The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister

by Monroe, Max

  Thatch: And you bastards better have read the book and come prepared to discuss it tonight or else.

  Wes: Or else, what?

  Thatch: DON’T TEST ME, WES.

  Wes: Calm your tits. I’ll be there. And I read the book.

  Kline: Did you read it, or did you make Winnie read it and give you the rundown?

  Wes: Does it really matter?

  Kline: LOL.

  I have to smile. I wonder how many of us, statistically speaking, are actually reading the books. Fifty percent? Maybe?

  Thatch: Wes, how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t have your wife reading the books for you! Fluffing hell.

  Cap: Wes, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re getting awfully fucking close to getting the boot from Book Club.

  Wes: Oh…no… What will I do without Book Club?

  I laugh to myself. Wes’s sarcasm couldn’t be any clearer if he stenciled it on their foreheads in permanent marker. These chickens are about to cluck, so I type out a message quickly, while I still have a shot in hell at getting a word in edgewise.

  Me: I can’t be there for the next two weeks. I have a club opening in Positano. On a plane right now as we speak.

  Cap: WHAT THE FUCK, THEO???

  Wes: You lucky bastard.

  Thatch: I expect that you’ll keep up to speed on the nightly reading, Theodore. I would be really fluffing disappointed if you came back from your Italian getaway and hadn’t read a single word.

  Cap: Speak for yourself. Just this once, I’ll be disappointed if he comes back and knows anything about these books at all. Get out there and get your back scratched, young man.

  Good God. My hand comes up to cover my eyes instinctively. I don’t know the exact reasoning, but I know immediately I’m not going to want to read what comes next.

  In an attempt to rein them in before they get out of hand, I text a concise reminder.

  Me: This is a business trip.

  Cap: There’s no law that says you can’t get business done and get “down to business” at the same time, son. Get that sad, lonely, little dick sucked, for shit’s sake. Even second-string cocks need to get off the bench every now and then.

  Thatch: Theo’s cock isn’t a second-stringer. I’ve seen it at the gym. That thing’s a goddamn starter.

  Jesus. Sometimes I really have to remind myself why I’m friends with these guys. At the very least, I’ll be looking for a new gym when I get back.

  Me: Great talk, guys. Really. Loved it.

  Cap: Thank you.

  Smartass.

  Kline: Have a good trip, Theo. I wouldn’t recommend you listen to the stooges, but I do think there’s time for a life outside of work. Just think about it. You might find something completely unexpected.

  I sigh. It’s one thing to ignore the circus clowns, but it’s usually another to ignore Kline Brooks. He’s acted as a guidepost for almost every single one of these guys—and for good reason.

  He’s thoughtful and mature, and I’ve never known him to make statements on a whim.

  If he thinks I need to lighten up…God. Maybe I do.

  Lena

  “My tits are taped, my hoo-ha’s waxed, and if I take a full breath tonight, it’ll be a bloody miracle,” my friend Pippa lists off in her thick English accent. “I reckon I’m all set to get pissed tonight.”

  I laugh, pull the last stroke of eyeshadow across my lid, and then toss down the brush on the bathroom vanity in front of me as Pippa repeatedly squishes her boobs together with the heels of her hands. I glance down at my own breasts and shake my head. Perky C cups that look fantastic braless is about the only thing my witch of a mother passed down to me.

  I turn toward Pippa and lean a skirt-clad hip into the countertop. “Have you ever been pissed, as you put it? I’ve never even seen you pick up a drink in the nine months I’ve known you.”

  Pippa Parker is the first friend I made in Milan when I showed up for my one-year course at the Milano Institute of Fashion at the beginning of the year. She had wide eyes, a nervous smile, and as it turns out, a big, welcoming heart. She’s a lot younger than me—twenty-one to my twenty-eight—but when it comes to knowing what she wants, she’s light-years ahead. She’s been planning her attendance at the Milano Institute of Fashion since she was a little girl.

  Besides all that, I’ve never heard someone laugh the way she does, and she does it often. Her energy has been a much-needed reprieve from the self-deprecation I’ve been struggling with as I try to find my way in the world—as I try to prove to my vapid mother that I’m more than a flaky woman who has nothing to rely on but her looks.

  I’m not sure how I’ll feel when we go our separate ways after spending all this time being two peas in an Italian-flavored pod. We’re roommates, study buddies…pretty much everything to each other over here.

  “Well, no, but I figure tonight is as good a night as any,” she responds, and I quirk a questioning brow at her. “What? It is, Lena! We’re done with classes. All we have left are our internships. We’re on holiday, for bloody sakes, and for once in my life, I want to celebrate!”

  “You have a point,” I agree. “I mean, we are supposed to be letting loose before internships start.”

  “Exactly.” She winks. “Show me how it’s done. Show me how to be like Lena Hawkins, life of the party!”

  “Pippa…”

  “No, no. Now, I know you’ve been on your man ban or whatever the hell you like to call it, but we’re on the Amalfi Coast of Italy, for crike’s sake! Let your hair down, drink, dance your tight little arse off, and show me how it’s done. Grant me access to your witchcraft.”

