Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer

by Aubrey Parker

  Too late, I realize I’ve made a mistake. I’m glad closes the conversation. No response required. But Alyssa still does, and when I read the new message I’m glad I did this via text. I imagine her needing courage to reply, even though it’s innocent.

  Your old contract still applies. Your invoice is due today.

  It’s a confrontational message. Almost bitchy. There’s zero emotion, unless obnoxious pestering is an emotion.

  Still, it lifts my spirits. Last I heard, she’d fired me as a client. I was beyond persona non grata. Our bathroom tryst might change that — but I was almost sure, the way Alyssa left, that it had changed for the worst. That she saw me as a user, as the pig she always assumed I was.

  And because of the way chips fall in our world, it wouldn’t occur to her that she got plenty out of our tryst, too. Twice.

  But the fact that she’s mentioning a contract and my invoice means that we still have a working relationship. A subtle way of declaring her position without surrendering ground.

  I text my bookkeeper, then a reply to Alyssa: It’ll be paid today.

  Good. Because I’m tired as hell of you falling behind.

  Problem solved, I type. Now I’m current.

  Good.

  And with that conversation-ender, we’re back at neutral. I’m not sure if the situation has improved. Apparently I’m still a client, but what I took for fake-bitchiness might be the real thing. And she could still want my account brought current. That could simply be my final bill.

  My phone buzzes again.

  I already have something scheduled tomorrow midday. Then a follow-up: But I could meet you at 4 at my office.

  4 works, I reply.

  We discuss your new project and your old projects. Any of the publicity projects you want.

  Great. She’s reminding me that this is only business. We’ve managed to land on Secret Option C instead of the more logical Option A (fucking Alyssa ruins our working relationship) or Option B (somehow, against all odds, we end up fucking on a long-term basis and stop being vendor and client). Secret Option C is the worst. I keep working with Alyssa, but we keep things strictly professional and pretend that today never happened.

  I imagine her fighting complex emotions as she typed that last message. In tomorrow’s meeting, she’ll be nervous as hell, and I’ll have to suffer. It’ll be intolerable — exactly the wrong way for me to spend my valuable time. We’ll try to focus on work, but neither of us will be able.

  It sounds like torture.

  I’m about to cancel with a text when I see three little dots appear at the bottom of our exchange. Alyssa is typing something else.

  The new message reads: I’ll try hard to prepare myself.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ALYSSA

  I STARE AT MY IPHONE’S screen, close to panic.

  Is there a way to recall a text?

  Even if I could erase what I just sent to Cole, there wouldn’t be any point. He’s already read it — my deleting it would only confirm what he probably thinks is going on: that I erased it because I was embarrassed, and the only reason to be embarrassed was because I’d done something worthy of shame.

  I’ll try hard to prepare myself.

  Fucking hell. I had to write it like that? I could have achieved the same level of “maybe double entendre” with something far simpler, like I’ll be ready. The point was to respond in a way that Cole would understand, if he read it right, but that I could deny if I changed my mind.

  But the way I wrote it, it sounds like I’ll be naked in the office when he arrives, legs up on the desk and a bottle of lube at the ready.

  I’m such an idiot.

  I sweated over that text. It took long minutes to compose — first on paper, because I didn’t want him to see me spending forever typing. I tried it a bunch of different ways in my head, and prepare myself was the best I could come up with?

  Holy hell.

  Now what happens if I want to back out? Engaging further with Cole isn’t even within sniper distance of a good idea. But now I’ve given him the word equivalent of a bare-chested photo with Come and get it written across my tits.

  That motherfucker is probably salivating.

  My old doubts return.

  Cole is an ass. He’s repeatedly demeaned and condescended to me.

  To apologize, he sent a loose box of girl stuff — a motherfucking vibrator to loosen my prude self — and a note announcing an appointment rather than requesting it.

