The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Guru

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Guru

  GET A FREE BOOK!

  A Note About Reading Order

  Chapter One - Anthony

  Chapter Two - Caitlin

  Chapter Three - Anthony

  Chapter Four - Caitlin

  Chapter Five - Anthony

  Chapter Six - Anthony

  Chapter Seven - Anthony

  Chapter Eight - Caitlin

  Chapter Nine - Caitlin

  Chapter Ten - Anthony

  Chapter Eleven - Anthony

  Chapter Twelve - Caitlin

  Chapter Thirteen - Caitlin

  Chapter Fourteen - Caitlin

  Chapter Fifteen - Anthony

  Chapter Sixteen - Caitlin

  Chapter Seventeen - Anthony

  Chapter Eighteen - Caitlin

  Chapter Nineteen - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty-One - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Anthony

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Anthony

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Caitlin

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Anthony

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Anthony

  Chapter Thirty - Caitlin

  Chapter Thirty-One - Anthony

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Caitlin

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Anthony

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Caitlin

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Anthony

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Anthony

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Caitlin

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Anthony

  Do You Know the Future?

  Shit You Should Know

  Trillionaire Boys’ Club: The Guru

  Aubrey Parker

  Copyright © 2017 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting Aubrey Parker

  For my readers.

  GET A FREE BOOK!

  THE BURNING OFFER is the first book in my “Trevor’s Harem” series — a hot and suspenseful billionaire’s game of tested limits and forbidden temptations that’s like nothing you’ve ever read before. It normally sells for $2.99, but I’d like to give you a FREE copy. Just click the link below to get it!

  http://aubreyparker.net/aubreyfb/

  THANK YOU FOR READING!

  Aubrey Parker

  A NOTE ABOUT READING ORDER

  All of the books in the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series are meant to be read as standalone novels. That’s why I haven’t numbered the books: the number really doesn’t matter much for most readers, and I don’t want to imply that it does.

  In each book, you’ll read the story of one of the Club’s members and the woman he comes to love. The romance is self-contained and does not require knowledge of earlier books.

  However, some readers will want to read the books in the order I wrote them because behind each book’s love story, there is a slowly-building master plot. You don’t have to worry about this “big arc” to appreciate or enjoy any individual book at all, but you may want to see that slow build as it originally unfolded. If that’s the case, you’ll want to start with The Connector — the story of the Club’s founder, Nathan Turner.

  The suggested reading order for all of my books — including the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series — is on my website here.

  So yes, you may choose to read that way if you’re particular about order … but I promise: this book stands alone just fine, so you absolutely don’t need to.

  Happy reading!

  - Aubrey Parker

  CHAPTER ONE

  ANTHONY

  “DO YOU TRUST ME?” I ask.

  Rena is 46, attractive and fashionable, wearing clothes that manage to be both casual and a little too nice for something like this. She has well-dyed blond hair that suits her. I’d guess her natural color is something a little browner and redder but still in the ballpark — and if I had to guess, she’s dyed it not to change colors so much as to hide her first strands of grey. She’s applied just enough makeup to cover some of her skin’s natural flaws, not to draw attention like someone younger might.

  She’s wearing a charcoal skirt and peach-colored blouse and is perched on the front edge of a rather ordinary auditorium chair with her hands lightly clasped, chest artificially high, knees pressed together and canted to the right. Her smile is clearly forced. It’s supposed to tell the crowd that she has her shit together, but we all know she doesn’t — or won’t, once we get started.

  I want to sympathize, and do. This part is never easy.

  “Yes,” she says. She doesn’t really speak into the microphone; what comes out is more like an exhalation than a word.

  That’s okay. The event crew has done enough of these to know when to boost the gain so the crowd can hear.

  Rena blinks and reinforces her tiny smile. Now it’s my turn to be a bit nervous. It’s not that I doubt what’s coming, or that I think she doesn’t trust me. Quite the opposite: I think I know exactly what Rena has inside, and I’m positive that trusting me isn’t a problem.

  That’s what always makes me a little uneasy, no matter how many events I put on — the idea that I no longer have to build trust. People come to me now with trust built in, and the burden of that trust is like a weight on my back.

  I didn’t start any of this to be a guru, and I don’t want to be one. But now that I’m a bit older, I’ve come to accept a truth: People need guidance, and I’m a fair guide. It’s better for me to help them than leave them to someone who might take advantage.

  “Do you mind if I stand?” I always ask. People usually tell me to go ahead, but asking breaks any impression that standing establishes dominance. Everyone has triggers. You never know who had to sit in a chair as a kid while a father stood over them holding a belt.

  Rena nods. Now she’s not really looking at me. Her triggers are already firing, unspooling what’s inside as if we’ve already started.

