The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  That seemed serendipitous, but then I met Laura Davies, a bookkeeper with an ethic as thorough as Paul’s. In her spare time, Laura peruses LiveLyfe’s expenses and finds inefficiencies. When I asked why, she said that she hates waste, and LiveLyfe is too good a company to have any.

  Earlier this year, Laura’s sister was in a car crash. She went into the hospital for half a month, and Laura took a week of vacation to head home and help her family cope, in part because the car was totaled and it was the only one the family had. Laura played chauffeur in her own car, which was itself falling apart. When she returned, her co-workers said that Laura was despondent, but still as fastidious in her work, sad that she couldn’t take more time off to help. Two weeks later, both sisters won new cars in a contest that neither remembered entering.

  I met a sunny receptionist whose run-down home was inexplicably chosen for a home makeover reality show. She’s not even sure who nominated her, let alone how she got her new house without someone pulling strings.

  A sales rep who lost a leg in a tour of duty with the Marines and used to roll around in a wheelchair because he couldn’t afford prosthetics. That guy today is walking around on those blade legs, fit as hell and winning marathons. Luckily, he got an inheritance from a relative he’s not sure he remembers.

  LiveLyfe’s best people — its unsung heroes, doing everyday good work on the front lines — have a way of running into some excellent luck. Once I noticed the pattern, I started looking and found another five instances in this office alone.

  The latest? A pretty woman about my age named Layla Sky. She works as a technical project manager, and last month her husband suddenly died, leaving her alone with three young children.

  Just a week ago, Layla’s children were all invited to attend an exclusive daycare and after-school camp program in North Austin, on scholarship. It’s a bit of a drive, but the scholarship came with a free limo service. That struck me as unusual for a camp to do, but then Layla told me about something even more surprising. Since she’s a working mother, they offered her a living stipend, too.

  Why is a camp giving you money? I asked her.

  Layla didn’t say much. She’s smart. She probably knows there’s something weird going on, but doesn’t want to rock the boat. She was in tough shape before the miraculous events that helped her to survive. Or thrive, really.

  It’s like all of these people have an angel over their shoulders.

  I start poking around. Lo and behold, deep in archives I shouldn’t even have access to, I find something called Project Angel.

  There are assistants dedicated to the project. Bankers. Lots of people are required to take large sums of money and donate it to deserving people in ways that seem invisible, or flat-out lucky.

  I’m still warm from this new twist on my LiveLyfe documentary when Steve messages me out of the blue. The subject of the message is LAWSUIT, and he’s sent it to my LiveLyfe inbox instead of my email.

  Looks like he’s finally gotten tired enough of my SteveHasATinyDick website that he’s convinced some legal shyster to take the case. I’m immediately angry, but I’m also ready for his bullshit. I looked into defamation laws before starting my site — and while technically I’m not allowed to do what I do to Steve in public, it’s impossible to enforce. If Eminem could diss D’Angelo Bailey by first and last name in one of his raps and win a defamation suit, I should have no problem. I mean, I’m only reporting the truth. Steve’s dick is truly minuscule.

  I read Steve’s message again, furious anyway.

  He’s not just being pissy. He’s clearly gotten the feeling I’m cozier with LiveLyfe than I’ve officially let on, and he’s jealous of what he seems to suspect.

  Me, being with someone whose dick isn’t tiny at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  EVAN

  “WE HAVE A PROBLEM.”

  I look up. Callie is standing in my doorway.

  “Good morning, Callie.”

  “Good morning. We have a problem.”

  She enters without my asking. She closes the door, then looks around like a spy before saying something nefarious.

  “It’s Rebecca.”

  “What about her?”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  I take that in. Nobody says “Don’t be mad” unless there’s something worth being mad about.

  “Promise me you won’t be mad,” she says.

  “What’s going on, Callie?”

  Sensing that she’s not going to get a pat assurance against anger, she pauses. Then she says, “I set someone to monitor Rebecca’s LiveLyfe activities.”

  “You friended her.”

  Callie shakes her head. It’s sheepish, almost. “All of her activity.”

  My skin prickles. “You mean her messages.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “Why do you keep asking me not to be mad?”

  “Because I don’t want you to be mad. I know you wanted to give her space. But it’s a good thing that—”

  I take a breath. I fold my hands. “Now, what made you think I wanted you and everyone else to give her space? Was it because I told everyone to give her space?”

  “Evan—”

  “Was it because I told you how important it was that we let her do her work?”

  “If you’ll just—”

  “Silly of me to think we had an agreement. What with you agreeing to do as I asked, and all.”

  “There’s too much at stake, Evan. You don’t see it. You never see it. You only ever see the bright side of things. But—”

  “Terrible thing, for someone to see the bright side. To see how life might work out instead of falling into tragedy.”

  “She’s out there blabbing to her friends about our people! She told some guy about a bunch of our employees, right down to their sad life stories!”

  My mouth was open for rebuttal, but that stops me. “What sad stories?”

  Callie puts her hands flat on my desk, sitting and taking slow breaths. It’s her resetting gesture, preparing to articulate now that she has my attention. I know she’s putting her facts into order, preparing to go back and explain.

