Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul

by Aubrey Parker

  “She’s from another world.”

  “And you could bring her into yours.”

  “Her father is overprotective.”

  “Actually, I’ve talked to him. He’s very nice, too.”

  “She’s only twenty, Alyssa.”

  “And you act fifteen, tops.”

  We stare at each other for a long, quiet moment.

  “I’m calling her, so we don’t lose our press-friendly vibe while you’re sitting on your hands.”

  “Okay,” Alyssa says.

  “And afterward, I’m going to fuck her all night long. In her sweet, sweet pussy.” I say the words as if covered in sugar, dripping and sticky. It has the desired effect, and Alyssa’s expression changes to clear discomfort.

  “I guess that’s your prerogative.”

  “And her mouth,” I add.

  “Fine. Whatever. Forget I said anything.”

  “And her—”

  “I get it,” Alyssa says, holding up a hand. “You’re a sex machine.”

  Alyssa walks away. I’m alone, surrounded by to-dos that I still don’t have any way of getting done — by Teddy or Alyssa or anyone else.

  But I stand tall. I straighten my lapels and shoot my cuffs, buffing my cufflinks to catch the room’s light.

  Goddamn right I’m a sex machine.

  And now I’m gonna fuck Jenna blue.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JENNA

  “JENNA?”

  I’VE KNOWN ALEX FOR just under a year now, and we shared a room all through freshman year. I should cotton to her voice like a bug to a light. Instead it’s like a sound from an alien world. We haven’t spoken in months, despite our ample emails and texts. I signed the lease she sent me, and soon we’ll be in our new apartment, talking all the time again. But for now — to me, at least — we feel almost like strangers.

  Probably because the last time we spoke, this thing with Ashton was starting. We didn’t just chit-chat. She’d spent the entire time warning me. Against Ashton and his underhanded ways.

  “Hey, Toots. How are you?”

  “I … hang on.” I hear her shuffle something. Maybe paperwork. She’s working with Nathan now, and for a while I thought she might not even return for sophomore year. But Alex kept assuring me she could do school and work, in addition to juggling Nathan. She’s always been ambitious. If anyone can do it, Alex can.

  “I’m good,” she says, once she’s settled. “Surprised to hear from you, is all.”

  “I’m your friend. I’m your roommate.”

  “Well, yeah. But you don’t normally call. And you return my voicemails with texts.”

  I feel bad because it’s totally true. She’s called a few times, but I’ve always been out with Ashton. It’s like she has a sixth sense and knows only to call when we’re together. Or maybe — more likely — I’ve been with Ashton a lot. Either way I’ve only texted my replies. It makes me feel like a bad friend, though I know Alex saying it now isn’t her firing an arrow.

  “I wanted to call,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Are you being a bitch? Don’t be a bitch, Alex.”

  She laughs. “Never mind.”

  “I just figured we could chat.”

  And I can tell, by Alex’s sounds on the other end of the line, that my simple statement settles the matter. But at the same time, I find myself wondering whether the truth is as simple for me. I don’t really like the phone. I don’t normally call my girlfriends just to chat — one of the reasons, looking back, that Dad thought I was too much a loner in the first days of summer.

  Why did I call? The idea’s been stewing in the back of my mind for a few weeks now, and I finally decided to do it after Ashton called and asked me to dinner. He’s never done that. Alyssa usually makes our arrangements. He didn’t mention any press. He simply said it might be good for us to be seen together.

  I thought that sounded like a great idea. But reacting positively to Ashton’s invite is as much a reason for calling Alex as the invite itself.

  I wonder if I’m letting my head get away from me.

  I wonder if my reality and reason are distorting.

  I started this summer with what seemed like a perfect job: an invitation to hang out with a dashing, sexy billionaire … and, as it turned out, to have lots of hot, no-strings-attached sex. Ashton and I have always been on the same page, both of us finding the situation ideal. But lately …

  Well, I just don’t know what to think.

