Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Connector

by Aubrey Parker

  “Make me come, Nathan.” Her voice is breathy, hard-edged like a rasp.

  So I fuck her against the window for another half-minute, then turn her around and pin her back to it, her legs wrapped around my waist. I slam into her slit while her arms clutch my shoulders, thrusting as I watch the world below.

  I hope everyone sees this. I want everyone to see me fucking Alex Wynn, so they know she’s mine and nobody else’s.

  I shouldn’t be thinking this way. I should see her as disposable, the way I’ve tried and failed to before.

  Instead I pull back and watch her face, thinking of that look she gave me before, and of the way she haunted my dreams and waking thoughts. I think of the way her memory’s possessed me. How it’s not just her body that compels me, as I’ve told her, but the air she projects.

  I like the way she challenges me.

  I like the way she fights me, and tells me I’m an ass.

  I like the way she looks when pleasure takes her — and when it does, it softens my heart in a way I’ve not felt in years … if ever.

  Alex comes hard, shouting into my ear. Then we move to the bed and she rides me hard and fast until she comes again, and I come with her.

  Then we lay in silence, waiting to catch our breath.

  It’s enough of a lesson for today.

  But just for today.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ALEX

  I LAY IN NATHAN’S BED, thinking about how terrible of an idea this is.

  Our worlds couldn’t be more different. I’m a college freshman, inexperienced, with more guts than justification. My last job was working at Applebee’s. The only thing before that was a summer gig shilling ice cream at Inside Scoop.

  I have ambitions, but Nathan has built worlds, and he’s making plans to conquer what he doesn’t yet possess.

  I’m brand-savvy enough to understand what he wants to do with the Trillionaire Boys’ Club. We talked it out a bit in the afterglow on his big black-framed bed, while discussing the situation with Ashton Moore. A trillion dollars is a truly unthinkable sum, but he’s right that it could sway the world’s balance if wielded in one big swing. It’ll take over a hundred people to form that trillion, and most are the way Nathan initially described Hunter Altman: they don’t want or need more money. Attracting them will be tricky.

  He doesn’t need to draw all those billionaires — but getting the young, hot, trendy, in-the-media billionaire bad boys into the fold is essential.

  Those first few dozen members of his Syndicate won’t have worths totaling anywhere near a trillion dollars, but they’ll be the seed to attract the rest. The kindling to start the fire that will culminate in his trillion.

  Nathan calls that first group of ultra-wealthy bad boys his “Trillionaire Boys Club,” and he already has a few of the media’s most impressive darlings aboard.

  He’s landed Caspian.

  And managed to convince Hunter.

  He’s even convinced Trevor Ross, head of Eros … although based on some things Nathan has said about Trevor, I’m thinking that he’s a frontman for someone else.

  If the Trillionaire Boys’ Club is the core that will eventually attract the old-school billionaires Nathan needs, then the men he already has, right now, are the beating heart of that core: the nucleus even of the Boys’ Club.

  Right now he has four: himself, Caspian, Hunter, and Trevor.

  But he needs five.

  He still needs the flashiest billionaire on the block: the big rich asshole that will sharpen the point enough to make the Boys’ Club irresistible when he approaches his remaining recruits.

  Nathan still needs the man that puts the “bad” in “billionaire bad boy.”

  “Ashton Moran is our linchpin,” he tells me while we lay naked in bed, unable to keep our idle hands from wandering each other’s bodies. “He’s too visible, and needs to be in the seed group. He’s so goddamn arrogant — he gets more media than the rest of us put together.”

  I believe that. Nathan is somewhat intentionally visible, but Caspian, Hunter, and Trevor (or whoever) are notorious recluses. They try to hide, although the paparazzi gets them anyway.

  Ashton isn’t like that. He holds press conferences, contacts the media corps whenever he gets a haircut or buys a new suit.

