The Billionaire Book Club

by Monroe, Max

  Kline’s eyes study me carefully. I avoid them and their freaky power and look back to the now weepy, smiling giant.

  “Yes! I fluffing love this shit. We can all read them together and use poker nights to discuss. Who the fluff needs to play cards anyway?” He makes a point to toss his cards back onto the table. “And we’ll call it Thatch’s Book Club!”

  “Thatch’s Book Club?” I scoff. “Why the hell do you get top billing?”

  He rolls his eyes, leans back into the leather of his chair and rests both of his hands behind his big fucking head. “Because I’m the one who started this fluffing poker night, asshole.”

  “Right,” I challenge. “You started poker night. Not book club. I’m the one chasing bookworm tail, and book club is my idea. It should be Cap’s Book Club.”

  “Christ,” Milo sighs, rubbing his face like he can somehow scrub away the pain we’re causing him.

  “Guys, there’s an easy solution here,” Kline says, ever the diplomat. “Obviously, it shouldn’t have either of your names in the title—”

  “And obviously,” Wes Lancaster adds, “we should never mention this shit in public anyway.”

  “It’s the Billionaire Book Club,” Theo says casually, rearranging his cards into one hand and taking a puff of his cigar before finishing sagely, “It’s what we all have in common.”

  “Except for Harrison,” I say mockingly, and he reels open his middle finger like he’s fishing.

  “I’m a multi-fucking-millionaire, motherfucker.”

  I shrug. “So, not a billionaire.”

  Trent laughs and jerks his head to me. “What do we have in common with this guy other than our money? Anyone? Anyone?”

  I lift a finger—a very specific finger—in his direction and roll the title around on my tongue. “The Billionaire Book Club, huh?”

  Thatch smiles. “I have to admit, it’s got a nice fluffing ring to it.”

  “What’s the first title?” Kline asks, and I reach into the jacket hanging on my chair to pull out my prop.

  I set it on the table like a showcase, turning the front of the book around the circle so they can all get a look. “It’s called Can’t Handle This. It’s the book she’s reading right now. And you should all probably pick up a copy tonight.”

  “I haven’t even agreed to this, and it is already starting to feel like a pain in the fucking ass,” Wes grumbles.

  “You’re a pain in the ass, Whitney,” Thatch says sweetly, and Wes flips him off in a loving response.

  I, on the other hand, am getting annoyed because these fucks apparently can’t stay on one very important topic for more than thirty fucking seconds. “Geez, guys, come on. Let’s focus on me here.”

  “I bet if I looked in your high school yearbook, that would be your senior quote,” Milo remarks, and Quince and Trent snicker before Trent pipes up.

  “Though fitting, it is not. His senior quote is—”

  “Don’t you dare!” I say with a point, but he ignores me completely.

  “Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme, get on up, it’s graduation time!”

  Fucking hell.

  “No!” Kline shouts on a bark, laughing, losing all semblance of his normal decorum. I scowl.

  “I love Cool Runnings!” Thatch exclaims. “Such a good underdog story.”

  I roll my eyes. “Guys, seriously, let’s focus here.”

  Trent laughs. “How’s it feel?”

  “How’s what feel?” I ask.

  “For once, we’re the snakes, and you’re the wrangler. Usually, it’s the other way around.”

  “Shitty,” I admit. “Goddamn motherfucking awful.”

  “Just think,” Milo says with a smirk. “This is probably how you always make your sister feel.”

  “Lena?” Harrison questions, like a dog with a bone. He’s been chasing my sister since the moment she turned eighteen.

  “Don’t!” I yell, with my index finger pointed in his direction. “Don’t you dare start about my sister!”

  “What? She’s fucking hot. I’d definitely do—”

  “I will end you, motherfucker.”

  “Oh, come on, Cap,” Milo says with a laugh. “He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

  “Says the little-sister fornicator himself.”

