Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Internet Giant
Table of Contents
The Internet Giant
Copyright
Dedication
The Internet Giant
GET A FREE BOOK!
A Note About Reading Order
Chapter One - Mia
Chapter Two - Mia
Chapter Three - Mia
Chapter Four - Onyx
Chapter Five - Mia
Chapter Six - Mia
Chapter Seven - Onyx
Chapter Eight - Mia
Chapter Nine - MIa
Chapter Ten - Onyx
Chapter Eleven - Mia
Chapter Twelve - Mia
Chapter Thirteen - Onyx
Chapter Fourteen - Mia
Chapter Fifteen - Mia
Chapter Sixteen - Onyx
Chapter Seventeen - Onyx
Chapter Eighteen - Mia
Chapter Nineteen - Mia
Chapter Twenty - Mia
Chapter Twenty-One - Mia
Chapter Twenty-Two - Onyx
Chapter Twenty-Three - Mia
Chapter Twenty-Four - Mia
Chapter Twenty-Five - Mia
Chapter Twenty-Six - Onyx
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Mia
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Mia
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Onyx
Chapter Thirty - Mia
Chapter Thirty-One - Mia
Chapter Thirty-Two - Onyx
Want to know what happens next?
Sneak Peek: The Philanthropist
Chapter One - Jamie
Shit You Should Know
Trillionaire Boys’ Club: The Internet Giant
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.
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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
MIA
Jamie is three steps ahead of me, pace steady, breathing easily.
Bitch.
“If you want me to run with you,” I pant, “you need to slow down and let me catch up.”
“If you want to run with me,” Jamie retorts, “you need to go faster.”
“Fine. I don’t want to run with you.”
I stop, defiant. This lasts all of four seconds, because Jamie doesn’t slow down or look back. She’s seen this from me before — enough that I wonder why I do it.
When I was fourteen, I worked at this hot dog stand; the owner, who lived above the stand, used to “quit” from time to time when his employees got reckless. Because he lived there, he had nowhere to go — so he’d walk to the corner and stand facing traffic, hands on his hips, delaying his inevitable return.
That’s how I feel whenever I stop running: I’m only embarrassing myself. Jamie, knowing me better than I know myself, never stops when I pout.
“Wait,” I call, hurrying to catch up.
With a heavy sigh, Jamie does — for a moment. She’s off again the second I’m beside her, immediately leaving me two steps back.
“I hate you,” I say.
“You love me,” Jamie replies.
“You make me do this. You make me feel pain.”
“No pain, no gain.”
“Actually, I’ve heard that’s not true. Nowadays people say that if you feel pain while exercising, you should stop.”
“Stay off the Internet, Mia. Don’t you remember how you self-diagnosed yourself as having prostate cancer?”
“Maybe I did.”
“You’re a girl. You don’t have a prostate.”
“Maybe that’s what went wrong. Maybe I grew one.”
I can’t see because she’s ahead of me, but Jamie probably rolls her eyes. I’m already out of breath again. I hate jogging. I’m pretty sure that Satan and Hitler had a baby, and that little fucker invented jogging.
“Wait up,” I say.
“Catch up.”
“I’m feeling pain.”
“Maybe it’s your prostate.”
“Hey.” Big breath. It’s hard to talk. “I was serious. I read it on WebMD.”
“And I told you to stay off WebMD.”
“This wasn’t about me having a disease. This was a regular old exercise science article written by some guy.”
“Oh, well, that’s different. I’m all ears if some guy wrote it.” Jamie looks earnestly at me, still jogging, that sun-kissed brown ponytail still bouncing behind her head. She’s tall, like five-eight or five-nine, with bigger boobs than mine and a flatter stomach. She doesn’t even need exercise; this is just how she’s built. Exercise is icing on the cake.
She’s my best friend, but I hate her.
“If you feel pain,” I say, “you’re supposed to slow down or stop.”
“You’re not feeling pain, Mia. You’re just a wimp. You’re tired, not pained.”
“When you feel tired, you’re supposed to stop.”
Jamie doesn’t dignify me with a response. Instead she runs faster.
“Slow down.”
“Speed up, pussy.”
“Slow … down.”
“Come on. You can do better than that, fatass.”
“I’m …” Pant. “Serious.”
“This is good for you.”
I hold my side. “I’ve got … shin … splints.”
