Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul

by Aubrey Parker

“Doing what?”

  “Administrative stuff,” I say, realizing in a panic that if it’s not behind-the-scenes job, he’ll come to see me with the animals, then ask for a backstage tour. “Not even inside the zoo itself. They have an office down on LeGrange.”

  He watches me for a moment, his face twisting into happy confusion. “That’s … that’s great, Honey.”

  I smile and mount the steps, needing to move past him and out of this conversation. My father’s pride, in the face of my lie, is hard to take.

  “Jean called.”

  I look at my purse. Obviously Dad means the house phone. I don’t understand why everyone calls it instead of my cell, but Jean’s known me since I lived here full-time, since before I carried a phone in my purse. He gets the numbers mixed up, and I don’t think he’s ever slowed down enough to add me to his contacts and finally solve the problem.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He wants you to call him back.”

  I’m rummaging in my purse. Jean and I have a fuck-for-fuck sort of relationship. I think we’d both already decided that things were over, so he must have been mortified when Dad answered.

  Um, hello, Mr. Green. Nice to speak with you again, sir. Listen — I’ve changed my mind and decided I’d like to keep putting my penis inside your daughter’s vagina. Can you let her know I booty-called?

  And sure enough, when I find my phone I see that I’ve missed a call from Jean. “Okay, thanks.”

  “He’s rough around the edges, but I think he’s mostly an okay kid.”

  I smile. “An ‘okay kid’? Thanks, Dad. Such a ringing endorsement.”

  Dad shrugs as if to say, Well, sure, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go. And I get it. Jean’s biggest ambitions involve his dick and his moped. Not motorcycle — moped.

  “I’m just saying that if he was a … you know … summer romance?”

  I flinch.

  “Then I guess I’d be okay with it.”

  Not if you knew what Jean always wanted to do with your baby girl.

  “Really. So: dating advice from my father?”

  He sighs. “You deserve someone, honey. Someone who treats you right.”

  Not Jean, then. His idea of dinner out is buying two hot dogs from a cart.

  “I’m okay, Dad.”

  “It’s just that with the divorce, sometimes I worry that—”

  “It’s fine, Dad.”

  “That happens with children, though. Parents are the role models, and when a marriage falls apart, sometimes the kids get the idea that all relationships end in heartbreak and it stops them from—”

  “I’m twenty, Dad. It’s okay. I love you, but you don’t need to worry about being my role model anymore. I’m a big girl. I can think for myself.”

  I say it off the cuff, half serious and half as a joke. I mean to assuage his worry and guilt, but I seem to rub a sore spot instead. His face changes, and I know my words missed their mark. Unintentionally, I’ve just said that I no longer need him — that his job, as my mentor and protector, is done.

  He gives me a sad little press-lipped smile, as if he’s trying to be strong. That’s when it hits me. I look at my father and feel my heart hurt. It wasn’t long ago when he and I played in the park on most Saturdays, when he was my world and the only man I’d ever truly care about. Now his wife is gone and I no longer need him. He must feel used up, dried-out like an old discarded husk.

  Without preamble or explanation, I bend down and wrap him in a hug. There’s beer on his breath. Not a lot. Dad doesn’t get drunk, just drinks to still the demons. For the first time I see the depth of his artifice. He wasn’t pretending to be casual while worrying about me this afternoon on the porch. He’s been pretending to be casual while worrying for years, and I’m only seeing it now.

  I squeeze him hard. “I love you, Daddy.”

  Looking surprised, he says, “Well … I love you too, Pumpkin.”

  I straighten up. “I don’t want you to worry about me. Think about you for a change. You can go back to worrying about me later, if you really start to miss it. But right now, you really need to focus on you. Deal?”

  He laughs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Jenna. You’re so sweet, sometimes you don’t see the way men take advantage of you.”