  I move to her side. I’d never touch this woman without her trust — especially in the way I’m about to — but she’s given permission. Still, my eyes go to Caitlin, sitting in the Gold Circle up front, as if I need her consent as well. It’s always a bit strange, having someone I know in the crowd — and Caitlin’s friendship with my surrogate daughter Jamie makes her more than just “someone I know.” I know Caitlin well, and I suspect that what I’m about to tell Rena will ring some of Caitlin’s bells.

  Just in case, I almost want to ask Caitlin to leave, but of course I don’t. She needs to see this, same as any of the others. Sometimes you have to open an old wound to clean out the poison inside.

  I put my hand on Rena’s shoulder. Then I move it a little higher, so my fingers are brushing her neck. She exhales when I do, but her reaction isn’t remotely sexual. This is her love trigger, as we established earlier in front of the crowd. Everyone has one. Sometimes it’s a word or a phrase, sometimes it’s a look, sometimes it’s a gesture. Sometimes it’s a specific touch, as it is with Rena. Most people don’t know their own triggers, but they’re there. They tell
a person they’re loved, and put them in a good place before the pain begins.

  “Close your eyes.”

  She does. The audience is as quiet as the dead.

  With her eyes closed, Rena will soon feel like we’re alone together.

  Again, I catch Caitlin’s eye. It’s curious that I look to her; usually I’d be trying to connect with my prospect for the night. But I don’t search for the woman I spoke with earlier — Erica, her name was. We were well on our way to making that connection, but now I can’t find her. I see Caitlin instead. Her eyes are already wide, misty with anticipation.

  “How do you feel?” My voice is soft: exactly the tone Rena told us all earlier put her most at ease. The lavaliere mic on my lapel magnifies my voice for the auditorium, but it’s so much quieter than I usually am. I have a booming voice and big hands. Done wrong, this speak-and-touch encounter with Rena could go terribly awry.

  “Good,” she says.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Just a little.”

  I shift my hand slightly, brushing a bit higher on her neck. Personal triggers are so precise. “How about now?”

  “I feel good.”

  “Still nervous?”

  “No.”

  “What do your thoughts look like right now? Don’t think. Just describe them. Are they black and white? Or are you seeing in color?”

  “Black and white.”

  “Are they distant? As if you’re seeing them from far away?”

  “Yes.”

  My hand on her. Soft. My voice quiet. “Rena? Do you still trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring those thoughts closer. Make them full-color. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.”

  There’s a long moment of hushed quiet. I wait as Rena reassociates with the disturbing issues she’s worked so hard to keep at a distance. I wasn’t sure she’d be thinking in black and white, but of course she’s pushed them far away — and of course, right now, it will scare her to bring them close. I didn’t have to bring Rena onstage to know her anxiety disorder was caused by repression. It’s written all over her, if you have a trained eye — in the careful way she dresses, the way she styles her hair and wears her makeup. It’s in her gestures, and the way she won’t quite meet others’ eyes.

  I barely need to ask her anything to know what’s wrong, but the crowd needs to see it. And, more importantly, Rena — who’s kept something festering inside — needs to see it.

  She’s wearing a wedding ring, but she touches it too often. There are subtle scratches on her knuckle from where she’s taken the ring off over and over, but the finger where it sits is narrow enough that I can tell she almost always wears it. She fidgets with her hair and constantly shifts the way she holds her hands. She laughs when nothing is funny and smiles when no one is smiling.

  Her husband is clearly the problem.

  But more than that, her reaction to her husband is the problem.

  “What do you see? Now that your thoughts are wrapping you like a panorama, with all the scents and tastes and sounds, what are you seeing?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  Of course she knows. She just doesn’t want to say. Who would? But this is how you heal. “Is it … intimate?”

  A blush. A rise and fall of her chest. She smiles a little, nervously, her eyes still closed. “Yes.”

  The crowd titters. It’s a kind sort of laugh, sharing Rena’s discomfort.

  “Would you like us to leave you alone?”

  This time the audience laughs a little harder, and Rena laughs with them.

  “No,” she says.

  I reaffirm my touch on Rena’s neck and shoulder. The crowd is already silent again, the house lights dim. Rena isn’t hypnotized, but she also sort of is.

  Most people are, most of the time.

  So she’s breathing slowly, and the mic can hear it. At least half of the people watching us will fall into the same rhythm. She’s pacing them without realizing it, leading without meaning to lead.

  And because of that, they’ll all be feeling their own secrets. Their own hidden shame.

