My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend

by Monroe, Max

  My fingers hover over the keypad, tempted to tap out a reply, but I decide to wait.

  I’ll text him after the interview.

  And then maybe, just maybe, if I can find the damn nerve, I’ll put Phase 2 into action.

  But right now, I need to focus.

  Off the subway and up the stairs, I head toward my fate.

  My first official interview with a publishing house.

  Here’s to hoping Cassandra Cale actually likes me.

  Milo

  Time flows like hardened cement as I sit inside a meeting about our upcoming mergers and acquisitions.

  It’s all very important shit we’ve been working on for a long time—shit I do, in fact, care about—but the guy leading the meeting, Earl from Finance, has the vocational charisma of a sloth.

  His voice moves like molasses—so much so that I’m pretty sure Ambien is in the process of studying its chemical makeup—and he uses no gestures to accompany his words whatsoever. I can’t help but picture him as the male version of Elaine’s coworker on Seinfeld, played by Molly Shannon, who didn’t move her arms when she walked.

  Across the large pine conference table, Laura, Fuse’s Head of Marketing, blinks her green eyes slowly, the top of her head starting to sag in a sleepy tilt forward before jolting upright again.

  I bite my lip to fight my grin as potential drug names for an Earl-based sleep aid come to mind.

  Monotonetelix.

  Boresnorevidel.

  Noinflectionplex.

  Another glance around the table shows a large number of people at the end of their ropes. There might as well be invisible jail cells inside this conference room for all the enjoyment these people are getting. They’re doing ten-to-twenty-five, and the only option left is to bide their time.

  I squint across the room.

  Is that…is Jeanine from HR making a license plate?

  I make a mental note to put Earl on projects that only require his numbers-genius brain and nothing else in the future. No running meetings, giving presentations to clients, or public speaking engagements of any kind.

  Sadly, I’m responsible—I called this meeting. I’m the jailer and the fucking prisoner in this situation, and yet, I have no recourse.

  I make eye contact with Lyle, my right-hand man in New York, and the agony on his face is almost comical.

  “For the love of God, finish him!” his furrowed brow—a bushy, uni type that could have its own zip code—yells like we’re inside the game Mortal Kombat.

  I shake my head on a smile. This is important. We both know it’s important.

  Earl is giving the eighteen most important people working at Fuse’s New York offices the rundown on how we’re about to move further into the international market.

  Taiwan. Tokyo. Rome. Melbourne.

  They’re all on the cusp of the next big tech bubble, and Fuse is going to be at the helm of software safety for all of them.

  We have to have this meeting. Still, Lyle’s mime-like depiction of shoving a pencil through his eye isn’t unwarranted.

  Earl has started in on his detailed financial plan for the next six months, and if I’m not mistaken, I hear a flock of buzzards start circling above us.

  My phone vibrates inside the pocket of my jeans, and I take it out without hesitation. Normally, looking at my phone during a meeting is a big fat no, but today…today, I’m thankful for any distraction.

  A text message notification shows on my lock screen, and a smile curves my lips when I see who it’s from.

  Maybe: Thank you for the pep talk earlier. It made all the difference in my efforts not to come across as one of the characters from Girl, Interrupted.

  I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing out loud while Earl reads from his list of figures. My phone is under the table, but a laugh during this meeting would undoubtedly give me away.

  Me: So, it went well?

  Maybe: I *think* it went well. God, I’m not sure. But you’ll have to help me overanalyze it later tonight when Bruce isn’t on a rampage about roses. “If I see one more wilted petal on these thorned beaches, I’m gonna shiitake mushroom all over that godspam pitiful excuse for a supplier!”

  Me: LOL. Sounds like a plan. And sorry about Bruce…I’m praying for you.

  Maybe: HA! Great. Hopefully God takes Billionaireman seriously as a character reference. This is supposed to be a freaking flower shop, but I’m in the weeds here.

  She’s so funny, a smile slips past my defenses, and Lyle notices. His superbrow draws together again, but I shake my head subtly.

  Not only is the catalyst for my happiness none of his business, I’m afraid I couldn’t explain it to him even if I wanted to.

  I mean…what am I doing here?

  Am I still just doing Evan a favor?

  Am I looking out for a person I’m fond of?

  Are Maybe and I friends?

  I’m dangerously aware that there might be even more to it than friends, but I refuse to open that can of worms now by allowing the thought to fully form.

  The guilt alone would take days to sort through.

  All I know is that the promise of talking to her tonight makes me feel like a kid again—like the tree is decorated, the presents are wrapped, and later tonight, Santa’s going to give me the gift I’ve been waiting for all year.

