“You’re not the bound party in that NDA, Jenna. It’s not a limitation on you disclosing anything. You can sign it to acknowledge receipt, but your signature isn’t required to make it legal. I’ve already filed a copy.”
“Filed a copy with whom?”
“With your father.”
“My dad’s not a lawyer.”
I can’t keep this up. I sigh. “Read the document, Jenna. For once in your life, do your damn homework before leaping to conclusions.”
Looking puzzled, she finally does. I’m giving her my best condescending stare, but I’m not being fair. With Jenna, actions often precede thoughts. It’s one of the things I like about her — that fiery impetuousness that doesn’t know how to give a damn. And besides, nobody reads dense legal documents word for word. Of course she thought I was trying to keep her quiet, when in fact it’s about someone else entirely.
“This NDA binds …” She looks up at me with those soft brown eyes.
I raise my eyebrows. “Yes?”
“You,” she finishes.
I nod. But when I don’t speak, she keeps reading.
Finally she looks up. “What is this?”
“A promise. One you or your father can take to your lawyer if you have to.”
“So the secret this contract keeps you from talking about is …”
This time I finish for her. “Us.”
“But we did all those interviews. We did all that press.”
“Look at the dates, Jenna.”
She does. The starting date is today.
“I don’t understand.”
“You understand fine. You’re holding a document that prevents me from discussing our relationship from this day forward.”
“But we don’t have a relationship.”
“We will.”
She looks confused, annoyed, and somewhat amused. We left things on indecisive terms, and our two weeks apart has, I’m sure, taught her to hate me. It doesn’t matter that I did nothing wrong. She had to demonize me to look herself in the mirror. My lack of cheating didn’t relieve her like it would most people. My going to Jenna instead of indulging in my worst habits scared her. It meant that our artifice had become genuine after all — and that, like it or not, we’d landed in one of those relationship things.
Just like a couple of suckers.
Amusement seems to win the war for her face. A smile ticks up the corner of Jenna’s mouth. “Are you trying to declare that I’m with you? Without my agreement?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t work that way. It has to be mutual. You can’t just be in this with me if I don’t want to be in it with you.”
“Maybe you’re forgetting how rich and powerful I am.”
“You’re an asshole.” She says it lightly, almost playful.
I point to the NDA. “You’re not facing reality. That document means I’m not allowed to discuss our relationship. If I say one word, you can sue me, and it’ll stick. The lawyers that drew that up? They’re excellent, Jenna.”
“So what?”
“If I can’t talk about us, Hurricane can’t benefit from the media attention. If I can’t tell everyone we’re back together, I’ll look like a callous ass to the world. I’ll lose market share. The women we were trying to win over will never like me now. If I can’t declare how I won you back, they’ll assume I broke your heart. I’ll lose millions.”
Her attention has turned from dollars and cents. She shakes her head, unable to believe … whatever this is. “You didn’t win me back.”
“Of course I did.”
“What makes you think I’d ever come back to you?”
“The fact that you were never with me.”
That stops her. I don’t know why, but it does.
I take her hand.
“I want to be with you for real, Jenna. I want to love you in secret, so nobody will ever know. I want to show you the ways I’m not actually a bastard, yet be sure to stay hated. I want to kiss you for real without any cameras around. I want to seem like a cad. Reprehensible even. But I want to show you the truth.”
She doesn’t pull away. She squeezes my hand, twirling a little to affect ambivalence, as if she’s not quite sure she’s in love with my deal. “I don’t know, Ashton. You’re still reprehensible, even when you’re sweet.”
“You would know.”
My intercom buzzes. Again, Teddy lets Alyssa’s call into my office without asking. Damn, his days are numbered.
Alyssa’s voice blurts from the speaker. Teddy must have prepped her because she cuts right to the chase: “Ashton? What’s going on? Are you really in there talking to Jenna Green?”
I slam my fist onto the table. Jenna looks at me curiously, but I just smile.
“She’s here right now, but she’s … in a breaking-things sort of mood,” I tell Alyssa, then continue in a whisper: “She’s pissed!”
Jenna’s still cocking her head at me. I wink. Time to fuck with Alyssa.
“Am I on speakerphone?” Alyssa asks.
“No.”
“It sounds like I’m on speakerphone.”
“You’re not.”
“So she can’t hear me right now?”
“Do I have to explain how a speakerphone works, Alyssa?” I take the phone from my mouth and whisper to Jenna: “Call me an asshole so she can hear you.”
Jenna steps back a bit and yells out, “You asshole, Ashton!”
Into the phone, I say, “She really hates me, Alyssa.”
Alyssa replies, her voice lower. “Listen to me. Cole Ellison is in my office right now. Nathan’s been bugging him about the Club and he’s pumping me for info, as if I’d know. He wants to talk to you. I told him to talk to Nathan or Ross, but he says, ‘I don’t know them as well as I know Ashton.’ But now he says he’s not sure he wants to be in a club with someone who’d concoct that big of a bullshit lie for the media.”
“He’s playing games, Alyssa. I’ve got problems of my own here.” I whack the table with my fist. My water glass jangles like a key on a xylophone.