  My ears perk up at the word men. I can see the mistake on his face. He meant to say the way people take advantage of you, but now what’s really on his mind is obvious to us both. Dad thinks I’m prettier than I am, because he’s my father. And he thinks that pretty girls always get taken advantage of by guys who want to see them naked. He thinks I’m naive, that I wouldn’t know if a man just wanted me for sex.

  I let him off the hook. Rather than quarreling over this oft-argued point about my naiveté (I don’t feel I have any, but Dad’s sure that I do), I repeat what I said a moment ago, but stronger. “Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I smile and enter the house. I love my daddy, but I no longer need his protection. I’m not naive.

  I’d know when someone was using me — and, in the case of Ashton Moran, I’d find a way to get paid.

  I’m beyond having my heart broken. I’m immune.

  You have to open up for that, and right now? I’m not remotely interested.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JENNA

  I DON’T CALL JEAN BACK.

  His message is as bland as he is. Jean always struck me as a lot of fun, and for a while we enjoyed each other. But now — maybe because of my chat with Dad — I suddenly realize how truly blah the boy is.

  We used to go to the movies and make out. We’d go to dinner somewhere shitty, where service was fast, so we could move past dinner and start making out. Sometimes we’d get really crazy and do something like mini golf. That was always good for getting down.

  But Jean himself? The guy has nothing going on. It’s almost like my father’s tacit endorsement has brought this all into focus — a veritable boon of approval for the power of reverse psychology.

  Jean still lives with his parents, with grand plans to move out eventually. He’s a temp — a job that’s unstable by nature. He’s never made more than twelve bucks an hour, and did that schlepping packages in a boiling hot warehouse. His idea of a good time is getting with his buddies for beers. And hey, I can come along if I want, because he didn’t mind or anything.

  I have to wonder, as I list his faults, if I’m really this messed up. I was on-again and off-again with Jean for years, letting myself act as his go-to more than usual, justifying it by telling myself that it was me using him, rather than the other way around.

  And yeah, I suppose we used each other. But the other day Dad asked if Jean and I were headed somewhere as a couple and today he said that Jean was more or less okay. But that isn’t true, and I see it now.

  Dad’s permission turned me against the idea of being with Jean — am I that hardwired to rebel?

  Jean’s message asks if I’d like to hang out at the bowling alley, then “you know, maybe stay out late.”

  I look at the phone for a long time after his message ends, wondering if this is how I’ve lived my life. It seems impossible, but I remember it all. I made those “dates” with Jean. I thought they were fine. I thought he was fine.

  And I wondered why I never found any good guys at college. At least I had the sense to see most of my choices for what they were — one-hit wonders, good for curing current ailments. As long as I was making conscious choices, it was all okay.

  But, alone in my room, I wonder.

  I miss my mom. I could go see her, but she should be here.

  And I miss my dad, too. He’s right outside, but different now.

  Most of all, I miss our family. I miss the unshakable certainty that came with the childlike faith I once had in my life. Mom and Dad would always be together. Their marriage was one of the good ones. And I was sure, because they hid their problems so well.

  I wonder if they, as reluctant role models, still h
ad the power to affect me at age nineteen, when they delivered the terrible news.

  And I realize they did.

  This makes me sad, but it’s a diffuse, confused sort of sorrow. More like a feeling of nostalgia. A change in my life that I’m probably not ready for.

  Now I’m an adult. I’ve moved past the Jeans of this world. I don’t want a fly-by-night relationship with some loser who’s “maybe good enough.”

  I realize with a lonely chill that deep down, I don’t want a relationship.

  Not now. Or Ever.

  Dad’s worries hit the bullseye, but he doesn’t need to fret. No one can hurt me if I don’t let them. I’m not ready to trade Jean for Prince Charming, then settle down with a nice little family. I’ve put my money where my mouth is on a different type of trade instead.

  Not for Prince Charming.

  But for Ashton Moran.

  I think about that, wondering if it’s too late to stop this thing. If I go through with what Ashton and his PR demon have in mind, I’ll be telling myself that I’ve given up. There’s no point in saving myself for a better man, so I’ll sell myself to one instead.

  But is that really so terrible?

  I’ll have lots of passionate sex with a smoking hot guy. We’ve already broken that seal; our next encounters will curl my toes. There will be ungodly pleasure. He’ll lavish me with luxury. They’re paying me a fortune by my standards. So what’s the downside?

  My phone rings. I almost drop it.

  It’s Alyssa Galloway.

  “Jenna? How are you? Did your meeting with Ashton go well? He told me he went to the wrong cabana and that you were sort of angry.”

  “It’s …” Why is my heart beating so hard? I choke then swallow. “It was no big deal.”

  “So it went well?”

  I have no idea what, if anything, Ashton might have told her. For all Alyssa knows, this is a business transaction. She knows him well, so she probably assumes he’d come on to me, but I also got this reluctantly respectful vibe from Alyssa — almost as if she felt I was a match for his arrogance, and might be able to resist his advances.

  I feel a sudden need to hide the truth. I want to look Alyssa in the eye and validate her respect. And, I suspect, look myself in the eye the same way.

  He didn’t just use you. You used him, too.

  But then I hear his voice, as we parted.

  I’m going to shove my cock down your throat. And you’re going to love it.

  I fight a chill. My pussy tingles with the memory.

  “Yes,” I say. “It went well.”

  “Did you just talk it out?”

  “Talk what out?”

  “You know. Getting to know each other.”

  “Oh. Sure. Yeah, we got to know each other.”

  “I think you two are similar, at least according to your LiveLyfe profiles.”

  “How so?”

  “The movies and music you list. They’re some of Ashton’s favorites.”

  “Oh. Yes. Very similar.”

  “He’s better one-on-one, isn’t he?”

  “How so?”

  “He lowers some of his facade.” I can almost hear her shrug.

  “Yes. He sure does.” But I don’t know what Alyssa means. There was no “letting down of a facade” as far as I saw. Ashton was a Grade-A fucker at the zoo. Literally.

  “Anyway, he said he’s good to proceed. Ashton, I mean.”

  “There was a chance it might not?”

  “Don’t worry, Jenna. We wouldn’t try to stiff you on the deposit. You’d get that money either way. Cost of doing business. And we wanted you to feel secure. You’re getting paid in part to keep the secret. But he wants to go ahead. He wants me to start scheduling interviews, for the two of you together.”

  I’m reeling a little. I guess I should have read my contract, but it was all a blur, and I keep feeling like they used cult recruitment tactics when getting me to sign — nobody home, no need to have anyone look at the contract or NDA.

  This is news to me, though I’m sure it’s all in black and white. This afternoon was a test, for the two of us to meet and greet. I get a deposit either way, but I was only going to get the full payment if Ashton approved me.

  I guess he did.

  I’m a little afraid, given what happened, by the precedent I’ve set.

  I’m going to shove my cock down your throat. And you’re going to love it.

  But remembering Ashton’s words, and every nuance of our encounter, sets my mind on fire. It’s obviously wrong, what I’m agreeing to do, but — God help me — I’m in no rush to back out.

  If he wants me, I think I might be all too willing to let him have me. And to have him, too.

  “So,” I say, trying to make my voice into a chuckle, “I guess I passed?”

  “He said you seem great.”

  Great? What does that mean? Is Alyssa aware of the subtext behind our greatness, and why Ashton’s so on board? Or is he keeping that secret, pretending to put his faith in market share and publicity, dollars and sense?

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Not really. Why? What else did you have in mind?”

  Oh, I just wondered if he said anything about fucking me in public.

  “Nothing. I just don’t know how this sort of thing works.”

  Alyssa makes a little satisfied hmm. “So. What about you?”

  What about me?

  “Are you still on board?”

  Jesus. Of course. If our meeting was a test for Ashton to see if he got along with me and wanted to do this for real, that means it’d obviously be a test for me to see if I liked him, too.

