The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  I answer my final question, then bid farewell to my adoring masses. Everyone sure got a lot more interested in me and my life after Evan announced that I was his girlfriend. They’ve been flat-out fascinated ever since we got engaged, and attendance to my little Q&A sessions still keeps climbing. People are devouring the replays. All the attention makes Evan squirm, but what I told him is true: You’re lovable, Evan. Face it. Show them the real you, show them the real us, and bonding with LiveLyfe will be a given.

  Even Callie Bristow has started admitting I’m a genius.

  I close the laptop and set it aside. Without its warmth on my legs, I’m already cold again. I want to put my legs in the hot tub — just sit on the edge and dangle. What’s the point of having a rooftop spa if you don’t use it? I’m insulting it by sitting here.

  I’m about to rise when I hear the door behind me.

  Something soft brushes my shoulder. Then it’s in front of me, held by one of Evan’s hands. The exact sweater I wanted to get for myself. I could marry this guy.

  “Sit up.”

  I do, and he wraps the sweater around me. Then he sits beside me, in a rocking recliner.

  “I thought you might be cold.”

  “Hey. I don’t need some man to take care of me.”

  Evan smiles at the private joke. It’s true, though; I don’t need him to take care of me. But he likes to do it, and increasingly I like to let him.

  He looks me over. He does it all the time. It’s embarrassing. What am I supposed to do — just sit here and be admired?

  “Take a picture,” I say. “It’ll last longer.”

  “What are you, five years old?”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  We sit for a moment, both of us looking across the vista. A horn honks somewhere far below.

  Still thinking of Evan’s gaze, I say, “I’m getting fat.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “After a girl gets herself engaged, she can let herself go.” I look down at my small, just-showing belly. Then I shake it a little and do my Jabba the Hut impression.

  “You’re such a dumbass,” Evan says.

  “Yes. And now you’re stuck with a dumbass. And do you know what else? Do you know what genetics says that means?”

  “Don’t say it.” It’s like his voice is rolling its eyes. Evan’s discovered that without all my fucked-up self-confidence issues in the way, my sarcasm is ten times sharper. I hope he can survive me.

  “It means your kid is already half dumbass,” I say, rubbing my belly.

  “Great.” He looks at the laptop. “So. Did you lay us entirely bare? Divulge all of our secrets? I sure hope you told the Ask Me Anything audience which positions I like best.”

  “Laugh all you want, but you hired me to bond users with LiveLyfe, and thanks to me, they’re bonding like crazy.”

  “I hired you as a consultant.”

  “Well, there’s movement on that, too. I had some very interesting Skype calls today about the future of education.”

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “Frankie, some expert from the UK whose name I already forget but have in my email if you want me to get it. And Caspian.”

  Evan half-laughs, half-sighs. “I’m sorry.”

  “He was a perfect gentleman to me. Insulted you plenty, though.”

  “I’d have a comeback to that, but I have to give the guy credit. He was working on GameStorming’s Einstein Module well before the idea even entered my mind. Even before Aurora.”

  “What does Aurora have to do with it?”

  “You know. He was trying to do something good for the world before pussy compelled him to.”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  Evan turns his head and gives me a stare that says, Oh, right. YOU have a problem with crude.

  I hold my lecturing expression for five seconds, then I surrender and laugh. Pussy is a funny word. Unless your lover is whispering it into your ear while he’s doing wonderful things to your pussy, in which case it isn’t funny at all.

  Looking at the laptop, Evan says, “Has anyone mentioned that you’re pregnant and we’re not married yet?”

  “What year do you think this is?”

  “I’m just wondering.”

  “Nobody cares, Evan. Just like it won’t ruin your life if people know the kind of shampoo you use.”

  “Someone didn’t really ask that.”

  “Someone did.”

  He shivers. Evan hates exposure. But the good news is that he doesn’t have to endure it for much longer. I’m live-updating my pregnancy just because people love it, but I’m careful to respect sensible boundaries. Once the baby is born, I’ll knock this shit off. People will be bonded enough by then, and I can hand the initiative over to marketing for creative adaptation. And besides, half the reason I do it is just to screw with Evan. It’s a love game we play.

  “Relax,” I say. “The baby will be born after we’re married.”

  I’m just now starting to show, and the wedding is in two weeks. I’d bust Evan’s balls about that, too — about the way we’re not having some long engagement so I can spend the time planning. But I don’t bother because I hate planning, and with Evan’s money, even the most elaborate planning has a way of happening so much faster. He proposed before I got pregnant and I won’t have to pick out napkins and floral arrangements. Everyone wins.

  Evan reaches out and takes my hand, answering in silence.

  “Who were you talking to for so long?”

  “Hampton Brooks.”

  “Coordinating wedding outfits?”

  He laughs because it’s been one of our standing jokes. I keep saying that Hampton has to attend in an Expendable Chic suit, then rip it off at the reception so he can boogie down in something more casual. He’d never wear his company’s clothes, but it’s a hilarious picture.

  “He wanted my opinion on a deal.”

  “Don’t you have enough deals?”

  “It’s his deal,” Evan says. “A real estate thing.”