  “Okay, great,” Alex says. “So how are things?”

  “They’re good.”

  A long pause. Then Alex says, “So I hear you’re dating Ashton Moran.”

  Shit. But it’s not like I couldn’t have seen this coming. The whole point of what we’ve been doing is to attract attention and start a buzz. The idea that my roommate might not know what I was (supposedly) up to was startlingly naive.

  “Yeah. But, Alex …”

  She sighs, sort of cutting me off. I stop talking and wait for her recriminations.

  “Look,” Alex says. “I really need to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “I was presumptuous. I should have stayed out of things. I shouldn’t have told you all those ominous-sounding things about Ashton.”

  I’m flabbergasted, expecting the opposite.

  “He just … well, you remember how he came off. Like he was too good for everyone.”

  I’m nodding against my phone. Yep, that’s Ashton, all right.

  “And at the time, Nathan was super pissed at him. I knew some stuff I didn’t tell you. Stuff between the guys. Nothing big, just … contentious, I guess? But it was all so fresh back then, and Nathan’s feelings about Ashton sort of rubbed off on me. But it was unfair.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Alex?”

  “Because I see how happy you are with him. And I don’t want you feeling like I’m still … I don’t know … disapproving or whatever.”

  How happy I am? Does Alex believe everything she sees on TV?

  “But you said—”

  “The ‘Club’ thing I told you about, for instance. I mean, it was really unfair to act like that was a bad thing.” I imagine her shrugging sheepishly. “Hell. It’s actually Nathan’s thing. He started the group.”

  “I know about the Club.” I don’t know much, but I sure don’t feel it’s ominous like Alex first suggested.

  “Then you’ve met some of the other members?”

  “Nathan, obviously. Some guy named Cole Ellison.”

  “I’ve met Cole. He’s obnoxious.” Alex laughs. “They’re all obnoxious. Nathan, too. So see, it’s unfair to presume. It only matters that you’re happy.”

  I do feel happy. Balloon light — which is half of the problem, according to some rebellious, interfering, killjoy part of my brain. But now that she’s said it again, I have to poke.

  “What makes you so sure I’m happy?” Was it our LiveLyfe blitz? The People interview? The local morning show circuit?

  Alex surprises me. “Just the stuff Ashton says.”

  “Says where?”

  She laughs a little. “What, like a location?”

  “I guess?”

  “The living room?” It comes out like a question, as if Alex is offering it up for my approval rather than as a definitive fact. “The dining room table, maybe?”

  Then it hits me. “Wait. You mean you’ve talked to Ashton in person?”

  “Sure. They talk all the time. We’ve had him over for dinner. You said you knew about the Syndicate.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t realize …”

  I’m being stupid. Sometimes it feels like it’s me and Ashton in our little whirlwind world, but obviously it’s not. He has a life outside of me, and several billion dollars. I’m not the only person he associates with, and he for damn sure doesn’t tell me everything. Nor does he need to. Ashton can spend time with anyone he wants, wherever he wants to. He’s a grown man, after all.
>
  Still, it bugs me that this wasn’t on my radar. Alex knows things about Ashton that I don’t. Then again, why should I know anything about him, beyond the basics required to do my job?

  “You said that your relationship with Ashton was supposed to be a … you know.” Alex hesitates, and I think I know why. Of the two of us, she’s the good girl.

  “A purely sexual relationship,” I say.

  “Well. Yeah.” I imagine her blushing.

  I keep the promise I made in the NDA, but skirt the line as much as I’m able. I feel suddenly desperate to tell someone anything about what’s really been happening. All these secrets are a cancer inside me.

  I tell Alex that Ashton and I have an agreement, even if I refrain from saying it’s an agreement in pen and ink, with money changing hands. I tell her that we’ve discussed this at length, and that we both said — just like I’ve told Alex thus far — that we’re not romantic and don’t plan to be. From the beginning, Ashton and I knew we were planning to have fun, no strings attached.

