Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Connector

by Aubrey Parker

  But there’s more.

  Nathan Turner, unlike many better-known titans like Ari Wall or William Lyons, is highly visible in the media. Billionaires don’t often make the front page or the Forage images section, but that’s probably because most billionaires are old and ugly. Colby Burton, for instance, looks like a foot. But Nathan could be an actor, or maybe even a fitness model. Even when he’s casual, the man is hellfire hot.

  The soft blue eyes. The cut jawline. The messy brown hair.

  And he’s always running shirtless, surfing without a wetsuit, or hanging out with his tan chest bare. He doesn’t look like someone who hides in an office, crouched over a desk counting shillings like Mr. Scrooge. He looks like a man who understands that life should be split between business and pleasure. Someone who appreciates many things, not just one. Sort of like I see myself.

  I’m about to quit researching when I catch myself staring at side-by-side images of today’s class speaker. The first is Nathan in a black suit with a cool blue tie that matches his eyes, smiling like he knows something he won’t admit. The other is him on the deck of yet another boat with yet another bikini-clad woman, sipping from a water bottle, his skin glistening.

  My finger has found the tablet, and is drawing lines along his abs. But the tablet doesn’t know I’m in a trance, and keeps zooming in and out, oblivious.

  I blink. What’s wrong with me? I skipped class this morning. I had over two hours to get things done, and spent a third of it goggling this hot guy, practically drooling. I don’t know what’s come over me.

  I shake it off, reminding myself that I’m Tony Wynn’s daughter, and that I take zero shit from anyone. And that includes taking shit from myself, whether the voices inside speak of flowers and fairytales, or chastise me for doing the same.

  I return the tablet to my bag, gather my things, and head off to class.

  It’s just a class, and he’s only a speaker.

  This is business as usual, no matter what my head is trying to tell me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NATHAN

  THE PRESENTATION GOES AS EXPECTED: nothing unusual, and not nearly as obnoxious as I’d imagined. I reach deep into my public relations mode and really turn it on. I smile for the cameras that have been set up to record me; I say all the right things about positivity and optimism. And, of course, avoid the truths about the bottomless disappointment and thankless work that can accompany a life like mine.

  At first I’m sort of faking it, but after ten minutes I start to feel genuinely lit by the room. College kids are sometimes as jaded as high schoolers, but this group isn’t. Maybe it’s because the course Celeste rooked me into speaking at is an education rather than a business course, and maybe that means the audience is full of future teachers — folks for whom “belief in the next generation” is practically a job requirement. Either way, they nod when I make my points, and they ask surprisingly insightful questions at the end.

  But I’m thrown by this one girl, sitting front and center. She has long, medium-brown hair — the kind that’s probably dark in the winter, but finds red beneath a summer sun. She’s got exotic features: a slim nose, wide lips, and big, almond brown eyes that spend most of their time looking down. I’m sure she’s only taking notes, but I’d swear at times it’s like she’s avoiding my gaze. Which is good, because I can’t stop looking in her direction.

  That’s a problem, if I’m being recorded. She’s wearing jeans and a loose shirt that does nothing to obscure my mind’s picture of the body beneath. But if she were wearing a skirt, the footage would probably make it seem like I’m constantly trying to look up her skirt and see her panties.

  When she recrosses her legs, I can’t help thinking of what’s between them. Her shirt, as she shifts, presses just enough to reveal her bra line. It’s all modest, and yet I can’t help picturing what that garment is covering.

  I think, I need to get laid more, while trying to form words. This girl is doing nothing to provoke me, but still I feel like a college kid myself.

  She’s way too young to be thinking of in that way. She looks fresh out of high school. Eighteen, nineteen … twenty at most.

  Good thing the room has a lectern, because the more I tell myself not to think of the girl, the more I do. Fifteen minutes in, and there’s a rail spike in my pants. She’s bent over a table in my mind. I’m kneeling behind her, spreading her pussy and licking my lips.

