“Does that mean you’re interested?” I ask.
“So we would just go out on dates?”
I look at Alyssa. We talked this part out. I’m a lot more interested if I get to fuck Jenna instead of putting on a show. But I don’t have to spell it out now.
“Right,” Alyssa says.
“Can I tell my dad?”
“That you’re dating, yes. Not that it’s arranged, or any of the other specifics we’ve discussed. But we’d actively ask you to tell your father that you’re with Ashton Moran. Same for your friends.”
“Just dating?”
“We need to present an appearance. We want to keep asking, If you were really in a relationship, what would you do? You’d need to be seen going in and out of Ashton’s homes for sure. Maybe we can send you on vacation together.”
“Do I need to introduce him to my parents?”
I bristle. I understand that the women are hashing this out, but she’s talking like I’m not here, and that’s not something I’m used to or appreciate. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” Alyssa says, contradicting me with an almost apologetic look that says she knows how much I hate her doing it. “If you were going out for six months in a real relationship, you’d introduce him to your parents.”
Jenna’s quiet for a moment. I’m sure she’s wondering something like, Do I have to lie to them, and pretend through some long family dinner that I’m smitten?
Yes, of course. But if things go as I expect, I’ll have her wrapped around my finger anyway. Jenna will know it’s a job. But she’ll also know how good I can make her feel.
“So I guess I’ll need to meet Ashton’s parents, too.”
I answer without pause, and this time Alyssa doesn’t get in my way. “No matter how long we ‘go out,’ nobody — including my parents — would expect that particular introduction.”
Another long pause. Then Jenna says, “I’ll think about it.”
Alyssa says goodbye, but I don’t.
She’s going to think about it? She has a chance to live a life beside me for a while, with all the perks, both personal and pleasurable — going where no woman has ever gone before. And No is an option?
Fuck that bitch.
“That went well, don’t you think?” Alyssa ask when we’ve hung up.
But from where I’m standing the answer is No.
Not at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ASHTON
THINGS ARE NO BETTER THE next day, when I arrive for our meeting. Alyssa even puts “meeting” in air quotes because if things go well, this will serve as a public event and a business negotiation: the moment, on our fake relationship’s timeline, where we “meet.”
I question this decision. In the bullshit story Alyssa’s trying to paint for my public image, it should be love at first sight. But it won’t be, and anyone who sees us will know it.
I spend the evening becoming increasingly angry at this girl’s gall. It doesn’t matter how hot I thought she was when we met, or how hard my dick got when Alyssa lined up that dinner months ago, which was just a fancy excuse to get the girl on her knees.
I’m now obsessed with the two times this little cunt has rejected me. She cancelled our dinner, which made my missed opportunity to fuck her more of a blue balls thing than it should’ve been. I was preoccupied with her for a while after that, and I admit that her turning me down was a curious sort of turn-on. Women line up to bend over these days, so I’ve not been rejected since high school.
Jenna made me stalk her online, running through her hundreds of photos on LiveLyfe. Her albums are all sexier than she realizes, including a battery of her in tiny bikinis on white sandy beaches. I about rubbed myself raw over her for a week, lost in vivid mental scenarios, mostly culminating in me coming all over her face, just to show the girl who the fuck was boss.
And now she had to “think about it.” There was no immediate yes, despite her clearly wanting me. She called back a few hours later so that she and Alyssa could arrange this little meet-up at the motherfucking zoo, but still there were those hours of denial.
Hours when I may or may not have jerked off to Jenna’s photos again.
I told Alyssa to get me some girls. At least three. Bisexuals. With big fake tits.
I wanted them to lay one on top of the other, legs spread, stacked like pancakes, so I could fuck them up and down like choosing records from a jukebox. But Alyssa said no — if I wanted to get laid so badly on the eve of my grand public love story, I could go to a bar and get bitches my goddamn self.
As if I’d go to a bar.
So here I am, in a fucking food court, sitting in a zebra-striped chair that feels like it might collapse beneath me. I bought a drink so I wouldn’t look overly conspicuous sitting here, and I have my tablet like Alyssa suggested, so I can pretend that I’m at the zoo to read alone — like I would ever do that.
This isn’t remotely believable. I live — part-time — in a $16M mansion with three pools and have a downtown penthouse with a helicopter on the roof, but I read at the zoo? I’m the force behind a cutting-edge clothing company and have made every Best Dressed list worth reading for three years straight, and this — jeans and a fitted tee — is how I go out in public?
I don’t care if Alyssa says that people don’t go to the zoo in cashmere. I feel like a fool, waiting for this bitch who thinks she’s too good for me — this bitch who’s already five minutes late, and wasting my time.
But Alyssa, when I text her profanity-laden messages, keeps saying: It’s not about what’s believable. It’s about what people want to believe.
And no shit, Sherlock. People want to believe billionaires fall in love with everyday women. It’s hardly news, but I resent having to come here and participate in the lie.
Another five minutes pass. I text Alyssa that Jenna isn’t going to show … and that I’m not interested if this is how little respect she has for my time. I can get tail anywhere, much more easily than this.
Alyssa texts back, Can you double your net worth more easily than this?
