Still, for some reason, it feels strange to hear nothing. I’m not waiting for love letters, of course, but maybe a ping? If for no other reason than to arrange that second no-strings-attached session we discussed, and which I’ve been thinking about more than seems normal?
There may have been some long, warm bath sessions devoted to anticipating our next and final time.
I also find myself wondering if seminar tour rules apply to all of Anthony’s travel. He’d still have his assistant with him wherever he goes, and I assume she does the heavy lifting of arranging his sex buddies. So has he been fucking girls these past two weeks like he usually does?
It’s no big deal; I’m just curious.
My phone buzzes in the grocery store. It’s Anthony: We need to talk.
My heart starts to pound. I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Since the dawn of time, “We need to talk” has been code for “Shit has gone bad.” I’m pretty sure that the first time Kennedy heard about the Cuban Missile Crisis, it was in a telegraph from Castro that said, “Jack, we need to talk.” Ditto for when Atilla the Hun came to Gaul, when Jesus was leaving the Last Supper, and when the first dinosaurs looked up into the sky and saw that comet hurtling toward them.
I text back, trying to keep my thumbs from shaking. My cart still has its momentum and is about to slam into some old woman molesting melons, but I can’t worry about that now.
Okay, I type. When?
There’s almost no delay before he responds.
Now.
Where?
Behind you.
I turn around and there’s Anthony Fucking Ross, bigger than life behind me, wearing a hoodie with the hood raised. The look does nothing to make him inconspicuous, as was probably his intention. He looks like The Hulk in a hip-hop video.
Instead of looking stern inside his ridiculous hood, he’s wearing that giant grin that stretches his cheeks and gives him dimples.
I snort laughter. Then, glancing over as my cart narrowly avoids the old woman, I smack him on the arm. “You freaked me out.”
“That was the point.”
“You said, ‘We need to talk.’”
“Because I wanted to talk to you. Needed to, as it were.”
“I figured something had gone wrong.”
“You’re fun to mess with.”
I roll my eyes, slowly shaking my head.
“We do need to talk, though.” It’s the same sentence, but he softens it a lot with his voice. It’s no longer threatening; he literally just means words must be spoken between us.
I feel suddenly better, just looking up at him. “What about?”
“Jamie told me about what she has you doing at the foundation. Said you have a new title.”
“I guess I do.”
“She also has some concerns. You know how Jamie worries. I’m not complaining. The fact that she pays such close attention to the details means that things get done right, but sometimes I wish she’d believe a bit more. This company started as a series of leaps of faith. Sometimes you have to trust.”
“Okay.”
“If you’re going to be front-line on these things, I suppose you should get a chance to have your questions and concerns addressed — directly from me, the person who ran this whole thing more or less by myself before Jamie came in to help.”
Help? That’s a bit of an understatement. Before Jamie, the foundation wasn’t a business. Now it is.
But I know what he means, and I lean into it. “All right. At dinner?”
“No, not with Jamie. I don’t really want her concerns to influence you. I’m guessing you’ve already heard them. This would be just you and me.”
“Then I go back to my earlier question: When and where?”
“How about here and now?”
I look around. “In the supermarket?”
Anthony shakes his head. “My car’s outside.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAITLIN
WE’RE REALLY DOING THIS. A parking lot chat.
Can’t we at least go to a Starbucks? Part of me wants something bigger and better. This is Anthony Ross. He has a grand mansion, offices everywhere, and could four-wall any restaurant he wants.
But no. We’re going to his car.
Maybe I’m about to be swept away somewhere luxurious and interesting, but that’s definitely not the vibe I’m getting. Anthony seems to take great pleasure in scanning my stuff and putting it into bags at the checkout. It’s almost like he never goes to grocery stores … which, now that I think about it, he probably doesn’t. He has people for that.
I keep waiting for the punchline. Any moment, Anthony will start talking, or he’s going to explain exactly where we’re going to chat. But instead we walk around the building to a rather ordinary black car parked in the alley between the market and the used book store. There’s a guy sitting in the driver’s seat and the engine is running, but this car isn’t as impressive as the Escalade I rode in before. It’s nice and looks expensive, but it’s just an ordinary car. There’s no private compartment in the back and no divider. We’re just going to sit back there and talk business in front of his driver like three chumps in a carpool?
I let none of this show on my face. I smile when Anthony looks over, then when he opens the trunk and puts my groceries inside. His man gets out to help — the same guy who drove the Escalade, I realize, and when all my everyday crap is in the trunk, the driver closes it and takes the cart back to the building’s corner. Then he gets back in and drives it away.
I look at Anthony as we stand in the alley. “You said we were going to talk in the car.”
“I said my car was outside.”
I look down the block. The black car is at a stoplight with its brake lights lit. “That guy stole my groceries.”
“He’s going to put them in your fridge and cupboards. I didn’t want your ice cream to melt while we were off somewhere.”
“But … he doesn’t have my key.”