  “Pull back,” I say. “Bring the memory back through time. Don’t analyze, just do it. Don’t think. Just let your mind roll back. And as it does, release the idea of objective truth. Let your thoughts settle where they want to go, but don’t concern yourself with whether they make sense. It may be a little tricky, but I want you to try. And when I ask you questions, I want you to answer without thinking, too. Can you do that?”

  She nods.

  “Where are you?”

  “In … in my house?”

  “Don’t think. Just say what comes to mind. Don’t analyze what you think you see.”

  “O-okay.”

  “So where are you?” I repeat.

  This time she gives me an immediate response. “In a restaurant.”

  “Have you ordered?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is on the table?”

  “Breadsticks. In a basket, with a white cloth napkin wrapped around them to keep them warm. A candle in a tiny jar.”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. Rena’s not seeing any of this either, and wherever this free association is taking her now, she’s probably never literally been there. This is a kind of guided meditation. A dream she’s experiencing awake.

  “What is the server’s name?”

  “Paul.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Short. Balding. With a beard.”

  “Is there anything in your hands?”

  “I’m holding a glass of wine.”

  “Red or white?”

  “White.”

  “Do you love your husband?”

  Rena stops, taken fully off-guard.

  I resist the urge to say more. I resist the urge to comfort her.

  I know this hurts, and I’m sorry.

  Her voice hitches. “No.”

  I hear someone in the audience sniff, but I don’t turn to look. “But you did. Once.”

  Rena nods. A tear leaks down her cheek.

  “Rena?” I nearly whisper. “Who else is at the table with you?”

  Another tear. “My son, Oliver.”

  I don’t quite know what this is yet, but I have a powerful suspicion. I don’t want to ask Rena about her pending divorce, though I’m already sure there is one. And I don’t want to ask about her lover, though I’m pretty sure there’s one of those, too.

  Rena’s problem isn’t the social anxiety she told us is crippling her business.

  Her problem isn’t even her disintegrating marriage.

  It’s guilt.

  “Look at Oliver’s hand,” I say, leaning close, practically whispering. “Is he holding your hand right now?”

  She shakes her head. More tears are falling, and I know we’ve reached the painful crux of this issue.

  “Rena,” I say, “tell me. Where is your son’s hand?”

  “In his father’s,” she says.

  And then she sobs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CAITLIN

  I WON’T CRY.

  I WON’T cry.

  At least not with Anthony looking at me.

  And he keeps doing it, like he’s checking in to make sure his guest is happy. I go too far back with Anthony to break down and still feel like I can look him in the eye later. He’s not a father figure to me like he is to my friend Jamie (a good thing, considering all the dirty fantasies I’ve had about him), but we’ve always had rapport. So how’s he going to look at me tomorrow if I cry today?

  This is some really shitty luck.

  I’ve been declining Anthony’s invitations to attend one of his self-help seminars for years now, so I’ll be damned if I’ll become a blubbering idiot at the first one I attend. He’s put me up front, in his Gold Circle seats, so I can’t even hide. It kind of sucks.

  I’m told lots of people cry at Anthony Ross seminars — and at these multi-day Fate In Your Palm ev
ents, when he does on-stage breakdowns, it’s practically a guarantee. Still, I figured I’d be okay. I’m a tough chick and awesome at deflecting with sarcasm. So I would’ve been cool … were this not the event I finally decided to attend.

  I’ll admit, this Rena woman sort of got to me just by being up there, sitting vulnerable, while Anthony tried to suss out the source of her social anxiety.

  And I’ll also admit that yeah, I sort of felt like crying when she did. It’s not that I feel bad for Rena — I’ve just never seen anything quite so … so real. It took guts to stay in that chair and let all of us watch while Anthony rooted around in her brain, and his tender treatment of her is downright heartwarming … or heartbreaking.

  But now? Now that I see what’s really wrong inside Rena’s mind and life?

  Oh God. I really, really don’t want to cry, but it’s getting so hard to swallow the tears.

  If I’d have understood Rena’s problem in advance, I probably wouldn’t have been interested in hearing her story, and might have even rooted against her. I can see my mother in Rena. So much is the same — enough, actually, that a paranoid part of me wonders if Anthony somehow knew it all and set this up just to ambush me.

  That can’t be true, but I still feel like this is all custom-tailored. And the way Anthony keeps looking right at me isn’t helping.

  I see the tiniest sympathetic smile, and it makes me want to cry even more. I smile back, because it’s starting to feel like he won’t move on until I do. Maybe he’ll decide I’m happy as his guest and don’t need checking in on.

  We had a great little chat over lunch, and Anthony asked me about my mom: How is she, Caitlin? And when I said she was fine, he asked, in a subtly shaded way, And how is your dad doing?

  Not “How is your dad,” but “How is your dad doing” — as if he figured Dad was healthy … but might be going through some shit.