Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Connector

by Aubrey Parker

  “Must’ve been nice for the two of you to catch up.”

  “He told me he’s suddenly made new inroads into the collegiate market, starting with this place as a cornerstone. Pretty soon he figures all the college teams will be wearing his shit. Apparently, the real selling point was that the coaches can monitor their stats from the sidelines.”

  “They can do that?” Of course, the whole point of Hurricane Apparel is that the clothing is embedded with sensors and readable by apps, but so far I’ve only heard of it being used as a training aid: watching heart rate and speed, comparing trial to trial. But the idea of coaches monitoring players makes obvious sense. It’d be like watching robots, able to always keep an eye on their oil and fuel levels.

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Alex. Moran congratulated me on the dashboard idea, in this sideways way he has of saying nice things. He said he’d thought of it, of course, but hadn’t been able to convince the colleges to consider setting up the connections needed to make it work. It’s too far from players to coaches for the usual Bluetooth connections. It’d take Wi-Fi.”

  This is news to me, but I keep my face straight. I’m putting the pieces together. Nathan thinks I did this, but it was Corey. He’s not technical, nor a negotiator, but he does have a way of making people like him and consider things they’d already dismissed.

  Whatever Nathan is telling me now — about the need for an active Wi-Fi connection during team practices and games, about an app dashboard that would let coaches watch all their players’ stats through the Hurricane garment sensors at once — that was probably stuff that smarter minds had already figured out, but dismissed for one reason or another. Corey just got our athletic director to consider it anew — and if one college tried it out and found it helped them win games, the others would scramble to do the same.

  All Corey did, while trying to redeem himself for me, was to push over the first in a line of dominoes. Now Nathan thinks I’ve meddled in Moran’s business in his name. He thinks I’ve given Moran something he wanted, so that Moran will give me something I want.

  But I like how irritated Nathan seems, so I’m not about to come clean and tell him that this has nothing to do with me. “Hmm … How about that.”

  “I didn’t ask you to speak to him without my involvement.”

  “I guess you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t want you to speak to him.” Nathan’s face changes, and he asks a question he might not have fully considered until now: “How the hell did you even get in to speak to him?”

  I don’t know what makes me say what comes next. It just tumbles through my lips, lubricated by spite. “Maybe I fucked him.”

  His jaw freezes. It’s hard to name the emotion that crosses his blue eyes, dark in the semi-shadow of our closet.

  Feeling my heart hammer against my ribcage, wondering what exactly I’m doing, I say, “Maybe I walked into his office, bent over his desk, and lifted my skirt.” My lip curls. “The way I get all the things I want.”

  My eyes are locked onto Nathan’s. We’re staring each other down like boxers squaring off. I wonder who I am. I’d never do the things I’ve said, and never say the things I’m saying. But as I stand chest-to-chest with Nathan, refusing to flinch, I only know that what’s in me now feels good.

  I’ve spent days feeling beaten-up, used, and discarded. Days reliving what happened in Nathan’s office and hiding it in shame. It’s nice to claim the deed. To pretend, for a handful of seconds, that it was all a tactic, and that even though I’m playing dirty I’m at least winning for a change.

  “Don’t talk like that,” he practically snarls.

  But I’m feeding off the adrenaline. My father taught me to defend myself, and that’s all I’m doing. There’s no such thing as fair and right when your life is on the line. You claw; you bite. You kick the groin. You gouge the eyes. It’s a primal style of negotiation that, based on our discussion the other day, I’d expect Nathan to appreciate.

  I continue, spewing filthy lies. “I came in on my hands and knees. I took his cock out and said, ‘Please, Ashton. Please come to this meeting. And if you do, you can come in my mouth.’”

  “Knock it off. Because of whatever you did, I’m tied to you. You don’t know Moran. He won’t just join the Syndicate; he’ll join it like a favor, and he’ll never let me forget that I let some girl make the deal for me.”

  “But I do know him,” I purr, savoring the ease of the lie, seeing as I’ve never met the man before today. “I know what his cock feels like inside me, and how he sounds when he’s fucking.”

  I meet Nathan’s eyes, and the message I send him without words is like a punch: You didn’t take advantage of me the other day. I took advantage of you.

  He must know I’m making this up. He must know I don’t make a habit of visiting powerful men in their offices to get off. But my words are undoing him, anyway. I’ve spent the time since we parted thinking about him against my will, but judging by the way he retreats a half-step, I’m starting to wonder if Nathan has thought about me, too.

  The air is electric. I can feel a charge building between us, waiting to explode.

  “Shut your mouth,” Nathan says, “or believe me, I can shut it for you.”

  “Bullshit,” I snap, my eyes boring into his.

  It’s the wrong thing to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NATHAN

  ALEX’S MOUTH BOTH INFURIATES AND turns me on.

  I dragged her away so that I could shout at her to stay the fuck out of my business, but somehow she’s turned things around and punched me in the gut.

  I’ve spent too much time checking up on her. I’ve spent too much thought on her, when I should have already trashed her like a soiled tissue. But whatever the reason, I feel I know Alex Wynn, and this girl in front of me isn’t the girl I thought I knew.

  The Alex Wynn I met that first day had all the hallmarks of a classic daddy’s girl: strong and bold, loyal and moral. She knew how to scrap, but knew not to bend. I broke her a bit, by applying pressure where no girl that age is immune.

  But this? This flagrant, slutty, whorish talk? This isn’t her, and I want to shake it out of her.

  “You didn’t fuck him,” I say.

  “Maybe I did.”

  My jaw shifts. I want to slap her. I want to leave her behind, break the door between me and Ashton, and put my fist through the back of his neck. I grip her shoulders, teeth gritted.

  “Maybe I licked the tip of his cock for hours,” she purrs, “until he came all over my—”

  I push Alex back against the utility closet’s single bare wall — the only one not lined with shelves. She practically trips over the mop bucket, but I kick it aside. Then she’s pinned, and her mouth finally shuts. I don’t have my hand at her neck, but that’s the way this feels. Her bravado is gone. Her sex kitten protestations all pop, and now there’s only this scared little girl in front of me, her eyes like saucers, delicate throat swallowing a lump.

  “Nathan,” she says. “Please.”

  “Don’t you ever go behind my back again. Do you hear me?”

  I wonder if I’m talking about business. I think I am, but there’s something else in the air. And it shouldn’t be there at all.

  Alex nods. Swallows again, and I’m reminded of an animal caught in a snare, facing a hungry predator.

  “Get on your knees,” I say.

  Something snaps again, and she blinks at me.

  “Do it.”

  She looks around as if for help, then complies. She slides down the wall, as if trying to stay as far away from me as possible.

  When she’s on her knees, I unbuckle my belt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

  My cock springs free, already at full mast. It feels harder than I think it’s ever been, swollen with fury and lust.

  “Do to me what you did to him.”

  “Nathan,” she says, loo
king up, “I didn’t—”

  But I don’t want to hear her words. Not right now. So I move forward and fill her yapping mouth with my cock. She gags in surprise, then pulls back to look up at me. One hand grips my root as if to push me away. A single line of saliva forms an upside-down rainbow between my cock and her pink lips.

  “Suck it.”

  “Here?”

  “Of course here.” I’m irritated. But she’s turning me on so hard, as she looks up at me with her beautiful face and big brown doe eyes. So I add, “But take off your panties before you start.”

  She obeys without question. She reaches under her skirt, then lifts one foot and the other to slide them off. Doing so hiked her skirt up, and I can see the small patch of hair above her pussy. Her legs open, like she can’t keep them together.

  “Now suck my cock while you touch yourself.”

  Alex’s eyes are still rolled up to look at me, her mouth inches from my tip. Her right hand is still stroking me, but her left moves between her legs, opening her pussy, rolling across her clit.