  Fucking hell. Life sure is starting to feel complicated.

  Milo

  “It that all you got?” I taunt my trainer, Claude, like some kind of workout masochist.

  He swings at my head once, twice, three times, and I duck like I was born to fucking quack.

  My feet move quickly to the right, and I bend my upper body to the left before swinging an unexpected right hook right into the fleshy part of Claude’s ear.

  He smiles—because while I’m a masochist, he is an outright sadist—and lures me in for more.

  I stutter-step forward, my eyes on his hands as he moves them expertly to block every punch I throw, and breathe through the aching stitch in my side.

  No matter how many training sessions he puts me through, no matter how in shape I think I am, I still leave the gym feeling like someone just ran me over with a truck. Tonight will be no different.

  I round out the dance between us with a spin and a double hit to his stomach, and he swings up and around to land one last strike to my shoulder just as the timer he set on his phone rings out with mercy on me.

  I head for the side of the ring to grab my towel, and Claude follows.

  “Nice workout, bro,” he says, his accent a heavy mix of old-school German and millennial-influenced American. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  I mentally flip him the bird but outwardly nod toward him after I take a swig of water. “See ya, man. Thanks.”

  I’m not thankful at all—at least not right now. I feel like a real prick for paying someone to torture me.

  But two days from now, I’ll be craving more. It’s an endless cycle that keeps the three-time heavyweight boxing champion on my payroll.

  Yep. Definitely a workout masochist.

  Claude slides out of the boxing ring, out of the room, and toward the entrance to the gym, and I finally feel free to drop my tough guy act a little.

  “Ow,” I whisper, rolling my shoulder around on itself.

  With only the final remnants of adrenaline flowing through my veins and a real ache starting to set in, I grab the rest of my shit from one of the chairs in the far corner of the ring and make my way toward the locker room.

  I push through the heavy wood door easily enough, but when its swing is almost complete, the weight of it disappears and my body jumps forward.

  Right into an actual giant.

  “Milo!” he shouts, his voice jovial and loud. While I startle at first, it doesn’t take me long to smile.

  Thatcher Kelly is a larger-than-life kind of guy. Literally. He makes me look tiny in comparison, and I’m not even pulling an ego card when I say I’m not exactly a small guy�
�I’m six foot two inches of mostly muscle.

  He looks like he ate me for breakfast. A Milo Protein Bar, if you will.

  “What in the fuck have you been up to?” he asks, slapping me on the back with almost frightening strength. “It’s been a while, dude.”

  While I’ve known Thatch for a few years—since the day he barreled his way into my meeting with Kline Brooks and turned it into a meeting about him—I don’t have much occasion to see him outside of work. I think it’s been at least six months since I’ve even run into him here at the gym.

  “Working. Traveling. You know, all the same shit,” I respond with a grin. “How are you? How are Cass and the kids?”

  “Everyone is good. Crazy, but good.”

  I laugh. Thatch’s wife is, in fact, crazy. Outspoken, impulsive, and sometimes unpredictable, she should come with a “may cause serious injury or death” warning like a firework.

  The last time I spent time with the two of them, we met up for drinks at a cigar bar in SoHo and somehow ended the night in Midtown with Cassie doing a white-girl-wasted version of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” in a bar that didn’t even have karaoke.

  “How’s Kline?”

  “Boring as-fucking-ever,” he says with a smirk.

  I laugh. Anything tamer than doing ninety on a dirt bike, and Thatcher Kelly thinks it’s boring.

  “When are you settling down and tying the knot like the rest of us pathetic bastards?”

  I smile at the gossipy question, and he pounces.

  “Ah, a smile! So, when can Cass and I meet her?”

  “Meet whom?”

  “Your wife-to-be.”

  “Slow your roll, dude,” I say with a laugh. “Pretty sure I have to find her first.”

  “You’re not dating anyone?”

  I shake my head, and he narrows his eyes.

  “No man ever smiles at that question unless they’ve got the lady in mind.”

  An image of Maybe pops unbidden in my head, and I jump on that shit like a member of the goddamn WWE.

  Holy shit, why would I think of her right now?

  I try to steady my racing heart and answer the inquisitive giant as normally as possible. “No lady yet. But I’m thirty, Thatch. Pretty sure I’ve got time.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m well past thirty. I’d like to attend the wedding before I get arthritis.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say with a laugh, and he smiles.

  “See that you do. And listen, I’m thinking about starting up a poker night. Boys-only kind of thing once a week. You interested?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. Sounds good. Let me know when you get it set up.”

  “Will fluffing do, Lo-Dog.”