  He knew from seeing my phone that I’d miss my appointment with Bartleby, but still didn’t bother to wake me. He easily could have, because it turns out he had clothes that fit me.

  He lied about not knowing where I lived (I’m deciding to omit possibilities centered on him knowing the building but not the apartment number) so he could get me into his place.

  … where he’d tell tales of me trying to grab his dick while I was drunk, which may or may not have been true.

  … and where, after offering me a shower, he’d set up camp to watch me, then rip off my towel without asking.

  Doubts stack, but for some reason don’t tip the scales. I’m not as indignant about Cole’s behavior as I should be, and I’m definitely more turned on than I want to admit.

  Cole probably thinks he tamed the shrew this morning, but my body doesn’t seem to care. It wants to be tamed again. And again. I’m not wearing any panties, and it’s been murder focusing on clients and work while my pussy keeps screaming for attention, bare to the world.

  I wonder who the hell I am. I clawed my way to the top. I’ve earned the respect. Do I really want to flush it all just because some guy made my body all tingly? And not even a good guy. Cole is the opposite of boyfriend material.

  I still hate him, even as I stare at the text that practically screams my desire.

  It doesn’t matter. The ship has sailed. If Cole takes my message to mean that he’ll find me primed and ready, I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I can still try and deny it. But really: prepare myself? I might as well have said I’d spend the time between then and now doing kegels and stretching.

  He doesn’t respond. The text series just ends, and I’m filled with trepidation until I put my phone away and swear to forget it.

  The next move, if one needs to be made before four o’clock tomorrow, will have to be mine. The way things stand, Cole will simply show up.

  And we’ll see what happens.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ALYSSA

  JENNA TEXTS BACK WITH AN update. She says her dad is doing well. After she told him the story, he insisted that she thank Cole for taking care of her.

  I wonder if her father has met him. It’s possible, since Cole knows Ashton. And if Jenna’s father has met Cole, I wonder if there’s an unspoken suffix to that request: not just Thanks for taking care of her, but Thanks for taking care of her without taking advantage. Which Cole might have been easily able to do. We were quite drunk — apparently inebriated enough that I tried to take advantage of Cole when he failed to do the same with me.

  Jenna doesn’t have Cole’s number, so she asks if I can thank him for her.

  I consider texting her back: You’ll have to wait; I may have accidentally implied that my ass is Cole’s for the taking and I need to see how that works out first. Instead I shoot her Cole’s number and suggest that she thank him herself, telling her that it’ll mean more.

  She thanks me and our exchange ends. But then I get an idea.

  I text her back and ask if she’s free for dinner.

  She’s with Ashton. Of course.

  I consider pressing it, but my restraint gets the best of me. This is a bit inappropriate, testing the limits of a new maybe-friendship that began with Ashton taking pity on me — and asking his girl to be the buddy I otherwise didn’t have.

  I finish my day and spend the evening alone, catching up on work. Dusk leaves me feeling haunted. I fall asleep holding a pen, my laptop scr
een still lit with Onyx Scott’s client file, sitting on the empty side of the bed. Gladiator is playing on some forgotten channel, but I barely notice and can’t even fantasize about Russel Crowe with all that’s on my mind.

  My slumber is restless. I dream that I’m a charioteer but can’t keep hold of the reins. No matter what I do, they slip from my hands, and the horses run in different directions. I can’t control them, or my wheels. I’m aimless, with everything falling apart.

  Then the lions come.

  Throughout my morning routine, I’m a robot — efficient, instead of awake or inspired. My face gets washed; my teeth get brushed; my hair gets halfway styled; my makeup gets applied. I’m like an assembly line with one machine working.

  I make it to the office without noticing the drive. Work focuses me. After dropping so many balls, it calms me to feel in control. But that mood soon sours, and within a handful of minutes, in control becomes overwhelmed.

  It’s like my brain won’t let me be content.