  She sighs. As her mouth opens, I put my cock back into it, tired of waiting for her to comply.

  But then her warm lips wrap around me and her hand begins to stroke. The sensations are intense, and within a minute I feel like I’m about to come in her mouth. Instead I pull back and order her to stand.

  She does.

  “Tell me what else you did with Moran.”

  “I didn’t do anything with Moran. I swear.”

  “Tell me what you did with other guys.”

  “The …” She stammers, then catches up to try again. “The usual kinds of stuff.”

  “I’m not usual.” It’s hard to keep my voice even. Ever since I withdrew from Alex three days ago, I’ve wanted to shove myself back inside her. I already miss her mouth. I’m on a hair trigger, balls high and tight as my eyes prowl her half-naked body. I could explode right now looking at her, without being touched. I could come all over her, twitching, jetting spunk down her leg. “Ordinary is boring. I like to do what’s new. What’s different.”

  Alex watches me, unsure of what to say. Despite the shadows, she’s glowing with arousal, clearly as turned on as I am. Like me, she’s ready to come with a feather’s touch. I can see the way her hands long for her pussy as we stand. I can see the blush of her pink lips, both up top and down below. There’s a slick of moisture on her inner thighs. Her nipples are poking against her blouse. I can see the pulse in her long neck. I want to cover it with my mouth. To lick her from chin to chest. Devour her like an animal.

  “W-what are you …” Alex trails off as my hands go to her hips.

  I turn her around and bend her forward, ass toward me.

  I feel Alex’s breath in the sigh of her body. My hand runs down her back. She’s shaking, as I am. It’s like she’s cold. But when she’s mostly bent, her pussy is right up next to me, and the heat is like a furnace.

  I take my cock in my hand and run it up and down her sopping wet slit, painting the head with her juices. She moans a little, and it’s a timid, helpless sound.

  Then I move my cock up and press it against her puckered little asshole.

  “Nathan …” But that’s all there is. She looks back at me. Her eyes tell me not to do what I’m thinking. But her ass is pressing back against me as if wanting more.

  “Tell me if you want me to stop,” I say.

  She pushes back. My cock almost slips sideways from the pressure, so I re-seat it, pressing harder. She’s opening for me. Just a hair. And her skin is shaking as if she’s freezing.

  “I’ve never done it before,” she says.

  I use my finger to tease her asshole, wetting it first by dipping it into her pussy. I watch her face change as she relaxes and the finger slips inside. She moans, so I add another finger, working slowly.

  Then I pull my fingers out and wrap my hand around my shaft, pressing the head of my cock against her. Then it moves as Alex shifts to let it happen, her face held firm. She makes the first little gasp of ecstasy as I stretch her ass and pop inside.

  She’s so tight. Like two fists gripping me at once. I move slowly, waiting for her to respond.

  Her tension dissolves into desire. “Keep going,” she pants back at me.

  “Tell me what I’m doing, Alex. Tell me what’s happening right now.”

  I want to hear those words. I want her to turn that mouth of hers to me, to be about me, never anyone else.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God, Nathan!”

  I move faster. In and out of her ass, my balls tightening with pressure.

  “Say it, Alex. Say it!”

  “Fuck my ass!” she cries as an orgasm grips her. The force is so intense, I come immediately. I slam against her, gripping her hips, trying to hold on as I unload.

  Then I slip out and we both sort of collapse. We end up mostly side-by-side on the floor, Alex halfway on my lap. My cock flags.

  “You shouldn’t have started this,” I tell her after a few quiet moments. “You put yourself in the middle, and now we’re stuck with each other.”

  Alex’s little arm wraps around my bigger one. She squeezes it and says nothing.

  It’s a long while before either of us speaks again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ALEX

  NATHAN LEAVES FIRST, BUT THE way he goes now feels different from our last parting. He tells me to call him tomorrow, then takes my phone and enters a number I know at a glance is different than the one I’ve used to call the company. Then we pull ourselves together in the small space and there’s a tiny awkward moment as we look at each other, but it passes faster than it should.