  Milo snorts and throws up both of his hands. “Just Evan’s little sister. Christ, it’s not like a blanket thing! I don’t have a problem, for God’s sake.”

  “If you’d done that shit with my sister, you would have,” I say. “It’s one of the sacred rules. You don’t do the little sister.”

  Milo rolls his eyes. “Says the guy who taunted me mercilessly about Maybe. Pretty sure you went as far as saying you’d fuck her. Which, I swear to God, if I ever hear you say again, I’ll end you.”

  “Calm down, honey.” I waggle my finger toward him. “I didn’t actually mean any of that bullshit. I just ran my mouth because I knew it made you feel guilty and uncomfortable. The sister rule is the one even I, a self-proclaimed dog, do not break.”

  “It’s true,” Quince agrees. “I mean, ex-girlfriends are no fucking problem for him. But sisters are off-limits.”

  “I didn’t know she was your ex-girlfriend!” I exclaim. “God, how many times do I have to explain that?”

  “You didn’t know or didn’t remember?” he retorts, and I stare at him like he has two heads.

  “Isn’t that the same fucking thing?”

  “Boys, boys, for fuck’s sake, keep your voices down in my book club,” Thatch chimes in above all of us.

  “It’s not yours,” I snap back, but it’s no use at all. The whole room is in chaos, and I guess, in some way, I’m the cause.

  “Like I was saying,” Thatch speaks over me. “We all need to grab a copy of Can’t Handle This and be ready to discuss next week. Consider the Billionaire Book Club now in session, boys.”

  The Billionaire Book Club. An entity established in its entirety for the sole—secret—purpose of getting my dick wet.

  Fuck me.

  I’ve really done it now.

  Ruby

  At a quarter to eight, I step off the fancy elevator directly into the lobby of Caplin Hawkins Law. The marble floor seems a little less intimidating now that I’m seeing it for the second time, and the light above my desk glows in a way that actually beckons.

  Cap’s door is closed and his light is off, so I head down the hall to the kitchen with my lunch, place it in the otherwise empty refrigerator, grab the bag of French roast coffee from the shelf over the sink, and meander my way back down the hall.

  With his apparent caffeine addiction, it seems like good practice to get a pot going in anticipation of the boss’s arrival.

  My pencil skirt feels tight and my heels foreign, but I knew I’d have to upgrade my wardrobe to the land of adulthood at some point. As much as I prefer jeans, tees, and Converse, I don’t think a judge would appreciate that attire very much—especially if it were being worn by an attorney in his courtroom.

  I drop my purse on the desk, throw my coat over my chair, and turn to shove Cap’s office door open in one smooth motion.

  But it all comes to a halt when I see his sleeping face, his long body stretched out on the couch.

  Full lips, ruffled hair, and a little bit of scruff on his cheeks, he and his handsome features, even at rest, are just as powerful as ever. I’ve never seen a better-looking man, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. His body is firm and lean without being lanky, and his face is surely the eighth wonder of the world.

  In a way, it’s really no wonder he’s so goddamn cocky.

  He stirs slightly, and I panic, backing through the door with the container of coffee tucked to my chest like a reining horse does during a competition.

  Shit. My ass is tucked, my feet are scrambling, and I have officially learned my lesson about assuming the boss is not in just because of a freaking light.

  I’m almost out the door when he wakes full
y and sits up, his caramel eyes landing squarely on mine and holding.

  “Ruby?”

  I stop my backward progress and try to smile, but I’m pretty sure I look more constipated than anything else. “Good morning,” I murmur, trying to keep the embarrassed scratch out of my voice.

  He looks to his windows, then his bare wrist, and finally back at me. “What time is it?”

  “Um,” I say, rocking my head back and forth. “I’d say probably about ten until eight.”

  “Shit,” he mutters, jumping up from the couch and retucking his loose dress shirt into his pants. I try not to watch, but my eyes are apparently metal and his hands down his pants are a fucking magnet. “I must have fallen asleep going through my notes on the Grant merger.”