Anthony smacks himself on the forehead. “You’re right. Can you give me your key for when he comes back, stymied?”
I reach into my purse. I rummage. When that doesn’t work, I walk over to a book donation bin against the wall of the bookstore and set my purse down to look properly. Eventually, I open it flat and fish things out like I’m performing an autopsy.
I don’t know exactly how it happened, but after enough fruitless rummaging I have to admit the truth. “Damn it. I lost my keys.”
I’m looking behind me, searching my pockets, already wondering when I saw them last and if I might simply have missed the purse pocket putting them away. It’s a disorienting feeling — worse now, because I guess my ice cream is going to melt.
“Then how about a ChapStick?” Anthony asks.
I’m still rummaging. “I can’t believe I lost my keys!”
“Seriously. Do you have a ChapStick?”
“Maybe I dropped them when I—”
“Never mind,” Anthony says. “You can use mine.” And he hands me a ChapStick in tropical fruit flavor, with Minnie Mouse wrapped around its outside. The thing is worn so that Minnie’s head is practically missing. I figure this is because my absent keys keep rubbing against the ChapStick, and because I use it so infrequently that it’s been in there forever — since my last trip to Disneyland, like five years ago.
I look at the little tube in his hand. Then I look up at his face, which is smiling its usual broad smile.
“You stole my ChapStick,” I say.
“And your keys.” He nods toward the departed car.
I look down at my purse. “How did you do that?”
“Come on,” he says, taking my purse from the bin and handing it to me, then pulling my other hand into his. He leads me to a door, then knocks lightly on it. I figure nobody would ever be watching that door but it opens immediately. A white-haired woman emerges.
“Hi, Molly,” Anthony says. “Everything good?”
&nb
sp; “Always good, Anthony.” She looks at me. “Are you Caitlin?”
I nod. I’ve just been stalked in the supermarket, pick-pocketed, had my groceries abducted, and now I’m known to old ladies in bookstore alleys. Nothing should surprise me now.
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“You too,” I say. But I’m not even sure why we’re meeting.
The old woman steps back and holds the door open for us to enter. Then she takes Anthony’s hand in both of her small ones and looks up at him like a favorite grandson who’s grown too big. She reaches up to put a hand on his cheek.
“It’s always good to see you again,” she says. Then she walks into the alley and closes the door behind her, leaving Anthony and me in the dim, silent bookstore.
“Why does everyone walk away from you? First the driver, then that nice lady.”
Anthony smiles, taking my question as rhetorical. He leads the way into the shop itself. The aisles are lined with old books, but the smell is nostalgic rather than musty. There’s plenty of room — the opposite of what I always assumed this place was like inside in all the times I’ve passed it. I always figured the aisles were tight and narrow, overstocked with tomes nobody would ever care about or want.
Used books? How cheap were people that they wanted to buy used instead of new — or, for that matter, just buying ebooks online?
But now I see that I’ve been unfair. There are little oases everywhere, with large stuffed chairs. It’s cozy and friendly without seeming ancient: grandpa’s study, made friendly.
“I used to come in here all the time,” Anthony says, not looking back. “The neighborhood was a little worse back when I was a kid, but this store has always stayed the same. So has Molly.”
“She owns it?”
“She did. Then she fell behind on her lease payments and I bought the building. That was eight years ago now. I just couldn’t let it close, karmically speaking.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a neat trick to steal a girl’s keys today,” Anthony says, smiling back at me — but now with something else in that smile, something from long ago. “But I learned that trick back when I stole to survive. It was just me and my mom. I earned what I could, but it was never enough. She couldn’t earn, after a while, and drank what little she brought home. I was good at lifting wallets. Keys are much harder. They jingle.” I get another little smile, but now it’s bitter. He looks around the shop and says, “This was the best place to steal from people. They set their stuff down to browse. Nobody expects a kid to rip them off while they’re leafing through Melville and Twain.”
“I had no idea.” And I hadn’t. By the time I met Anthony, he was already rising — struggling, sure, but always with a plan and a future. It’s hard to imagine him resorting to petty crime.
“I picked up a book in this store that changed my life,” he says, now pointing. “Just up there, at the end of that aisle. It was Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. I was in here to see who I could pilfer something from, same as most weeks, but you can’t just pop in, steal, and run. Not if you expect to hit the same spot again, which I had to because I couldn’t afford to take the bus to anywhere farther away. So I always looked through the books. Often, if I could find something cheap, I bought one — just for cover, you know. But that day I found Think and Grow Rich, and instead of stealing I sat in one of these chairs and read it cover to cover. Took the entire day. My mom was pissed — but I didn’t lift anything that day, or the next day. That day, I found The Richest Man in Babylon. My brain was on fire. Those books had already ruined me. And after that, I couldn’t steal.”
He looks right at me. I haven’t seen anyone else in the store. His store. We’re alone.
