The Billionaire Book Club

by Monroe, Max

  I mean, I wrote Ruby a book. Inside my book.

  It’s like the best, most romantical kind of inception that’s ever been done.

  I probably deserve a Nobel Prize in Literature at this point.

  Hell, before we know it, children around the world will be reading The Captain and His Ruby.

  Ruby and I will have to go on book tours. I’ll get a movie deal. And Max and Monroe will have to start coming to me for writing advice.

  Speaking of Max and Monroe, I’ve been told that their next Billionaire book stars someone near and dear to my heart.

  My lovely—but most definite pain-in-the-ass—sister Lena.

  I’m a little pissed that Max and Monroe are keeping everything tight-lipped about who the fucker is who’s trying to win my baby sister’s heart, but no mysterious cloak of secrecy is going to save him from me. That guy is in for a rude awakening if he thinks I’m just going to lie down and let him Wu-Tang my sister.

  Hell-to-the-fuck-no.

  It ain’t happening.

  In fact, I’m curious to see how Max and Monroe are going to give us all a happily ever after, considering I’m not going to let some bastard lay a single fucking finger on Lena.

  Maybe we’re just going to get a bird’s-eye view of Lena in Milan?

  While she works to achieve her big goal of becoming a fashion designer?

  I mean, that’s pretty much all it can be.

  Right?

  Anyway, in the meantime, while you’re waiting for Lena’s book, if you have some time to kill and you haven’t read anything about Trent Turner in the first stand-alone book in the Billionaire Collection, you need to get on that shit.

  While the main plot of The Billionaire Boss Next Door is about my buddy Trent and his wildly funny leading lady, Greer Hudson, it also—and most importantly—has me in it.

  Click here to read The Billionaire Boss Next Door

  And so does Milo Ives’s book, My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend. I’m in there too while the OG sister-fornicator himself finds his way toward a happily ever after.

  Click here to read My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend

  Both are decent substitutes after reading the literary greatness that is my book.

  Oh, and I guess, if you want to start at the beginning of Max and Monroe’s billionaires, grab the first book in the Billionaire Bad Boys Series and see if you can also consider Kline, Thatch, and Wes mediocre stand-ins for yours truly.

  Click here to read Tapping the Billionaire

  Anyway, I’m going to be waiting, like you, to see what Max and Monroe are going to do with my baby sister’s book.

  Word on the street is that it will come out November 7th.

  And until then, I’m going to be keeping a real close eye on Lena.

  Sincerely,

  The always Cap-i-tain of your heart,

  Cap

  Love Cap and Ruby and ready for more from Max Monroe?

  Well, we’ve got news for you!

  One more stand-alone romantic comedy is coming this year as a part of our new Billionaire Collection!

  You WILL NOT believe the laughs you have in store for you!

  Our next release is November 7th! Mark your calendar!

  And Cap is right on one thing: it’s Lena Hawkins’s book!

  And he’s probably going to be a little pissed at us once it’s all said and done. ;)

  Want more from Max Monroe RIGHT NOW?

  Don’t worry, girl, we’ve got you covered!

  If you’re in the mood for some sweet, sexy, swoony, and downright hilarious rom com, we know just the books for you!

  Our St. Luke’s DocuSeries about a set of sweet, hilarious doctors in the midst of reality show hell (including Georgie’s brother, Will!) is currently Free in KU, and trust us, you don’t want to miss meeting these guys if you haven’t met them already.

  Start with Dr. OB today!

  We’ve even included a little excerpt to whet your reading taste buds, so to speak, if you keep on reading!

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  Dr. OB Excerpt

  Nostalgia overwhelmed me as I pulled into the quiet driveway of my parents’ suburban New Jersey home. It had only been a few weeks since my last visit, but it felt like longer—and there was always a welcome sense of familiarity.