  But I keep my shit together by trying to look at the uglier students, of which there are many. I must deliver a moving lecture, because they stand and applaud when the Q&A is done.

  I want to tell them all to sit back down because the girl in the front didn’t ask any questions — and this despite seeing her march into the classroom like she owned the place. I thought she might turn out to be one of those ultra-liberal bitches, here to scream at me about some failure my companies have made in fair trade, diversity, or pollution. But it only took five seconds of eye contact before she started looking away, refusing me the gaze I quickly learned to desperately want.

  I’d hoped to hear her voice, wanted to hear her say my name.

  Nathan, I imagine her moistened lips saying, demurring, looking up at me with a down-tilted chin, I’ve never had an orgasm. Can you show me?

  I’m flushed by the time I step away, following Geoffrey’s wave toward a room I assume must be the professor’s office. I don’t hesitate. Geoffrey is great at crowd management, so I never question his instructions. And sure enough, once I’m inside the office with the door closed, the energy seems to dissipate. The room was ready to surround me, dog me with questions for hours, but now they’ll go on their way. Including the girl whose voice I never heard, whose shouldn’t-be-shy eyes I barely saw.

  “Great job, Boss,” Geoffrey says when we’re alone.

  “I hate it when you call me Boss. It makes you sound pandering. Or fake-pandering, while actually mocking me.”

  “I’ll do better next time, Boss.”

  “You’ll give Celeste a report?”

  Geoffrey holds up his tablet. “Already sent. I didn’t even tell her how you couldn’t keep from eye-fucking that hot girl in the front row.”

  Shit. “Was it obvious?”

  “I was paying special attention and only a few seats down. I doubt anyone else noticed.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Why?”

  I glare at Geoffrey.

  He gives me an indulgent sigh. “I can find out. But I thought you were better than this shit?”

  This is something I said like five times on the drive over, annoyed.

  “Just curious.”

  “You’re a walking dick, Nathan. Tell you what, I’ll go back to the car now. You lock the door and rub one out. I need you focused.”

  “So you’re running this business now?”

  “I’ve run it from the start.” Geoffrey turns the tablet around and slides it toward me.

  I read what he’s showing me. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “I know. It came in during your talk. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You should only be sorry if you think this is over.”

  Geoffrey makes a show of turning the tablet around and reading it again, even though I’m sure he’s absorbed the email from Ashton Moran’s publicist five times already. “Looks over to me. At least for Moran. But why sweat it? You just blew off Joseph Wilcox yesterday. How is this different? Just cross him off the list for now.”

  “Wilcox is an old man living in a dusty old mansion, waiting to die,” I say. “But Ashton Moran is Boys’ Club material. A hundred percent. We need him. He’s—”

  Geoffrey’s attention is diverted as a new notification arrives on the tablet, visible as a fly-in from the screen’s right side. I can’t see what it is, but Geoffrey taps it, looks up at me with alarm, and says, “Okay. Don’t be mad.”

  “What is it?”

  “Promise first.”

  Now I’m reaching for the
tablet. “What is it, Geoffrey?”

  “It’s a bluff. He’s angling.” Then, convincing no one, Geoffrey makes a little thinking frown. “Seen the right way, this might actually be a good thing.”

  “Goddammit, Geoffrey. Let me see.”

  I snatch the tablet.

  I spend fifteen seconds reading, feeling blood pool in my face.

  Then I start shouting.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ALEX

  I DON’T GET UP RIGHT away. I stand for Nathan’s ovation, but I’m far away as I clap, feeling a little lightheaded. Throughout the presentation I kept imagining that he was staring at me. Maybe it was because I showed up early enough to claim the front row’s center seat, making me a natural default center of attention. Or maybe it was because I was giving off a bad vibe — a poison pill — while he was trying to speak, never looking up or giving him the eye contact any presenter needs to feel comfortable.

  I’m not even sure why I spent so much time glued to my notebook, except that seeing him in real life was sort of a trip after spending the previous two hours studying the man online.

