“Good,” she says, pulling on socks. “I’m happy.”
“Great sex,” I add, trying on a smile.
“It is pretty great,” she replies.
“So you’re happy? I mean, with the arrangement?”
Pause. Then: “Sure.”
“Because relationships are for suckers.” I’m reciting something we’ve regularly say, usually in the middle of some lewd act. It’s our private joke, our intimate rebellion against the normal, expected order of society.
“Exactly.”
“Monogamy is unnatural. I love that I finally found a woman who agrees.”
“True. Me, too.”
“Are you seeing anyone else?” I flinch, not knowing why I asked. First of all, despite our agreement, I don’t like the idea of putting my dick where another guy has been putting his. But second, if she’s doing it, I absolutely don’t want to know. Fair or not, men are possessive by nature. I’ve claimed Jenna. No matter what it says on our legal agreement, she’s mine.
“Kind of hard to. My dad would figure it out.” She laughs a little. “And then I’d get the riot act for ‘cheating.’”
“Oh.” Good.
“You?”
“I absolutely love that I can. I love that you can’t get mad.”
“So you have. You are.”
Only now does it hit me that I haven’t been with any other women, at all, since Jenna and I started our press tour. I guess I’ve been too busy. It’s curious, now that I think about it, that I haven’t acted on what should be the greatest male ticket in history. I’m allowed to be with Jenna, and with everyone else. But I haven’t?
What’s wrong with me?
“I guess not,” I say. “I haven’t had a chance.”
“Oh.”
“Have you ever been with another girl?”
“No.”
“Because I was thinking. We could kick it up a notch. I know some girls who’d love to party with us, if you want to give it a try.”
“Could I invite other men, too?”
“Um.” My brain short-circuits a little. “Yeah. Sure.”
But she smirks at me. “Not really my thing, Ashton.”
“You mean the other guys.”
“I mean all of it. But if you want to, go ahead. See those other party girls on your own.”
But she’s looking at me funny. And I find that I’m not really as interested in the other girls without Jenna in the mix. They’re hot and all, but so much of the spark is gone if it’s just me and them.
They’re mundane. Average by comparison.
“Maybe I will,” I say.
Jenna checks herself in the mirror, then picks up her purse.
“Good night, Ashton.”
I say the same, then watch her go.
It feels like days before I sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ASHTON
I HAVE AN ASSISTANT, BUT ever since Alyssa’s been in full-on PR-blitz mode, everything runs through her first. It’s obnoxious. I’m paying Teddy to do all sorts of shit, but Alyssa’s tied his dick in a knot or something, because now he seems so much more afraid of upsetting her than me.
Two and a half months into this fake relationship, I decide that if Alyssa wants to be the go-between for every petty little task, I’ll lean into it.
Alyssa can pick up my fucking dry cleaning.
Alyssa can do my fucking shopping.
If Alyssa insists on screening all my business email for PR, she can answer it, too.
Exactly one hour after my decision to lean on Alyssa, she comes at me with a thousand period’s worth of bitchiness. I’m sure she can read my mind and is about to add you’re a woman-hating asshole to the list of reasons she’s going all premenstrual when I trip over my ottoman while backing away from her.
She laughs. I realize, for a moment, that Alyssa is pretty. Very pretty. But when she’s ordering me around or yelling at me, it’s easy to lose appreciation.
But the laughter brings it all out.
“You’re such a cunt,” she says.
I don’t know why I let Alyssa treat me this way. I’m the king, and yet I’m constantly apologizing to my publicist, and apparently tripping over ottomans.
“I’m not buying you vitamins.” She throws something at my chest.
Alyssa’s holding a stack of little pink While You Were Out papers upon which I’ve scribbled tasks for Teddy. After he turned the first one down (my request to schedule an acupuncture session) and named “possible conflicts with Alyssa’s overarching master schedule” as the reason, I dropped the entire stack into Alyssa’s shoulder bag. I need shit done. If my assistant won’t do it because my publicist is in the way, then fuck it — my publicist can do the work.
“Fuck your Ferrari.” She crumbles up the pink note with the instructions to check on interior options and hurls it my way. “I’m not asking your nutritionist for a new diet plan.”
I get a note in the face.
Then Alyssa holds up the next one. She looks it over, then turns to me with this intense, judgmental glare. “Porn? Really? You know there’s the Internet, right?”
“That’s not porn,” I say, pointing at the note. “It’s art.”
She hits me in the neck with the wadded-up note. “This shit is for your assistant.” And then there’s a rain of notes fluttering all around me.
“He won’t do it because it conflicts with your schedule.”
“Him getting vitamins doesn’t interfere with your schedule.”
“He thinks it does.”
“Your assistant’s stupidity isn’t my problem, Ashton.”
Alyssa stalks away. I can’t believe she’s walking away. This is my goddamned house.
She practically lives with me now. I hate it.
“I have things I need to do, Alyssa. You need to keep Teddy apprised of the schedule at all times. He can’t book my training sessions or my massages or anything else.”