  Several memories played back like trailers for a movie as I took in the two dormers that popped out of the roof—one of which led directly into my childhood room—and guided my car to a stop behind my sister and brother-in-law’s SUV.

  My little sister, Georgia, a toddler at the time, hightailing it across the front lawn—naked—while I’d chased after her, and my oversexualized parents made out on a lounge chair folded out in front of the garage.

  My dad standing in the door and laughing as I’d walked my first date to the car, opened the door, and tried to sit her down directly on a box of condoms he’d placed there.

  George coming home from masturbation camp—yeah, that’s a long story—and crying to me about murdering our mother as I’d sat next to her hip on my bed.

  In the end, she hadn’t gone through with the murder, and I hadn’t been able to do anything to stop the tears, but we’d bonded that day. Somehow, the awkward, well-meaning doings of our parents quieted the normal sibling antagonism that lived between us and turned it into something more mature. Something that still teased and poked, but by and large, focused on understanding and love.

  Lost in my thoughts, I startled when the storm door slammed open and a naked toddler came shooting out of it and onto the front lawn. I jumped into action, swinging out of my car door and leaving it open just as my frazzled brother-in-law Kline leapt from the front porch onto the grass and dropped to a squat, ready to corral her. I took the other side, and together, we herded my niece Julia like she was a lost calf and we were the cowboys.

  As sweat broke out down the line of my back, I realized something: toddlers are basically just smaller versions of drunk adults, but cuter. But I wondered when the transition happened, when cute wasn’t quite so cute anymore. At what age do we expect them to dry out, go to rehab, that kind of thing?

  I’m kidding, obviously.

  But there’s no denying the similarities between a toddler and drunk twenty-one-year-old guy at a frat party are uncanny.

  When Kline had her safely squirming in his arms, my mind drifted straight back to my trip down memory lane.

  “Like mother, like daughter,” I remarked at the same time Kline said the exact same thing.

  Both of us froze.

  “What are you talking about?” we asked in unison again.

  His face took on a carnal quality, and I recoiled.

  Oh, gross. And awkward.

  “Never mind,” I mumbled, blinking my eyes rapidly to try to scrub the mental image.

  My sister and brother-in-law were one of those perfect pairs that made each other better. He was a brilliant businessman, loaded with more money than I could even fathom, and one of the humblest guys I’d ever met. She was just as brilliant, successful in her own right as a marketing director with the New York Mavericks, and the happiest part of his day.

  That said, she was also a nutcase, and he was far too good at being her enabler.

  “Where’s Gigi?” I asked, and his whole face lit up.

  “Inside with her feet up.”

  My eyebrows squished together. “Is
she feeling okay?” She was pregnant with their second child, and as far as I knew, the fatigue hadn’t been hitting her too hard.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kline remarked lasciviously, and once again, I was sorry I went there.

  “Oh, gross. I was asking about morning sickness, not orgasms, for fuck’s sake. My mom is rubbing off on you.”

  My mom, Dr. Savannah Cummings, was a sex therapist, and the scars of having a parent like her ran deep. I found my moments to enjoy the gifts her occupation had bestowed on me as a brother looking for ammunition against his sister and the like, but Kline, as an outsider, didn’t have the same personal traumas to slow down his enjoyment. Most people run from their crazy in-laws; he ran with them.

  “Oh, come on. If I were really trying to torture you, I wouldn’t have protected you from the fact that Savannah has been in there trying to convince Georgie that, and I quote, ‘It’d be the most natural thing in the world for you to be her obstetrician.’”

  Internally, I cringed. Externally, I cringed. In fact, it felt like Kline had just jabbed me in the back of the throat with his finger, and my gag reflex was doing nothing more than reacting accordingly—hacking cough, choking sensation, slight nausea.

  I loved my career as a physician in obstetrics, but I’d sign up to flip burgers at the nearest fast-food joint if it meant avoiding doing vaginal exams on my sister. The mere thought was worse than that disgusting horror flick called The Human Centipede.