  And his eyes, in person, are so much bluer than I’d imagined.

  I went in bold, then embarrassed myself. I couldn’t look at him other than sidelong (which I did whenever his attention strayed elsewhere) and couldn’t even nod along with his many terrific points. I didn’t even ask a question, despite having several written and waiting.

  I hate myself as I sit in my seat, having reclaimed it the minute the ovation was over and everyone started to mill about. I kill seconds pretending to gather my things, but I just didn’t take that much stuff from my bag. I’m finished in seconds, sitting there like a fool while everyone crowds around Nathan to ask the things I should be asking.

  This is exactly the kind of opportunity I expected college to help me claim, and yet I’ve done worse than nothing. Withdrawal didn’t make me invisible; it made me conspicuous. Nathan won’t forget me; he’ll remember me as the bitchy girl who thought she was too good for his lecture. That’s not why I stared down the entire time, but that’s what he’ll think.

  And come to think of it, why did I do that? It’s so unlike me.

  But the party quickly moves on, and before I know it I’m still frozen in my seat like a fool. I must look like a shell-shocked kitten, hands on my legs, knees together and to the side. I’m wearing my class shirt from high school, plus my jeans that are worn at the knee. What was I thinking? Didn’t I know, this morning, that I’d need a chance to make a proper impression on someone important?

  Well. It’s over now. I blew it. No point beating myself up further.

  The hall is empty. The only activity is a voice in Professor Gentry’s office — probably Gentry himself, speaking on the phone. Mr. Turner is gone. He’s probably with the students who actually paid attention, having a relaxed coffee in one of the building’s common areas. Those are the kids who have a shot at jobs and opportunities. Not wallflowers like I’ve turned out to be.

  I’m passing Gentry’s office door and hear something that makes me stop: at least two people inside. I move closer, put my ear by the crack in the door.

  I know Professor Gentry’s voice, and neither of the speakers is him.

  I put my eye to the crack, trying to stay low so my silhouette won’t be visible through the fogged glass window. I can’t see well, but after a while I make out a dark shape.

  It’s a man in a suit.

  It’s Nathan Fucking Turner.

  I still can’t hear what he’s saying — either to my professor or someone else — but fortunately I’ve been in Gentry’s office before. I know that his office adjoins the prof’s in the next lecture hall, via a door that’s much closer to the men than I am now.

  And I can tell from the noise level that the adjacent hall is empty.

  So if I’m lucky …

  And I am. The prof’s office is locked, but the door is ancient. The jamb has receded, leaving a gap. It’s the first time in history, I’ll bet, that anyone has actually managed to open a door with a credit card.

  I hesitate before entering, wondering what I’m up to. I can feel my dad inside my mind, tapping at my attention. Whatever you want, Alexandra, you go out there and get. Everyone’s going to underestimate you just because you’re a woman, and that means that for you, there’s no such thing as cheating. There’s only evening the playing field.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting; I only know that, for some reason, this man I’d never heard of a few hours ago has his hooks in me — first from Corey’s report and my obsessive Forage searches, then from his shockingly inspiring presentation, and now from my own shame at not staking a claim in the moment’s advantage.

  I make it to the adjoining door inside the attached office.

  From here, I can easily hear them — and what I hear turns my impression of Nathan Turner 180 degrees.

  But it also gives me what I want and need:

  A new opportunity.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NATHAN

  I’M NOT ANY MORE PLEASANT to be around once I’m back at the office. I said horrible things to Geoffrey — though obviously not about Geoffrey — in that office at the college, failing as usual to keep my temper under control.

  I get loud when I’m pissed. I’d fail an anger management course.

  And through the whole thing, Geoffrey sat on the professor’s desk, patting the air, urging me to lower my goddamn voice. This only made me angrier. The lecture hall was empty. The prof was gone, having given us grateful permission to use his office for as long as we needed, abundantly shaking my hand and promising to tell Celeste how great I was. Nobody was around to hear my rage, to hear me shout that I’d take Ashton Moran’s business by its fancy pressed white collar and burn it to the ground.

  After leaving, and twenty minutes spent calming me the hell down, we had a long, uncomfortable limo ride. I stewed, starting to feel stupid. This always happens. My temper is intense, and I can barely control it. By the time cooler heads prevail, I’ve almost always intimidated the other person into submission. It works. But not as well as the logical approach Geoffrey is laying out now.

  “Moran won’t actually go to the press,” Geoffrey says. “It’s like I said. He’s angling for a better position within the Syndicate.”

  “Would you like me to read you the email again?”

  Geoffrey pats the air: Calm. Be calm. “Alyssa wrote it. She’s his PR rep, and a shark. You know how she is, Nathan. Anything for a headline.”

  I do believe Geoffrey, if I can just get past my still-potent anger. When I considered using Alyssa for PR myself, she suggested I hire a fake girlfriend to stabilize my image with the press. This — threatening to tell the magazine circuit about the Syndicate I’ve been carefully arranging for months — is exactly the sort of shit that bitch would suggest.

  And Alyssa doesn’t bluff.

  There’s a knock on my office door. I trade glances with Geoffrey. Normally, when someone knocks, it’s him, announcing a visitor.

  “Did you tell Jenny we didn’t want to be disturbed?” I ask.

  “Jenny was taking her lunch.”

  “So who’s out there?”

  “Open up and find out.”

  This doesn’t make sense. Geoffrey’s my first line of defense. We weren’t expecting anyone today, so it shouldn’t have been a big deal for him to come in and talk me down from the ledge. I’d have expected Jenny would cover reception just in case, and if she had to leave for lunch, I’d think Geoffrey would’ve thought to lock the hallway door.

  But he hasn’t, and now someone else is here. Not Jenny. She’d announce herself, and this person is silent.

  Geoffrey watches me for a second, then rolls his eyes at the moment’s abject drama. We’re not two teenagers in a dark house waiting for a serial killer. This is a place of business, and we’re businessmen.

  He opens the door and I see a woman standing just outside. She’s wearing a
conservative suit, with a knee-length skirt that fails to hide her fantastic legs.

  All of a sudden, I realize who I’m seeing.

  She must have run home to change, then rushed here for reasons unknown.

  It’s the girl from the front row of the lecture.

  The one who’s already taking my breath away again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ALEX

  THE WAY I PSYCHED MYSELF up outside doesn’t help. I manage to keep my posture straight and my face impassive, but breathing is tricky. My heart is relentless. The two men look at me as the doors open, like predators eyeing prey. I’m alone, and no one knows I’m here.

  “Are we expecting you?” asks the second man — Nathan’s assistant, I assume.

  “No.”

  They trade glances. On one level I feel like they’re irritated in a specific way by my intrusion — like I’ve cut into a moment of tension — but they’re trying against logic to be polite, in case this is all somehow a big mistake. But mostly I can’t read them at all. I’m unwelcome, and far, far out of my league.

  The assistant says, “You were … in the lecture?”

  He says it like he doesn’t know, but I can tell he does. They both do. The question isn’t who I am. The question is what the hell I’m doing here, unannounced, without appointment or introduction.

  “Yes. My name is Alex Wynn.”

  In this long moment, as they watch and wait for more, I can’t remember much of why I did this. I remember hearing Nathan’s tirade, and thinking about the many ways a creative girl like me could turn such information. It felt like a great idea back at school.

  When I got back to the dorm room — thankfully not catching Jenna with a hand down her pants — it still felt like a good idea. I have exactly one presentable professional outfit, so I put it on, planning to make my case downtown. I kept moving, donning the blouse, skirt, jacket, and heels. I didn’t know what to do with my hair. A ponytail felt too girlish, and I couldn’t manage anything else without Jenna. I didn’t know where she’d gone or when she’d be back. So I brushed it out, sprayed it with some tamer, and left it down. I touched up my makeup. Then I took the shuttle to the student parking lot, got in my car, and came over.