  When I’m done, Alex is quiet. I’ve told her this stuff via email already, if not in as much detail. I can’t tell if the silence means she’s judging me, and after a bit I want to break it and ask for her thoughts. But she beats me to it.

  “Okay. That’s good,” she says.

  “It is?” Because despite feeling it was better than good before, now I’m starting to wonder.

  “Yeah. Because I wonder about these guys sometimes. These men of ours. These billionaires.”

  “Wonder how?”

  “They have to be a certain type of person to achieve what they have, especially so young. Nathan’s sacrificed enough for me that I know he won’t stray. But Ashton? Well, no offense, Jenna …”

  “Why would I take offense?”

  “It’s just that …” Another uncomfortable pause. But who does she think I am, some smitten little girl? I’ve been hired as a fuck buddy. Does Alex think this is personal? “Well, I’m not sure monogamy is his thing.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “I mean, he says some really nice things about you, and like I said, I get the feeling that you’re happy together. But Ashton Moran, being a steady man long term after all the things everyone in the world has seen him do with women? It’s hard to accept.”

  Now I’m defensive. “Don’t accept anything. I told you, we’re both in this just to have fun.”

  “You’re not developing feelings for him?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Because based on some of the things Ashton says, I’d sort of expect you to be …” Alex tries again. “I mean, I’d be—”

  “Don’t listen to what Ashton says, Alex. Listen to what I’m saying.”

  “You just sort of sound like—”

  “Forget what you think I sound like. Listen to my words. You remember words, right?”

  She laughs uncomfortably.

  “It’s just sex, Alex. All that matters is that I’m scratching my itch.”

  Now I’m sure I’ve really made her uncomfortable. “As long as you’re happy, I guess.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “And as long as you don’t have unrealistic expectations about who Ashton really is.”

  It takes me two or three seconds to nail down the context. Of course I know who Ashton really is. He’s tall; he’s handsome; he’s sexy; he’s fashionable; he lives life in the lap of luxury. But then I see what she’s saying. It’s only Alex, worrying over nothing.

  But then I remember how I felt at the start of this call. I remember the reason I picked up the phone.

  “Of course,” I tell Alex. “I’m smart enough to know who I’m dealing with.”

  And I do know who Ashton is.

  But the bigger question, these past few weeks, is who have I become?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  JENNA

  INSTEAD OF MEETING ASHTON AT the restaurant or getting picked up by Alyssa’s minions like usual, Ashton arrives at my house to give me a ride. I’m surprised enough that I don’t even prepare myself before opening the door, so he gets a face full of me at my most casual.

  I knew when our “date” (I put mental quotes around it, tonight more than usual) was scheduled, so I was dressed and mostly ready, but my demeanor was all wrong. I figured I’d see the FedEx guy or something. Instead, there’s this tall, immaculate man on my doorstep, holding flowers of all things.

  “Flowers?”

  He seems embarrassed. I shouldn’t have said anything, even my one-word exclamation of surprise. Ashton’s not a flowers kind of guy, unless he’s buying dark orchids for his own interiors. I feel bad, because now he’s self-conscious. I’ll bet he debated whether or not to bring them, deciding in the end that he shouldn’t arrive empty-handed. But now he feels stupid, and it’s my fault.

  Ashton hands me the flowers. It isn’t romantic, because he’s so suddenly awkward. But it shouldn’t be romantic with him, anyway.

  “I’ll find a vase.” I open the door wide. “Come in.”

  Only then do I think to say, Thank you.

  I immediately regret inviting Ashton inside my father’s house — probably about as much as he regrets bringing me flowers. We haven’t made a special effort to clean because I had no idea he was coming. Compared to Ashton’s mansion and penthouse, this humble home is a shack. I know he knows who I am and where I come from, but suddenly my modest middle-class upbringing is an embarrassment. We were never rich, nor poor — yet all I feel, as I hear Ashton walking the hallway behind me, is inadequacy.

  “Who was it?” says a voice.