  I shrug. “It looks that way.”

  He scrubs a hand down his face, and in the twilight of his post-sleep haze, he’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him. He glances to the cart in the corner and back to me before stating, “I’m going to need some—”

  “Coffee?” I finish for him, holding up the bag like one of the models on the Price is Right.

  His chuckle is raspy with sleep, and good God in heaven, I feel it in the very bottom of my belly. “Yeah. I guess you’re on it.”

  Stomach still a little queasy, I nod and step around him to the cart to start prepping the pot.

  It’s a quick, simple job, but the weight of his eyes on me as I do it makes it feel like I’m commissioning a new space program for NASA.

  I finally finish up and turn around to find he’s somehow freshened himself up in a way I’d never be able to after spending the night on my office sofa.

  His dark brown hair is perfectly styled, his suit fresh and pressed-looking, and his skin tanned and healthy and refreshed. Altogether, I would never in a million years suspect he put anything less than an hour into his appearance.

  I imagine a similar sleep situation with me would result in smudged lipstick, runny eyeliner, and knotted hair, rather than the qualities of a put-together professional.

  I step away, and he smiles as the coffee starts to drip into the pot and the aroma fills the air.

  “Ah, thank God. I’m going to need a couple of cups to get ready for the day. Thanks for making it, Ruby.”

  I shrug. “Just trying to do my job.”

  He nods slowly and then turns back to his desk to rifle through it. I wait at the door because it seems like he’s looking for something for me.

  He finally shifts stuff around enough to find what he’s searching for and reads through the page quickly while holding up a finger to me.

  When he finishes scanning, he drops the file again and says, “There should be a fax coming in this morning. Urgent. It’s an update I need on the third-quarter numbers for HawCom.”

  “HawCom…” I taste the name on my lips. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

  “Probably because they’re one of the biggest media conglomerates in the world.”

  “Oh.” That makes sense, then.

  “And they just so happen to be my father’s company.”

  “Seriously?” I question, and then put two and two together before he can answer. “Haw-kins, Haw-Com.”

  He winks. “Exactly.”

  Not only does Cap make a lot of money, but he also comes from a lot of money?

  My urge to pry for more information about him is too strong to ignore.

  “Wait…so, if HawCom is your father’s company, does that mean it’s your…”

  Instantly, Cap shakes his head. “I have never had any financial stake, nor do I ever want to have any financial stake, in my father’s company, no matter how much he wishes I would. I’m simply just their pro bono legal counsel.”

  He’s pro bono legal counsel for his father’s billion-dollar company?

  Talk about a conundrum…

  Of its own accord, my brow quirks in surprise, and Cap doesn’t miss a beat.

  “I might be a so-called trust-fund baby, Ruby, but that doesn’t mean I actually want the trust fund. My net worth has nine zeros because of my hard work. Not my father’s.”

  Nine zeros? As in he’s a billionaire?

  Holy moly.

  I don’t really know what to say to all that. I’m a bit surprised, to be honest. I mean, it’s apparent Cap is driven. Hell, he’s probably the most driven individual I’ve ever come across in my life. But, driven or not, most people would take the fucking trust fund.

  He busies himself with something on his desk, and I get the point.

  No time for any more chitchat.

  “Okay, well,” I respond with a nod. “I’ll bring in the HawCom fax as soon as it comes through.”

  He nods in dismissal, and I step out to the front desk with a renewed sense of positivity.

  This morning started in a weird place, finding him asleep in his office, but it seems to be turning into the professional environment I’d hoped for. He’s business-oriented and to the point, and I feel like I might actually learn some really great things working here.

  I fire up my computer and open up my emails to get started on the day’s tasks, and I do my best to drink half a bottle of water.

  I never drink enough, and after years of living in a constant state of dehydration, I’ve finally decided I should probably do something about it in an effort to spare my organs.

