“You’re just one party in this deal, Anthony.”
“Yes. But if the app doesn’t result in substantial improvement in a user’s quality of life, they won’t use it no matter how trendy all your propaganda makes it seem. You can’t force people to change. You have to make a convincing argument, and then allow them to choose. If you rape the app’s effectiveness for short term data, you’ll cut the entire effort off at the knees. There won’t be a critical mass, and everything will fall apart.” I pause. Then: “I need to believe that you honestly understand that, Alexa.”
A little insulted, she says, “Of course I understand.”
I want to say more, but I’ve soliloquized enough. Alexa is bright enough to get this, and her strong personality will bring even the impatient, arrogant Barnes around. It will take a long time before we see real results — decades, at least. You usually can’t change minds by force or conscious choice. The surest bet it to indoctrinate the children, then wait for them to grow into adults. The Syndicate’s plan will take at least a generation, maybe two. People are rarely so patient. That’s why so few people change the world.
“So,” I say. “What’s this I hear about curing AIDS?”
I can almost hear a nod of recognition. “I guess they called you, then.”
“Who?”
“Clive’s new company. For The People.”
“I don’t know the details. I’m still on the road. I only know that Jamie got in touch, asking if the Ross Foundation is making any attempts to cure AIDS as far as I’ve heard. It took me a while to realize she was talking about that actress’s crowdfunding campaign. I didn’t know that money was going to flow through my charity — and I don’t love it, incidentally.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’d get back to her. Is this something to do with Clive’s crazy-ass moon project?”
“It’s not crazy, Anthony. He’s going to do it. He’s going to build a deep-space radar array on the far side of the moon, and build research labs — labs that, because the moon is international soil, can get away with anything. No regulations. No rules. Know what I mean?”
“But … why?”
“Because on the far side of the moon, there’s no electromagnetic interference from Earth.”
“I meant, why is he building any of it?”
“He sold out of Microdyne. He doesn’t know what to do with all his cash. But you know Clive; he’s so bold a thinker, he’s almost reckless. The base and telescope barely matter. He really just wants to see if he can crowdsource and crowdfund something truly epic. It’s already working, too. He calls it his World Cup.”
“Why?”
“I don’t fucking know, Anthony. Who cares? It’s Clive. Let him do whatever the hell he wants. All that matters are the results, and the results just prove the hive-mind shit we need for what we’re doing. He didn’t even mention AIDS when he started talking about this moon idea. He just said there’d be a huge radio telescope, and living quarters — and then, by the way, sure, what the hell, let’s put one-sixth-gravity labs up there, too.”
“So this is all just a wild hair up Spooner’s ass?”
“The Internet started proposing diseases that the moon lab might be able to cure once governments stopped interfering. Then suddenly Sally Laveaux is onstage talking about a Kickstarter, and thirty days later Clive is getting a four-fucking-billion-dollar check for his lunar project, along with a mandate to cure AIDS. And do you know what he said when he found out?”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Okay, I guess I’ll give it a go.’” Alexa even imitates Clive’s British accent. “But For The People doesn’t have its nonprofit status yet, because Clive’s English and didn’t even think to apply. So he donated the money to you for the time being. He’s going to want it back, so let’s look for ways to piggyback our project onto his. But hey, if you can think of any ways to cure AIDS in the meantime, have at it. Save us a lot of paperwork.”
This is making me dizzy. Talking to Alexa is exhausting. “I think the action item here is very Hollywood: Why don’t you just have your people call my people?” I say.
“About the Ross Institute app and its integration with HALO?”
“Yes. And Forage. And LiveLife’s dataset.”
“Okay. Done. Do you want in on that meeting?”
“Not even a little,” I say. “If you need executive approval, ask Jamie.”
“Jamie’s not in the Syndicate.”
“You’re not either.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re not a billionaire.”
“Not yet.”
We let that simmer. I recall what I told her earlier. The project I’ve planned for the Syndicate’s funds isn’t zero-sum, and will meet everyone’s goals, not just one of them. But whereas I don’t stand to gain much personally from the social improvement I’m after with the Ross app, Alexa and Eros stand to become the world’s first independent trillionaires on the back of the same deal. People might remember me as the man who helped change the world — but when they remember Alexa, part of me wonders if they’ll know her as the woman who owned it.
“It’s going to take a long time for this to show an ROI,” I say. “Generations. Are you really that patient?”
“I am.”
“We might be old by the time it really bears fruit.”
I imagine Alexa smirking. I know what she’ll say before she says it — because Rachel Ryan is in the Syndicate, too.
“We probably will be old,” she says, “but at least there’s a good chance we won’t look it.”
Of course. I believe Ryan’s bullshit claims about nanotechnology in the same breath as I believe all the blabbing about how we can live forever.
I look at my watch. It’s nearly 11 p.m. In a few minutes — thanks to my inadvertent blow-off of Erica — I have precisely nowhere to be.
“I need to go, Alexa. Is there anything else?”
“I don’t think so. But Anthony?”
“Yes?”
“It’s been nice finally seeing eye-to-eye with you.”