Jamie looks back, eyeing my posture. “Do you mean a side stitch, or do you really not know where your shins are?”
“Fuck … you.”
“You’ll need to catch me first.”
I’ve had enough. I trip and fall on the grass without bothering to compose mys
elf. I’m mostly looking upward, seeing only a tree and blue sky.
I’m going to die, but that’s better than jogging.
Jamie appears above me, clearly disgusted but holding out her hand.
“Dying,” I manage to say.
“Come on.” She shakes the offered hand. “Get up.”
“No.”
“Get up, Mia.”
“No. You’ll make me run again.”
“Do you know where you are?” Jamie asks.
I roll as far as my muscles will allow, which is perhaps three inches. I’m too tired for more. I have no breath. This is how drowning must feel.
The view barely changes. I don’t know where I am, only that the grass is slightly overgrown and that there’s a garbage can by the street that seems to have been tipped over, possibly by a bear. The bag inside the can has been ripped open. Inside, I see coffee grounds, the corner of a cereal box, and a paper plate stacked with what look like perfectly good cookies.
Why would someone throw out cookies? It’s so illogical. I could eat them all right now, and fuck the jog.
“This is Stygian Hart’s house.”
I sit up onto my elbows, alarmed — a knee-jerk reaction. We avoided Stygian’s place on principle when we were kids. The route from our local Target to my house passed his, and sometimes we used to sit at the Target (or the nearby Wal-Mart) and watch entire movies on the demo televisions in the A/V department. On that walk, I always took the extra block to circle around. Now that I’m an adult, I’ve heard from many reasonable people that Stygian is actually sweet despite his gruff exterior, but my childhood fears stay rooted, waiting until I’m too exhausted for common sense.
Like when I’m jogging.
“You lay here any longer,” Jamie tells me, “and he’ll come out waving his Bubba stick at you.”
“That’s just something kids say.”
“Oh, look. Here he comes.”
I’m already sitting, so it’s easy to turn my head toward the porch. There’s a large picture window, and framed in it is the somewhat shadowy form of a man who’s large in both stature and frame, with a salt-and-pepper beard. He’s staring right at us, not moving. For all I know, he’s been standing there all day staring at the street, just to freak people out.
And it’s working. I get to my feet and, glancing back, resume a fast walk. It’s not jogging; I’m on strike from that shit.
“I hate you,” I tell Jamie again, once we’re clear of Stygian’s gaze.
“If it weren’t for me, you’d weigh 300 pounds.”
“I’m comfortable with who I am.”
“No, you’re influenced by TV and magazines just like the rest of us. You’re the modern woman who wants it all: microwave mac and cheese because you’re too busy to cook AND an ass like a firm silk pillow.”
“I thought we wanted buns of steel.”
“Not since the 80s. Who wants a steel ass? Think about it.”
I don’t think about it. I don’t care about asses. I can appreciate a nice butt on a guy, but I’m more into what’s on a man’s front, from top to bottom. The back half of a human is utilitarian — necessary, but then again so is the gross little alley behind even the nicest buildings. You have to take your trash out somewhere.
“What time is it?” I ask Jamie.
“12:16.”
“You lie. We’ve been running for like five hours.”
“Ten minutes, Mia. It’s been ten minutes.”
“I don’t want to run on my lunch hour. First of all, I have to rush through lunch.”
“You brought ramen today. It takes two minutes. If you savor.”
“Second, I get gross.”
“You were going to shower and change after your workout at the gym anyway.”
I look ahead. We’re almost back to the gym, which is only three buildings down from our office in the Old Town part of Inferno. I’ve had a membership for three years because I’m too embarrassed to go in and cancel — each week I somehow convince myself I’ll work out tomorrow. They have fantastic showers. I’ve used them often enough when I run too late in the mornings and need to spruce up.
“And lastly, it’s demoralizing. The fact that I have so much of my lunch hour left even after all this agony makes me feel like a failure.”
Jamie looks at me. She’s sneaky; she’s started to jog again. Apparently my body has no will of its own, so I’m doing the same.
“Your last reason contradicts your first. What do you want? To use up your whole entire hour and feel accomplished or to use up ten minutes and feel demoralized?”
I’m not going to win this argument, so I drop it. I am, however, going to insist on no more lunchtime jogging. I like my job and this makes the middle part awful.
