The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  My phone chirps. It’s Sam: I’m ready when you are, Boss.

  This is the second text from Sam. I should have joined him already, but I’m fascinated by what I’m reading. This woman has told a story in marketing copy. She apparently holds nothing back; she’s eviscerating herself on the internet, showing every corner of her personal life. I’m transfixed by her transparency. Who is this honest — particularly when trying to run a business?

  And she’s running a business like a boss, from what I can tell. Although she does everything wrong, she’s gotten everything right.

  Now ten minutes late, I text Sam and tell him to hang tight for a little bit longer. I haven’t even gotten to the reason Taylor brought this to my attention in the first place.

  I go back to the dick website. I flip through it quickly, trying to understand. It’s both amazing and pointless. She has merchandise for sale, but I don’t think this site is a moneymaker. She’s just gaining what appear to be rabid fans (along with a few misogynistic-sounding haters) and writing a love letter to her hatred of Steve and his micro-unit.

  I open the LiveLyfe console, but by now I don’t care about the ads. I can see she’s done some serious fucking jujitsu over the last six months with the tools we offer. She’s getting our ads to do tricks they shouldn’t be able to do, but it’s just an extension of what I’ve already seen.

  Good girl, Taylor. I’ve been looking for someone like this.

  Maybe. Except that holy shit does she seem to have a loud mouth.

  I go back to the site, now looking for photos. Not of Steve’s tiny dick, but of Rebecca herself. Curiosity compels me. It’s hard to hear someone’s voice for so long and not wonder who you’re listening to. But the site’s photos are all about Steve and the situations Rebecca has Photoshopped him into. A Forage images search comes up just as empty because the results are all her creations. If there are pictures of Rebecca in here, they’re drowned by the most popular images on her site.

  I go to her LiveLyfe profile, but it’s private. I have access if I want it, but I don’t have time right now to contact the dev team. She has a LiveLyfe page for Steve Has a Tiny Dick as well. I think there are images of her there, but when I click to enlarge them, they’re all Photoshopped to humiliate Steve. It’s possible some of the scattered body parts I see around Steve are Rebecca, but the images are so obscured (and Steve’s photographic co-stars are so varied) that I can’t be sure.

  I’m frustrated; this is taking too long. This woman is not shy, and she doesn’t protect her privacy like I do. So where are the photos? I see from her site that she does a webcam show, but it’s not live now, and she’s too disorganized to have archives.

  Goddammit.

  But why do I care? Taylor alerted me to the ads stats and how they matched my criteria — exceeded them by far, actually — and here I am, bothered by the lack of images.

  My phone chirps again. I’m twenty minutes late and meeting Vickers in ten. I still haven’t showered. Fuck.

  Are we on? Sam asks.

  I guess not, I reply. Sorry. Back-burner it for tomorrow.

  I stare at the photo gallery, then at the still-open tab with the worthless Forage search. I don’t know why I went on a five-minute obsession when I don’t have a single minute to spare. I’ve read her copy and already know how she’s gaming our system. She seems rough around the edges and probably looks like a toothless trucker. But so what?

  I stare at her page, hesitant to contact her. Almost like a kid about to go on a date. What’s that about? She must be that good at writing. I’m captivated.

  I can send her a chat request through her page. It has Do Not Disturb turned on, but that’s something that even my base access can bust right through. It’s rude but screw it; I own this company.

  I look at the time again. I have eight minutes.

  I really should take a few to clean up before meeting Carl Vickers, but no. I already know Rebecca Presley is going to get every one of them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  REBECCA

  I STARE AT THE LITTLE blue box.

  There’s no way the chat is really from Evan Cohen. It’s from an Evan Cohen, not the scorching hot guy who owns LiveLyfe.

  I can see the Verified seal with my own eyes, and anyone who pays attention knows Evan’s screen name, which shows below his full name. In Evan’s case, it’s simple: “Evan.” But because every name in the system is unique, most people can’t get their given names as-is. My LiveLyfe screen name is “RebeccaPresley417.” It’s cumbersome, and I keep telling my mom that I’m going to change it to “ILoveCrystalMeth” just to freak her out. Although I’d still probably have to add 417 to the end; you know someone’s already declaring their love of meth through their handle.