  Seriously, if you’ve never seen that movie, don’t fucking see that movie.

  That flick is more traumatic than the blue waffle and that “Two Girls One Cup” site combined.

  Jesus. Don’t Google those either.

  I immediately wanted to scrub my brain with acid bleach and found myself cringing again.

  Kline grinned triumphantly. “Exactly.”

  Honest to God, a vagina, in a professional setting, didn’t have much effect on me anymore. In a personal setting, say, three beers deep on a Saturday night in Manhattan, I was all about the effect it had on me—but that was another subject entirely. However, as well adjusted to the overwhelmingly intimate aspects of my job as I was, I still couldn’t get on board with being George’s regular OB. An emergency? I’d be elbow-deep in a heartbeat. Otherwise, my sister and I were just about close enough, thank you very much.

  Done talking about my sister’s reproductive pleasure, capability, and organs, I stretched out my arms and wiggled my hands. Kline handed over my squirming niece immediately.

  “Come on,” Kline called as he headed for the door, looking over his shoulder as I blew raspberries on my niece’s tiny stomach. “We better get inside so we don’t miss your big television debut.”

  Butterflies danced in my stomach at the state of my life. Several months ago, a TV production company had approached me and two other doctors at the head of their departments at St. Luke’s Hospital and done their best to convince us to sign on to be a part of what would be a docuseries with several episodes about each of us. They’d decided to call it The Doctor Is In. I honestly thought they could have taken more creative liberties with the title, but I guessed keeping it professional and to the point wasn’t a bad approach either.

  To me, it had sounded like a blast from the beginning. A way to spice up work, a little extra initiative, and maybe something I could show my kids someday—and use as an opening with women in the meantime.

  Dr. Scott Shepard, head of the Emergency Department, had the same positive take on the opportunity, but Nick Raines, the newest addition of all of us to St. Luke’s and the head of Neurology, wasn’t so sure. Apparently, he had some ground to make up with his daughter, whom he’d been estranged from for most of her life, but with some pressure from us and the board of directors at the hospital, he’d caved. It’d be good publicity for the hospital as a whole.

  If I was being honest, I was more excited about the publicity it’d give me…personally.

  Grey’s Anatomy had taught me that the “hot doctor” was a thing.

  Telling people you watch Grey’s Anatomy probably isn’t a hot doctor thing, my mind advised.

  Julia started to thrash as soon as we stepped inside the door of my childhood home—after a quick detour to shut the door to my car—so I set her down without protest. Sometimes toddlers needed to be free to roam, and, for lack of better words, go apeshit.

  “Willy!” my father yelled in greeting, charging toward me and the door and completely boxing Kline out of the way. He grabbed my face between his hands and pretended to kiss the air beside my head. This was new behavior, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected. My mom was always reading some article on love, affection, and the effect of said expressions on your kids. This was probably something she’d told him was good for the health of my sex life.

  “I’m right here, Dad,” I muttered back, a smile on my face. “You don’t have to yell.”

  He ignored me and kept right on booming. “You’re looking long today, son.”

  Oh, good. Another odd behavior, but this one wasn’t at all new. The day I saw my dad and he didn’t have a penis joke waiting for me, I’d also be attending his funeral. Dick had purposely named me William so that we’d be forever bonded as father and son with Johnson-themed nicknames.

  What? Isn’t that how your parents named you?

  Still. Preparedness never softened my reaction. You can’t ever be ready for your parent to open the conversation with the state of your genitals. “Oh Jesus.”

  Georgia buried her face in Kline’s chest behind Dick’s back to swallow her amusement. That wasn’t new either. If anyone knew what I was going through, it was her.

  As soon as she composed herself and turned around, I gave her the eye. The one that said hey, these are your parents, too. She gave me a look back, but hers conveyed how happy she was to be sharing some of the humiliation.