  I roll my eyes at her theatrics but do her the friendly courtesy of considering what she’s said. I am, in fact, on what I’ve been calling a man ban.

  When I made the decision to go to fashion and design school in Milan, I promised myself to do it differently.

  To stop flitting through life expecting the answers and focus to come to me, and instead, put my energy and hard work into making it happen. As much as my mother would like me to find a rich man to settle down with like she has, I can’t stand the thought of being a secondary character in my own life.

  I want a career. A purpose. A life that has not one shred of a similarity to the life of my mother, Victoria Hawkins.

  And men…well, they are my ultimate distraction.

  I left New York with a trail of boyfriends and breakups littered and scattered behind me, and I didn’t want Milan to be like that—don’t want my future to be like that.

  I’m done with the emo-feelers, the past-hardened tortured souls, and the free-thinking dreamers.

  One day, when I’m ready to take my love life back by the horns, I need a guy who knows who he is. A guy who’s steady and reliable and doesn’t dance around decisions like I have in the past. Someone who keeps my heart in flight and my feet on the ground. Someone who’s invested in making me my own hero instead of a damsel they can save.

  Up until now, I’ve stayed true to myself and the ban and the future I’m fighting to create. I haven’t flirted or flounced or fucked at all.

  But Pippa’s right in a way, and tonight is definitely worthy of uninhibited celebration.

  I need to let go and let loose, and in the process, maybe even teach myself that I can have a focused, attentive, purposeful life and have fun at the same time.

  I shrug. “All right, Pip. For one night, and one night only, I’m prepared to lift the man ban just for you. But you should prepare yourself. I’m aces at negotiations.”

  Pip snorts. “Negotiations?”

  “Flirting,” I clarify with a little smirk. “I mean, flirting is one hell of a negotiating tool when it’s used right…”

  “That sounds a little more like manipulation.”

  “Meh.” I wave her off. “When women receive equal pay, aren’t penalized in their careers for having babies, and aren’t criticized as being unladylike when they speak their mind
s or express their sexuality, I’ll stop using my skills at flirtation for selfish gain. Until then, manipulative or not, I’ll keep doing what I do best and not feel the least bit guilty about it.”

  I shimmy my braless breasts as an exclamation point to my words, and Pippa’s snort is loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Bloody hell, are your tits loose?” Pippa grabs my shoulders and turns me to face her for further inspection. I shuck her hold and grab my purse so we can get this show on the road. The taxi was supposed to be downstairs almost ten minutes ago. Pippa follows my lead, but she doesn’t do it without comment. “If I went without a bra to a nightclub, people would have to sign waivers before I stepped onto the floor.”

  I laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m serious.” She points down to her breasts. “These double D’s could cause some serious injuries if they’re let loose while I’m dancing around. Be thankful your tits are perky. All you’ll have to worry about is a line of wankers gagging to shag you.”

  I’m still laughing as we make it downstairs to the taxi and climb inside with our two other friends from design school, Sophie and Frederick. They’re the most responsible of us and have been waiting downstairs with the cab since it arrived.

  “Sorry, guys,” I say with a wince as we pull away from the hotel and onto the narrow, winding, coastal road.

  Pippa laughs as Sophie and Frederick turn their eyes to her. “What? You got one blimey apology. That’s good enough.”

  Luckily, Sophie and Frederick know Pippa enough not to let her comment bother them, and we all spend the fifteen-minute ride to the club chattering.

  Lights dance out on the water from yachts and fishing boats alike, and a small breeze blows through the tiny opening the cab driver left in his window.

  Our resort is outside of the main town of Positano, built into a cliff that gives one of the best views on the Amalfi Coast. It might have been slightly inconvenient if we’d been trying to spend our days wandering through the small streets and alleys of the Positano town center, but the resort’s had everything we’ve needed for a laid-back good time so far.

  We probably wouldn’t have even left the grounds of the resort tonight if a promoter from Club Indigo hadn’t sidled up to us poolside and thrown us every perk in the book.

  A guaranteed place at the front of the line, complimentary shuttling to and from, and a free drink ticket for each of us, and we were sold.

  Apparently, it just opened last night, and they’re trying to build up a reputation in a hurry.

  I pay close attention as our driver weaves through town on a tiny one-way street filled with people walking up and down the sides. There are hardly any sidewalks, but traffic sure doesn’t act like it. We move at a terrifying speed as pedestrian after pedestrian streaks past each side mirror with a millimeter of clearance.

  When we pull to a stop in front of the club, neon lights shrouding the doorway in a cool glow, I don’t waste any time climbing out. Thanks to the new location, I was paying too close attention, and my nerves are shot. If the death ride had been in New York, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed.

  Once my stilettos hit the pavement, I take a deep breath and shimmy my skirt down enough to ensure its coverage of my ass. The vibrating bass of the music from inside the club fills my ears and puts a buzz in my chest.

  Yeah. Tonight is going to be a good night. I can already feel it.

  Pippa pulls out the passes the promoter gave us at the pool, and the bouncer escorts us through the door immediately at the sight of her waving them. There’s a long, weaving line of people that starts at the door and follows the edge of the stone street along storefronts as far as the eye can see, and they are visibly displeased by our special treatment.

