The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7) Read online

  “Babe.”

  “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”

  “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  “You know. You know what I mean. Unless you’re a monster, you know what I mean. And I know you’re not a monster. You’re my Becky.”

  There it is: the one thing nobody’s ever allowed to call me. So much worse than “babe.”

  “Fuck off, Steve.”

  “Please. I need you to stop. What you’re doing with your site? It’s starting to impact my life.”

  “Good.”

  “I can’t move on if you keep it up. These constant reminders …”

  “You could use constant reminders, Steve. After what you did to me.”

  I can imagine Steve shaking his head. We’ve had this discussion in person a hundred times. The subtle way he moves his head at times like these could practically be trademarked. Steve used to be beautiful. He was a model, with a cut jaw and a body to die for. Then he found his Sugar Mama, stopped working and stopped putting forth any effort. He took up a new career — laying on the couch playing X-Box. He turned to Play-Doh, and still somehow had me wrapped around his finger until the day I finally found the self-respect to end it.

  “I told you. That’s all over. That was the old me.”

  “The old you never changed, Steve.”

  “You never gave me a chance.”

  I won’t dignify that with a response. Not only did I give him dozens of normal-person chances to clean up his act; I also gave him two hard chances when he cheated on me — and those were just the times I caught him. There were always strange hairs in our bed that Steve said came from dogs he’d petted during the day, or subtle rearrangements of the food in the fridge or the cosmetics on the bathroom counter. His excuses were always whisper-thin, but I guess I needed his approval more than he needed mine. It’s something about myself I’ve always hated. I’m seeing a shrink, and I think I’m better now.

  So why am I still on the phone?

  “Please, Becky. Shut down that website. It’s starting to go viral.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “It’s not just people I know making fun of me. It’s affecting my career.”

  “What career?”

  “I’m modeling again.”

  I laugh. If Steve is modeling again, he’s either a foot model, a belly model, or a model for male pony tails that attempt to distract the eye from a bald spot.

  “I’m serious, Becky. You never really believed in me.”

  That stokes my anger. I stood by him when he got “injured” and took a half-year to recover. I supported him when he said he had burnout, then watched his diet turn to Ho-Hos and pizza. By the time his burnout was past, so was his physique. He’d go to auditions only after I’d badgered him long enough, then come home sad because the photographers told him he was too fat for underwear ads. I tried to comfort him — after I’d caught him in bed with our housekeeper.

  “I went to one the other day, and one of the lighting assistants said, ‘Hey, you’re the guy from that website! Hey, Giorgio — this is the guy with the tiny dick!”’

  “That’s not my fault, Steve. You do have a tiny dick.” And he does. The whole time we were together, I assured him it was fine. It’s not. It was like making love to a peanut.

  “It’s nobody’s business. You’re airing dirty laundry.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you used my money to pay for hookers. It was like you wanted to get caught!”

  “I didn’t want to get caught. I …” He stalls because even though we both know that I’m right, a better response would have been to tell me it was a misunderstanding. Like maybe he found naked women in our bed, tripped on his way to yell at them, and landed with his cock inside them.

  “Or, you just wanted to rub it in my face. You wanted to do it right out in the open and see if I had enough self-respect to do anything.”

  I didn’t. We kept dating. I’ve told my shrink that I must hate myself, but she assures me that everyone needs approval — that everyone needs love in whatever twisted form they think is their only way to get it.

  “The guys at work, Becky. They —”

  “What work?”

  “Target. I’m a floor manager, remember?”

  I briefly wonder if any Target floor manager has successfully pulled off a second career as a model.

  “They’ve started calling me Slim SHATDy,” Steve says.

  As much as I want this call to be over, I’m curious: “What?”

  “You know, like Slim Shady? That rapper’s nickname? Eminem?”

  “But how is that—” I begin.

  “SHATDy. S-H-A-T-D,” Steve says. “For ‘Steve has a tiny dick.’”

  I get it, and when I do, I guffaw. I wish it felt funnier; because it is. I just hate him so much right now. Only, it’s more than that. There’s this blackness inside of me — a pit that’s reaching up with dark tendrils and threatening to drag me down. At first, I think it’s misplaced hurt: a fucked-up sense of still loving this asshole and thinking of how he hurt me, over and over and over again.

  But no, it’s so much worse. The blackness feels like me hating myself, for how much emotional abuse he gave me — and how readily I came crawling right back to him.

  “Please, Becky. Please, I’m begging you. Shut the site down.”

  I’ve already agreed to shut it down, per my discussion with LiveLyfe.

  But Steve doesn’t know that.

  “No.”

  “Becky …”

  “I said no, Steve. You want to shut it down? Go hire a lawyer.”

  His tone flips in an instant. The penitent man he was pretending to be is gone. Five seconds ago, I could have beaten him into a phony apology, but now he’s all vengeance. Now he’s the selfish, vindictive dick he always was beneath the surface.

  “Fine. Maybe I will.”

  “Do it, Steve. I fucking dare you.”

  “You think I won’t?”

  “I know you won’t. It’s not just your cock that’s tiny. You don’t have any balls, either.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Becky.”