  Evan’s chat is as straightforward as his screen name: Hi.

  I don’t know what to do. He’s given me nothing to work with. It’s not just that I don’t know Evan Cohen; it’s that I don’t have any business knowing him. When you’re one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, you can’t just say hi. You have to have a topic in mind.

  Two can play at this game. I type: Hi.

  My name is Evan Cohen.

  Okay. This is a gag. Now I understand. There’s absolutely no reason for the real Evan to contact me, so this is either his assistant using his account or an elaborate joke. Benji, maybe, hiring a team of hackers to ambush me for making him look like an idiot on repeat.

  My name is Rebecca Presley.

  Do you go by Rebecca? Or Becky?

  You’re an asshole, Benji.

  I don’t think. I just type. It’s only after I’ve sent the PM that I realize I shouldn’t. That’s one of my biggest problems: speaking without thinking first.

  The chat is silent as if I’ve confused whoever-this-is. Then three shaking dots appear.

  Quickly, fingers quivering because now I look like a jerk, I type, Sometimes Becca.

  The dots vanish. Now I’ve confused him more.

  I mean sometimes I go by Becca. Usually Rebecca. Not Becky. Definitely not Reba. What am I, a country singer?

  The dots don’t reappear. And that sucks because I’ve decided I am talking to the real Evan Cohen, against all the odds and for whatever reason.

  Dots. No dots. It’s like Evan doesn’t know what to say, even though he started this.

  Finally: My executive assistant pointed out your ads performance. I was just looking through your websites.

  His assistant pointed out my ads? He’s been looking through my websites? An alarm screams in my brain: I’m in trouble. I knew I shouldn’t have submitted some of those ads. I was surprised they went through, but now I see why. This was a trap. LiveLyfe was testing me, and now Evan Cohen himself is getting in touch to yell at me. I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office and maybe earned a mark on my permanent record.

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  Heart hammering and nerves rising, I type, They’re a joke. I’m just messing around. People seem to think it’s funny. I have a real business, too.

  Again, Evan stops typing.

  I’ve spent a lot of money on LiveLyfe ads under another account.

  But that sounds like I’m being entitled — demanding special treatment because I spent money. What does Evan care? LiveLyfe is an 11-figure company. They don’t care about my thousands of dollars.

  It’s only a joke, I say again.

  I mean, it’s a penis.

  It’s natural.

  Shit. I’ve got the chat diarrhea going, and it’s gonna get worse before it gets better. I’m always a spaz under pressure. I wish I could be normal.

  I don’t hide his face because he sent me the pictures. I think that means I own them.

  And the ones he didn’t send me, he shared on LiveLyfe.

  I can take those down if you want.

  Then, horribly: The way I see it, the human body is a beautiful thing.

  I really, really wish I could take that last one back. No
t only is it a total weirdo thing to say, but it’s also a defense of something I invented as I’ve blathered on — something Evan hasn’t so much as mentioned. He’s sent me four lines of chat. I’ve sent him fourteen. This conversation is a train wreck.

  I’m impressed with how well your ads have done.

  That’s it: back to business. He doesn’t even mention all the crazy shit I just said. Somehow, this embarrasses me even more. Confronting crazy is at least dignified. Apparently, I’ve confused him so much that the only thing he can think is to turn his head and pretend it didn’t happen.

  I’ve been looking for someone for a new project.

  A project involving dick ads?

  I think I’ve said the wrong thing again, but Evan gives me:

  lol

  Then he adds:

  It’s complicated.

  I resist the urge to say that dicks aren’t complicated at all.

  I guess you know who I am?

  Um, yeah. It’s possible I’ve discussed you over margaritas with a few girlfriends, dreaming what you and I might do together with a jar of Nutella.

  But I reply: Yes.

  I didn’t expect LiveLyfe to become what it became. I have other ideas I’d like to pursue. I think you might be perfect for it.