  “She got a LiveLyfe message from one of her friends. Or, I guess, not a friend. A guy who is threatening to sue over her little penis website.”

  “From Steve?”

  She nods. “He knows she’s working with LiveLyfe. Some of the things he said in their exchange make that clear — as well as making it clear that he thinks she has a boyfriend here.” Callie looks at me meaningfully.

  “I don’t see why this justifies violating her privacy. And my request.”

  “He obviously knows how to push her buttons. I reviewed the exchange when Jennifer brought it to me, and I found myself thinking, ‘Don’t reply, Rebecca! He’s just trying to get you!’ But she rises to the taunt, every time. And he kept poking. About LiveLyfe, about you. Well, not you specifically; I don’t think he knows who the guy is. But he’d say things to get a rise out of her, and he’d get it every time. Soon it was an all-out flame war.”

  “And she was talking about employees? Why?”

  Callie nods. “That’s what she’s doing, I guess. Her secret project is some behind-the-scenes thing. And Evan, I told you, we can’t afford—”

  I raise a hand. I know we can’t afford a LiveLyfe exposé, even if it’s positive. I guard my privacy like a bank vault and LiveLyfe like a lioness. We’re not a public company. Our business is our damn business, and I don’t want her telling it to the world. But I don’t particularly want to be lectured right now.

  “Don’t tell me what we can’t afford, Callie. Just get to the point.”

  “He said we ran a sweatshop, full of union issues and unfair labor practices. It’s clear he’s talking out his ass; we don’t even have unionized employees. But oh boy, did she respond. She gave him a long list of why LiveLyfe is awesome and has great employees who love the company. It’d be flattering if it weren’t so dangerous, and a
sign that I was right to watch her all along.”

  Callie is right. Telling some asshole that LiveLyfe’s employees are great isn’t bad in itself, but who knows what else she’s spilling?

  “Which employees? Executives?” I shrug. “You?”

  Callie shakes her head. “Rank and file folks. A custodian named Paul James. Remember that rep in the wheelchair? The guy who lost both legs to an IED in Iraq?”

  I feel the blood leave my face.

  “Who else?”

  She thinks. “Lila … Lila Sky?”

  “Layla Sky,” I correct.

  “You know her?”

  I shake the question away. Not even Callie knows about Project Angel, and I don’t feel like telling her. It’s my money I’m giving these people, not LiveLyfe’s. It’s nobody’s business but mine and theirs.

  I sigh. I hate that I’m not shoving this issue away, but Callie was right to bring it to me. She was right, apparently, to set someone to snoop on Rebecca after I ordered her free rein. Callie says she likes Rebecca; but in the same breath, she’ll say that the woman’s a loose cannon and a loudmouth. Given what she’s telling me now, that’s hard to argue. Rebecca told Steve the intimate personal details of our employees, and Steve has an even bigger mouth. Who knows what else she’s saying — telling her followers, perhaps, the color of my underwear.

  It doesn’t matter that she’s defending LiveLyfe. This has to stop. Now. Or we’ll be the ones risking a lawsuit — not from Project Angel’s recipients, but a class-action lawsuit about LiveLyfe’s privacy in general. It won’t matter if we’re proven innocent; we’ll be crippled by the publicity, legal expense, and investment of time. If the wrong information spreads like it could, we’ll be in some serious shit indeed.

  Callie tells me the rest. Everything that happened in her long, drawn-out, hard-to-read flame war with Steve. Then finished, she awaits my response. For me to tell her that she was wrong to pry.

  But right is right. And problems are problems.

  For a long time, I say nothing.

  “We have to cut her off,” Callie says. “And talk to her.”

  “You mean that I have to talk to her, don’t you?”

  Callie nods, her face full of regrets, aware only of the unpleasant truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EVAN

  I ASK REBECCA TO MEET me for coffee. It’s become one of our things, just like going on dates and sleeping together. I arrive first, and it’s not until I see her step inside and feel my heart leap that I realize how much trouble I’m in.

  I’ve let this crazy woman into my heart and thoughts without realizing I’ve done it, and I’ve gotten myself into a relationship without even meaning to.

  Every night, she’s at my place. Sleeping in my bed. We have dinners, sometimes lunches. We’ve skipped right past the casual stage, and moved right into the comfortable stage. I like waking with her beside me. And watching the way a room lights up when she enters.

  Except that she’s kind of nuts. And I can’t afford to have anyone crazy — or with loose lips — in my life.

  But I also love her insanity.

  It’s her very best trait.

  I realize all of this at the worst possible second. It dawns on me as she’s crossing the shop to sit across from me, her smile so much wider than it was when we met.

  I’ll chicken out. Tell Callie I spoke with Becca, then quietly shut down her LiveLyfe account, blaming a glitch. I can talk to Steve. Give him cash to keep his stupid mouth shut.

  But the coward’s way out won’t solve my problem. One of the things I like best about Becca is that she speaks her mind. She’s incapable of subterfuge. Becca says what she thinks. Which, in this case, is exactly the problem.

  If I don’t tell her specifically to stop what she’s doing, she’ll eventually do another thing to burn the company. And then another, and another after that.

