The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister

by Monroe, Max

  “Thanks for the schedule,” I say, and he hums again. “And I’ll think about the raise,” I add, and I click end on the call before he can offer one of his infamous sarcastic retorts. Lord knows he would if I gave him time.

  Still, I make a mental note to let my accountant know to make the change in his salary. I may play a hard-ass in my head, but I’m a pretty nice guy at heart. One who understands the value of hard-working and reliable staff and never hesitates to compensate them well. And Carey deserves this raise and then some.

  With practiced ease, Pete sets down the chopper on the pavement and makes quick work of shutting down the propellers and getting everything ready for me to disembark. He doesn’t even question the situation as the man with my pants approaches, and instead, climbs out to grab them for me, climbs back in, and passes them back.

  I swiftly cover my exposed legs and underwear, and then open the door to my side and exit onto the tarmac. As the August sun blares its angry rays at me, it doesn’t take long for me to see the silver lining of my previously pantsless state. It was, at least, a brief respite from sweating my balls off.

  “Thanks again, Pete. Have a safe flight back into the city,” I say, looking back to my pilot with a nod.

  A former Apache pilot in the army, Pete affirms my goodbye with his usual salute from the skin just above his gold-rimmed aviators and immediately dives back into his preflight checklist.

  The Cruz Enterprises’ jet sits just a couple hundred feet away, outside of its usual hangar. I head straight for it, thankful for the absence of traditional security that comes with a commercial airline, and am greeted by a member of the ground crew at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Welcome, Mr. Cruz.”

  I nod and jog up the short flight and into the cabin. Four pilots are aboard as a safety measure given the flight time anticipated, just under ten hours, and I make a point to shake each of their hands before turning to the main cabin to take my seat.

  They seem to appreciate the gesture, and I take solace in knowing the people who are in control in the rare instance I can’t be.

  Unfortunately, when all the formalities are completed and I’m finally ready to settle in, I don’t make it more than two steps before stopping dead in my tracks.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Stretched out on one of the cream leather benches—in a goddamn fluffy white bathrobe with slippers to match, mind you—is my older brother, Brogan.

  The very last person I expected to see here—the last person, if I’m honest, I wanted to see here.

  “Theo! My man!” he exclaims with a smile and lifts his glass of champagne in my direction. “I hear you’re opening up a new club in Positano. What is that now? Ten nightclubs around the globe?” He wrinkles his nose and winks at me. “You little overachiever. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to become the favorite son and grandson.” He downs the rest of the bubbly fluid and smacks his lips like a fucking heathen.

  I swallow hard against the annoyance in my throat and grit out a correction. “Twenty-five, actually.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty-five clubs,” I elucidate. “And I think we both know I am the favorite.”

  “Touché, brother,” Brogan says through an amused laugh as I shuck my suit jacket, hang it up in the front closet, and make myself comfortable in one of the seats across from him. His bathrobe sash has come undone, and the whole swath of material is precariously close to opening completely. I hope to God he’s got something on underneath it.

  He doesn’t even wait for me to be fully settled before ruining his concession with a snide smile. “Though, I’m pretty sure ole Merl prefers to hear my wild tales of sex and debauchery rather than your boring work shit.”

  Merl, our ninety-year-old grandfather and the foundation of Cruz Resorts, is both a brilliant man and a dirty old bastard. He’s the master of inappropriate behavior, and I guess his DNA is responsible for the bathrobe-wearing bachelor in front of me.

  Though, my grandfather at least had the decency to live out a meaningful, successful life first. He built his company from the ground up, carried it through strife, lessons learned, and unparalleled success on his back, all so we as a family could carry out the legacy of what it’s become now.

  When he retired, our father Luke took over, and upon my MBA graduation from The Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, I started Cruz Nightlife.

  It took a little while to get a portfolio of quality investors I could count on to elevate my clubs to the caliber I wanted them to be, but after a decade of work, I can honestly say I’ve gotten there.

