The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  Hampton shrugs. “Who isn’t?”

  “I mean, for my mountain.”

  “You’re still on that?”

  “You think I won’t do it?”

  “I just don’t understand why you’d bother.”

  “Wait,” I say. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “What it sounds like,” Hampton says. “Mateo wants to buy a mountain.”

  “Why?”

  “Climbing resort,” Mateo says. “I want to train a team.”

  “Why do you need a mountain to train a team?”

  “Exactly,” says Hampton, as if he’s continually made this point.

  “Home turf,” Mateo says. “It’ll be like a boot camp or something. And a cool place to hang.”

  “You want to start a climbing cult,” I say. “A secret mountain training camp?”

  Mateo grunts.

  “I keep telling him,” Hampton says, “Where are all the best faces in the US? In parks. There are others out there, even privately owned ones, but how many are worth anything? Overgrown, barely any exposed rock, no surveys for safety.”

  “I can have people inspect whatever I think of buying. Set all the bolts, shit like that.”

  Hampton goes on as if he didn’t hear. “The government isn’t going to sell him any mountain worth having. So what’s the point?” He looks at Mateo. “Lower your standards, hero. Maybe buy a hill.”

  Mateo, seeing himself on the losing end of mockery, swaps the target. His eyes find me. “Like I’m the only ‘restless’ one here.”

  You can hear the quotes around “restless.” Hampton picks up on it immediately, clear that someone knows something he doesn’t. Bastard. That’s what I get for drinking with Mateo Saint.

  “You’re restless?” Hampton says.

  “Yeah. LiveLyfe isn’t enough for him.”

  Hampton practically guffaws.

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I said.”

  “You said you wanted to find something else. Something that’s still new and exciting.” Mateo is grinning, his frustration gone.

  “Wait,” Hampton says, pointing a finger at my chest. “Is this what you meant when you said that you had ‘other projects in mind’ for your developers, just a few minutes ago?”

  I think fast. “I just don’t want to get complacent. LiveLyfe is—”

  “Evan,” Mateo says, slapping a heavy hand on my shoulder, “you’ve created the defining structure of the modern age. People live on LiveLyfe instead of with their families. What gets their attention? Your stupid fucking social network. Why do you think we’re all the way out here?”

  I look around as if I have no idea what he means. There isn’t a man-made structure in sight. There’s the crag, the trees, the breeze, and the rocky soil underfoot. If not for the trail coming out of the brush behind us and the bolts in the face, you’d think nobody else even existed.

  Mateo pulls out his phone and says, “What’s this?”

  “A phone?”

  “Out here, it’s a brick. I don’t have to be bothered by my LiveLyfe friends every damn minute.” He gestures at the vista. “But look how far I had to go to kill your creation. That’s how much you’ve changed the world. It’s not enough for you?”

  I can’t tell if this is a serious discussion or more mockery, but I decide to play earnest. “You of all people should understand. You want to buy a mountain. Why buy a mountain?”

  “‘Because it’s there,’” Mateo quotes.

  “It’s because it represents something else. PEZA runs without you, just like LiveLyfe could run without me if I didn’t let people drag me in. The challenge is gone. And I do wonder about how much it’s changed the world.”

  Hampton says, “Now you sound like Anthony Ross.”

  I’m not sure what’s bad about thinking like Anthony Ross. The Syndicate’s official stance is that Ross is persona-non-grata for squashing the Eros deal to run off with his girlfriend — a project we’ve all been working toward for a half-year now. But secretly, I agree with Ross. The ways that deal might have changed the world could have dwarfed what LiveLyfe has done. I never trusted Alexa Mathis, and I’m glad she didn’t get the Club’s funding.

  “I built LiveLyfe to connect people,” I tell them as Hampton and Mateo, in tandem, settle onto boulders around the clearing. “It did its job too well. Now it’s addicted them to that connection — and honestly not even a connection that feels especially genuine. Part of me wants to do something to counteract what I’ve already done. To build something new.”

