Trillionaire Boys’ Club: The Clothing Mogul Aubrey Parker Release Blitz
Trillionaire Boys’ Club: The Clothing Mogul
Publication date: December 6th 2016
Genres: New Adult, Romance
“You have to fall in love,” Alyssa suggests. And then, because she’s my publicist, she adds the key word: “Publicly.”
My name is Ashton Moran, and I’m CEO of the $2.2 billion Hurricane Apparel company. You’d think that’d be enough, but it’s not. Not for Alyssa. She says my public image sucks. She says my being a womanizer is hurting Hurricane’s brand.
So she found this girl, Jenna, who I’m supposed to pretend I’m in love with for the press. I’m not supposed to sleep with any other women for as long as this farce goes on. Only with Jenna — if she’s into it, which she will be.
I understand what Alyssa is trying to do by making Hurricane more “family friendly,” but … Me? In love? With only one woman?
There’s no way this is going to work.
The Clothing Mogul is part of the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series by Aubrey Parker. Each book tells the story of one of the Club’s powerful members … and you’re going to want to collect them all.
I have to give Alyssa credit. I’m rolling my eyes through half of the interviews, but they’re all a precisely choreographed dance. I don’t know if she’s somehow orchestrating social media as well, but our buzz has been perfectly feverish. You’d never know that Ashton was hated by large segments of the population only days ago. A redeemed cad, it seems, is better than an average Joe making good.
We go wherever Alyssa directs us. Speak to whoever she tells us to. She’s either phenomenal at getting interviewers to follow a script or has a sixth sense about what will be asked, because she provides us with answers in advance. We rehearse until they’re right and are never surprised.
It’s fascinating to watch Alyssa work. I don’t know much about PR, but I know enough to see that she doesn’t approach it in a typical way. Most publicity starts with the person being publicized: Ashton Moran, in this case, issuing a press release about his relationship. But that never actually happens.
As far as I can tell, there’s been no proactive publicity from Ashton’s camp. Not once has Alyssa reached out intending to put news out into the world about us. Instead, she seems to have contacted other outlets on other people’s behalf, to supposedly halt the spreading of rumors. Nobody knows for sure where the rumors originate, but they circulate all the same.
Alyssa then books us to respond. It strikes me as so much more effective and real — I’d buy it myself I weren’t in on the game. We’re positioned so that we don’t have to brag about our fake relationship. Instead we act humble, embarrassed that we’re obligated, by external forces, to discuss it.
It’s just so mortifying to be called out like this, we say. We just want to go away quietly, away from the cameras, and get to our private business of building a life together.
We’re the perfect amount of sweet. Ashton doesn’t hold my hand around the public because the world knows that assholes don’t hold hands. He plays the role of a reluctantly sweet rake — a turd with a diamond center. He does so masterfully, and it works because Ashton can mostly be himself. Interviewers are already convinced that he’s in a committed, devoted relationship, so our job is to good-naturedly try and deny it … until we’re reluctantly backed into a corner, forced to admit our false love.
Oh, okay, I’ll say. He really does make me breakfast in the mornings.
Or Oh, okay, Ashton will admit on-camera. You caught me. I really do think she’s beautiful without her makeup on.
Ashton’s old image is so reprehensible and chauvinist, the standards required to make him look decent are ridiculously low. Whereas a doting leading man type might need to declare his love in skywriting to make the public ooh and ah, Ashton merely has to not insult me when I say something kind about him.
If he hands me a rose on an interview set, sixty million uteruses skip a beat. If his frown falters once when he looks at me, the world becomes convinced that we’re this century’s Romeo and Juliet.
We’re always with each other, looking one another over for the benefit of our onlookers, always touching incidentally as we show the world our bullshit breed of love. For two weeks, it’s constant.
I think he’s cute when his hair is messed up, I’ll say.
And the audience goes, Awwww!
Maybe I’ll take her to the opera or something, Ashton will say, rolling his eyes.
And the audience goes, Isn’t that sweet!
Then the lights go off and we shake hands. Alyssa tells us good job and delivers tomorrow’s assignments. But not once, after our duties are done for the day, have we made it home before engaging in what can only be described as an act of sexual anarchy.
After a long day of acting like lovebirds, Ashton and I don’t just fuck each other. We fuck the world with our frenzied bodies.
It’s the opposite of sweet and beautiful.
It’s pure distilled lust, born of sweat and hot breath and adrenaline. It’s like we want to erase all the family-friendly shit we devoted our day to. Like we feel this need, with our interlocking parts, to show the universe that there’s nothing between us but lubrication and semen.
We fuck. And we fuck. And we fuck.
We don’t stay over. There’s no spooning afterward, no cuddling, no waking together to watch the sun rise. Ours isn’t that kind of relationship. I go home if we’ve made it to one of Ashton’s residences, tiptoeing into my father’s home like a teenager past curfew. Or we both go home if we’ve shaken the foundation of somewhere new and hot and strange.
We don’t kiss when we depart. There’s already too much of that during our days to carry it into our fevered nights.
I sleep well. I’m too tired, in mind and especially in body, to do otherwise.
I usually wake sore. Sometimes chafed. Definitely satisfied, but with a growing itch to greet the new day.
Then I shower. I brush my teeth and put on my makeup, donning a sweet face to match the adorable billionaire’s girlfriend the world increasingly knows me to be.
And we do it all over again.
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.
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