I agree. Truth is so rare now, that people react to it like something they’ve never seen. Like authenticity. And antiquated ideas like reaching for less in our flim-flam world rather than more.
“Same. Goodbye, Alexa.”
I hang up, then look around at the dark benches outside my hotel and the still water of the reflecting pool.
For the first time in forever, I have nothing on my schedule. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. So I stand and head for the lit apron, my thoughts turning toward something they shouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAITLIN
I TRY TO SLEEP. IT’S idiotic. I’m uncomfortable despite the corpse-like sleep I had in the same bed last night. The room is too loud despite the silence, and too bright despite the shades. I’m beneath the sheets in my little sleep shorts and ratty tee.
I didn’t bother with panties after my bath, and the lack of underwear is as troublesome as the bed, the noise, and all the light. I keep shifting and rolling, unable to find comfort, and all that movement of skin on uncovered skin makes me uneasy.
At first my mind was on what Jamie told me. I came up to the room like a spy, and caught myself looking around at every hallway as if I were being followed. Once, I even caught myself crouch-walking. When I got the door closed behind me, I turned the lock and put the chain-bar into place, my heart pounding.
I sat on the bed.
I waited, wondering why I felt so uneasy.
But in time, I started to put what Jamie had told me into context. First of all, she’s working from limited information. She knows something about what this “Syndicate” is up to, but not much. We both found that e-reader in Anthony’s room, with all the apps and Alexa Mathis stuff on it, but even with some of the Alexa questions answered, I still don’t know a lot — more proof that there’s a box of tricks here and nobody wants to show how the ma
gician does his magic. And really: what did the strange, jury-rigged device tell me, other than that I don’t know dick?
This new information is strange, but it tells me nothing substantive. Jamie has theories, just like she had theories about the little black tablet, but she’s clearly guessing. She was in that Seattle meeting, but her conclusions — even based on the facts — are still guesses.
So a lot of people disike this Barnes guy. So what? Does that mean he’s Snidely Friggin’ Whiplash? Does he have a mustache he can twirl, while he tries to dupe Anthony and steal control of his well-intentioned ship?
I think Anthony is smart enough to see right through a guy like Barnes. Jamie is worrying for no reason. She’s always been dramatic — the smart girl who took a test in school, then started worrying that evening that all her right answers were actually wrong.
Anthony will be fine; he’s an intelligent man.
He’s also insightful. It’s like he can see inside you — right through you — if he’s looking. And he’s tall. And has big, strong hands. And he looks a little like an action hero that landed the cover of GQ.
He has a really open mind. I know because Jamie told me. Instead of having a girlfriend, he serves his needs by finding women who don’t mind flings. It may be the most mature, grounded attitude toward sex I’ve ever known anyone to have. I don’t find it gross at all. The women know what they’re in for with Anthony, and in their shoes I might do exactly the same.
But I’m glad I fucked up his plans for tonight.
I wonder what it’s like to be one of Anthony’s one-night girls. Because sure, they’re screened and stable and not damaged goods, but nothing can make a person immune to Anthony’s aura. You can’t help but fall a little in love — or maybe it’s lust — with him when you see him, just like you can’t stop feeling like he’s known you forever with the first word he speaks to you.
I wonder what it’s like to be one of those women. How quickly after meeting Anthony does he — or someone in his camp — make their pitch?
Does he meet them in a hotel room, like the one I’m in now?
Do they wait for him … and when he enters, does their skin prickle with anticipation, knowing the coming encounter for exactly what it is?
This is just sex, Caitlin. I’m not here to love you. I’m just here to fuck you.
My finger finds my clit, then slides down into the wetness below. I bring the finger back up, wet now, rolling it across my bud. My other hand finds my breast; I imagine it’s Anthony’s hand.
I know we’ve always been off-limits to each other, Caitlin, but tonight changed things between us. I know you’ve always wanted me. I could see it in your eyes when we almost kissed. But what you’ve probably never known is that I’ve always wanted you, too.
Anthony’s hand on my pussy. Anthony’s hand on my breast.
I part my legs atop the bedspread. I can almost feel the bed sigh with Anthony’s imagined weight between my thighs. With my eyes closed, I imagine him naked, with his thick cock in his hand.
He’s desired by millions, but right now he’s mine.
I’ve always wanted to fuck you, Caitlin. I’ve always wanted to put my cock inside you.
Two fingers slide in. I hit a spot I’ve never quite hit before, the underside of my wrist cocked so that it’s sliding across my clit. I come almost instantly, not expecting it. The orgasm seems to last forever, and when I return to my senses I slide off the bed and get dressed again.
I wonder if Anthony is still downstairs? Still on that call I know he needed to take?
If he is, I have something I’d like to ask him.
He has such an enlightened view of human sexuality. He can be with girls who understand from the start what they’re entering into, and who thank him before and after. He doesn’t do love because he can’t afford the time. But sex? Being honest about sexual needs is practically an Anthony Ross cornerstone. Didn’t that even come up during Rena’s session? Did he not tell her that if her husband didn’t want her, she should feel free to take what she needed from other places so long as she was honest?
