Trillionaire Boys’ Club: The Connector
Publication date: November 1st 2016
Genres: New Adult, Romance
People say money can’t buy love. Fortunately, it can buy everything else.
My name is Nathan Turner. I’m the best networker in the world, and I make big deals happen.
Right now, I’m bringing together the most powerful people on the planet. When the group is complete, we’ll have a pool of over one trillion dollars.
Internally, we call ourselves the Syndicate. But within the Syndicate is another group — a smaller group of bad-boy billionaires who the press already knows and loves.
We call ourselves the Trillionaire Boys’ Club. The Syndicate controls the world, and we control the Syndicate.
There’s only one man standing in my way.
And now there’s this girl in my way, too — this 18-year-old freshman who seems to think she knows my business better than I do.
Fortunately, there are ways to deal with both of them.
The Connector is the first book in the Trillionaire Boys Club series by Aubrey Parker.
Each book tells the story of another of the Club’s members … so pay close attention, because you’re going to want to collect them all.
I have things to do. A million things to do. I don’t even have time to check my email, and that’s where so many connections are made. I’ve automated everything to save time: set it up once, then taught Geoffrey how to either do it himself or outsource it to someone competent.
That’s the way my calls and texts are handled, the way my appointments are made and my social calendar is taken care of. But the Syndicate has changed everything — all of the things I used to do are now like chores in the background. That’s right in a way; I hustled to amass my first billion, but now I’m playing a game that’s literally a thousand times bigger.
My day-to-day won’t matter at all when my network’s worth reaches a trillion. Then I could burn all that I’ve built, and it wouldn’t matter at all.
I’m so busy these days, I don’t stand for my own tailoring. Geoffrey found a guy with my exact build, tried an alteration on one of my suits, then calibrated once I found time to try them on. Now I use that same stand-in for all of my tailoring, because I’m too busy to stand in one place.
I barely attend my own meetings. I don’t answer my own phone.
I have to do my own workouts, unfortunately, but I have three personal trainers, a nutritionist, a cook, and several cross-discipline instructors for the sports I enjoy most, all at my disposal to tell me exactly what to do and when.
Geoffrey translates vague descriptions of clothing into wardrobe choices for the next day so that I don’t have to think.
Every fucking second is accounted for. My life has no wasted moments.
Yet here I am, sitting on my sofa with my laptop, ignoring the work at hand.
I keep looking at my watch, and glancing at the clock. Waiting for a knock from the single person the doorman has been instructed to allow entry.
She’s one minute late.
She’s two minutes late.
I thought about her all night long.
Alex Wynn is a distraction. I keep saying that to Geoffrey. But even though he’s supposed to be my gatekeeper — the man who has more sense than me sometimes, whose job is in part to save me from myself — Geoffrey’s done nothing to prevent this. I told him that I wanted to start coaching Alex, because if she was going to nose her way into my stuff, she should at least know what she’s doing. I told him that Alex was a wildcard, and that her unpredictability could sink us if she isn’t properly molded — taught the Nathan Turner way of doing things.
Geoffrey should have nodded, said, “Yes, Nathan, I agree,” and then set her up with any one of the faceless minions beneath me. She could have earned a real-world education that would eclipse the bullshit she’s learning in school, and it wouldn’t have cost her a dime. It all could have happened without my involvement, just a random series of emails or texts.
Instead, I answered when Alex called earlier. And I made the appointment.
Geoffrey sees it all and says nothing. He lets Alex sink her hooks in me, as if he’s trying to sabotage all that I’ve built.
I thought of her on my drive — alone, in my Bugatti — back to the office yesterday.
I thought about her through the rest of my demolished afternoon.
I thought about her over dinner, wondering what slop she was eating in her cafeteria while I ate charred lamb leg, with gnocco alla romana, shaved fennel, celery and vincotto. I even considered calling her to start our lessons early. If she’s to be my student, the least I should do is teach her to eat finer foods.
I thought about her in the evening.
I thought about her all night long, and then all day until she called — with me, Nathan Fucking Turner, waiting by the phone like a pathetic teenager.
Celeste also called, following her earlier thank-you for my college speaking gig with an offer to pay a visit. I know the code; her “visits” end in sweat and spent fluids. But I turn her down, tell her I’m busy. I don’t even know why until I’ve hung up, again answering my own phone even though I shouldn’t.
My mind continues to cycle.
Alex turns me on so much, it’s hard to think. I find her so hot, I feel practically sunburned. But it’s more than that.
I wonder if it’s that I think she could be an asset to the company. She has guts. Oblivious to the truth that she’s in over her head, she keeps right on swimming. She’s tough. She’s hard. She’s pushed back every time I’ve squared off against her. I dragged her into a closet to shout her down, but she stared me in the eye and backed me into a corner.
Nobody stares me down.
Nobody challenges my decisions or commands.
Nobody takes me by the balls, because I’m always three steps ahead.
Nobody but Alex.
I love to write stories with characters that feel real enough to friend on Facebook, or slap across the face. I write to make you feel, think, and burn with the thrill that can only come from getting lost in the pages. I love to write unforgettable characters who wrestle with life's largest problems. My books may always end with a Happily Ever After, but there will always be drama on the way there.