  “You don’t know anything about real estate.”

  “That’s what I told him. But I figured I owed him for some advice he gave me.”

  “What advice?”

  “Just some stuff.”

  Evan’s uncomfortable, like he’s hiding something. He and his billionaire friends act too manly for feelings, but this has come up before and I suspect that Hampton’s advice was something personal. Lucky for Evan, Hampton doesn’t like to be seen as emotional either, so I’ll have to keep wondering.

  “Is he looking to buy a house or something?”

  “A factory. The Billings & Pile Building.”

  “A factory? For his clothing line?”

  Evan nods. “I guess he wants to support American workers.”

  I laugh because that’s not a motive Hampton would have.

  “And get tax write-offs, and ride the positive PR.”

  “Where’s the plant?”

  “A little town called Williamsville. I’m not sure what state.”

  “Wow. That sounds like Norman Rockwell Americana. Can you imagine?”

  “What?”

  “Hampton. Leaving the city.”

  Evan smiles. It is funny. Hampton only leaves New York to visit other “important” cities. And he only leaves those cities for elaborate field trips, like our rock climbing, or like his jaunts to Ibiza. To say that Hampton insists on sophistication and the best of everything would be exactly right.

  Evan squeezes my hand, then wanders down to caress my belly.

  “I don’t want to talk about Hampton.”

  “Let’s talk about Cole Ellison,” I say.

  Evan looks at me and shakes his head in resignation.

  “You’re regretting it, aren’t you?” I say.

  “What?”

  “Getting involved with a crazy person.”

  He pulls me upright and then toward him. “With every breath I take.”

  We kiss.
For a long time. My head is dizzy. My toes — never mind the cliché —tingle.

  When we finally part, he looks deeply into my eyes.

  “Dumbass,” I say.

  WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

  (Read on for a sneak peek of The Designer)

  The story of the Trillionaire Boys’ Club continues in The Designer.

  SNEAK PEEK: THE DESIGNER

  Continue reading for a sample chapter of the eighth book in the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series:

  The Designer

  CHAPTER ONE

  HAMPTON

  “THAT SHIRT YOU’RE WEARING RIGHT now. Where was it made?”

  Gloria turns and sort of hisses, “It’s not the same thing when you’re talking bespoke, Sal. You can’t offshore bespoke clothing, even if you want to.”

  “This isn’t about my shirt,” I say.

  “I want to know,” Sal persists. “Where was it made?”

  “Beau Chic on 5th Street.”

  “Not the tailor. I meant, where was the cloth loomed?”

  “Egypt,” says a guy in glasses. I don’t even know who he is. Gloria brought him along. He’s an accountant or something, meant to challenge my battery of bookkeepers. Everyone in this room except the bean counters has a stake in Expendable Chic. I don’t blame them for wanting to sway my decisions, and I’m not offended that they seem to think my accountants are doing voodoo with the numbers to make my point. But I’m not cooking the books. This is still my company, and my board of directors is informal. We bounce ideas around, but ultimately what I say goes.

  Gloria turns her irritation on the maybe-accountant. She says nothing, and he shuts up anyway.

  “Egyptian cotton,” Sal says. “But it was loomed in …”

  Guesses chime through the room as if we’re all playing Jeopardy.

  “India.”

  “The Philippines.”

  “Vietnam!”

  “Can you all stop discussing my shirt?”

  Gloria fixes her eyes on me. “I think Sal’s point is that you’re not exactly walking your talk, Hampton. If you don’t wear American-made clothing, then why should this company produce it?”

  I’m about to start ticking off points like I’ve done with two separate topics in this room already.

  First of all, I’m not Expendable Chic’s target market — 21-year-old party girls who want new, cheap, disposable fashions every night before they go out on the town are. I don’t wear our clothes any more than the Walton family buys their home furnishings at Wal-Mart. Second, half my wardrobe is tailored here in town and the other half in Florence, but it’d be ridiculous to apply “made in America” to the first half or “made inexpensively overseas to save a buck” to the second. And third, fuck you all; this isn’t about what Expendable Chic “should do” in the least. And that’s what you all seem too dense to understand.

  I’ve suggested a move based on momentum and vibe, not dollars and cents. They aren’t visionary enough to see it my way.

  Mateo says, “Lower your hand, Hampton.”

  Dammit. I forgot he was here. He’s like a ninja. While Gloria and Sal are loud, Mateo gets almost Zen at these meetings, until he vanishes into the background. He’s one of my advisors under protest, here only because once upon a time I begged. He hates when I count points off on his very pricey dime. He knows that it’s my way of saying I’ve stopped hearing objections because I can list five different ways everyone except me is stupid.

  Mateo doesn’t say more.

  “Look,” I say, meeting everyone’s eyes but Mateo’s, “Expendable Chic’s growth curve is ridiculous. In case any of you didn’t get the memo, we’re opening a new store somewhere in the world every three days. And—”

  “All the more reason not to rock the boat. Because Chic is doing so well.”

  “Right,” says the idiot who suggested my shirt was made in Egypt just because it’s Egyptian cotton. “If ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

  I consider responding. Instead I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, hopefully conveying the depth of his diminished understanding.

