexual answer, about wild oats and the lack of their sowing.
If this great man wasn’t good enough to spend her life with, who could be?
And by extension, yes (sorry Dad), the whole “divorce thing” made me think about myself in ways that neither of them intended. I’ve been with guys and gotten to the point where maybe things could get serious, but then I think about what Mom said. I’m young now. I can have fun. But even when I’m older, why should that change? Mom was bored in her marriage; why should I choose that path for me? Why should I be in a relationship if the endgame is to end up semi-miserable, stuck with the same guy my entire life?
Everything Dad is talking about — my unwillingness to get off my ass and find the money to fix my car, my disinterest in a job, my unwillingness to do some work around the house to earn my keep, and of course my disinterest in sticking with Jean or anyone else — centers on one thing.
He thinks I’m in a funk, refusing to take control because why bother.
He thinks he and Mom have ruined me, and that I don’t particularly feel like committing to anything.
And in a way, he’s right. Responsibility sucks.
Being tied down — to anything — sucks.
I’m twenty. Guys tell me I’m pretty. I get a lot of attention now, which I won’t get forever. Why shouldn’t I enjoy it? Especially during my summer, without schoolwork to burden me?
But I validate his coming in with a simple, “Sure, Dad.” And although I don’t feel it, I force a smile.
He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Love you, Pumpkin.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
He sighs again and heads for the door. Before he’s all the way out, he stops and seems to remember something, then he half-turns and reaches into his pocket. “Almost forgot. Someone called for you.”
My eyes go to my cell. “What, on the house phone?”
He hands me a slip of paper with a name and number in his familiar scrawl .
I look at it, tumbling back down a forgotten rabbit hole.
And my father, not able to see the way my thoughts are starting to spin, turns to look at me fully. “She sure sounded like you’d know who she was. So who is this Alyssa Galloway?”
CHAPTER THREE
JENNA
I TELL MY FATHER I have no idea. Then I toss the scrap of paper onto my desk, into the middle of a snowdrift of similar crumpled papers, as if it means nothing. He offers me a final “Talk soon,” then respectfully closes the door.
I know my father’s schedule by now, and know that our little talk was as he was on his way out. So I stay where I am for another five minutes, touching up my toenail polish but barely feeling the brush in my hand, until I hear the garage door open. I listen as he backs out onto the street, then peek through the blinds to watch him drive away.
Only then do I go for the scrap of paper with Alyssa Galloway’s number, snatching it up urgently. Dad said she called an hour ago, but that he forgot all about it while he was getting ready. She didn’t say what she wanted, just respectfully asked Dad to have me give her a call when convenient.
Of course, I only know one Alyssa Galloway.
I met her once in person, then talked to her on the phone another two or three times. We’re hardly pals. Our single “meeting” was little more than an exchange of names, and I was sure at the time that she wasn’t even listening to mine. Alyssa was dressed like a stockbroker and, although a lot of guys look my way, I felt inadequate in her shadow. Alyssa is tall, but her presence is larger than life. A university president and a billionaire were in the room at the time, but in my mind Alyssa shone brightest. If anyone was in control of that meeting, it was the woman with the hard eyes and cover-model features.
It was a meeting between Galloway’s client, Ashton Moran, and our university’s president and athletic director. Our aim was to bring Moran’s athletic apparel to our college teams, and we were only there because the organization had tossed us three dumb kids a bone out of hesitant courtesy. My friend Corey had somehow managed to arrange the whole thing. Once he got the two parties shaking hands, his role was technically over, but still they let him watch, and bring his friends for moral support: my friend Alexandria and me. We were three amigos with no business in the meeting. Everyone kept trying not to stare; I’m sure they were wondering why we wouldn’t leave.
I remember Ashton Moran most of all. He might have been the most holistically attractive man I’ve ever met. He wore a jet black suit that fit him perfectly, a fat black tie, and a black-and-white striped pocket square fluffed up to look almost like a flower. He had a lean, angular face; dark, wavy hair; and big hands with a strong grip. I melted a little just seeing the way he surveyed the room like a hawk.
I learned later that that was how many women felt upon meeting Ashton Moran, and guessed that he had so many notches in his bedposts from his high-class conquests that they must be practically sawn through.
Galloway called me later that week. She said that Moran — who’d looked at me like shit on his shoe when we met — wondered if I’d be interested in dinner. I couldn’t answer at first. Only the fact that she’d called on my attached-to-the-wall dorm room phone (maybe because it was a number she could look up) saved me from a face plant.
My friend Alex talked me out of going, convincing me that Moran was bad news — and not just bad news, but horrible news in ways she refused to explain. I trust her, so I called it off.
But I’ve thought about it ever since, and I’m thinking about it now.
I realize I’m still gazing mindlessly out at the street. Without thinking, I reach up and close the blinds.
I lay down on my bed and close my eyes.
The familiar dream returns as I slide my hand down my belly and into my panties.
But this time I’m awake.
And now I can enjoy the fantasy.
CHAPTER FOUR
JENNA
IN MY FANTASY, I ARRIVE for dinner at Ashton Moran’s mansion to find him in the same black suit he wore when I first shook his hand. He doesn’t rise when I enter. He’s not even at a table set for dinner. Instead he’s in a chair, all chrome and black leather. His hands are propped on the arms, one idly swirling an Old Fashioned glass stacked with ice and brown liquor. The chair is in the middle of a richly appointed room of my mind’s own design. I’ve never seen photos of the inside of Moran’s house, though not for lack of trying.
I have an Ashton folder on my laptop, full of publicity shots and paparazzi candids. I’ve shown it to no one. I keep it hidden. It’s mine and mine alone.
But in this rich man’s room, Ashton sits in his chair with his arms uncrossed, feet flat in shiny black shoes, hands on the chair arms, ice slowly spinning in his glass. A king on a throne, his dark eyes watching me enter. He says nothing. This feels staged, as if he’s concocted this room like a set to intimidate me.
My hard outer shell has failed me. My confidence is gone. I’m standing in the doorway. The lights are dim. Ashton’s area is sunken by three long steps, its floor covered in a crimson carpet. I’m maybe two feet above him, standing in tall white heels. My dress screams innocence. Long brown hair brushes my shoulders. I should have worn it up. I should have had the courtesy, under Moran’s piercing stare, to dress for the occasion.
I shouldn’t be here.
He takes a sip of his drink. “Why are you here?”
“You invited me.”
“Why would I invite you?”
I feel dumb. But this is how the dream always unfolds, so with my real world hand sliding lower, my eyes closed in my real world bed, I repeat the play that’s been offered: I’m standing in front of Moran, lost, wondering if I’m stupid enough to have made a mistake. It’s all a misunderstanding. A man this rich and powerful has no use for a plain girl like me.
“I … I’m sorry,” I stammer.
I turn to go and hear his voice behind me. “I asked you a question.”
&nb
sp; “I must have made a mistake.”
Moran finally stands. Slowly, as if my time means nothing, he walks to the bar, sets down his glass, then picks up an immaculate gray towel and wipes a drip from the edge.
He replaces the towel exactly as it was and rotates the glass, aligning it atop a stone coaster.
Then he crosses to me, just as slowly. “Why would I invite you?”
It’s not rhetorical. He wants me to answer.
But before I can get a word out, Ashton has pinched the waist of my plain white dress between the fingers of both hands. He pulls slowly upward. The garment rises, its lower hem climbing my calves.
I move my hands to cover myself, realizing in horror that I’ve forgotten underwear; I’m naked beneath. But before my hands cover the space between my legs, he fixes me with an impossible stare. He wants me to keep my hands where they are, so that he can see.
The dress rises the rest of the way. My breasts are bare. They bounce as the dress comes off, dragging a waterfall of my hair with it. The hair settles, along with my breasts. I’m now clad only in heels.
Ashton tosses the garment aside and looks me over. “Why?” he repeats.
“To … to have dinner.”
“Lay on the rug.” He points.
It’s a dream but my heart is beating like a bass drum. I don’t question this man. I want to do as he says.
“Spread your legs.”
Glancing down, I’m embarrassed to see that the mound between my legs has blushed pink. I feel cold, in counterpoint to the warmth, and realize the air in the room is evaporating the wetness on my pussy. I’m drenched, and don’t even remember getting turned on.
Ashton kneels. He takes a thick, expensive-looking pillow and shoves it under my ass, propping my hips up in a half-bridge. He looks down at my pussy, which must have opened a little. I can feel my pulse. It’s maddening not to touch it.
He unbuckles his pants, unbuttons, and undoes the fly. Then he pushes everything down and I see his rock-hard cock, thick and throbbing. He idly pumps it, making the end pulse in time with my yearning pussy.
“What,” Moran asks again, “would I ever ask you to come here for?”
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul Page 2