  “Okay,” Hampton says, surprisingly sober. “What?”

  Dammit. I knew one of them was bound to ask. The problem is, I don’t know. I’ve learned to trust my seeds and wait until they blossom to see their shape.

  “What counteracts fake connection, Evan?”

  I could tell them about Project Angel — about my Secret Santa endeavor wherein I find LiveLyfe employees who are struggling and anonymously send funds to ease the strain. Layla Sky, lost after her husband died and her children were left fatherless, at least won’t have to wonder about expenses or bills. But Hampton and Mateo think big, and won’t see one-off charity as worthy of my “next big thing.”

  “I don’t know,” I finally say.

  “Wait,” Mateo says, eyes squinting with recollection. “On the way in, you were telling me about some person you were interested in ‘acquiring.’ You didn’t say ‘hire.’ You said ‘acquire.’ Is that for this?”

  Dammit. “Not sure. Maybe.”

  “What person?” Hampton asks.

  “Someone he’s all geeked out about because he’s a wizard with the internet or LiveLyfe.”

  “It’s not just that,” I say.

  “Oh,” Mateo goes on, raising an eyebrow in satirical acknowledgement. “He’s also a really good copywriter. And has some funny website.”

  Hampton asks me, “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “Evan wants to work with him because ‘He’s an amazing communicator’—”

  “She,” I correct. “She is an amazing communicator.”

  Hampton and Mateo look at each other. In that second all thoughts about changing the world, my idea, business, and logic fly right out the window. They’re grinning like sunburned assholes, all white teeth and GQ faces.

  “Oh,” Mateo says. “Now I understand.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Hampton turns to Mateo. “I’ll bet her pussy can change the world.”

  Mateo nods. “No wonder he wants to move on to the next new thing.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say. “Not even a little bit.”

  “Who is she, Evan?” Hampton asks.

  Mateo answers. He’s pulled my phone from the pack now, and I guess from his response that he’s opened LiveLyfe chat. When I mentioned this to Mateo on the drive, I made the mistake of telling him that my prospect and I chatted on LiveLyfe before we met.

  “‘Rebecca Presley,’” Mateo reads. “And her website is called …”

  Instead of finishing, he spits laughter. When Hampton looks curious, Mateo shows him the phone.

  “She’s an intuitive marketer. From what I read, her mind is amazing.”

  “Right,” Hampton says. “Her mind.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I know almost nothing about her.”

  “Except for her firm, ripe tits, you mean.”

  “I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  “Uh-huh. I think you’re looking for the next big piece of ass.”

  “Right. Because that sounds like me.”

  “Oh, come on, Evan,” Mateo says. “Don’t act like you don’t have a dick.”

  “My dick is fine. Proud. Tall and upstanding. I just can’t believe you’re so shallow that you assume that’s all I could want.”

  “You’re not trying to nail her.”

  “No!”

  Pause. They look at each other. Mateo says, “Riiight.”

  “Look
. I’ve got enough on my plate. I’m still hands-on with LiveLyfe. You should see what my days look like. I don’t have time for shit like that even if I wanted it, and I for damn sure don’t have time for someone like that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘like that’?”

  “She’s a loudmouth. A smart one, but way too out there. She has no personal boundaries, and she’s carrying a metric ton of baggage. You should see her stuff. It’s funny, and she’s stupidly intelligent and great at what she does, but I feel bad for everyone in her personal life. You know how private I am, and you know how uncomfortable I am even with the attention the press gives me today. I couldn’t afford to be with someone like that.”

  But there’s something else going on as I say these things — as I come to the defense of my idea, and somehow to Rebecca’s even as I malign her. It’s strange; this all feels closer to the bone than I’d expected. My days leading up to this trip were hectic, and for the most part I forgot about the lunch meeting I asked Sam to arrange with Rebecca. But in another of my two-minute, fruitless searches, I did uncover a number, and on a whim, while Curtis was driving me to the airport, I called her. We spoke for five minutes, two of them spent convincing her that I was me. I was surprised to find that I liked Rebecca’s vibe on the phone as much as I had online. She has an undeniable energy. Mateo and Hampton’s poking around feels like an intrusion on that energy.