  I have more press inquiries to juggle for the Trillionaire Boys’ Club. Half are misinformed in the wrong direction and some have the story mostly correct. Both are a problem. The goal is for the press to be misinformed in the proper direction.

  Plus, there’s still Onyx Scott’s troublesome case. He’s half of the team behind the Forage search engine, and the world adores him. Onyx is a natural in front of the camera, and has a genuinely resonant message. Most high-profile black men are musicians or athletes. Few are entrepreneurs. Onyx says that the average kid looking for a role model has a better chance of building his own business than becoming a famous rapper or basketball star. He’s happy to be that role model, and so he does a ton of work with entrepreneur camps, foundations, and schools in general.

  But Onyx did some disrespectful shit to a girl in his past, and now there’s a decent chance it’ll come back and bite him. He doesn’t have a kid with this Mia woman as far as I know, but I can already smell the racial stereotyping. If word gets out, Onyx’s reputation will take a hit it can’t (or shouldn’t have to) afford.

  And on top of everything else, there’s Cole.

  I did some research last night to “prepare myself” in an appropriate fashion for his visit. I’m a professional, I decided. I don’t make sex appointments, especially with assholes. So I continue that research now, trying to convince myself that Cole’s visit will be all about his possible project with Anthony Ross.

  Ross has a mixed image in the press. It’s probably easiest to describe him as a self-help guru, but he’s cultish more than cheesy. And definitely real. He is to personal development what David Blaine is to magic. He’s rogue. He tours and speaks on stage; he holds massive multi-day seminars that roll like rock concerts; he sells audio and video courses like my dad’s old favorite Zig Ziglar used to do.

  But he doesn’t have the glitz of Zig or the others. He’s more authentic. More guerrilla. He doesn’t strike me as a pop psychologist — more of a brilliant mind hacker. But with all that exposure comes some bad mojo, too. There are huge masses of people who swear that Ross changed their lives. He’s charismatic as hell, and a bit like a movie star. But some of the worst corners of the Internet say, “Like Hitler, too.”

  If Cole wants to associate himself with Ross, he’ll have to be careful. His image could take a hit. Or it could be the best image-booster Cole could ever hope for. It all depends how the dice land — or what Ross has in mind to “change the world.”

  This could be a big deal for Cole.

  For Cole and that big, strong chest. For those large, rough hands.

  That long, thick cock.

  I blink the thoughts away, forcing myself to focus. But I can’t stay centered. My usually bulletproof composure isn’t quite so bulletproof now. I’ve become like a nervous bird, or a giddy teenager. I’m not sure which, because I don’t know which emotion to feel. Am I more intimidated and afraid, or anxious?

  And if I’m anxious, what does that say about me?

  I triple my efforts, and by two o’clock I realize I’ve missed lunch and I’m practically a basket case. I’ve managed to keep Cole out of my head through sheer volume of workload. I’m chronically juggling fifty balls, and right now I’ve also metaphorically climbed aboard a unicycle to leap through flaming hoops.

  Anything to feel like I’m not losing the reins. It’s exhausting, but if I won’t handle all the loose ends of my life and work, who will? It’ll all fall apart without me, and then the Old Boy Network will point at me and say, Silly little girl, thinking she has a place in this man’s world.

  There’s a knock on my door. I must look hilarious, checking my wall clock three or four times before moving to answer. My afternoon is free — and a goddamn good thing, because I need this time to catch up on all the stuff I neglected yesterday.

  If I didn’t have the time, I’d be up shit creek.

  What have I forgotten? Was there another appointment that slipped from my increasingly distracted head?

  My office door opens before I can answer, and Cole enters, carrying a briefcase.

  I look at the clock. It’s barely 2pm.

  “You’re early,” I tell him, my heart beating faster.

  “I am.”

  “Did you need something?”