  And I believe, based on everything from my marketing classes, that Nathan is right about Ashton’s importance. Whether Nathan boards him or not, he’s going to generate publicity. The question is whether that means good publicity (projecting a brotherhood with other hot young rich guys, hence attracting new recruits) or bad publicity (exposure and embarrassment).

  Ashton is valuable as a PR tool for Nathan’s Syndicate. Unfortunately, he knows it.

  “He’s a sneaky little shit.” Nathan pulls out his tablet to show me searches about Ashton — all of which show his fitness-model’s face and physique in immaculate clothing, always with a different, extremely hot girl on his arm. “He’s smart enough to know that the idea is brilliant. He’ll ultimately want in … but that won’t stop him from trying to squeeze more than his fair share first.”

  Looking at the photos, it’s easy to see why Ashton matters. He’s PR candy. The man everyone loves to hate. He’s taking over professional sports one athlete’s app-enhanced outfit at a time, and is about to do the same in college athletics. He’s an absolute ladykiller — the kind of man women go for even if they realize they’ll be kicked out like trash with the rising sun.

  “What Corey started,” Nathan says, “helps us.” As much as I cherish my own integrity as an individual, it buoys me a bit when Nathan says the word us. “But I’d have known it would take time to settle even if Moran hadn’t called me to gloat … which doubled as his call to tell me he might be interested in the Syndicate on fair terms after all. This is still fragile. Because Corey started it, he’ll always be somewhat involved. But fuck him. It’s you who matters.”

  “I’m not involved at all.”

  “He thinks you are. And Moran keeps score, Alex. He’s the kind of person who plays poker and has to know not just what he’s winning, but what everyone else is winning, too. It shouldn’t matter, but to a guy like him it does. You can bet he knows more about Corey than him being a dumb kid who knew the right people. He probably suspected his friends might have some sort of involvement from the start, even if Corey didn’t tell him about you — which he probably did, because Corey’s clearly in love.”

  Laying on Nathan’s big bed, I want to protest, but don’t. Even if I’m sure Corey is only a friend, Nathan’s convinced otherwise and I don’t want to argue.

  “He got you to come to that little meet-up,” Nathan says. “He saw you there.”

  “We were there for moral support.”

  “Ashton Moran isn’t the kind of person who allows sentiment if it doesn’t serve him. You were there because he wanted you there.”

  I think about that. I feel so comfortable, naked beside Nathan, that none of it strikes me as more than curious.

  “Assume Ashton knows you’re with me. And assume he’ll use it to his advantage if he can.”

  I roll sideways. Either Nathan doesn’t realize what he just said or it means nothing to him. But his words are an echo: Ashton knows you’re with me.

  You’re with me.

  “So?” I say.

  “There’s a reason I called you back, a reason I came to you yesterday.”

  I smirk. “I’ll bet there is.”

  He looks at me, and I see something like apology in him. He’s discussing strategy, and I’m thinking about us. But this is strategic for him, no matter what it might be starting to feel like.

  “You need to know what you’re getting into. And that’s why I need to train you.”

  I skip the double-meaning of train because Nathan does nothing to acknowledge it. With the right frame of reference, it’d be easy to believe there’s nothing happening between us beyond business. It sounds more like an internship than any sort o
f affair.

  “You said he wants into the Syndicate.”

  “He does. But he’ll do so dragging his feet, grabbing whatever he can on the way in.”

  “A double voting share?”

  “He’s lost most of his right to that. Corey arranging this deal gave him a lot of what he wants — and if he suspects I’m involved in that, through you and then through Corey, he’ll know I can sour the deal. We could all tell your athletic director and president terrible things about Ashton Moran and Hurricane Apparel. He’s not safe from my meddling until the deal is signed. And I’m not safe from his scheming until the ink is dry on his entry into the Boys’ Club.”

  “It sounds like a hostage exchange. You have to cross your fingers, take a leap, and sign both deals at once, hoping nobody pulls any tricks.”