  But it’s true. I don’t know what she looks like. Their jokes that I’m interested in parts of her I’ve yet to see aren’t just annoying. They’re insulting.

  Hampton is staring at his phone: “‘… has a tiny dick …’” He’s typing with his thumbs. “… dot-com,” he finishes.

  Mateo leans over, and the way they’re both looking at Hampton’s phone, it’s clear that Hampton has a signal. I look again at the device and realize that despite what Mateo said about our phones being bricks, Hampton carries a satellite hub. Fucking billionaires and their toys.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking her up.” He mouths the words, Rebecca Presley.

  “She doesn’t have any photos on her site.” Mateo snickers, presumably at the photos of Steve’s tiny dick, so I correct with, “At least not of her.”

  “Try LinkedIn,” Mateo says.

  “Knock it off, you assholes.”

  “Wait. Look.” Hampton points, presumably at some breadcrumb telling him where to go next.

  “Guys,” I say. “Have you given up on this route?”

  But then Hampton and Mateo must hit pay dirt because they explode at the same time.

  “What?” I say.

  “Oh man,” Mateo says.

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying, have fun changing the world with your ‘next big thing.’”

  “Fucking asshole …” I creep forward, meaning to lunge for the phone, but Hampton snatches it back and tucks it away. For a few seconds, we’re engaged in a playground game of keep-away, as I pin Hampton and reach for the phone while he holds it at arm’s length. Mateo takes it, and I rise to go after him, but before I get far he’s turned the phone off and is folding up the satellite transmitter.

  I glare. “Show me what was so fucking funny.”

  Mateo shrugs, then jiggles Hampton’s now-dead cell in front of my face. “Can’t help you, buddy. These things are just bricks out here.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  REBECCA

  I’D NORMALLY TAKE MY IRRITATION out on Steve, venting to my fans on SteveHasATinyDick.com. But after that phone call with Evan, I feel caught in the middle. Evan seems to have something in mind for me, though I can’t possibly imagine what it would be. I’m not a software person, nor a developer. And despite all he said, I don’t know dick about the internet. How I could be of interest to LiveLyfe’s founder is beyond me.

  But I’m used to following my instincts, and right now they’re telling me that Evan has a grand plan somewhere in his head. And although the logical, this-is-reality part of me knows I’m not qualified to participate, I can’t shake the feeling that Evan’s insistence is somehow meaningful.

  At his request, I’m backing away from my stupid little website. My fans are on LiveLyfe anyway, so it’s not like I need the site. “Maybe shutting down the site” merely means that — for now — I’ll stockpile embarrassing photos of Steve instead of posting them for all to see.

  Even as I’m wondering how best to use this annoyance, my thoughts can’t help but turn to the two strange encounters with Evan Cohen. I know who he is, of course, but nothing else about him. He’s very private, doing a fair job of avoiding the public eye. I wonder what he thinks of me. I must look like a ten-ton atomic bomb waiting to detonate, and I’ll bet he’s already second-guessing himself: wondering if even the little bit of association we’ve had will end up breaching his privacy and shattering his image.

  I can’t think about that now. Right now, I’m focused on my sister’s asshole boss, Jeffrey James.

  And I decide that yes, LiveLyfe will do for my soapbox.

  I’m always active and have super-high engagement. The combination has earned me a high level of visibility — LiveLyfe almost never fails to show most of my friends and fans what I post because the algorithms know I’m good at starting a discussion and earning shares. When I belly up to LiveLyfe with my fingers flexing and what I’m sure must be a determined expression, I feel like I’m stepping in front of a megaphone.

  Get ready for my wrath, Jeffrey James.

  I start to type.