  Nathan dragged me into a closet, yelled at me, then put his dick up my butt. We should have trouble meeting each other’s eyes, but we don’t.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, buckling his pants. “Don’t forget.”

  I don’t precisely reply. Like a demure little lass, I sort of look down and nod. I hate the fact that I don’t reply in a bold, businesslike manner — Yes, of course Mr. Turner; I look forward to transacting further with you at our next appointment — but there just isn’t any way.

  He looks me in the eye, squeezes my arm, and gives me a little kiss on the forehead.

  By the time I wonder if I should be insulted, he’s gone.

  The feel of his kiss remains. I don’t know what just happened. What did that series of little signs mean at the end? Am I his pet? An intern with benefits — someone he has to appease, but who he’s obviously better than?

  Somehow none of those explanations feel right. He did it awkwardly, as if it took him by surprise as much as it did me.

  I stuff my panties in my purse, try to compose my hair without a shiny surface, then sneak to the bathroom hoping that nothing gross will happen along the way.

  I make sure the bathroom is empty, lock the door, and go about putting myself back together. My eye makeup has smeared — either from the penis in my throat or the one in my ass. I use a moistened paper towel to clean what I can, then do a touch-up job in the mirror to hide most of the damage. I’m flushed, so I splash some water on my face.

  By the time I sneak back out into the empty hallway, I look normal again in the mirror but am still somehow sure I bear invisible marks. Do I have sex hair in the back? Do I have the look of a girl who’s just had her anal cherry popped?

  But I don’t have to worry; when I return to the room the same boring stuff as before is underway. Ashton Moran, Alyssa Galloway, and our university reps are still around the table, talking out issues that I couldn’t care less about. It’s not even stuff about clothing and apps. Now it’s residuals and contractual obligations. They could be discussing insurance plans, for all anyone knows.

  And against the wall, my shouldn’t-be-there-but-invited-out-of-respect friends are still in their uncomfortable wooden chairs, looking half-asleep.

  “What took you so long?” Jenna asks.

  I’ve already prepared an excuse. “My m
om called about a minute after I got outside.”

  Jenna is so disinterested that she doesn’t even nod in response. I get a glimpse from Corey that lasts a half-second too long, as if he’s sizing me up. I feel strange talking to him about anything right now, but I still lean into him and force myself to whisper, “I’m proud of you for setting this up.”

  “I just pointed out some stuff they already knew,” he whispers back, then looks at me and adds, “So do you think it helps you at all? With Nathan Turner?”

  “I don’t think he likes me much.” And as I say it, I remember the feel of Nathan’s dick between my lips. “But yes, I think it will.”

  Because those are the things Corey most wants to hear:

  That he’s done something to impress me. And that no matter what Jenna says, there’s nothing between me and Nathan Turner. None at all, now or ever.

  “I’m glad,” he says.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ALEX

  THE NEXT MORNING’S HISTORY LECTURE is a humanities requirement that all three of us, being freshmen, have together. It’s one of the ways we met first semester. Jenna and I were assigned as roommates. Corey lived in a suite of boys one floor up, but always ended up on our floor to use our superior washing machines. We took the same habitual seats in European History 101 every week, then realized we had so much fun making fun of Professor Yeardly’s snort that we’d be stupid not to book the 102 class together next semester. Dumb as it sounds, we always look forward to it. Lecture halls are big, and tests are ridiculously simple. We go for the camaraderie. It’s our thing, nestling in the back then hitting the burrito stand afterward.

  When I announce I’m not going, Jenna huffs. “That’s three weeks in a row now,” she says, hand on hip.

  “Two weeks ago, Yeardly cancelled,” I say. “That doesn’t count.”

  Jenna keeps tapping her foot.

  “And two weeks ago, you were too hungover. Corey and I went and made fun of you the whole time.”

  “And this week is three,” Jenna says.