“I went home and wrote down my first set of goals, starting with what I’d no longer tolerate in my life. That’s where it all began. I couldn’t tell you the day the Ross Institute really caught its spark, because it was an evolving process, but I can tell you about the day I read Think and Grow Rich, then The Richest Man in Babylon. I can tell you the exact day I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself — to stop settling, and build something greater than me.”
I feel spellbound by Anthony’s story. The store is dead quiet; I can only hear the small street noises emanating from somewhere up ahead, toward the front of the store.
I can only see his eyes, staring deep into my soul.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You confuse me, Caitlin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Before the event you attended, I knew exactly what was going to greet me each morning. I’ve developed a plan that takes me through a complex web of priorities without a hitch. It allows me to be maximally effective. I need to be maximally effective. I’m one man. I can only do so much with the time I have, so it’s vital that I do it well.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“My priorities used to be so clear. I was never conflicted. Now I am. I’ve been thinking about you more than I should.”
My heart leaps up into my throat. I don’t know where this is going, and the uncertainty is making me dizzy.
“That can’t happen, Caitlin. Same as the Ross Institute, I can’t tell you where whatever is between us began. Maybe I could root it out if I knew. But something changed at some point, and now we both have to face this. You need to understand, I can’t have a relationship of any kind. My work has to come first. I am my work, and it is me. Without it, I’m just some thieving kid who couldn’t feed his family without taking from others. With it, I can make a dent — do my part to make sure that at least a few kids won’t have to grew up like I did.” He shakes his head. “But now it’s harder to focus on my usual priorities. It’s harder to keep my eyes on the prize. Because I’m distracted.”
“It was just sex, Anthony.” I’m not sure I believe it, but I know it’s what he wants to hear.
“And maybe that’s the problem. All of my systems around this part of my life are starting to wobble and squeak like a machine needing oil. Everything used to be slick and smooth. I had my needs, and fulfilled them. Now things aren’t so clear.”
I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “You have your dates. You’ve figured sex out, I thought.”
“I haven’t been interested. I told my team to hit pause on the nightly dates. I told myself I needed to buckle down, but really I think I’m avoiding it.”
I blink. “So in two weeks, you haven’t …”
“Not since you.”
“Why?” There’s actually an answer I’d love to hear, but unfortunately it’s the one that it’ll kill him to give.
He shrugs. “I’m not even sure. I just know that my work is suffering. It’s hard to focus.”
“Jesus, Anthony. I don’t mean to be crude, but haven’t you ever heard of beating off?”
Anthony reaches for my waist. He draws me closer. We barely touch, but I can feel how hard his cock is — as if it’s been waiting for this tiny moment of contact.
“It’s more than that. Changing things between us was a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed you to attend one of my events; maybe I shouldn’t have let you into the car that night. I don’t know. But whatever should have happened, this happened instead, and now nothing is normal. Nothing works as well as it should. I’m confused — and if I may be totally presumptuous, based on some of the things Jamie has said, I think you’re confused, too.”
I swallow. Anthony moves his other hand to my waist and looks down at me. “Am I right? Have you been thinking too much about me, too?”
I don’t know about too much. I’ve certainly been confused and conflicted.
I nod. “A little.”
It’s hard to speak. Something is changing in this quiet bookstore, right here and right now.
“I told you that we needed to talk,” Anthony says.
“What do you want to talk about?”
He pulls me a little closer. A little tigh
ter. His cock throbs, pressing against my hip.
“A better way to clear our minds,” he says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CAITLIN
HIS MOUTH FINDS MINE.
MY eyes close.
I assume he told Molly to shut us in, and that the store is closed with the front door locked — but honestly right now it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t. I haven’t gone from zero to sixty so quickly since the last time Anthony and I hooked up, and beyond that no other encounter has ever come close. This man is able to light a fire inside me that burns hotter than anything I’ve ever felt.
I don’t care if someone walks into the bookstore right now. I don’t care if a family of four walks right down that aisle and sets up camp chairs.
We’re only just kissing, but Anthony is right; my mind was already (and remains always) primed to explode. I’m already seeing our intertwining bodies. Nothing could stop me now. It’s become a need, like my need to breathe.
Anthony pushes us apart, his face flushed, his eyes full of lust. I won’t let our hips part even as our torsos do. His hardness is pressed against my mound, and it’s all I can do to not ride his bulge like a cowgirl on a mechanical bull.
“We need rules,” he says.
“I know.”
“It’s just sex. Just sex, Caitlin. Nothing personal. Right now I don’t want anyone but you. If that changes—”
“I don’t care.”
“And if you want—”
“Stop talking, Anthony. Just stop it.”
But he firms the arms between us, making me stop and meet his eyes.
“This is important,” he says. “It’s the only way it can work. I need to be sure you understand. I can’t give you more than this. Work has to come first.”
“I understand.” But I’m half-panting, unable to resist pawing at Anthony’s troublesome clothing even as he lectures me. There’s a burning between my legs. I don’t even think he’ll have to touch it to make me come. I just need his lips on mine, his kisses on the nape of my neck.
“Caitlin.”
I make myself focus.
The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) Page 12