  But I didn’t like Ashton at all.

  We make a terrible, unbelievable couple. We’ll never pass the media’s sniff test. Even if we did, the man is reprehensible. An arrogant, conceited, obnoxious, self-important asshole. On an intellectual, logical level, I never want to see that dickhead again. What we did behind the shed wasn’t an act of affection, chemistry, or lust. It was an act of hate.

  I hated him and he hated me, so the only thing to do was to strip down and get dirty.

  You like it dirty, don’t you? You like it rough?

  I’ve never liked to talk dirty. I’ve never liked it rough. Those things came from his ego. I’m practically a victim.

  If I can still get out of this, I absolutely have to. Thank God it’s not too late.

  “Of course I’m still on board,” I say.

  My father doesn’t want me to get hurt, but I seem to have no such compunctions.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JENNA

  OUR FIRST PUBLIC MEETING, AFTER I’ve signed documents I should know better than to sign, is at a restaurant named Chemise where the bill is maybe a third of what Alex and I will pay for rent next school year. I don’t get picked up, and this feels wrong. If I’m supposed to be on a date, shouldn’t Ashton pick me up? I’ve never been in a limo. I only know Hollywood’s version, where the rich people ride with the driver partition raised so they can party in the back.

  I’ve been sweating Ashton’s parting words since leaving the zoo. The next day, as my throat-fucking appointment neared, I realized I had no means of getting to where I needed to go. He’d said my place, but I’m not privy to his address. I don’t have his private number. With time thinning and no contact from Ashton, I started to worry. Partially because I felt like I was blowing my first on-the-job commandment (no pun intended), but also because I … well, I hate to admit it, but the idea was growing on me. Not the sort of thing I’d ask for, but I could hardly be held responsible for following orders.

  I finally texted Alyssa and asked for Ashton’s address. She said that was privileged information, implying I was crossing a line to ask. I texted back that Ashton specifically asked me to be there at that time, but Alyssa replied that she made the PR schedule, not him.

  Ignore him, and take your directions from me.

  I didn’t feel like texting he
r back to say that I’d been looking forward to that whole throat-fucking thing he’d promised/threatened me with, because obviously I have more integrity.

  I kept my panties on and waited. Our appointment passed without word.

  I imagined Ashton furious with me for missing it.

  I kept half-expecting him to pull up outside my house, demand that I accompany him, and insist on my punishment.

  But no word came, and that day bled into the next.

  Then into the next and the one after that.

  The inertia was finally interrupted when a couriered package arrived on my doorstep. Dad handed it to me with curious eyes, then insisted that he see what was waiting inside. Only after the box was halfway open did I wonder if it might be something inappropriate.

  It was a beautiful gown, its fabric silken and deep maroon. It was modest, not scandalous. And the price? Clearly a fortune.

  It fit me as if bespoke for my body. Which, I suspect, it was.

  But I never stood for measurements. Did Ashton remember my body well enough to have something so perfectly tailored? Is he a sex savant, able to memorize women’s forms like some people multiply large numbers in their heads?

  Dad said, It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Then, Where did you get it?

  At the mall, I told him.

  An obvious lie. Malls don’t send three-thousand-dollar gowns by courier. There’s no way I could have afforded it on my own.

  Dad’s look says, I know there’s a reason you’re not telling me the truth, and I trust you.

  Mine says, Thank you. And: I swear this is a good thing, Daddy.

  Lying still hurts, especially when he knows. But he didn’t call me out, honoring my earlier request to treat me like a grownup.

  I promise I’ll tell him in time.

  I got into my little shitbox car in my fabulous dress then drove downtown to Chemise, feeling like an imposter and imagining stares from adjacent cars at every light.

  Look at this little poseur. Who the hell does she think she is in her fancy dress, headed to her opulent restaurant?

  Now, I pull up to the valet, because Alyssa said I should and I see nowhere to park. I enter the restaurant to find them already at a table.