  “I’m not tempting. I’m begging. Go ahead. Sue me, if you have the guts. You sent me the photos I’ve posted and the ones that don’t display your pathetic junk are on LiveLyfe. These are images you decided to share with the world, with me. I’ve just made a few enhancements. Go ahead and try. I’m just parodying you, Steve. And parody is legal.”

  I’m breathing hard as I finish, but I hide it from the phone. I don’t know what I’m talking about at all, but I also know that it doesn’t matter. Steve is all words, no action. That’s how it was when we were together, too, including when he thought he was good to me.

  There’s a long pause, then the sad, quiet voice returns. I think I might have broken through another layer. On his outside is a facade of sweetness; beneath that is narcissism. But at the very core of Steve is a coward, no more and no less.

  “Please, Becky. Please. Don’t be so cruel.”

  “Cruel,” I repeat, with no inflection.

  “You’re better than this,” he says, though obviously, he doesn’t believe it.

  “You think I’m cruel.”

  I have no emotion left to respond. I’m the cruel one? It’s not possible that he believes that, after all he’s done — and how unapologetic he’s been.

  “I’m hanging up now, Steve.”

  “No, you’re—”

  I don’t just set the phone down after hanging up. I turn it off. Then I walk away, numb. I don’t know how to describe how I feel inside. It’s terrifying for its emptiness. There’s simply nothing. I’m mad but not raging; I’m sad but not crying; I’m broken but not bleeding; utterly defeated even in what should be a sort of victory. I’m neither happy nor sad. There’s nothing left in me.

  I can only go to my computer. To the only people who seem to accept my faults.

  And I tell t
hem the simplest, most meaningless, most random thing I believe I’ve ever told them. In the plainest language, without humor or attachments or flair.

  I will never be in a relationship again, I type. Ever.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EVAN

  10:15 AM: CALL RYAN from Resonant Systems. I’m in my Benz, driving myself, triple-tasking on the trip between my place and the downtown office where my personal accountant (different from LiveLyfe’s team of internal and external experts) holds court. I’m talking to Ryan, driving, catching up on email and Slack messages at the stoplights. I’m curiously Zen, handling it all while never losing track of the conversation, proving that even mania has a flow state.

  I’m supposed to be at my accountant’s place by 10:45. It’s in one of the big buildings, and I’m not used to parking down here, so I’ve given myself a little leeway. Normally he’d come to me in our Austin office, but since I’m going to be down here at noon, I figured I’d get out and stretch my legs. I’m also a bit protective of this whole thing. I don’t want personal and professional numbers mingling, but there are plenty of people at LiveLyfe who have no idea that I keep an outside accountant.

  Cesar Chavez exit off of Mopac. Right at the fork, past the lake on the right, into downtown’s moderate midday congestion. I’m minutes ahead, my call with Ryan is wrapping up without my needing to nudge, and I’ve answered all of my Slacks. I’m on a roll.

  I’m about to hang up as I hit Congress. Ryan says, “Enjoy downtown,” and that’s when it hits me. Fuck.

  I reviewed my agenda separately with both Taylor and Sam this morning, so I knew exactly what the day held. I figured it down to the five-minute block, doing my usual pre-op prep on the day to see where I could surgically insert efficiencies — like this call with Ryan, which originally had a fifteen-minute block. I can usually Tetris my schedule on the fly, and I did it for today. But Ryan’s mention of “downtown” brings it home in a way that my actual driving past Lamar doesn’t. I realize, full-on and all of a sudden, that I have that lunch with Rebecca.

  It’s why I’m down here, meeting my accountant in person rather than having him come to me: because I was going to be here anyway. Because the accountant’s place is only a few blocks from the Roaring Fork, and they always give me the private back room without my having to ask.

  It’s been on my mind, but the circuits in my brain wiring That thing that’s preoccupied you to That thing is today failed to fire. Even after Taylor told me, and then Sam reminded me.

  I don’t know why, but the sudden arrival of this knowledge unnerves me as I pull up in front of my accountant’s building. I feel like I’ve forgotten something else, something vital. The feeling when you suspect something is missing but have no clue what it might be. This doesn’t make sense to me. I’m usually so precise. So controlled, How does someone who schedules his day to the minute forget a lunch date? Especially after a pair of reminders?

  I’m thoroughly unprepared. My carefully created schedule is useless.

  The building has a valet, so I’m through the door in minutes. But some asshole must have told the attendant that The Great Evan Cohen was coming and to take care of him because as soon as I enter the lobby, a chipper man in his fifties or so comes wobbling after me like C-3PO, saying my name and welcoming me.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cohen! It’s a pleasure to have you in our offices today.”

  I mumble a hello.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “No, I know where I’m going.”

  “Coffee? Tea? Anything at all?”

  “No.” I force myself to add: “Thanks.”

  I go into the bathroom to get away from him. I hate being recognized. Sometimes success feels like a punishment.

  I stand in front of the mirror and make sure everything is in order. I’m keeping things casual but professional: dark jeans, a custom white dress shirt made of Egyptian cotton, no tie, a slim charcoal blazer.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my calendar, my Asana list, even Evernote. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. My meeting upstairs should only take a half-hour, and then an early lunch with Rebecca. I’m overdressed by Austin standards, I sent paperwork to the accountant, and I’ve got my wallet. What else could I possibly need?