  In fact, one of the first clubs we opened in New York is how I met Wes Lancaster and Thatcher Kelly. Wes, poised as an investor, surprised the hell out of me by going joint venture to create a neighboring club and late-night restaurant combination. It’s one of the only ones in the world, designed entirely to round out the closing time experience.

  You’ve probably heard the phrase You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. We added our own twist to it with, We suggest you go next door.

  When Wes suggested we get Thach involved in the money, my life as I knew it ended, and life with Thatcher Kelly as a friend began.

  He’s overbearing, insulting, egotistical, and one of the best friends I never knew to hope for. Friendship with him pretty much led to the rest of my circle.

  It’s also the reason I’m a member of a fucking book club, but I’ve finally convinced myself to get over that. Unless I want to change my name, give up my fortune, and enroll myself in the Witness Protection Program, I’m stuck in it for life.

  Anyway, eventually, Cruz Resorts and Cruz Nightlife merged into Cruz Enterprises, and now the entire family really is a part of the family business.

  Except, of course, the man in the bathrobe and slippers across from me.

  My older brother Brogan lives life by the seat of his pants—whenever he decides to wear them, obviously—and when it comes to money, he just eats away at the generous trust fund my grandfather bestowed upon us.

  His tales are wild, but his work ethic is non-fucking-existent.

  “And did you say twenty-five, Theodore? As in twenty-five nightclubs?”

  I nod and then sigh, knowing that by entertaining a conversation with him, I’m giving him an opportunity to take it somewhere I’ll likely regret. I should have just pulled out my computer and used it and its implied work-related tasks like a human would use garlic against a vampire. “I did.”

  But not acknowledging the work seems just as unacceptable. With twenty-five locations in some of the most popular cities around the world, and another ten locations in the works, Cruz Nightlife is really starting to become a household name. And I’m proud to say I’ve been at the center of building it. My hours, my sweat, my work—they’re responsible for employing thousands of people.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says with a gleam in his startlingly green eyes. “Good for you, brother. Good for you. I mean, if you can get beyond the fact that you’re wasting the best years of your life slogging away at an eighty-hour-a-week job instead of enjoying yourself, you can at least say that you accomplished something,” he says through a chuckle. “Seriously, just thinking about it gives me the shakes, but I’m super fucking happy for you if you’re okay with it.”

  My brother doesn’t go with the societal flow. He’s eccentric and impulsive, and when you expect him to take a seat at a table, he flips it instead.

  He’s also quite gifted in giving the world’s most backhanded compliments.

  “Wow,” I mutter. “Thanks, Brogan. Your way with words is truly a gift.”

  “I know, right?” He flashes a grin at me, completely impervious to my sarcasm, before turning his attention toward one of the televisions. He fiddles with the remote until he finds a channel that piques his interest, and I take his distraction as an opportunity to roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt to my elbows and loosen my tie.

 
; “Champagne, Mr. Cruz?” my flight attendant Laura asks with a smile. Her strawberry-blond hair gleams in the cabin lights, and a familiar kindness shines with equal intensity from her grayish-blue eyes.

  “No, thank you, Laura. But I wouldn’t mind a coffee.”

  She grins. “One coffee coming right up.”

  While Laura heads toward the galley for my coffee, I begrudgingly move my focus back to the man I didn’t invite on this work trip. I’d rather ignore him, but the constraints of my personality, while useful in business, don’t leave ignoring another human being for a full ten hours as an option.

  My older brother still lounges on the bench like he owns the plane—he doesn’t, by the way—and his demeanor is a la the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air—laid-back, relaxing, all cool.

  The last I heard, he was in LA, doing god knows what with some big-titted, Hollywood adult-film actress by the name of Clara O’Day. Her claim to fame is being “able to handle any size.” I know better than to bring her up directly, but I’m unavoidably curious how he made his way onto this plane of mine in the first place.