I don’t satisfy her with a reply. Instead I stew for another five minutes.
At 2:16 — now over a quarter-hour past our scheduled time — a drink smacks onto the table in front of me. It’s not a soda like mine. It’s a coffee from Hill of Beans, and this place doesn’t even have one.
I look up and see Jenna. I don’t know if it’s fury clouding my perception, or what, but she’s at least a hundred times hotter than I remember. Her features could have been crafted by a makeup company specifically to sell their products: wide, full lips; a narrow, delicate nose; soft brown eyes; and full, dark eyelashes that almost look fake but clearly aren’t.
She has thin eyebrows that slope slightly downward — partially because her face is naturally exotic, and partially because she’s so clearly pissed. Her hair is brown and flowing, full of shine and bounce, brushed with subtle highlights. She’s wearing a plain white tee with a light brown jacket and jeans, scuffed boot tips visible below the bottom hem.
An inexpensive look — one that nobody in my circles would wear — but not cheap. She’s done the best with what she has for sure. I force myself not to stare at the place where her shirt is just tight enough to intermittently reveal the outline of her bra.
“I see you didn’t get me anything.” She looks at my drink and the otherwise empty table. She’s curt. Obnoxious. Despite being late, she seems to be mad at me for some reason.
“Maybe I could get you a watch.”
“Maybe I could get you a map,” she snaps back.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“I’ve been waiting forever. I got there early to be polite, figuring you might have done the same.” She shoves her purse under the seat. It hits the table leg and my drink shakes, making ripples move across the surface. “Guess not.”
“You’ve been waiting for me? I’ve been right here, waiting for you.”
She rolls her eyes.
“We were supposed to meet at the south cabana. South. It’s right here in Alyssa’s email.” She holds her phone to show me, but I’m not interested in reading anything on command. Her iPhone case is pink and studded with rhinestones. Like a little fucking girl: cheap and ridiculous.
“She told me the one by the entrance.”
“Yes. The south entrance.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know that? There’s an entrance right there.”
Jenna looks over my shoulder and out the window, then rolls her eyes harder. I want to grab her, smack that annoying, condescending look right off her gorgeous face. She’s looking at the gate, and my Maserati (the cobalt blue one) is right behind it. I know what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth, and knowing pisses me off even more, because there’s no rebuttal in sight.
“The service entrance? The one where you can park your fancy ride without some minivan of the masses dinging the paint?”
“Yes,” I say, knowing I’m fighting a futile battle, but unable to let it go.
“Us normal people use the big entrance. The one that’s open to the public. That has ticket booths and turnstiles. The one with … oh, I don’t know … the giant parking lot?”
I look away, stewing. Of course she’s right, but fuck admitting that. I never park in the usual places, take the normal ways, or enter anywhere through the front door if I don’t want to.
“Well, whatever. I guess we should get on with it.”
“What exactly are we supposed to get on with? Alyssa said you talked through all of the terms and signed the contract.”
“With meeting each other.”
“Fine. Met.”
We sit without speaking for a minute. I’m looking one way and she’s looking the other. Our arms are crossed.
I want to leave and call this experiment a failure but I keep hearing Alyssa in my head, yelling about company profits. I feel like she’s watching. As if she’s across the big flamingo pond with a pair of binoculars, eavesdropping with a parabolic mic.
Jenna stirs. Sips her coffee.
I keep sneaking looks. Because there’s clearly something wrong with me: the angrier I get, the more I’m attracted to Jenna.
Well, at least to her face and body. Her personality is still reprehensible. She’s immature, spiteful, righteous, entitled. I don’t like the way she seems to think she’s too good for this, despite having already signed the docs.
But her face is impossibly beautiful. I’ve been with lots of tens, and Jenna makes them look like burn victims. Her legs are long and crossed, and that top limb, with its narrow boot sticking out from the bottom, keeps bouncing like an angry cat swishing its tail. Her crossed arms are pushing the shirt against her tits. I’m licking whipped cream off of them in my mind, twisting her nipples until she screams.
My phone buzzes. It’s Alyssa: Did she show up yet? Are you sure you’re at the south cabana?
Goddammit.
I look at Jenna. Then I look away. “So. The zoo.”
“Yes. The zoo.”
“I’ve never been here.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“So, what? You’re just going to be a bitch?”
“I’m not being a bitch. I’m stating that your statement was fascinating. Just like everything about you.”
I’ve heard things like that said as compliments, but this clearly isn’t one. Jenna’s mocking me. Calling me arrogant and self-absorbed.
“I suppose you go to the zoo all the time?” I say.
“Because I grew up poor?”
“I’m just asking a goddamn question.”
“Well, here’s my goddamn answer: Yes. Me and my goddamn parents have been here before.”
“Why are you so pissed off?”
“I’m not pissed off. I’m having a blast.”
Her leg bobs. Her lips part as she sighs. I want to stick my tongue between them, just like I want to stick my hand between her legs.
“Just because I went to the wrong cabana, that’s no reason to—”
“Oh, so you did go to the wrong cabana? You do make mistakes?”
I glare at her, gritting my teeth. “Maybe we should start over.”