  Because of my penis ads? My penis website?

  Because you understand people and technology.

  No, I don’t. I can’t get my VCR to stop flashing 12:00.

  There’s a pause. I’ve never owned a VCR, and I doubt Evan has either. It’s an old zeitgeist joke that I figure transcends the ages, like Where’s the Beef? or the notion that old people love The Clapper.

  I’ve looked through a lot of your old stuff. I’ve never seen anyone write like you.

  Embarrassing, I know.

  Not at all.

  So … I type, unsure of where this is going.

  I don’t have time right now to explain the project. I have to run in two minutes.

  Lunch meeting? When Evan doesn’t respond right away, my stupid nervous energy gets the best of me, and I add: Because it’s noon in New York.

  Oh. No, it’s only ten here.

  I don’t know why this matters. I’m such a flustered idiot. I chase the statement anyway, knowing he already said that he’s out of time:

  Where are you?

  Austin.

  Somehow this makes me much more uneasy.

  I’m in Austin. I live here. I thought you lived in New York. Fuck. Now I sound like a stalker. Probably because I’ve stalked him a little. Not that I’m a stalker, I add.

  But double-fuck; that’s what a stalker would say.

  I have a place in Austin.

  Long pause.

  Then: Maybe this would be easier to discuss over lunch.

  That blows the head right off my shoulders. I’m being punked. The idea that Evan is talking to me from my own city made me all jittery, but this question of lunch is entirely too much. I get social anxiety. I’m not always great with people, despite the fan adoration. I can be great with people. It’s how I’ve closed my best deals. The problem is that thirty percent of the time I’m a total mess … and I never know which fraction I will be on any given day.

  What do you think?

  What do I think? About lunch with Evan Cohen? I honestly don’t know how to answer that, even to myself. On one level, hell yeah, I’m on board, and I hope he brings massage oil. But on a much more real level, I’m scared shitless. This is the worst thing I could be asked right now. If someone inquired about peeling off all of my skin, it’d be an easier yes.

  I don’t know what this is about. Or why he contacted me.

  And the worst part is that I’m positive that he’s wrong about me, whatever he thinks. Sometimes my fans ask me for the secret to my success, wanting to know how to become as popular as I am. But my popularity is an accident. I show too much. Live off the rails. That made me a lot of money. Then a guy fucked me up, I decided to make fun of him, and the people who already liked me for unknown reasons liked that, too.

  If Evan thinks I have a secret ingredient, he’ll be sorely disappointed after learning the truth. If I go to lunch with him, I’m going to stutter my way through the conversation and spill on both of us. Not in the cute rom-com way; I’ll manage to drop hot coffee on his junk or ruin a $500 shirt when spaghetti flies from my fork. In general, I’ll show him what a “do not” looks like compared to the “do’s” of being a lady. Who the hell am I to warrant LiveLyfe’s attention? My specialty is telling dick jokes. Literally.

  It’ll be a few weeks at the soonest, though. I have a trip coming up.

  After a long time, my fingers unfreeze. Business trip?

  Gotta run. One of my assistants will send details.

  I start to type my reply, but Evan’s icon goes dim.

  CHAPTER SIX

  EVAN

  I EMBARRASS MYSELF THE FIRST day of my climbing trip with Mateo and Hampton. I’d crammed like a college kid for an exam the past few weeks, pushing to up my climbing game as hard as I could without risking injury. I’m sure I can at least compete, if not beat the guys. But then I get one of the leg loops of my harness twisted, and Mateo points it out.

  Asshole.

  Fortunately, I have the upper hand in every other way. Climbers are usually cool granola types, many of whom take their earthy stances so far that body odor is normal. Climbers don’t usually measure dicks on the rock, they support their fellows at all levels. But the three of us take turns. One climbs, one belays and one stands back and discusses business.

  If we can measure dicks in terms of net worth, I’ve got the biggest hog of all. And both of them know it.