  “It’s exactly like that. Which is why we need insurance.”

  I look up at Nathan, and with disbelief I say, “You want me to talk to him, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How can I talk to a guy like that? What can I do?”

  “You were ready to do that when you came to me the first time. It’s what you offered.”

  “I was bluffing.”

  Nathan chuckles. “You’ll do fine. You have power you can’t imagine.”

  Now I’m rankled. He’s talking about using me like a tool — trading me like a valuable card. “So I’m supposed to sleep with him? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “You’re supposed to use your sexuality.”

  “How about I use my grit? My business savvy? My knowledge of your businesses, and my intelligence?”

  “Don’t try it. He’ll eat you alive.”

  “So I’m only a boy toy? I’m supposed to offer myself like candy? Is that all you’re saying I’m good for?”

  He rolls toward me. I can tell he’s trying to find a way not to offend me, but I can also tell he’s not changing his opinion. “You took Krav Maga.”

  I look at the ceiling, arms crossed over my breasts. “Your knowledge of me is stunning. And creepy.”

  “I’ve thought about taking it myself. What’s the first rule of Krav Maga?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me, genius?”

  “As I understand it, it’s Survive. Or Get away clean. And those things, again as I understand it, are because Anything goes.”

  I don’t uncross my arms. But I wonder where he’s going.

  “You don’t think about fighting fair. You don’t bow to your opponent and show him respect. You use your knees, your elbows, your fingernails — anything to gain an advantage. You go for the eyes. Kick balls. If you can lever down on someone’s arm and break it, you do. You go for the throat. Because the art teaches you that if the choice is kill or be killed, you need to be shameless about the killing.”

  I turn my head to look at Nathan.

  “Negotiation, in my opinion, is like that. You can try to practice what you’re learning in school, but Ashton’s built a business much bigger than even mine. You can match wits and get eaten alive. Or you can go for the throat, and hit him however you can, in ways you know for a fact will do damage. That’s the way to win. You don’t play fair. You look for weaknesses, then exploit them.” He touches me. “Like it or not, your strength is in being a young, beautiful girl. And that just so happens to be his weakness.”

  I consider. A beat of silence passes. “I won’t have sex with him.”

  “Goddamn right you won’t.”

  I turn to look at Nathan again, but instead of chastising him for presuming to tell me what to do, I let it go. I’m somehow comforted by the strange, presumptuous dictum.

  “Okay,” I say, somewhat mollified but still a bit pissed. “So what should I do, to get your ‘insurance’ with Moran before the two of you finish measuring dicks and trading hostages?”

  “Use what you have.”

  “My body. My sex.”

  “All of what you have.”

  I turn toward him, fully now, and see something like guilt on his face. I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. “Meaning what, Nathan?”

  So he tells me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ALEX

  NATHAN’S SUGGESTION — WHICH FEELS MORE like a set of firm instructions, the more I consider what I’ve heard on the ride home — becomes increasingly repugnant the longer I drive. He wants me to start some things, then return to meet him tomorrow.

  He offers no details, but knows I assume he means sex. He talked up and down today about me having control in our sexual relationship, but I can’t help wondering if he’s telling me the truth or just what he wants me to hear. Nathan’s description of the morals — or immorality — of negotiation has left me uneasy, and as it settles, everything comes into question.

  Like: does he want me back tomorrow because he wants me back tomorrow? Or is he dangling that return visit like a treat before a hungry dog?

  I can’t start second-guessing everything, even as uncomfortable as his comparison of business to Krav Maga has made me. I was taught — by my parents, teachers, and mentors — to believe that business was about finding a win-win. It isn’t a zero sum game, where one person gains and another is forced to submit. But that’s exactly how Nathan makes it sound: business is war, and if you have to kill to get what you want, then that’s what you do.

  Stab backs. Use people, if your “friends” can help you get what you want.