  Then the other thing hits me. In the seconds since Ashton’s arrival, I’ve felt a sense of discomfort that couldn’t be explained by the shoddy home and our lack of cleaning. My eyes close. I realize that I’ve already cast this die, and there’s no way Ashton’s getting out of here without meeting my father — who was in the living room the entire time.

  He enters the hallway, clearly curious. He sees Ashton first. The man is hard to miss.

  “Oh. Hello,” Dad says. Then: “I guess you must be the young man I keep hearing so much about.”

  I expect pomp and bluster from Ashton. I’ve seen him introduce himself a dozen times, and it’s always a power move. But this time he surprises me. Ashton nods politely, waiting for my father to offer his hand before giving his own.

  “I’m Raymond. Jenna’s father.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Ashton.”

  My father saves Ashton the indignity of saying he knows, of course, who Ashton is. He’s probably a bit too old for me, but my father is still his clear superior, at least in years. Still, this polite exchange takes me by surprise. I’ve never seen Ashton so deferential — so quiet and respectful. He seems like a boy come courting. And my father is weighing him in kind: reserving judgment, but clearly watching him with the eye of a father who’s putting his daughter into another man’s hands.

  They talk for a few moments while I find a vase for Ashton’s flowers, but it’s not until later, at the restaurant, that the sense of surreality leaves. Ashton was a different man before, and he’s a different man after. But during that handful of minutes in my father’s house, Ashton was …

  Hell. I have to just say it, even if it’s only to myself: He was a gentleman.

  The thought makes the corners of my mouth want to prick up. The feeling builds, and eventually I have to grab my napkin to hide my secret smile.

  “What?” Ashton asks me.

  “I’m just thinking of something funny.”

  “Tell me.”

  I shake it away. “You tell me. Why did Alyssa set us up tonight? I’m not even a little prepared.”

  “Oh. Well, Alyssa didn’t set this up, actually.”

  “Who did?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “You?”

  “Well, who the hell else would it be?”

  I raise the tips of my fingers from the table, keeping my palm on
its top. A tiny gesture meant to say, Okay, relax; forget I asked. I was just wondering.

  “I talked to Alex today.”

  He looks wary all of a sudden. “Alex who?”

  “You know Alex. You met her. A bunch of times, apparently.”

  His eyes flicker and his head bobs. He thought I meant a man.

  “Oh, right. Nathan’s … whatever-she-is. Your roommate. School starts again soon, doesn’t it?”

  I nod. “Two weeks.”

  “It won’t make a difference.”

  “In what?”

  “I can still see you in the dorm.”

  This feels like a statement about his ability to watch me through binoculars. But of course I know what he means, and of course it won’t affect our arrangement. The press knows I’m a student. They’ll expect my dates with Ashton and any interviews to fit around my class and homework schedule.

  We’re quiet for several seconds. Ashton sips his wine. I wasn’t bold enough to order any, so I sip my iced tea. It’s technically illegal for me to drink at age twenty and I don’t care enough to break the rules.

  “Alex said you’ve been to see Nathan.”

  “I see lots of people. Is that okay?”

  My first reaction is to snap back at Ashton for being short with me, but then I realize what’s happening. Somehow, against all odds, he’s nervous. Ashton Moran is nervous on this fake-date with me. I almost can’t believe it, but it’s plain once I look.

  So I smile instead. His fingers are idly intertwined atop the table. He keeps changing configurations, picking at this and that, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

  “Just making conversation.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. Alex seems nice.”

  “I didn’t realize she’d know what I was planning to tell her from the other end. I was going to tell her about—”

  “You signed an NDA.”

  “About the non-top-secret and non-death-as-penalty-for-disclosure parts of what we’re doing here, the way girls sometimes do. What’s up with you tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You seem edgy.” I can’t stop smiling. I know why he seems edgy, and it’s a joy to see him squirm. Alex’s warnings strobe in my mind, but looking at Ashton now, those unfortunate forecasts are easier to shove aside.