  Hampton won’t leave me alone about his latest idea for how his company could work with LiveLyfe. His company is Expendable Chic, famous for disposable clothes and the promise of “one great night, no strings attached.” The problem is, Ashton Moran has already numbed me with an identical pitch.

  Hampton is belaying Mateo when he starts back up. He’s barely paying attention. Each time Mateo pulls more rope to clip in on the next anchor, he has to shout down to Hampton to take the brake off and feed him some line. I guess it’s erring on the safe side. Better that Mateo be annoyed by too much braking than fall while Hampton has his hands set to pay line out. He does that, and Mateo will hit the deck and bust his pretty face.

  “You aren’t getting me, Evan.” Hampton is seven years older than me but looks my age. Something in his boyish features and swept-back hair. He’s kind of stuck-up but never had trouble scoring. “LiveLyfe gets a commission on all Expendable Chic clothes sold through the ZenDress app.”

  “LiveLyfe doesn’t need the revenue,” I say. Then, nodding up toward Mateo: “Watch.”

  Hampton glances up. Mateo descended a bit, and his line’s gone slack. Hampton overcorrects, pulling the rope taut. Mateo yells down at Hampton to stop trying to yank his dick off.

  “It’s not just a little bit of revenue,” Hampton continues, unconcerned. “How big is your user base right now? Exactly,” he says as if I’ve answered. “You offer ZenDress as a one-click, push out some of those dumb little surveys to promote it, and I’ll bet viral spread gets adoption up to … what? Even twenty percent of all LiveLyfe users?”

  “He’s slipping.”

  Hampton looks up at Mateo, then returns his attention to me. “He’s fine. So, they’ve got the app on, and they can click through and see what their profile pic would look like in any of Expendable Chic’s outfits. You’ve seen the interface. Slick as fuck. They dress themselves like they are playing paper dolls. You don’t think users will want that? You don’t think they’ll buy? Projected commissions alone conservatively come to—”

  Mateo falls. He’s just clipped in, so his anchor point is high, and Hampton had his hand in a nice brake position. But the fall still surprises him. He does a comic little hop as the rope takes Mateo’s weight and Hampton, tied into the same rope at the bottom, is dragged closer to the sys
tem’s center of gravity.

  “You want down?” Hampton calls.

  “No, I don’t want down.” He gropes toward the face, gets his fingers around a nice fat jug, and a few seconds later is climbing again while his safety man below ignores him to fix on me again.

  “It’s not the money, Hampton,” I say. “I don’t like the idea of aligning LiveLyfe so completely with one company. Who knows how long development would take, and meanwhile my people are all tied up.”

  “What else you going to have them do?” It’s not really a question. It’s loaded, implying that LiveLyfe’s developers sit around and do nothing all day.

  “I have projects in mind.”

  “FUCK!”

  The shout comes from above. Hampton is jarred by Mateo’s fall again. We both look up.

  “Lower it,” Mateo mumbles.

  Hampton dutifully lowers Mateo to the ground. He seems so peeved that he couldn’t send the route, but I’m not sure why. The route is rated 5.13d and has a wicked overhanging section. Mateo is bigger than Hampton and me, and all of us are more muscular (meaning “heavy”) than the typical climber. The best climbers out here look like they eat sprouts and air for every meal.

  “Fucking crimps,” he says.

  Hampton seems to think this is funny. He’s the lightest among us. Tiny little crimp holds are his specialty. Mateo is the Hulk by comparison.

  Mateo unties his end of the rope, eyeing Hampton as he threads his end back through the ATC. The guys seem to be considering saying something unwise. I hope they don’t start. Mateo is a hot-head. One of the contractors at his Los Angeles PEZA location secretly recorded him dressing down some poor chump who’d only been putting light fixtures where he was told. The recording is awesome. Mateo keeps shouting, demanding to know if the guy is a professional.

  “When I buy my mountain,” Mateo says, “I’ll go through all the routes with a chisel, and take out all the crimpy holds.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” Hampton’s sarcasm pairs well with the decline of Mateo’s adrenaline anger. The air settles.

  Mateo says, “I’m looking at property, you know.”