I hope Anthony is downstairs, because I want to tell him again how much I admire what he does, and the honesty with which he approaches life.
And maybe I should tell him that my views about sex can be enlightened, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CAITLIN
HE’S NOT IN THE BAR. Of course.
He’s not in the lobby. Why would he be? He’s Anthony Ross; of course he’s not just sitting around waiting for the mob.
Or, conversely, maybe “sitting around” is exactly what Anthony does with his time on tour. Maybe that’s how he finds his women. Maybe he’s found another already, and is preparing to take her upstairs. A man has needs — especially an enlightened man like Anthony.
I’m nervous. Any moment I’ll either somehow learn that Anthony is upstairs fucking some cheap bitch, or I’ll find him in a corner somewhere chatting one up — maybe feeling one up.
But then I realize how ridiculous the notion is. Anthony isn’t some horny teenage boy looking for gropes in the back of a dark movie theater. He’s the guru, whether he wants the title or not.
But there’s no Anthony in the lobby. No text from his keepers letting me know that a room upstairs is rockin’ so I’d better not go a-knockin’.
I’m being an idiot. Fresh off my fantasy orgasm, nerve endings on fire and brain awash with stupid-making endorphins, the idea of going down to the lobby seemed downright logical. Why wouldn’t I go down? Obviously Anthony would be waiting with his arms wide and dick out.
Come to me, Caitlin. I’ve abandoned all my procedures, systems, and morals in the last hour and have been waiting for you.
Now that the glow has left my cheeks and lips, and my need for attention isn’t so urgent, the flaws in my plan are clear.
Anthony’s booked wall-to-wall at all times. He’s not here, because he’s in a meeting. Or at the gym. Or getting a massage. Or writing new content. Hell, he had a meeting to rush to when I left him — ahem, I mean, when I sort of sneaked away because I’d become a curious mix of guilty and embarrassed.
He would never be wandering the lobby.
Jesus, I’m an idiot. A desperate, unrealistic, foolish-little-girl kind of idiot.
After a few minutes of feeling dumb and conspicuous, I decide to return to my room. Upstairs, there’s nobody to stare and laugh at the way I apparently thought one of the richest, most famous, most-desired men in the world would be hanging out, ready for me. Upstairs, no one will judge me. And hey — upstairs, maybe I can have another dream date. Why not? If I can’t fuck him in real life, I might as well fuck him in my mind.
But I see the bar first, and decide that a drink sounds good. Necessary, even.
I walk up and I order a glass of wine. No, a margarita. But no; what the hell; a margarita is stupid for a moment like this. I need liquor. Vodka. But girly enough that I won’t choke on the fumes.
“I’ll have a white Russian,” I tell the bartender.
And the bartender, who’s not bad-looking, runs his eyes over me. I didn’t put my seminar-day clothes back on; I dressed up in evening wear. For the lobby, by God.
I brought it just in case, seeing as I was staying in a fancy hotel and would be flying first class because I’m a VIP — Anthony’s special guest. It’s your basic little black dress, and for maximum effect I’m wearing it braless. My nipples aren’t really poking out much — embarrassment took their edge right off — and the dress is closer to classy than slutty, but I’m somehow still sure the bartender is X-raying me now.
I think I look good. I put on makeup, fluffed my only-minimally-sex-flattened hair, and wore the little strappy heels that make my ass stick out. The only question is whether this look leans more toward “pretty lady” or “come and get it.”
“What?” I ask the bartender when he refuses to stop staring at me.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I was just
asking if you’d like this charged to your room.”
Oh, right. He did ask me that. My subconscious mind is reminding me of it now that I’ve made an ass of myself. I was too absorbed in imagining him mentally unwrapping my hooker tits to hear him.
More gently, reminding myself that this is all in my head, and that nobody actually knows what I’m thinking or what I’d planned for Anthony, I tell him to yes, please, charge it to my room. I leave him a five-dollar tip for my six-dollar drink to make myself feel less like of an asshole.
I raise the glass. I’m slowly coming to my senses, and I’ve just noticed the front doors with the enticing cool darkness outside. I really shouldn’t go back to my room. That’s where the self-hating downward spiral lives.
“Can I take this outside?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
I smile at the guy and walk away. He probably thinks I’m crazy, or just a bitch. Better than being a slut, I suppose.
Outside, it’s obvious that nobody is watching me, nobody knows what I’m thinking, and nobody cares. The thought is a tad lonely, so as I step toward one of the planters beside the door, I turn my thoughts to the place they should be: toward the day, and all I achieved.
Slowly, I decide: I’m proud of myself.
I really am. I did good stuff today. I came to grips with my anger at my mom, realizing she’s not the only one to blame and that I’m culpable, too. I called my dad and told him what was what. I’ve never, not once in my life, been that honest with him. He said he was proud of me, too, as crazy as that is to reflect on — and that’s given me a real sense of release. I didn’t realize how much tension I was holding until it was gone.
The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) Page 7