“We need to fix this,” Alyssa says. “It’s not just about you. It’s not just about Hurricane’s bottom line. It’s the whole Syndicate. It’s fucking Sage Business Systems — even EverCrunch, the way Cole’s talking. He won’t leave me alone. He’s all over me, Ashton, and the Syndicate needs him. $12.8 billion, Ashton. That’s what he’s worth — over six times what you bring to the table.”
That little jab should annoy me, but right now, I doubt anything can.
Jenna catches my eye but I shrug it off.
“I need your head back in the game,” Alyssa says. “And that means rescuing your image. Give me one point of damage control to focus on, not a dozen.”
“My image isn’t salvageable, Alyssa. You fucked up.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Because Jenna is …” I fake a shout. “Jenna, put that lamp down! I mean it!”
Jenna, who’s nowhere near a lamp, laughs.
“You have to get her back under contract, Ashton. I’ve got ideas. I know how we can spin this PR disaster, but no matter how I slice it, it’s impossible without her help. Tell Jenna we’ll pay her whatever she wants if she’ll play ball again. Just be sure to get her signature. Do you hear me?”
I pull the phone from my face and, playacting, shout to Jenna. “Jenna, if you agree to finish your publicity contract, we’ll pay you double!” Then I make theatrical gestures, encouraging Jenna to balk and shout me down.
She does, loud enough for Alyssa to hear.
I reply with, “Triple! Quadruple!”
Again I point to Jenna, who calls me a motherfucker over and over, laughing every time.
“She’s not going for it, Alyssa.”
“Convince her, Ashton!”
I smile wide and lean toward Jenna, waiting for a final shout-down for Alyssa to overhear. But instead of yelling at me, Jenna slaps me hard across the face.
“Ashton? What was that
?”
“She hit me, Alyssa. I think we’ll need a restraining order.”
Jenna is laughing hard enough to burst. Apparently she finds my pain hilarious.
“Use those negotiation skills of yours!” Alyssa shouts. Then, in a hiss: “I’m not going to deal with Cole Fucking Ellison without your help, Ashton! Don’t be a pussy!”
Jenna’s still laughing, trying to slap me again. I reach out to stop her, but get a handful of blouse. Seeing an opportunity, I pull as hard as I can. The buttons pop from her front and then she’s half-naked in front of me, apparently having decided that today was bra optional.
I’m hard. Instantly. Jenna grabs my crotch, and I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on anything else.
“Gotta go, Alyssa. Something just popped up.”
“Goddammit, Ashton! Cole is already—!”
I stab the hangup button. I consider ripping the phone out of the wall like I did the last time, but manage to refrain. If Alyssa calls again and Teddy lets her through, she can listen to the sounds of us fighting. They might resemble the sounds of something else.
“You ripped my blouse,” Jenna says, laughing.
“So? You hit me.”
“Someone had to bring you down a peg.”
I grab Jenna by the wrist, pull her violently toward me, then smother her lips with my kiss.
When we break apart, she looks at my face — at my cheek, specifically — and starts to laugh.
“What?”
“Your cheek is so red, it looks like someone slapped the shit out of you.”
I nod. “They say that love hurts. Literally.”
She shakes her head, playful now. “You don’t love me, Ashton Moran.”
I nod. “Correct. That’s the official story.”
I move her against me. Then I walk her backward until she’s against my desk, and wrap her in my arms, kissing her face, her neck, everything I can reach.
“But you know the media,” I tell Jenna, cupping her cheek in my hand. “They get everything wrong.”
WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
(Read on for a sneak peek of The Producer)
The story of the Trillionaire Boys’ Club continues in The Producer.
SNEAK PEEK: THE PRODUCER
Continue reading for a sample chapter of the third book in the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series:
The Producer
CHAPTER ONE
COLE
I HAVE THIS WAY OF explaining my wealth to people who ask.
Most people don’t, but now that my business dips so deeply into film (and especially since I started producing my own movies), I orbit in Hollywood circles. I talk to a lot of actors. Actors all have complexes, so they feel the need to compete to prove their self worth. Men compare dick size (figuratively, though I’ve also seen it done literally) and women tend to create petty kingdoms, their competition based on who or what they’ve seized control over. And so the actors, of all people, will sometimes ask. They do it sideways — not so much asking me about my money as implying that in the future, they’ll catch up to me and we’ll be peers. As if.
They’ll say, Someday, I’ll have billions. Once the right movie hits and my backend kicks in hard enough.
I try not to laugh.
But one way or another, I usually end up giving them my explanation. Because, see, most people don’t really understand how much a billion dollars is — let alone the $12.8 billion I’m worth. They think they do, but they don’t. I can tell they don’t understand because these people believe they can work their way to it on a project-by-project basis. I’ll do enough movies, they think, and I’ll have that much money.
But that’s not how it works. You can’t just earn your way to a billion. You must create something the world has never seen. You have to be a prophet, so you can see what’s on the horizon — and then knock people over to get there first.