  I get inspired partway through, divert into Photoshop, and make some insulting images. Jeffrey has left his LiveLyfe profile open, so it’s easy to mine raw materials right from the source. I’m walking a fine line, but I don’t care. My sister is legally owed maternity leave. If Jeffrey insists that their recent cuts technically allow them to dock her pay, then I’d reply that the six hillbillies in my masterpiece aren’t technically interested in his butthole even though it really looks like it. The Photoshop job is convincing. Artistic, too. It’s not explicit, but it sure is suggestive. And because the Jeffrey-head I used was originally a photo of him attempting to open a stuck jar, it sure appears that life is giving him a hard time.

  Because Jeffrey is such a colossal scumbag (docking Jenny’s pay two weeks after she returned to work for the week she spent recovering from her rather traumatic emergency C-section, then actually laughing at her when she challenged it), I dedicate a series of posts to him. Not just one; it’s an ongoing story. I tell it all, piece by piece, letting my readers how the company is a family affair, and how half of the people in the office are relatives. Jeffrey’s mother, brother-in-law, sister, and senile aunt. I tell them how the sister got three months off when she had her kid, and how she got paid for every one of them because technically (there’s that word again!) she was “working from home.” Jenny did work from home and took less than her leave. Yet …

  Fucker.

  I’m so absorbed in the rant that I fail to notice the time. That always happens. I usually start these things to bitch, but then the bitching becomes more of a narrative, and suddenly I’m making fun of myself as much as I’m making fun of anyone else. I stop being angry at Jeffrey because I’m laughing too hard, and the crowd — particularly large today — is sharing like crazy. I take energy from my people whenever I can, and they love me today.

  Good. Because I know from experience that when this rant is over, I’ll stop feeling clever and funny and will start to feel terrible. I’ll get the urge to erase all the posts, maybe even apologize now that I’ve tagged Jeffrey a few times, bringing him and a few of his friends into the fray. When the dust settles, I’ll wonder why I felt it was necessary. Jenny was wronged and lost a few thousand dollars she was entitled to just because of this sniveling little ass, but that was no excuse for this.

  When the high evaporates, I’ll feel like a horrible person.

  By then dark will have fallen, and my ghosts will be back.

  What would Evan
think if he saw this?

  That turns on my OCD, and I delete my masterpiece. But it’s already too late. People have already shared my creations all over the place.

  Ugh.

  I need a distraction, so I go to my calendar, wondering what I’ve planned for this weekend. I notice the date, simultaneously realizing I’ve missed a dentist appointment and that tomorrow is my lunch with Evan.

  That brightens me a little. I decide to get my shit together — to plan what we might talk about. It’s not easy. I have no idea what our conversation will center on and Evan’s steering the ship. But I do my best.

  My phone rings. I look at the screen. The call is from Steve.

  As always, my first reaction is joy. I hate that it’s the first emotion, but I can’t deny that it is. The spark only ever lasts a second — maybe a half second — but it’s there all the same. It’s like Steve conditioned me, and only after my body reacts can my head get in the middle and say, He betrayed you, over and over again. He gave you no respect. You supported him. You forgave him twice, and all he did with the trust you tried to give him was to make you look like a fool. Don’t be a fool, Becca. Don’t let him get to you.

  I smile for milliseconds before the resentment starts. For that tiny moment, I remember what Steve was to me: a savior. I let myself need him. I let myself believe that he was something worth having and that I was lucky to have him in my life.

  I’m fucked up, I know. And plenty angry by the time I answer. “What?”

  “Becca.” His voice is soft. Almost sweet.

  “I told you not to call me.”

  “Babe. I had to.”

  My fingers clench the phone so hard, I’m sure it’ll shatter. His timbre doesn’t calm me as it should. The quieter Steve is, the more it amps me up.

  “I’m hanging up,” I say.

  Steve waits. Probably because he’s smarter than me — something he likes to remind me of occasionally. Nobody declares that they’re hanging up if they plan to do it.

  I breathe into the phone, waiting.

  “Say what you’ve got to say or I’m going to hang up on you.” This time, with qualifications added, the empty threat is even less convincing.