  “So, I thought you were spending time on the West Coast,” I start with a quirk of my brow. “When did you get back in town?”

  His eyes skate away from the TV briefly, just long enough to confirm I am indeed the one speaking to him, and then flit back to reruns of The Office as he answers me. “Meh. The West Coast gets boring after a while. Everyone looks the same, talks the same, and all that kale gives me indigestion.” He shrugs. “I decided it was time for a change, so I grabbed my favorite cock ring, had a goodbye orgy with a few of my favorite West Coast women, and flew back East for a while.”

  “Goddamn.” I wince. “I really didn’t need all that information.”

  He shrugs. “You asked.”

  “No, I didn’t. I think I’d know if I asked to hear about your cock ring, for fuck’s sake.”

  “That’s interesting,” he hums, tapping an annoying finger against his chin. “I didn’t think I booked a ticket on Prudish Airlines.”

  I scoff and laugh at the same time. “You didn’t buy a ticket on any airline. You inserted yourself on to a flight on which you were not invited.” I tilt my head. “How is that, by the way? How did you know I was flying to Italy?”

  “You know how it goes, bud.” He winks and picks up the remote to flip through the channels again. “I talked to Merl yesterday, he mentioned you were heading to the Amalfi Coast, and I figured, what the hell? Why not join you?”

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Brogan is the complete opposite of me.

  An aging thirty-eight to my vital thirty-four, he is a true exception to the birth order rule. He may be four years older than me, but he is neither more mature nor wiser.

  Despite every indicator that says I should feel otherwise, I still love him. As my only sibling, he has a special wormhole permanently carved out in my heart.

  Still, like any other case of heartworms, I’d love to get rid of him.

  “So, what are your plans after your ride on my free plane ends?” I ask as the engines start to whine, the pilots firing them up, and Brogan pours himself another glass of champagne. “Are you going to stay on the Amalfi Coast or—”

  “Who knows,” he interrupts with a shrug of one nonchalant shoulder. “Figure I’ll see where the Italian wind takes me.”

  No plans. No schedule. Nothing.

  Christ. It’s times like these that I wonder if our mother had a secret affair with the fucking pool boy.

  “What about you, Theodore?”

  What about me? He knows damn well why I’m traveling.

  “Oh, wait,” he adds before I can open my mouth with a sarcastic reply. “I bet you have a ten-day itinerary with every hour mapped out. Probably even have a fifteen-minute window in the morning to take a shit on that schedule of yours.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” I question on a laugh. “If that’s your average, you might want to consider changing up the ole diet, bud. Straining for that long won’t lead to anything but hemorrhoids.”

  “Aw! You’re worrying about my plans and my rectum.” He grins and crosses his arms over his chest in an overly emotional hugging gesture. “You always were a sweetheart, Theo.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” I remark, pulling out my phone and opening my email in a blind attempt to find anything—anything—other than my brother to occupy my time.

  He laughs. “I guarantee, right now, your mind is fucking racing over the idea that I have no concrete plans when we land. Hell, you’ll probably already have called the resort and had a room all set up for me by the time we get there.”

  I navigate away from the draft I had started to the resort manager about seeing if we have any open rooms and scratch my forehead with my middle finger. Fuck if I’m going to give him any indication he was right.

  “Damn, Theo. You need to loosen up. Live a little. Not everything in life has to be so fucking serious.” He stands to his feet to rifle through the liquor cabinet and then makes his way to the mini fridge across from me. “Have a drink. Take a fucking chill pill and relax,” he adds, tossing me a beer and grabbing one for himself.

  “I’m relaxed,” I counter, setting down the beer on the small table across from me. “Or I would be if you’d just sit over there—” I point to the other end of the plane. “And shut up.”

  He shrugs, struts down the aisle, and sinks into the seat farthest from me. Unfortunately, he’s still in my line of sight as he pops the cap off his beer and pours nearly the entire thing right down his throat.