My company is Sage Business Systems, but our primary business stopped being the IBM world of “business systems” a long time ago. I saw the streaming revolution early and got in first. I had Hollywood connections, so I strangled them until I got the business I wanted. We had servers and computer infrastructure to spare, so we got into the media delivery business. Direct to Consumer became our motto. Now I’m making my own films.
Without me, there’d be less in the world. That’s how you become a billionaire.
Imagine the most money you could ever imagine having, I say to those who ask. For most people, that amount is around $10 million. They think they can imagine more, but they can’t. For top-end actors, the figure is closer to $100 million, and that’s only because they tend to own 8-figure houses. Beyond their homes (which, let’s remember, are usually mortgaged and never owned outright), they only have a few hundred grand in assets. It’s cheating, but at least their minds are expanded into the nine-figure range.
To even those biggest thinkers, I’ll say, That’s the most money you could ever possibly imagine … ever, in your life, for as long as you live. Now imagine ten times that much, and that’s a billion.
And they’ll nod and say, Okay, I can imagine it.
But no, asshole, you can’t.
Because first, that hundred million you’re imagining? It’s only in your head. You can’t just 10X your maximum mental picture. It’s your maximum for a reason.
And second, there’s no way to acquire that much. Not for you.
Imagine thirteen times that much and that’s how much I’m worth.
Sometimes they’ll tell me they can still picture it — if they keep doing their stupid bullshit work with that target in mind, one day they’ll be a multi-billionaire, too.
Fools. They have no idea what it’s like to be one of us. What drives a billionaire to do what he or she does is a quantum difference from the motivations of an ordinary person, because we’ve already dwarfed the needs, trials, and tribulations of the hoi polloi. We’ve made them irrelevant. Their greatest desires and goals are a joke to people like me.
We billionaires take a special breed of motivation. We’re numb enough that only extremes command our attention.
Extreme pleasure.
Extremely lucrative deals.
Extreme emotions.
Even extreme pain.
I’m explaining this to Ben Stone while he punches me in the kidneys. But then he drops his guard and I roundhouse him to the cheek. We really shouldn’t hit each other in the face, but we do. Somehow hitting the body isn’t as cathartic, and both of us need it. People think Ben is all peaceful and Zen because he conducts half his business in the motherfucking lotus position, but this right here is the reason he can. He’s as diseased as the rest of us with ten-figure net worths. He just gets it out in the ring so he can fool everyday people into thinking he can relate to them, and they to him.
“So what?” Ben doesn’t spit blood. I guess I didn’t get him as good as I thought.
“So what is that on the mat behind you?”
Ben turns. He knows better. I hit him in the side of the ribs anyway. Or so I think. But before I can connect, Ben’s somewhere behind me, anticipating my move with a counter of his own. I turn back to see my bell being rung. The world spins. And it’s awesome.
We trade another few blows, and finally the bell rings. It’s on a timer, giving us three-minute rounds. That’s the last of them. Good thing; we’re both beat to hell.
Which was, of course, the idea.
Ben’s broad frame is heaving as he sits and gets a drink of water. I’m doing the same. The room reeks of sweat and testosterone. It’s not a fancy space. It was meant for storage, but I had the ring put in so I could beat up my friends and coaches. The walls are utilitarian: gray metal and exposed ductwork. Light comes from large aluminum cans. Shadows are deep. It’s like we’re in someone’s garage instead of a loft that runs ten grand a month.
“There’s something wrong with you,” Ben says after we’ve caught our breath. He has a small cut above his eye, but tha
t’s fine — he has a rugged image. He isn’t a pretty boy like Ashton Moran. I’m somewhere in the middle, able to span the worlds. I can get scars and still be considered handsome, but I try not to. That’s why we maybe shouldn’t hit the face. But I’ve never been one for living safely.
“Just me?”
Ben nods. “You’re the one who likes boxing.”
“You keep accepting my invites. It keeps you all centered and shit.”
This time, he smiles. “Yeah. I do. But for me this is one option from many. I could just as easily meditate. You apparently need to beat someone up with your time. Or actually, you need someone to beat you up.”
“So now I’m a masochist?”
“Never.” He shifts on the stool, dripping sweat, making his body language open. He’s almost laughing, despite the cut I punched into him. It’s funny. Women never seem to understand it, but sometimes war can turn men into the best of friends. “I’ll use the word Time used, since you seem to like it so much: you’re extreme.”
“We’re all extreme, Ben. Every one of us.”
“Men in general? Or businessmen?”
“Businessmen who qualify for Nathan Turner’s Syndicate,” I answer.
“Oh, come on. Say the words.”
I roll my eyes. I hate the nickname Nathan uses for the seed group meant to kickstart his Syndicate — so much that it’s almost enough to keep me out of it.
Ben has no such compunctions. He loves to push my buttons. “Say it, Cole. We’re special and we should glory in it. Because we’re both good enough to join the—”
“Don’t.”
“—the Trillionaire Boys’ Club.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
Ben slaps his water bottle against mine. “So be it. Cheers.”
And we drink.
“It’s true, though,” I say.
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul Page 16