  She’d borne the brunt of it for most of our recent past. First, while I was in medical school and doing my residency, both endeavors that consumed nearly every hour of my days, and then when she got married to a man my parents adored, settled thirty minutes from their house, and then went and had a child.

  She can only blame herself, if you ask me. Everyone knows grandchildren are a surefire way to ensure your parents have an all-access pass.

  But she’d received more than one shipment of sex toys—even while on her honeymoon—from our mother in her tenure as humiliation buffer, so I guessed it was my turn.

  “Come on, come on,” my mom said, shuffling us into the living room. “Your show is about to start, but I have snacks inside!”

  “Snacks?” I asked hopefully. I hadn’t had anything to eat since this morning before work, and I was starving. Unfortunately, Kline’s laughter and a few slaps to my shoulder dampened my hope rather quickly.

  “What? No snacks?” I asked.

  “Oh, there are snacks,” Kline corrected. “Just you wait.”

  “Get in here, you three!” Savannah yelled. My sister’s eyes gleamed with the knowledge of things to come.

  I glanced at the door, vivid dreams of escape temporarily taking over my vision, but Georgia’s slap to the top of my arm snapped me out of it.

  “Come on. Your television debut awaits.”

  How weird. Me on television. Talk about a turn of life I didn’t really expect, seeing as I was a doctor.

  Officially lured in, I followed my sister and brother-in-law down the hall. Julia shot out of a doorway and tripped me, but I managed both to catch myself before hitting the ground and avoid stepping on her.

  “Whoa, JuJu. You almost took your Uncle Will out,” Kline teased with a smile as he scooped her up and into his arms.

  “Boom boom, dah-dee,” she answered, and even I laughed.

  Boom boom, indeed.

  My mom and dad were waiting in the living room when we arrived, but that didn’t last long.

  “Shoot, Dick. Come help me. I forgot the champagne out in the garage.”

  “Champagne?” I prot
ested. “It’s just a show, Mom.”

  She ignored me, and so did my dad. He didn’t hesitate to jump up and follow her down the hall.

  Georgia covered Julia’s ears, the constantly moving little girl now on her lap, and said the words we all knew to be true but didn’t want to say. “They’re definitely going to have s-e-x.”

  I shrugged in affirmation. I couldn’t think of a time when Dick and Savannah weren’t sneaking off to have sex. And good for them, I guess. I just wished I knew a little less about it.

  The smell of food caught my attention, and it didn’t take me long to zero in on its origin—the coffee table.

  Ah Jesus.

  “Are those vagina-shaped crescent rolls?” I asked, but I knew the answer. Goddammit, my parents are weird.

  Kline nodded enthusiastically. “I helped shape them.”

  “And those? What are those?”

  “Deviled eggs with the tops on and a pickle speared garnish,” Georgia said, her eyes wide and innocent.

  “And?”

  She huffed and giggled a little. “A fertilized egg, obviously.”

  “The Twizzlers?”

  “Fallopian tubes.”

  “See?” Kline said with a laugh. “I told you there were snacks.”

  “Christ.”

  Still…I was really hungry. And I do like eating pussy, I reasoned. Grabbing three bread vaginas, I popped the first into my mouth and searched the table for penis-shaped hot dogs. I really needed some protein, even if it was of questionable origin and phallic in shape.

  “Ooh, it’s starting! Look, look!” George squealed excitedly. “Turn it up, Kline.”

  He jumped to do as she bid, and I took a seat on the couch beside her and Julia as he did.

  The music started, a fast tempo with a ton of B-roll footage of the hospital, its halls, and the busy streets of Manhattan. The intensity was exciting, so much so it made my heart beat a little faster. It flashed to the front entrance of St. Luke’s Hospital off of 59th Street, and then zoomed in the front doors and through the halls, stairwell, and around the corner to the front entrance of St. Luke’s Obstetrics and Gynecology at superspeed, almost as if they’d strapped the camera to a rocket.