“You poor, unfortunate man.” She pouts. “No massages?”
“Appointments, too. Important stuff.”
“Oh yeah?” She turns around, hands on her hips. “Like what?”
“I need to get back to Cole.”
“I’ll handle Cole. He’s officially my client now.”
“Oh? How’s that going?”
“He’s insufferable. I hate him as much as I hate you.”
“Not as much,” I say. “It can’t be that much.”
“You’re all the same. I should feel like I have a dream roster, the bigger Nathan’s little club gets, but it’s not like publicity work; it’s more like babysitting. Or wrangling goats.”
“Wrangling wild stallions.”
“Yes. Wild stallions.” She nods. “Because you’re all big dicks and swinging balls, and both keep getting in the way of everything I’m trying to do. You idiots don’t see how you are. Old rich people are easy. They’re neutered. They understand the value of tremendous work over long periods of time. But you and your friends? Let’s just say it takes a certain kind of personality to amass a billion dollars by thirty or forty.”
“We’re dedicated. Focused.”
“Arrogant,” Alyssa says. “Fucking obnoxious misanthropes. You’re all jaded. You hate everyone who isn’t you. To tell the truth, I’m not sure if this idea of Nathan’s, to form your little ‘Trillionaire Boys’ Club’ before getting the Old Guard, is a good one. You’re like a bunch of stupid teenagers driving really fast cars. You have too much money and power for your level of maturity. The more of you I work with, the more certain I am that Nathan’s the new Oppenheimer.”
“Misanthrope? Oppenheimer? Aren’t you the wordbox today.”
“Nathan thinks he’s making this big, powerful syndicate. But what he’s really making — what none of you arrogant, bad boys can see because all your attention is on pussy, is a ten-megaton testosterone bomb.”
“Maybe that means the world had better get ready to party.”
Al
yssa grunts.
“Alyssa.”
She turns.
“Say ‘pussy’ again.”
She rolls her eyes. “Book your own fucking massages.”
“I will, if you give me the schedule and leave it alone instead of constantly changing it.”
“Do you want to do my job, Ashton?”
“Shockingly,” I say, “I’d prefer that you do your job. You know — the one I’m paying you outrageously for?”
She seems a bit caught. Her face works for a second. Then, “I can’t always predict when you’ll have an interview. The nature of this thing is change.”
“When’s the next one?”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“You know what I mean: When’s the next interview as it’s scheduled right now?”
“Tuesday.”
Today is Wednesday. “Tuesday? We don’t have anything for a week?”
She picks up her phone and taps at it. “I’m sorry. It’s actually the next week. Not this coming week.”
“Nothing for two weeks?”
“I thought you hated doing interviews? You should be happy.” She drags her finger across the screen. “You do have that thing with Clive Spooner on the 16th, though.”
“What thing?”
“The reception. At the Microdyne house.”
“You mean the party?”
“It’s a reception,” Alyssa insists.
“I don’t like parties.”
“Well, how do you feel about receptions?”
I roll my eyes and shake my head at the same time. I hate both, especially since they’re obviously the same thing. A “reception” is what a party calls itself when it puts on a tux and serves $600-a-bottle champagne via white-gloved waiters.
I don’t like to drink with people who annoy me, and Spooner annoys me. He’s so British. I always feel like he thinks he’s too good for me. I have to go to the reception because Spooner is as much a part of the Syndicate’s likely plans as Ben Stone, but I can’t take Jenna thanks to Spooner’s stupid cone of silence. It will be mind-numbing without her.
“Okay, fine. But if you’re more concerned with Spooner’s shit than the Jenna thing, tell me: How’s your pitch to Family Circle going?”
“You and Jenna aren’t interesting enough for a feature yet. But soon.”
“How about Good Housekeeping?”
“Too soon. They have long lead times on editorial, though, so we’ll need to start pushing. It’s tricky. Those kinds of pubs are looking closely at you now, but you’ve only been with Jenna for about ten weeks. As far as they’re concerned, you could break up any day, and then they’ll have to kill the article because they can’t publish it after you’re no longer together. It’s still a risk to profile you, and will be until they believe you’re going to last. Remember, Ashton: We always planned for this revamp of your image to take months.”
“It’s been months!”
“Six months,” she says.
I shake my head. I’ve been frustrated lately and I’m not sure why. Maybe I need sex. I never reached out to those women Jenna suggested I call solo after telling me she wasn’t into an orgy, and I haven’t seen her in days. My cock isn’t used to this stunning lack of variety. I even jerk off thinking of Jenna.
“I should take her to dinner,” I say after my stare-down with Alyssa ends.
“Who?”
“The Queen. Who the hell do you think?”
“Jenna?”
“Why is that so absurd?” I feel a strange need to defend my suggestion. It’s not absurd at all. It’s downright logical.
“Nothing, nothing. I just didn’t realize you two were such buddies.”
“For publicity, Alyssa. If you can’t get us press any faster than once every two weeks, then we should at least be seen together in public.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Chemise again? I haven’t been there since …” The finish that comes to mind is … since I fucked Jenna in the men’s room, but instead I say, “Since we were there with your buddy Cole.”