  Thoughts tumble through my mind as I drive, until after a while they feel strangely Zen. Nothing has meaning beyond the obvious. Nathan and I have had sex a few times. We might have it again tomorrow. I’m a college freshman. He’s a businessman who compares negotiation to no-holds-barred fighting. I have two best friends: Jenna and Corey. Ashton Moran is in a deal to bring Hurricane Apparel to our sports teams.

  Things are what they are, and nothing more.

  It gets me back to school. It lets me park my car in the remote lot with a minimum of stress and second-guessing. The way I’ve been feeling, I can’t trust my guesses anyway. I’ve felt more alive, in a dozen ways, than I ever have. I feel different. And every time I look into a mirror, I’m slightly surprised by the person I see.

  Where is Tony Wynn’s daughter, who grew up on her father’s overprotective knee?

  Where is the good girl, who’d never even have considered what Nathan asked me to do?

  As I watch my eyes in the mirror later, it’s strangely easy to answer those questions.

  The simple, overprotected daughter is gone, along with the good girl who would never have considered such things.

  The girl I was a week ago wouldn’t have let a man she barely knew touch her. She would never have gotten dragged into a broom closet. Or let a man fuck her asshole. That’s for dirty girls — the kind of girl who’d let a powerful older man repeatedly peel off her panties, having her bend over and spread her legs whenever he commanded.

  I take a shower. The uneasy feeling persists. I can’t shake the sense of being lost somehow, of not quite knowing my way out of a maze. I try to read and can’t get comfortable. I go for a walk and find myself always too warm or too cold. I’m hyperaware of the people around me, noticing glances I’ve never noticed before. I pass a group of men and see them turn to watch me. I stop in a convenience store to buy a Diet Coke, and the guy behind the counter looks down at my tits.

  I take the elevator up to my room. There are three guys in the box with me, and even though they’re silent and do nothing wrong, I get a strange, unwelcome flash: getting on my knees to suck one of them off, stripping bare, letting the others play in my two remaining holes.

  I leave the elevator, shaking. I put my hand out to steady myself against the wall. And I tell myself a mantra, meant to calm me:

  Thoughts are just thoughts.

  Even if they’re fantasies, they’re safe inside your head.

  They mean nothing.

  You’re no different than you were.

  But my mi
nd has been hooked, and those altered ways of thinking persist through every encounter. I chat with Jenna and Corey, but can’t stop wondering if Nathan was right about my friend, if he’s rubbed himself while imagining me. With my newly fogged mind, it seems so clearly true. I look back, now not as naive, wakened to the world’s realities, and I understand that of course Corey would have been aroused at the topless beach. Why wouldn’t he? It’s not even lecherous. It’s a natural reaction to seeing two pretty girls with their tits out.

  Jenna dozes off, and Corey asks, “Are you okay, Alex?”

  An instinctual alarm brays, because it’s only the two of us — and I now know, thanks to Nathan, what’s always been on Corey’s mind. If I shift the way I’m sitting and separate my legs, he’ll probably imagine my pussy. If I was in a skirt instead of jeans, he’d try to look.

  I push the thought down. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  “I’m fine. Promise.”

  He seems uncomfortable. Finally he says, “This is because of Nathan Turner, isn’t it?”

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  Another uneasy shift. Corey looks like he thinks I might attack him if he says the wrong thing. “Look. You … like him. Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Jenna says you’re having …” Then he pushes on, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Sex with him.”

  I should deny that. I haven’t told Jenna anything, because the Alex she knows would never do anything like it. I should act affronted at her presumption and Corey’s belief. I should set them both straight, tell them to mind their manners and rumors. I’m not that kind of girl.

  Instead I say, “What if I am?”

  I can tell he didn’t expect this. Corey looks both shocked and — tragically — heartbroken. I’ve disappointed and crushed him with a single careless blow. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s none of your business, Corey.”

  “But you’re …” He stops. “You …” He can’t say the words, but I can read them on his face: