I can’t easily raise my head from this hips-up position, so I sort of roll my eyes down toward him. I must look like a frightened bird. I swallow.
Ashton says, “The answer is: for whatever I want.”
Then, wasting no time, he’s between my legs, pushing his thick cock against my pussy lips. It slips in, and I gasp. Then he’s giving me his full length, balls resting against my tipped-up ass. He doesn’t bend down to kiss me. He doesn’t even take off his blazer. Ashton Moran looks down at my bare pussy as he fucks me, then up at my naked tits.
We don’t speak. We merely breathe. I close my eyes as his big dick fills me, gasping with every long stroke. I’m on fire.
He reaches down to tweak my nipples, and I almost come.
My pussy is so wet, it’s like fucking in a pool.
His hand goes to my clit and begins to rub it, and thanks to our position his cock head rubs my top wall.
I’m coming from every direction at once, from every pleasure organ I have. And as I contract, he contracts; he pushes into me hard, making me shudder.
The waves pass. He pulls out and walks away.
It’s not until sixty seconds after that, in the real world, that I come for real.
And again.
And again.
CHAPTER FIVE
JENNA
WITH AN UNUSUAL RETICENCE, I call Alyssa back.
It’s the right woman — the same Alyssa Galloway I met at the college admin building when I shook Ashton’s too-good-to-talk-to-me hand. After a few words with her assistant and a transfer that at least originates in LA according to the area code and greeting (Banner Agency Los Angeles; Alyssa Galloway’s office; Tina speaking; how can I help you?), I hear Alyssa come on the line.
“Jenna! It’s been forever.”
Her greeting strikes me as over the top. I’m already struggling to keep up. I’ve spoken maybe a hundred words in my life to this woman, but the vibe she’s projecting — that we’re long-lost friends — is so convincing that I nearly fall for it myself.
“Good to talk again,” I say.
“How have you been? How’s Raymond?”
Raymond is my father. I don’t think I ever told her his name, but maybe I did back when she almost set up that dinner between me and Ashton — before Alex insisted that I’d be making a terrible mistake by going through with it. Alyssa using my dad’s name now should be creepy, but she does it with enough ease to seem somehow natural, even though I know better.
“He’s fine.” I’m swept up enough that I nearly add, He sends his best.
“Did you ever get that scheduling issue figured out?”
“What? Oh. Yes.”
Alyssa seems to remember every conversation. When Alex, Corey, and I watched that meeting she kept using subtle details from the university president’s life, finding ways to mention similarities between his hobbies and Ashton’s.
What? You both used to collect stamps as nerdy kids? That’s information that nobody set out for exploitation earlier or anything.
“So.” Alyssa says the lone word as if she’s one of my closest girlfriends, crossing her arms and leaning close while we share a plate of fries, whispering about something that’s just between us. “What are you doing this summer?”
“Just hanging out.”
“I mean, what are you doing for work? Did you go back to the ice cream place?”
“Oh.” I guess I mentioned that, too. How much did she let me talk before? “No. I don’t have a summer job just yet.”
“Are you looking for something?”
“Um, maybe? Why?”
“Just so happens I may have something.” There’s a beat, and I can practically imagine Alyssa twirling a strand of her chestnut hair around an idle finger. “We had an opening come up, and … tell you a secret?”
“Okay.”
“Ashton thought of you immediately.”
“He thought of me?” The proclamation about knocks me off the bed, and I’m already flat on my back. I realize that some of my anxiety, in calling Alyssa to discuss a Moran issue, comes from the fact that I recently had sex with Ashton inside my head. Alyssa knows my old job, my schedule, and my dad’s name. Is there really any chance she hasn’t taken inventory of my fantasies, and knows what I just let Ashton do to me in his mental mansion?
Logic says I’m imagining things, but I’d swear every one of Alyssa’s words has a double meaning. I’d swear she’s talking to me like someone who knows a girl likes a boy, and is trying to render dreams to reality — playing Cupid without being too obvious.
“We both did. Ashton was excited when I told him I’d be calling you today.”
I’ve never seen Ashton Moran look excited by anything. In person, on TV, on the Internet, or in photos. The most excited expression I’ve ever seen on his handsome, arrogant face might be when he appreciates the shine on his expensive silver cufflinks.
“What’s the job?”
“Well, that’s kind of complicated.”
A complicated job? I’m not sure what that means. Jobs sometimes carry tricky duties, and every job requires training. But that’s not what Alyssa is saying.
“Complicated how?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say just yet, Jenna. I’d need you to sign an NDA first.”
“An ‘NDA’?”
“A nondisclosure agreement. Do you have a printer?”
“My dad does.”
“Can you print from it without using his computer?”
That makes my forehead bunch in puzzlement. I see my expression in the mirror across from my bed — a hillbilly trying to understand calculus.
“Yeah. But …”
“I’d rather not involve Raymond just yet. Tell him on your own terms if you like our offer, but you’re an adult, honey. I want you making the decision, not your father.”
Now I look like a hillbilly trying to understand quantum physics. What the hell is she talking about? Every word seems carefully chosen. Tell him on your own terms, she said, but I could clearly hear the suffix she didn’t add: Or don’t tell him at all.
But what job might I choose not to tell my father about?
Apparently the kind that I’d have to sign an NDA before being permitted to hear it.
“I’m sending you an email right now,” she says. “Let me know if you don’t get it.”
I take the phone from my face and tap over to my email. Sure enough, there’s a new message from GALLOWAY, ALYSSA - BANNER USA. And it has an attachment.
“Got it.”
“Print and sign the NDA when you can. Then take a picture of it with your phone and send it back to me. Cool?”
“What kind of a job is this, Alyssa?”
“One that’s perfect for you. One that pays like a boss, and that I’m positive you’ll enjoy. Just get me that NDA and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“But … what—”
“So have you talked much to Alex and Corey since summer started?” Alyssa interrupts, making it clear that this part of the discussion is over.
CHAPTER SIX
JENNA
I’VE NEVER, EVER BEEN THIS nervous for a phone call.
For a reason I can’t explain even to myself, I scheduled it for when I knew that Dad would be gone. Now I almost wish I hadn’t. You’d think, if you could look inside my head to the interior frenzy, that I was expecting an army of in-person visitors. Even though I’ll only be talking on the phone, I’m somehow nervous about taking it alone.
I took a bath, maybe spending too much time cleaning the area between my legs, maybe shaving in more places than usual out of a strange compulsion that it just seemed like a good idea. Then I got dressed in something that took forever to choose, and blew my hair dry instead of pulling it into a wet ponytail. I’m positive we’re not meeting on Skype or FaceTime, but I can’t shake the feeling that I should look presentable.
Maybe because when you talk to Ashton Moran and his publicist, they can see right through th
e phone. Makes sense, seeing as I’m positive that they both know all the fantasizing I’ve done about the handsome billionaire.
It’s all ridiculous but I do it anyway, justifying my actions the way I’d justify wearing sexy underwear that no one can see: it makes me feel better, which will make me more confident, which will matter even if our meeting is audio-only.
The justification almost works, but deep down I know I’m nuts.
I signed their nondisclosure agreement. Alyssa thanked me a little condescendingly, as if she was pleased I could handle such a big-girl task all on my own. Then we booked this call, which is now exactly three minutes away. Dad’s been gone for two hours, and won’t be back for another two.
I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil. I don’t know their intentions and have no reason to believe they’re nefarious, but the preparations sound like something a scammer tells an old person:
Sign this; send it to me; don’t tell anyone; make sure your wise friends and relatives aren’t around when we speak next, so it’s only me and your naive, stupid little self.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to be manipulated and that, by not having anyone present around me like Moran has Alyssa, I’ve done the phone-call equivalent of heading to trial without a lawyer.
I’m watching the phone on my dresser.
It’s only a phone call.
And of course it is.
They just want to offer you a job. You can say no. Or better: you can say you want to think about it, then ask for opinions if you have any doubt at all.
And of course that’s true. But this isn’t really about the offer, whatever it is. It’s about the vibe I got from Alyssa, and the one from Ashton: he liked my body a lot, but his eyes didn’t like me at all. That’s what my subconscious thinks, judging by the dreams where Ashton fucks then discards me.
But the worst thing is the way I love those dreams where I’m used by Ashton. I look forward to them, and bring the dreams to mind when I’m fully awake and want to make myself come.
What’s wrong with me? Am I really that broken?
The phone rings — three trills before I grab it. “Hello?”
“Jenna? It’s Alyssa. How are you?”
I don’t know why people still introduce themselves on cell phones. Dad does it on the house phone because he doesn’t know who’s calling. Maybe Alyssa’s doing it now to calm me. Maybe she can sense my agitation — in mind and body, with trepidation and skin-tingling excitement.
I’m not thrilled or nervous. I’m simply stimulated.
“I’m fine.” But that’s not what my voice says, and I’m sure she can hear it. I keep thinking about the empty house and the promise I signed to never tell anyone what happens. I also keep thinking of how my college roommate Alex practically forced me to cancel a dinner meeting with this man because she felt he was nothing but danger.
What did Alex know that I didn’t? She acted so certain, so clear.
Well, Alex isn’t here to stop me this time.
Is that a good or a bad thing?
“Ashton’s here, too,” Alyssa says.
“Hello, Jenna.” His voice is so much deeper than I remember. Contrasted with Alyssa’s public relations yammering, the billionaire’s silky delivery sounds almost bored.
“Hi,” I say.
There’s a beat of quiet, during which I’m betting Ashton fails to take a ball Alyssa instructed him to take, or hoped that he would. She reclaims control of the call, but I can already tell that she means to be a facilitator, not one of the primary participants. This is supposed to be a chat between me and Ashton, once Alyssa lays the job on my table.
But if I’m right, what does it mean? Neither Ashton nor Alyssa are the right person to offer me a job at Hurricane. That should be done by someone in human relations, maybe a Team Leader for whatever division they’re staffing.
“Jenna,” Alyssa says. “I can speak straight with you, can’t I?”
“Um, sure.”
“We almost had a dinner scheduled. Between the two of you.”
Ashton grunts. I wonder if he’s annoyed — maybe he took my cancellation as an insult.
“Right,” I say.
“It didn’t work out. But I think you both agreed it would be fun.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe that’s a good way to think of this.”
Is Alyssa asking me out? On Ashton’s behalf? What the hell is this?
“I don’t understand.”
There’s clear awkwardness on the line. Either Alyssa didn’t think this out, or it isn’t going as planned. And Ashton, who strikes me as agitated by all of it, isn’t helping her out.
“I mentioned a job offer,” Alyssa says.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a public-facing position. With Ashton.”
I don’t know what that means.
“She signed the NDA, Alyssa,” Ashton says. “Just spit it out.”
“I just want to make sure I explain it right. I don’t want her getting the wrong impression.”
Ashton laughs. A cocky laugh, as if he knows something Alyssa doesn’t — namely, that the “wrong impression” isn’t wrong at all.
“Alyssa is tongue-tied,” Ashton says. “You’ll have to forgive her incompetence.”
Alyssa makes a tiny noise of protest.
“She wants to know if you’ll agree to be seen with me. On an … ongoing basis.”
“Seen with you?”
“It’s a bit unconventional. This isn’t the way I’d normally handle something like this. Frankly, Alyssa is in my way on this one.”
Another noise of protest. They must be in the same room because she stops immediately, as if Ashton has shot her a look.
He clears his throat. “I’m just going to say it. This isn’t what I’m used to, but it’ll do. And it’s a job, after all.”
I swallow. I have no idea why, but my hand is trembling.
“We want to know if you’d like to be my girlfriend.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASHTON
I FEEL LIKE AN ASSHOLE as the words spill from my lips. I look at Alyssa again, and for once she’s humbled. This was all her idea, and it’s clearly as stupid as I predicted. But the cat is out of the bag; I’ve said the words, and Jenna Green has signed an NDA. Curiously, this makes me feel the need to disclose more, not less. I don’t like feeling like an asshole, and the only way to lessen the feeling now is to explain.
Girlfriend. I hate the word. It’s so immature. The kind of word you use when you still have teddy bears on your bed and a curfew. I prefer words like acquisition, revenue, and takeover.
Or, of course, conquest.
“What?” Jenna says on the other end of the phone. “Did you say …?”
Now that there’s finally something to spin, Alyssa breaks her paralysis. I’m the one who feels like an asshole, but she has a much bigger risk: looking unprofessional, and getting fired if she can’t make this work.
She breaks into PR and branding speak, babbling through the same series of arguments that got me to green light this in the first place. She explains that image is everything, and that I’m the bottleneck to my company’s positive public perception. I do well with men, who don’t particularly care, and with women who find me attractive and can imagine themselves with me in some fairytale land. But I do terribly with women who see me as a mirror of something that once happened to them: a lover who left for someone better, perhaps.
I swap women like underwear. It’s who I am, but apparently a too-large percentage of the world’s female population has a problem with it.
And so, Alyssa explains, I need an image makeover.
She doesn’t give all the details because it might seem too Machiavellian, but I hear the figures and stats in suitably vague terms: Family Circle has a circulation of 16 million, and where that domino falls, other women’s magazines, websites, and outlets will follow. With a more family-friendly image Alyssa can get me
interviews and profiles in all the places I currently miss. Not just GQ and Esquire, but shit like The View.
The idea makes me retch beneath my insert Ermenegildo Zegna collar, makes me clammy under my barrel cuffs. So I think of explosive profits until the feelings leave.
Alyssa finishes, and the line is silent. We’re both waiting to hear what Jenna thinks about all of this, now that it’s laid out. But she takes five, six, seven seconds before there’s so much as a stirring.
Alyssa prompts her. “Jenna? Are you still there?”
Her silence sounds furious. If we’d had this meeting in person, which I suggested, I’d know exactly how to soothe her. And what’s more, Jenna seeing me might make such soothing irrelevant. I saw the way she stared when we met, and heard the nerves in her voice when she realized I was on the line. This girl wouldn’t be wetter if she sank into a bath.
But Jenna answers sounding thoughtful more than mad. “What’s it pay?”
Alyssa looks at me and shrugs. We hadn’t got that far. I dismissed the question because I figured being on my arm was payment enough. I practically have a waiting list. Alyssa seems muddled on the issue, failing to cross-connect the ideas of have a public girlfriend and it’s a job. One of those is a money position and the other isn’t.
Obviously, the way Alyssa positioned this, the girl expects payment. That wouldn’t be the case if she’d butted out and let me handle the situation. I could have met Jenna somewhere by accident, then asked her out. I’d string her along, my boredom mollified by her blisteringly hot body and the fact that I could still fuck other girls out of sight. We’d do that for a while, land a few interviews, and then I’d move on. No paperwork or salary required.
“We’re still figuring that out.” Then, because she’s good at improvising Alyssa adds, “But you understand — it can’t go through our usual hiring channels. You’ll be off the books. Definitely not an official employee.”
“You mean you just want to give me a lump of money under the table to keep the secret.”
That sounds a bit underhanded, but Alyssa agrees that’s about right.
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul Page 3