  Good God, I might as well be living inside the movie Christmas Vacation, only it’s not Christmas, Chevy Chase is nowhere to be found, and Uncle Eddie is my fucking brother.

  It’s not like I don’t expect someone to have an after-work drink, for shit’s sake, but Brogan doesn’t have a job—or know the meaning of taking the edge off.

  He’ll jump right over the fucking cliff, guzzling booze until he passes out—which, I guess, may be a blessing in disguise. It’s just all the bullshit I’ll have to deal with before he passes out that’s the problem.

  Thankfully, Laura returns, steps into the aisle right between my brother and me so I can no longer see his descent into oblivion, and sets my coffee next to the unopened beer. “Sorry it took me a minute, Mr. Cruz. We’re getting ready to get underway, and I didn’t want to hold things up. I had to do my preflight checklist.”

  I shake my head and smile slightly. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff?”

  “No,” I say in dismissal. “I’m good.”

  Of course, Brogan hears her question from the other end of the plane and inserts himself without shame. “I need something, Laura Lou!”

  She turns and makes her way farther down the aisle toward him. I sigh heavily in her wake.

  “Sure. What can I do for you, Mr. Cruz?”

  Despite my misery, I can’t help but laugh a little. No doubt, this is the only time Brogan has been referred to as Mr. Cruz in his adult life.

  “Can you put a few towels and shampoo and shit like that in the bathroom for me? I’d like to take a shower.”

  “Of course.” Laura nods. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff?”

  “Hmmm…” Brogan taps his chin. “You wouldn’t happen to have any Oreos and milk back there, would you?”

  Jesus H., I’ve entered the Kindergarten Twilight Zone. It’s apparently time for snacks now. I can only hope nap time is next.

  Laura nods again. “We have both in the galley.”

  Brogan grins and slaps his knee. “Fantastic!”

  I swear to God, if he starts asking for fruit snacks and M&M’s, I’m going to throw his eccentric ass off this plane—but not until we hit peak altitude.

  “Do you want them now or after your shower?” Laura asks kindly, and the utter insanity of her question makes my head throb.

  “Just bring ’em out, and I’ll
decide,” he says and puts his slipper-covered feet up on the backward-facing seat in front of him.

  I sigh. This is going to be a long-ass flight. We’re not even off the fucking ground yet.

  Laura brings out the cookies and milk, but thankfully, my phone chimes from inside my pocket with the sound of a text message before Brogan starts gorging himself on them.

  I dig it out and open the alert to find it’s a message inside an ongoing group chat with a few of my closest buddies.

  Cap: Book Club tonight. Be there or be square, losers.

  Ah hell. The Billionaire Book Club.

  About a year ago, our weekly poker night turned into a literary spectacle, all thanks to Cap wanting to get laid. In the end, though, the joke was him. The motherfucker up and fell and love and is now engaged to be married.

  Despite a good seventy-five percent of us attending under protest, for some unknown reason, the Billionaire Book Club has lived on.

  Between the lot of us, we own billion-dollar hedge fund companies, tech companies, media conglomerates, world-renowned hotel chains and resorts, one of the most prominent law firms in North America, and the New York fucking Mavericks.

  The outside world would be shocked to find out we read romance books on a biweekly basis.

  Wes: The fact that we’re still having Book Club, after you somehow managed to get Ruby to fall in love with you, makes zero fucking sense.

  I grin. My thoughts exactly, Wes.

  Thatch: The first rule of Book Club, Whitney, is that you don’t fuck with Book Club. That’s sacrilegious, and I will not fluffing tolerate it.

  Wes: Maybe we should change the name to The Billionaire Book Cult. We’re one step away from mandatory matching outfits anyway.

  Thatch: Very fluffing funny. Cassie would never allocate the funds to build a Thatcher Kelly altar for you fools to worship at, and we can’t have a cult without an altar.

  Kline: Right. That’s the reason we shouldn’t have a cult.