  I make my way through a long list of simple requests and proposals, forward them through to Cap’s email, and am just about to hit a milestone at the bottom of my first bottle of water when the fax machine starts to whir.

  I jump up and head over to it immediately.

  The printing module moves back and forth rapidly on the paper, spitting out sheet after sheet of Excel spreadsheet-style numbers. I wait patiently as they gather, then scoop them up, tap them on the machine to consolidate the stack, and turn to take them to Cap without delay.

  I’ve only taken a step when the machine fires up again.

  Hmm. Maybe there’s still more?

  Not wanting to take him anything less than the complete fax, I step back over to the machine and wait as the sheet prints.

  It goes slower than the numbers, like there’s more digitized media to print, and I find myself tapping a toe on the floor and staring out the window with impatience.

  I don’t really understand why fax is still a thing in this day and age.

  Is it really better than using a secure portal online or even encrypted email?

  I’m not convinced.

  Still, I quickly snag the sheet when it finally finishes and add it to the top of my stack.

  I tuck the papers to my chest and knock on Cap’s door. He calls out for me to come in, and I do, shoving the door open with one hand and tipping the papers down to give them a final look with the other.

  “Here are your…” I say just as what I’m looking at registers, making my brain almost explode. “Nipples.”

  Cap chokes on his coffee. “I’m sorry?”

  Clearly, I meant to say numbers, but I was distracted by the big, perky breasts that someone faxed here on the stupid top page!

  Throat closed up tight and unable to speak, I do the only thing I can, ripping the sheet away from the stack of actual figures and holding it out for the intended recipient to see.

  His eyes go wide as he glances at me. “You having some fun on the copy machine, doll?”

  “These aren’t mine!” I shout. “They came in on the fax! I thought they were a part of the numbers you needed from HawCom.”

  He laughs a little, and I scowl.

  When he sees my reaction, he holds up his hands and forces his mouth into a fake straight line. “Right, right. That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly. “You look devastated.”

  He chuckles shamelessly, opening his mouth and closing it again when he apparently can’t come up with anything productive to say.

  “I just don’t understand. What kind of human being sends a picture of their breasts via fax
?”

  He shakes his head thoughtfully and then snaps his fingers. “Felicity Ludwig!”

  I frown.

  “The shape, the size, the nipples. Definitely Felicity Ludwig.”

  I grimace. Oh God. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “I know.”

  I roll my eyes and fake a smile. “Shall I get her number for you?”

  He snorts. “Fuck no. I’m not gonna call her.”

  I squint. “You’re not?”

  He shakes his head and then promptly holds out a hand. “You have the HawCom numbers, then?”

  I jolt and look back down to the other papers in my hand. Right.

  “Yes. Here they are.” I step forward with a hop and hand them to him.

  “Great, thanks.”

  Still holding the boobs, I wave them at him curiously.

  He glances up quickly, holds out a hand again, and takes the boob selfie.

  He studies them like they’re a court document, hums, and then says, “Definitely Felicity.”

  I roll my eyes, and Cap simply balls up the paper and throws it across the room and into the trash can.

  With nothing left to say, I turn and head for the door, geared up to feel disgusted with him for a good long while, when he calls my name. “Ruby!”

  Reluctantly, I rotate back to face him and raise an eyebrow.

  “After lunch, it should slow down enough that we can run through a few of my current cases more closely. Maybe break some of it down and do some theorizing so you can practice.”

  Disgust is quickly replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning some real stuff. I know he needed an assistant, but I don’t want to waste my whole internship doing coffee runs and delivering titty faxes.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he nods.

  “Awesome. Thanks,” I say. “I’m really looking forward to learning something.”

  “No problem.”

  I turn to leave again, this time with a completely different outlook.

  New minute, new mood.

  I’m practically skipping as I head back out to the desk and get back to work.

  There’s a lot of it—so much so, there’s not even a hint of time for me to eat a snack, but when lunch rolls around, I’m feeling incredibly accomplished.