“Fine.”
But fuck her. Rather than responding, I wait for her to start us over.
She does. “I don’t suppose you looked at any of the exhibits before coming here?”
“I walked by the elephants,” I say.
“I saw that. Cramped.”
“Well, at least they get peanuts.”
Another thirty seconds pass. I can feel eyes on us. Alyssa’s goal, but turning out all wrong. We’re supposed to be adorably running into each other for the first time. If we’re lucky and someone recognizes me, our story will be off to a profitable start. But right now we look like opposing generals on a battlefield.
“You know,” Jenna says, “zoos are basically prisons for animals.” Then she glares at me. As if that’s somehow my fault.
I finally snap. “What’s your fucking problem? You agreed to this.” Then, lower: “Made a fortune, too.”
She grabs her purse, then stands and makes for the exit.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Heads turn, hearing my half-shout. But Jenna ignores me and hits the doors, slowing only enough to push them open.
Then she’s gone.
A fat family of lowlifes is looking right at me, accusation in their beady little eyes.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” I growl.
My phone buzzes again: a reminder ring for Alyssa’s unanswered text.
“Bitch.” I stand, knowing I’m required to follow.
The family continues to stare until I’m out the door.
I’m sure they resume eating their shitty zoo food, taking a break from their tiny little day touring the animal prison.
CHAPTER NINE
JENNA
I’M SO STUPID.
LAST NIGHT, I was so conflicted. I literally had no idea how to feel, and this despite twenty years’ experience with human emotions. This — this stew of weird feelings I had after my first talk with Ashton and Alyssa — was entirely new.
It got worse after I called Alyssa back, asking for terms, more or less frantic to sign whatever she wanted to shove my way. I was suddenly sure I’d miss out. I needed a job; I needed to stop sitting around in a semi-depression about my parents’ divorce. This was a job, and a damn good one judging by our agreed-upon pay. And there’d be the bonus, however awkward it might be, of telling Dad I was dating. Two birds, one stone — no matter how insensible and wrong it all felt.
I had to try three times. Twice, I got halfway through then deleted the digits. The third time, it rang, but I didn’t wait for an answer. I called Alex after that, thinking this must be how it feels when an alcoholic calls her sponsor.
Alex? I need your help. My sobriety is being threatened. I’m feeling tempted by a hot rich guy who wants to pay me a ton of money to hang out in his limo and private plane and lounge by his many pools for the next half a year. Talk me down. Tell me to breathe deeply, think of my Steps, and find a meeting.
Instead of blabbing like a crazy person, I asked Alex why she made me break off the thing with Ashton this spring. She wouldn’t tell me, just kept saying, “Trust me. He’s bad news.”
“But why? Is he just an asshole? I can handle assholes.”
“It’s more than that. He’s … involved in something.”
“What?”
Alex sounded like she was keeping a secret she wanted to tell me. “Just … something with other billionaires.”
“With Nathan?” I was referring to Nathan Turner, the billionaire we already have in common. It’s an odd thought, but true: we now have two billionaires between us.
“It’s Nathan’s thing. But Ashton …”
“What is it, Jenna?”
“Sort of a club.”
“What kind of a club?”
“It’s
just …” More reticence. “It’s really not relevant. I shouldn’t say. It’s not my business.”
“But you told me to stay away from him!”
“I just think that …” Sigh. “Okay. Look. I’ll put it this way. Moran is always playing an angle. Always. Whatever he says he’s up to, Nathan believes that he’s always looking for more. He wants to ‘win’ everything, Jenna, in the worst way. He’s an incredible narcissist. He doesn’t care who he steamrolls over, because Ashton is all that matters.”
I bugged her for more details, but she gave nothing.
I scanned the contract for clues. It was full of legalese, but I couldn’t find anything more sinister than what we’d agreed to already. Then I did some research, and soon I was looking at photos. There were some of Moran running, shirtless. One thing led to another. Fantasies happened.
When I was done, I felt more conflicted than ever.
But now, storming away from the zoo’s north cabana, I feel like an idiot.
I arrived early, expectant like a giddy schoolgirl. I was sure he’d show up early, because rich people are focused and know the stakes of every transaction. This felt like a big one, and of course he’d want to make a good impression. But minutes ticked by, and my heightened state of expectation was exhausting to maintain.
I watched the clock.
I got a cup of coffee.
It was still five minutes early when my nerves finally broke, and Alex’s warnings clanged inside my head.
He’s an incredible narcissist.
He doesn’t care who he steamrolls over, because Ashton is all that matters.
I got out my phone, flipped through some images and articles, then found a tabloid post from a few years back announcing that Ashton Moran, confirmed bachelor, was in a relationship. I followed that thread, now searching Forage results including both Ashton and the name of this woman who seemed so smitten with him.
Whatever the tabloids thought, it didn’t last long. A few weeks, if that. It was hot and heavy. There were paparazzi photos, their limbs all tangled — a few with Ashton’s head turned toward the camera, as if ensuring he was seen. Then at the end of the trail were a few snippets from the jilted woman, her words about the billionaire soaked in pain and vitriol.
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul Page 4