As we finally slow into our cool-down, it occurs to me how rare my feelings are. Who truly loves their job? Who feels truly lucky to work each day, beyond their financial reasons? I sure do. I landed the gig at Urban Design last year thanks to good luck, great grades, and a sliver of nepotism. Nepotism leftovers, actually. Jamie and I met each other senior year, both majoring in civil engineering. So when her father’s friend Anthony wrangled the job for her in the wake of her dad’s death, I angled for one too. We’re both too junior for a nationally known company like UD, but Anthony Ross pulls plenty of strings. We’re both too proud for handouts, but smart enough to accept what’s offered. We took the jobs and swore to kick serious ass —which we do, to earn the positions we maybe didn’t need to work as hard for as most people would have.
“Let’s sit for a while first.” There’s a short wall outside the gym; Jamie sits and pats the concrete beside her. “There’s something we should talk about.”
CHAPTER TWO
MIA
I wait for more, but there’s nothing. Jamie looks away, as if she’s just said nothing of note.
There’s something we should talk about.
If we were a lesbian couple, I’d be nervous.
But after a few seconds of silence, it’s almost possible to believe she said anything. Maybe we’re resting. There’s definitely no discussion.
I look at Jamie, then at the front window of the gym. There are people doing some sort of sweaty dance in the main room — they look like they’re reaching repeatedly for invisible coconuts on a tall palm, but they’re sure as hell not having any fun doing it. I’ve seen this class perform this torture before.
Jamie looks off into the distance. Her skin, which is several shades darker than mine, has only the slightest sheen, while I’m dripping like a faucet and I feel like I’m going to throw up. She looks wistful; I look like I’ve been attacked.
“About what?” I say.
She looks over as if I’ve said something confusing.
“You said you wanted to tell me something.”
I see her waffling and get the feeling she wanted to sneak-attack me with whatever this is, but now she wishes she’d said nothing to raise my antennae.
“We’re resting,” she says.
I’m suspicious. Usually I’m the one who wants to rest. “You don’t look like you need rest.”
“I figured you did.”
I do. Obviously. If I don’t cool down first, my shower won’t take and I’ll sweat all day. But still I’m suspicious, and glaring at her.
“How’s Mike?” she asks.
“I don’t know. We broke up. So hopefully he’s in pain.”
“You broke up with Mike?”
“Yes. So what?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jamie’s brown eyes are wide. She’s acting like I’ve announced my pending death: maybe worried, at least concerned. Why? It’s not like Mike and I were special. I’m over it. Possibly because I was never all that into it.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t aware I needed to log everything with you. I also forgot to take my trash out last night. Sorry. I got busy and it slipped my mind.”
“You and Mike were so cute together!”
“Cute, hu
h?” I shrug. “I don’t really judge relationships based on photo ops.”
“But I mean, he seemed nice. You seemed like a good couple.”
I make a whatcha-gonna-do face. Mike was fine. Just like Slate, before him. I’ve had many mediocre boyfriends. None lit a fire, but I’m starting to wonder if they’re supposed to. Sure, once upon a time, a boy who shall remain nameless spoiled then destroyed me — but that was probably first-love stuff, if that exists. Teen hormones and the sense of danger that comes with a guy who’s no good for you at all.
Maybe it’s not fair to expect fire. Maybe I should recalibrate — look for a guy who completes me as a good couple. Someone I’m cute together with.
“Oh, honey,” Jamie says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m fine.”
“Why did you break up?”
“He just wasn’t … you know.”
“No good in bed? Couldn’t give head right?” Her face sets, like she’s got it, and she points at me knowingly. “Had a bent dick.”
“No! It’s not sexual at all.”
“Oh. Sorry. You just sounded kind of embarrassed. I figured that’s what ‘you know’ meant.”
“He just wasn’t the one.”
“O … kay …”
“He didn’t meet my standards. And a girl has to have standards.”
Jamie gets all serious. “Mia. I love you. But nobody ever meets your standards. Your standards are too high.”
“So at the ripe old age of 25, you’re suggesting I settle? That I’ve become an old maid and should take what I can get?”
“I mean that nobody can meet your standards. They’re not meetable.”
“They are so meetable. I don’t even have super-high standards. I’m not looking for a guy with a cover-model face — though I’d take it. I don’t need super six-pack abs, though they’re definitely on my Christmas list.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”