“Uh-huh. And that gets you press?”
“There was press there last time.”
“Because I sent them! Jesus, Ashton, do you know anything about what I do for you?”
“Somewhere else, then,” I say, now less confident.
“This isn’t Hollywood, Ashton. Paparazzi don’t just stalk all the nice restaurants 24/7. And you’re not the only interesting target in town, even with all the buzz about you lately. They like scandal. You and Jenna making sweetness isn’t juicy enough. It’s easier for those camera hounds to sell to the Star than to Women’s Day. You want press on your ass, go to Liquor down in the District and get high in public. But dinner with your girlfriend? You want press for that, you have to make it happen.”
“Oh. Well, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You won’t get lucky.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Can’t help, either. Look, you’re the one who’s telling me how busy you always are.”
“I haven’t seen her in days, though. If I have to wait two weeks …”
Alyssa squints at me. Her expression is one of discovery, as if she’s caught me somehow. “What’s wrong with waiting two weeks to see Jenna again, Ashton?”
“Isn’t that what we’re discussing?”
“Yes, and I keep telling you that I’m on it and know this stuff better than you. The PR pot is percolating and will continue to do so. If I can get you another interview or two in the meantime, I’ll schedule one — if you can tolerate such last minute changes. And if not, no big deal. So why are you pushing?”
“I just figure we should be seen.”
“But you won’t. You won’t be seen by anyone who matters. Trust me.”
“Still.”
“You want to take her out, don’t you?” Alyssa’s knowing look is growing more annoying.
“I’m just thinking of maintaining the chemistry we need to project for these public appearances.”
“The chemistry you need to project, or the chemistry you already have?”
“What’s the difference?”
“You like her,” Alyssa says.
“As much as the job entails.”
“Bullshit. You’re into her. That’s why you want to take her out even if nobody’s watching.”
I attempt to laugh derisively.
“Are you having sex with her?”
Ah. A lifeline. I seize it. “Of course.”
“And?”
“She’s hot as hell. And her pussy is—”
“I don’t need to hear about her pussy.”
I stab a Gotcha finger at Alyssa. “See? I made you say ‘pussy’ again.”
“If you want to have sex with her, ask her over.”
“I have.”
“So? Do that tonight.”
“Maybe I will.”
“But don’t take her out to dinner.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Alyssa says, still with that annoying look on her face, “why would you?”
“I like to buy a girl dinner before she gets down on her knees and—”
“Bullshit. How long have I known you? A girl is lucky if you buy her gum first.”
“Do you not want me to take her out to dinner? Is there a reason I’m being prohibited from doing as I fucking want with my own money and time?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Alyssa says, holding up her hands. “Do whatever you want with your money, your time, and your girlfriend.”
“It’s just business,” I say.
“Right, right.”
“She’s more convincing if she’s happy. And we’re both more convincing if we don’t seem like strangers who never see each other.”
“Right.” She’s wearing this smile that I want to punch off her wide lips. “That makes total sense.”
“Do you have something you’d like to say?”
“No.” Then, after a paus
e and a bug-eyed smirk. “Just that you clearly loooove her.”
“I thought we young bad-boy billionaires only love ourselves? Like Cole?”
“Cole does only love himself. You love two people.”
I laugh again, but it’s forced. I feel myself getting angry. I don’t like Alyssa thinking she knows me better than I know myself, or presuming to feed me bullshit because she thinks it’s funny.
“Whatever.”
The playful look leaves her face. “You know, Ashton — if this PR stunt between you and Jenna were real, it wouldn’t exactly be a bad thing.”
“I’m not really a ‘real’ sort of guy in that area.”
“People change.”
“Relationships are for suckers. Jenna gets that. That’s why I like her so much.”
But fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Are you sure that’s how she feels?”
“Of course it is.”
Alyssa gives me this look that says she wants to press further but is deciding not to. Instead she says, “You’re cute together, you know. Sometimes, I almost believe it.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Why is it ridiculous?”
“Because I don’t need a cage. Or someone telling me what to do.”
Alyssa nods. “You like it this way, then. How things are.”
“Right.”
“Where you can have sex with anyone you want.”
“Exactly.”
“How many other women have you slept with since all of this started?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
Again I get that obnoxious, knowing-better-than-me look.
“Are you angling for something here, Alyssa?” I scan her from bottom to top. She’s so professional that she almost seems like a prude, but there’s no question she’d be a firecracker thawed. “Because I know we’ve kept it professional so far, but hell — I’d totally throw you a bone. Wherever you want, for as long as it takes.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And proud of it.”
“But not too convincing these days.”
I meet her eyes. It’s a staring contest, and I’m determined not to blink. Finally she shrugs, looks down, and buffs something on her suit sleeve.
“Jenna’s nice,” Alyssa says. “I like her.”
“She’s fine.”
“And if you ever did settle down — not that a big bad lone wolf like you ever would, of course — a girl like that would be perfect for you.”
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul Page 11