  “Hey,” she says.

  We kiss. I feel like a fraud. I’m about to piss her off, and here I am delighting in the taste of her lips.

  “Hey.”

  “So, what’s the haps? How’s your day?”

  I want to engage in banter. I want to mock her for asking about the “haps.” I want to make fun of her for a thousand things because that’s what she’d do to me. It’s our repartee, and I love it.

  But no. If this is to be unpleasant. Let’s get it over with.

  I tell her everything.

  When I’m done, Rebecca sits silent. She’s not staring at me; she’s just looking past me as if it’s all still sinking in.

  Long moments pass. Chatter inside the Hill of Beans fills the void.

  “But the good news,” I say, playing with a napkin, “is that I talked to my funders about our education plan. You don’t even need to work on the LiveLyfe project anymore.” I shrug, trying to act lighthearted, to pretend she’s not sitting mute across from me with a zombie’s expression. “I guess people are bonded enough with LiveLyfe. Although your documentary idea sure sounded like a great—”

  “You promised.”

  I cock my head and reach for her hands on the table, sensing something behind the words, but she pulls them back.

  “You promised that you’d let me work without butting in, and you lied.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Her eyes meet mine. The depth has changed. Now she’s looking at me like an adversary.

  “It’s exactly like that.” Voice calm. Too calm. “You said you trusted me. That I could have full access to do what I wanted because you believed in me. You said that I was better at you than knowing how to bond with fans, so you’d stay out of my way.”

  “Becca …” I reach for her hands again, but this time she doesn’t just slide them back. She snatches them away.

  “You’re no different. You’re the same as them.”

  “Same as them? You mean I’m the same as Steve?”

  She nods. I can see an artifice of calm collapsing to overt anger. When she speaks again, her voice has a hot edge, like the blade of a knife left in a fire. “You told me what I wanted to hear, then showed me your true colors.”

  “It wasn’t even me, Becca. It was …” I don’t want to throw Callie under the bus, so I finish with, “… someone else who was concerned.”

  “Concerned about me. About the wildcard pussy you brought home to fuck?”

  That jab is a hammer to the chest.

  “It’s not like that. It was never like that. When I first contacted you, I didn’t even—”

  She’s shaking her head, an ironic smile darkening her face. Nothing is funny, but she laughs to herself. “One million dollars. It’s so obvious. What would get my attention better? But you were just paying me off. And when you needed to find something for me to do, you didn’t trust me, so you pried.” Becca seems to realize something she should have realized from the start. Her eyebrows narrow. “You went into my messages!”

  “It happened,” I say, eyes moving around, voice pacifying. People around us are stopping their conversations and beginning to stare. “I didn’t even know it was happening, but it did. That’s neither here nor there. The point is, the messages you sent—”

  “Neither here nor there?” My cup chatters on the table as her legs strike it. More people turn to look. “You stuck your nose into my personal messages! What gives you the goddamn right to—?”

  I stand and reach for her arm. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else.”

  She stands, wrenching away. This snowball is rolling too swiftly downhill.

  “Why? Don’t want anyone to know you’re with me? Why do you go out of your way, when we’re in public, to tell servers that it’s a business meal? You might as well grab them by the lapels. Is it because you’re embarrassed that you paid me to …”

  This time, she stops herself. Thank God.

  “You had no right. No goddamn right, Evan.”

  She’s a mask of confused emotions. Her eyes are starting to water,
but her brow is furious. She’s angry and hurt in unison — probably mad because she’s injured.

  And why not? Every man she’s ever been with has betrayed her.

  I take her by the arm. She thrashes a little, but the scene is minimal. Eyes follow us. People still watch us go, judgment on their faces.

  I shove her into a nook. “This isn’t personal. This is business.”

  “My point exactly,” she says, tears falling, teeth practically gnashing. “It’s strictly business between us.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Didn’t you? You wanted to give me money for no reason. I guess that’s a thing you do, and I guess I was the latest object of pity.”

  “That’s not even close to—”

  “A project with nothing in it. A ‘consulting retainer.’” Talking to herself now, she shakes her head. “How fucking stupid are you, Becca?”

  “That’s not fair. You know I wanted your help.”

  “Under conditions. Carefully supervised, like a baby. On a leash, like a dog.”

  “Bullshit.” Now she’s pissing me off. I started this with the best of intentions, and the education program has a tentative green light. I do need her help. So what if my excitement has blended with my delight over Rebecca? Can’t I love both things, independent one from the other?

  “Listen to me. This isn’t my fault.”

  She sneers. “It’s never the man’s fault.”

  “Okay. Fine. I’m the bad guy. I snooped. All my fucking fault, Becca. Let’s say that’s all true. So what? It’s convenient how you forget one simple fact.”

  “What fact?”

  “That you needed supervision. That you said a bunch of shit that was private and privileged, and that you had no business saying.”

  “To defend you!” It’s strange, to hear a protest of allegiance in such a hateful tone. “But I guess I shouldn’t have, right? This was all just something you do, right? Pay a girl, fill her head with stupid ideas, then stab her in the back?”