  And Cole says, “Yes. I need your lips wrapped around my cock.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  COLE

  ALYSSA’S LIPS PURSE TO LAUGH, but I’m not kidding. I’ve never done anything precisely like this before, and that newness makes the errand feel dire and serious. I want her. I will have her. I’m not willing to wait, and if Alyssa doesn’t like the disorder caused by my early arrival? Well, she doesn’t need to be in charge of everything all the time, does she?

  I walk closer, wondering at my own actions. Not caring. Only feeling the need that’s been burning within me all day while thinking about her.

  I’m an edge-walker, but not usually this devious.

  Today is different. Today I’m like a criminal, bent on achieving my need through any means necessary. So I called her assistant, Susanne, and told her I was from UPS and that there was an oversized package she needed to sign for. When the assistant left the office, I sneaked in behind her and locked her out. I’m sure she can call the superintendent or someone to let her back in, but that’ll take time. She could cut to the chase and call Alyssa, but her boss won’t be answering phones for a while.

  She’ll be otherwise occupied.

  Unable to speak.

  “Cole …”

  A sentence without a predicate. She doesn’t know what to say.

  At least not anything more than my name.

  “Let’s cut the shit,” I tell her.

  Alyssa looks frozen in place. Ravishing. I got hard the moment I decided not to wait until four. Now I’m throbbing. I want her. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since that text.

  I’ll try hard to prepare myself.

  It turns me on, knowing she’s thinking about me. Alyssa comes off as such a straight-laced girl. A total pro. She wears her sensible girl suits with her sensible girl skirts that never rise immodestly high. Heels that are common but understatedly sexy, if you know where to look. She wears her hair like she’s going to court, but all I can think of is shaking it loose. Her features are always so hard, but if you pay attention it’s easy to see just how breathtakingly beautiful she is.

  Once you know Alyssa for a while, you start thinking that she’s sexless. But one couched text, with its barely-there innuendo, was enough to shatter that impression. Yesterday morning could have caught her off guard. Our encounter on the bathroom floor might have been a one-time thing she’d instantly regret. But her text changed that. It made me see, through the thinnest of cracks in her frozen facade, that Alyssa isn’t a robot.

  Now I know she’s truly a woman, with desires to match my own.

  My cock strains against its confinement. I watch her chest rise and fall; her nipples push against her silky whit
e blouse. She’s breathing long and slow through moist, gently parted lips. Her eyes stay on mine, hungry under her reservations.

  “Let’s stop bullshitting each other and fuck like animals.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “You don’t want me to leave,” I say, shaking my head. “So tell me. Forget about what’s proper for once, and tell me what you really want.”

  Her eyes flick toward the door. I’ve locked that one, too, same as the outer door her assistant is probably already finding closed.

  “Say it, Alyssa.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Say you’ve been thinking about me.”

  Alyssa says nothing.

  “Say you’ve been wet all day, waiting for four to come.”

  She swallows. I step closer. I move around the desk. Alyssa looks for all the world like she’s about to startle and flee. But she doesn’t go. Instead she lets me walk up next to her, close enough to smell. She says nothing as my hands run up her sides, as I brush her hair away from her long neck. She tips her head sideways, just a little. I can’t see her eyes from behind, but I imagine them closing.

  “Say the truth,” I whisper into her ear.

  “I want you.”

  I run my hand up the back of her skirt, across the smooth contour of her ass. I move my lips close enough to her neck that I can feel her heat on them. But I don’t touch her. I feel the tiny hairs on her skin brush against me. Gooseflesh rises. She exhales, helplessly.

  “Say it again.”

  “I want you,” Alyssa repeats.

  “I couldn’t wait for you. I couldn’t wait to have you again.”

  “Cole,” she breathes.

  “Forget that I’m a client. Forget that you hate me. Forget what your parents and friends would say. Forget everything but this.”

  I unfasten a middle button on her blouse and slide my hand beneath the fabric, my body still behind her. I grip her breast in my fist, not too tight or loose. I won’t control myself. It’s the least I can do, as I urge her to surrender control.