The Guru (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 6) by Aubrey Parker

Author:Aubrey Parker [Parker, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: EROS
Published: 2017-04-03T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

CAITLIN

IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE I’ve heard from Anthony.

This is hardly unusual; Anthony is a huge part of Jamie’s life — they don’t see each other in person as much as they’d both like, but they’re constantly exchanging messages and phone calls, Skyping and interacting on LiveLyfe — but it’s never been like that between me and Anthony.

Why would it be? He’s been an acquaintance, nothing more. The fact that we’ve had sex — especially under our agreed-upon terms — shouldn’t change that.

Still, for some reason, it feels strange to hear nothing. I’m not waiting for love letters, of course, but maybe a ping? If for no other reason than to arrange that second no-strings-attached session we discussed, and which I’ve been thinking about more than seems normal?

There may have been some long, warm bath sessions devoted to anticipating our next and final time.

I also find myself wondering if seminar tour rules apply to all of Anthony’s travel. He’d still have his assistant with him wherever he goes, and I assume she does the heavy lifting of arranging his sex buddies. So has he been fucking girls these past two weeks like he usually does?

It’s no big deal; I’m just curious.

My phone buzzes in the grocery store. It’s Anthony: We need to talk.

My heart starts to pound. I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Since the dawn of time, “We need to talk” has been code for “Shit has gone bad.” I’m pretty sure that the first time Kennedy heard about the Cuban Missile Crisis, it was in a telegraph from Castro that said, “Jack, we need to talk.” Ditto for when Atilla the Hun came to Gaul, when Jesus was leaving the Last Supper, and when the first dinosaurs looked up into the sky and saw that comet hurtling toward them.

I text back, trying to keep my thumbs from shaking. My cart still has its momentum and is about to slam into some old woman molesting melons, but I can’t worry about that now.

Okay, I type. When?

There’s almost no delay before he responds.

Now.

Where?

Behind you.

I turn around and there’s Anthony Fucking Ross, bigger than life behind me, wearing a hoodie with the hood raised. The look does nothing to make him inconspicuous, as was probably his intention. He looks like The Hulk in a hip-hop video.

Instead of looking stern inside his ridiculous hood, he’s wearing that giant grin that stretches his cheeks and gives him dimples.

I snort laughter. Then, glancing over as my cart narrowly avoids the old woman, I smack him on the arm. “You freaked me out.”

“That was the point.”

“You said, ‘We need to talk.’”

“Because I wanted to talk to you. Needed to, as it were.”

“I figured something had gone wrong.”

“You’re fun to mess with.”

I roll my eyes, slowly shaking my head.

“We do need to talk, though.” It’s the same sentence, but he softens it a lot with his voice. It’s no longer threatening; he literally just means words must be spoken between us.

I feel suddenly better, just looking up at him.

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