  A tiny part of me starts to feel bad until the bouncer winks his goodbye after we’ve shuffled into the front hall. He gives no fucks, and I have to admit it makes me grin.

  After a quick pass through the entry hall, we step into the mouth of the club, and my adrenaline takes off at a gallop.

  There’s a cool blue glow on every surface, the edges of the tables and chairs and the whole length of the bar lined with an amazing neon piping, and the DJ booth is elevated directly in the center of the dance floor. I watch closely as the platform slowly spins, allowing the DJ to face the crowd on all sides.

  A pounding beat makes the floor bounce under my feet and the blood in my veins zings with unexpected energy.

  It’s fucking perfect.

  And as with anything worth attending, the word has apparently gotten out. Wall-to-wall people ebb and flow against one another, and the large bar that runs the entire length of the wall on the right of the massive space is inundated with customers.

  Six bartenders work tirelessly, and still, people are stacked three rows deep.

  I never expected this kind of a showing for a club residing in the small, otherwise quaint town of Positano. The whole freaking population of the town has to be on the dance floor.

  “Bloody hell, this is nothing like the discothèques near uni.”

  I grin at Pippa. “Maybe that’s a good thing. A place like this in Milan probably would have cut into our work ethic a little.”

  She nods enthusiastically and turns back to continue our push through the crowd.

  It’s impossible to move without brushing against people, and the whole sensation is intensely electrifying. My skin hums, and a tiny dot of sweat forms in the middle of my boobs. It’s the kind of thing that could easily feel claustrophobic or overwhelming, but the vibe is completely energizing.

  Everyone is considerate and welcoming, and I don’t feel even a little bit threatened.

  Honestly, it reminds me a lot of a nightclub in New York called Monarchy. Not in music choice, really, as this place is focusing in on late-nineties, early 2000s stuff so far and Monarchy favors grassroots hip-hop, but in the feeling it gives me—like I might never want to leave.

  In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever left Monarchy before four in the morning.

  God, it’s been forever since I’ve been there.

  Suddenly, the thought of home makes me miss it. As a result, despite the difficulty walking and texting in a crowd like this presents, I pull out my phone to type a quick message to my very best friend back in New York as I follow the group to the bar.

  Me: Hey, Maybe baby. Sorry to interrupt your bone session with Milo, but I wanted to say hiiii.

  Maybe: Hi LOL. And it’s four p.m. here. You’re not interrupting a “bone session.”

  Me: Why the hell not? If I were in a committed relationship, I’d be boning at all hours of the day.

  Maybe: Oh God. Can I take your excess horniness as an indication that the man ban is still going strong?!

  Me: I haven’t had sex in nine months, AND I passed all of my exams. Things are grand in Italy, honey. Though I kind of…maybe…KIND OF decided I MIGHT lift the ban tonight?

  Maybe: Well, it’s good that you’re sure of yourself, at least.

  Me: HAHA. Yeah, thanks. I can feel your support.

  Maybe: Come on, now. I’m not going to tell you what to do. You have to make the decision for yourself, right?

  Me: UGH, fine. I’ll think about it.

  Maybe: LOL. Keep me posted.

  Me: Of course. You’ll be excited to hear I HAVE decided something without any hesitation.

  Maybe: And that is?

  Me: When I get back to the States, we’re going to Monarchy.

  Maybe: And what exactly is Monarchy? Don’t tell me it’s an unauthorized Meghan and Harry museum. I don’t think I can handle another reenactment where you force me to be Harry.

  I roll my eyes and laugh. She loves to act like she doesn’t understand my obsession with the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, but I know how she really feels.

  Me: It was ONE time. And no offense to Milo, but I’m pretty sure it was the best kiss of your life.

  Maybe: HA! It was via FaceTime.

  Me: And whose
fault is that? I tried to get you to come visit me in Italy, but you’re all “I’m busy.” It could have been the real deal, and you know it.

  Maybe: Hey now! You KNOW I’m busy.

  Me: Yeah, yeah. Work, fiancé, wedding planning. I get it. But when I get home, no excuses! You’re carving out time for Monarchy—which is a nightclub in Bushwick, btw.

  Maybe: Bushwick?!

  I laugh. I’ve known Maybe Willis for nearly two years, but it feels like we’ve been friends for my entire life. She is adorable and sweet and the cute kind of awkward that makes it impossible to dislike her.

  Me: You’ll have fun, I promise.

  Maybe: Yeah, the last time you said that was right before you left for Milan and we ended up doing a bar crawl in Harlem.

  Me: And you had fun!

  Maybe: Had fun??? I was hungover for two days, and Milo had to come pick us up at three in the morning because we forgot how Uber worked.

  Me: Yeah, but he loved every second of it. Drunk Maybe = Horny Maybe. In fact, maybe if you went to Monarchy, you wouldn’t act like boning at four in the afternoon is so out of the question.

  Maybe: Ugh. Fine. Bushwick, it is.

  I grin and type out another response.

  Me: That’s the spirit. And don’t worry, we’ll hydrate beforehand.

  Maybe: That doesn’t make me feel better.