  “Let’s try this again,” I say, straightening.

  “Let’s not,” Gloria says, gathering her things. “Why continue to pretend you’re asking for our consensus? You’ll do what you want regardless of what we say, Hampton. You always do.”

  I can’t believe she’s forcing me to steal my victory.

  “Don’t tell me that none of you see my point,” I say, barely keeping my eyes from rolling.

  “Your pitch to voluntarily decrease profit margins, you mean?”

  “There’s more to considering an American factory than profit margins, Gloria.”

  “Your pitch to buy hearts and minds, then?”

  I take a second longer than usual to respond. Gloria’s words remind me of Nicole, a girlfriend from college. Way before my first real company, Nicole used to accuse me of trying to buy her. I pour hours into managing my portfolio, and that meant less time for her. She wanted attention, but I had more money than time. Our dates were scarce but always lavish. Ironically, my argument was similar: quality, not quantity. Of course, Nicole saw right through my bullshit. In retrospect, it’s clear that I wasn’t going for quality. I was buying her off.

  I open my tablet, set it on its stand, and play a familiar video.

  “We’ve seen this before,” says Nicholas, the man on Sal’s right.

  The video plays anyway. It’s a crowdfunding pitch, three minutes long, for jeans that cost $200 each. The campaign ended months ago, and the total pledged is 27 times the amount required for funding. It’s everyday folks who bought those expensive jeans, not fashionistas insisting on the best. They didn’t even buy because they wanted the jeans. On a deep-down level, they bought for an ideal, in support of a promise.

  I stop the video. “Built to last. Made in America, by real folks like you and me, guaranteed to last a decade without a rip. Don’t you see? It’s not about the jeans. It’s about pride. It’s about looking back to a day when the world was better.”

  “Hampton, for fuck’s sake.” Sal’s face is half frustrated and half sympathetic, as if he believes I’m hopelessly feeble and has no chance of making me understand. “Expendable Chic is the opposite of that. And not accidentally. It’s EC’s point of pride. We make clothes that are by their very definition — by the fucking name of the company — expendable. Disposable. How the hell can we adopt a ‘built to last’ campaign? That would be turning against everything this company stands for. It’d alienate all the people who shop at our stores because they know what to expect. We don’t make clothes that you marry. We only make clothes that you date.”

  “Clothes you fuck once and never call again,” Nicholas clarifies.

  I have new points to tick off, but Mateo answers for me.

  “I think Hampton is saying that while Expendable Chic is spreading like wildfire, it has a shitty public image. This company sells a lot of merchandise, but it’s so mass-market that everyone hates it, too. It’s an example of Western arrogance and excess; the clothes fill landfills so teenagers can look fashionable while the third world walks all day for water.”

  “The same is true of McDonald’s,” Gloria says.

  “McDonald’s doesn’t choke landfills with its stuff.”

  “Wal-Mart, then.”

  “It’s not about quality. I’ve known Hampton a long time. We’ve always had a little informal mastermind going on.” Mateo points at me. “And this guy right here? I can promise he doesn’t give a shit about making better clothes. Nor does he care about made in the USA or fair trade or anything like that. When Hampton suggests opening the next Expendable Chic factory in the US, he’s not trying to make this company eco-loving or built on an ancient ethic. He just wants to make it look that way.”

  I feel I should respond because Mateo has just said some pretty unflattering things about my company and me. But I don’t because at least he understands and the othe
rs are listening to him. And it’s true. Our factories are in places that let us pay pennies. The clothes are good enough for the buyers. If not for how the public sees us, I’d be happy to leave things as they are. But a bad image on social media can kill you these days, and Expendable Chic is taking its share of accusations.

  “The only problem—” Mateo continues, turning to meet my eye. “—is that the money doesn’t work. At all. Your clothes are too cheap to make much per unit, so you have to sell a ton. If you open your next factory in America, your margins are dust. A smart move in theory, but it won’t work in reality.”

  “We should at least look into it,” I insist.

  “I’ve looked.”

  “Not everywhere.”

  “It doesn’t work, Hampton. You make billions, but your finances aren’t even close to being able to support an American plant.”

  I watch Mateo closely. I could convince him if I wanted to, but what’s the point? He’s always asking me to go climbing; we can discuss it more then. His is the only opinion I care about, and I don’t want to debate in front of these other idiots. I’m already sick of the board’s ignorance, and as Gloria said, I’ll do whatever I want regardless. I didn’t want to win this way, but I will. I already have a building in mind. I’ll get it, and then show them I am right.

  Gloria pokes me even as I’m preparing to let it go. “Hampton Brooks,” she laughs, “arguing for quality and values.”

  “Knock it off, Gloria. This is business. We already established that my shirt isn’t cheap.”

  “Sure, it’s expensive,” she says. “But is it quality?”

  I could try to answer, but I’m not exactly Ashton Moran. I don’t know clothes; I just know I look good, and that’s all that matters. People who yammer on about “quality” are pretentious assholes, honestly. I answer Gloria as simply as I can.

  “What’s the difference?”

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