  Rebecca.

  Thinking her name makes me uneasy. It has something to do with her.

  I think of Mateo and Hampton at the crag, looking her up on the satellite connection. I think of how my mind — before, during, and after my trip — kept returning to her web copy, her list emails, her written story. It’s all just words on a screen, and none were meant for me. But still, I feel like I’ve known this woman for years. I don’t feel like I’m about to meet a stranger, so much as I’m reuniting with someone I knew long ago.

  That’s it. That’s what you’re missing.

  And again: Fuck.

  I meant to do research. I meant to send her more emails, asking preliminary questions. Hell: I meant to have some preliminary questions. But I haven’t prepared. I’m about to walk into a meeting with someone I don’t know, with no clue what we’ll discuss. I implied I have a use in mind, and I was serious about what I said to the guys while climbing. I do want to start my next big thing, and I get this feeling that a person like Rebecca can help.

  Why?

  In what way?

  What, even, is the “next big thing”?

  No wonder I feel unprepared. I am unprepared. Rebecca’s way of communicating online is so open and natural, I bamboozled myself into thinking I knew all I needed to know. But I don’t.

  I know she’s a loose cannon, but not what might set her off. I know she’s blabbed about everyone she knows — especially this poor bastard Steve — to the world, but have no assurance she won’t do the same to me. What about our meeting? How do I know I won’t be plastered all over the net by sundown? Rebecca Presley might launch a new site, this time about Evan Cohen’s dick?

  Hell, I still don’t even know what she looks like. Hampton and Mateo never did tell me what they found while searching, and although I meant to research a lot more about her, life hit me hard in the face the second I returned. This meeting has flown under my radar for what feels like forever, and now I’m about to face it with nothing but Steve’s Tiny Dick to guide me.

  My phone buzzes. It’s my accountant’s receptionist, asking if I’d like anything to be waiting for me when I arrive.

  I don’t reply. I don’t need anything. I understand that people want to kiss my ass, but I don’t like ass-kissing and have all the help I need. I’m not pampered and don’t want to be. I left my car with the valet for time’s sake, but part of me still wants to park in a public lot, sliding my credit card into an automated terminal to print a slip for my dash so I won’t get a ticket.

  I look in the mirror one final time, then head out the door and into the elevator.

  Why am I so nervous? I don’t know this woman at all.

  Except that I do. She’s bared her soul for all the world to read.

  CHAPTER NINE

  REBECCA

  THE RESTAURANT WHERE EVAN ASKED me to meet him is on a corner, with a fancy-pants hotel wrapped around it. I’m not exactly a fancy person, and the restaurant seems really high end. I hope I can find something to eat. I’m suddenly sure it’ll be all liver and goose neck or whateverthefuck else. Rich people seem to like the garbage parts of food.

  It’s already weird. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to park in the garage or if it’s for hotel guests only, but when I pulled up to the curb to ask, the guy at the little wooden lectern asked me asked me my name instead of answering my question.

  “Rebecca?” I said, as if I wasn’t sure.

  “Rebecca Presley?”

  “Um … yes?”

  He opened my door and stood aside. At first, I had no idea what I was supposed to do, but then I realized he was waiting for me to step out. A second guy handed me a ticket. />
  “How much does it cost?”

  “It’s handled, Miss,” the second guy said.

  “Handled how?”

  “Right this way, Miss Presley.” The first guy smiled. Then he went to the restaurant’s door and held it open.

  I tentatively entered and was met by a man with a buzzcut and a long beard. He asked for my party’s name, and again I gave him mine. His expression brightened, then he said, “just a moment,” before scurrying away.

  And now here I am, uncomfortable in the small, wood-paneled lobby. I wasn’t sure what to wear, but I ended up in my little blue dress. It’s maybe too short. I was going for professional but ended up bordering on slutty. I’ve got my matching bag clutched in front of me, sort of like I’m shielding my vagina from attack. It’s a knock-off. I got it at Target for forty bucks.

  I’m looking at a posted menu — idly, trying to seem disinterested, purse-shield still guarding my lack of chastity — when the bearded man returned. “Apologies for the wait. Right this way.”

  “But I haven’t told you who I’m meeting?”

  The reservation can’t seriously be under my name.

  “Of course, Miss. But he’s told us.”

  The restaurant is dark but not forbidding. Sedate and comfortable, like a jazz club just before closing. The place is busy — business lunches, I assume, filling every table. Some nice places use the sort of seating I hate — a long bench down a whole wall. I’ve sat in the middle of one of those long rows before when I went out with Steve. I always felt like I was sitting on bleachers rather than at an intimate table for two. Not that it was intimate back then. Steve took me out for my birthday once and for our anniversary once. I paid both times.

  He’s steering me right for one of those annoying bench tables. I’m making myself okay with it when we turn left, diverting toward an oversized pair of doors I hadn’t noticed. It almost looks like a kitchen entrance, except that the doors are solid wood with no window or porthole, like the doors to a castle.

  He opens the door and stands aside.