  I shake my head at his ridiculousness and give him a chin jerk goodbye. I’m sure I’ll be seeing him for poker soon, though. When it comes to Thatcher Kelly, you learn pretty quick that once he sets his mind to something, it’s a guarantee it will happen.

  By the time I make it out of the gym and toward the subway station, it’s nearing eight and I’m so hungry, I’m contemplating asking the guy sitting across from me for a bite of his Chipotle burrito.

  Thankfully, my place is only one station away.

  Sure, I could have used my driver, Sam, but his daughter had a dance recital tonight, and I’m not too keen on being responsible for scarring children emotionally. Her dad should be there, and I have two feet and can handle the short subway ride and walk on the rare occasion when he can’t drive me.

  Fifteen minutes later, I step inside my apartment, grab the menu from the cabinet and call in an order from the restaurant across the street, and jump in the shower.

  They’re usually quick with delivery, and I don’t like to mix food and sweat.

  Luckily, I finish up and am pulling a white T-shirt over my boxer briefs when the bell rings, indicating someone’s arrival. I head down the hall, and the elevator door slides open to my doorman, Gill.

  “Hello, Mr. Ives. Your food order.”

  I reach out to take it from him with a smile. “Thanks, Gill. Still have money, or do I owe you some more?”

  To keep things more secure—you wouldn’t believe how many weirdos there are out there trying to get my address off the internet—Gill acts as a middleman for me on deliveries. I keep a rolling supply of money with him to pay for everything.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m all set, Mr. Ives.”

  “Thanks. Don’t forget to tip yourself,” I remind him.

  He nods once and steps back onto the elevator.

  I spread out the contents of my bag on the counter—broiled salmon, broccoli, and lemon-butter rice—and grab a plate from the cabinet. But before I can serve it up, a message alert makes my phone buzz on the marble countertop.

  I move to it quickly and scoop it up. I can’t even pretend I haven’t been waiting for this message all night. And thankfully, since I’m home alone right now, I don’t have to.

  Maybe: *flashes Billionaire signal on buildings all over New York City* Are you there, Billionaireman? I’m ready for your help fighting my neuroses.

  My smile is so big, I feel it all the way at the corners of my eyes.

  Me: Here and at the ready, my distressed friend. Lay it on me.

  Maybe: Okay, so, I *think* I made a good impression with Cassandra. I mean, she didn’t kick me out in the first five minutes, and I didn’t make ANY references to My Little Pony. She even happened to know some of my work from the Stanford Gazette.

  I shake my head as I type out a reply, wondering how one human being can amuse me so much.

  Me: Was referencing My Little Pony an actual possibility?

  Maybe: I don’t put anything past myself when I’m nervous.

  Me: Well, you can relax now. It sounds like she loved you.

  Maybe: Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here, buddy.

  Me: Tell me this—did she tell you when she’d call you?

  Maybe: She said I’d hear from her in the next day or so.

  Me: She loved you.

  Maybe: How in the hell do you know that? You weren’t even there! Can Billionaireman see through walls now?

  I picture her getting all amped up, and it makes me laugh into the silence of my apartment. It comes out sounding a little evil, but there’s no one here to hear it, so I don’t waste time focusing on it.

  Instead, I type out another message and hit send.

  Me: I’ve known Cassandra for a long time, and she isn’t one to say something she doesn’t mean. She’s a straight shooter. Like the John Wayne of publishing.

  Maybe: Hmm… exactly how well do you know her? Like, are you guys friends, or are you guys “friendly”?

  My eyebrows draw together.

  Me: Is there a difference?

  Maybe: Yes. Friends is friends. But friendly? That could mean all sorts of things. Like when Jimmy Thompson’s mom was “friendly” with the mailman when I was in second grade, and he ended up with a dog-phobic half-brother.

  I laugh.

  Me: You’re making that up.

  Maybe: Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. The story doesn’t matter, Milo. What matters is that “friendly” means something different than friends.

  I shake my head and type out a response. I glance over at my food. It’s got to be cold by now, but that’s what microwaves are for.

  Me: We are just FRIENDS, kid. She went to Yale with me and Ev.

  Maybe: Ah, okay. Not that it matters or anything. You’re free to be friendly with whomever you want. And she’s a pretty lady, so being friendly with her probably wouldn’t be bad.

  Me: Maybe.

  Maybe: Wait…are you saying my name or saying maybe it wouldn’t be bad being friendly with her?

  Me: MABEL WILLIS, I have no intention of being friendly with Cassandra Cale now or ever.

  Maybe: Oh. Well, all right. None of my business.

  I shake my head and laugh out loud. I can’t help it. She’s a lunatic.

  A fuc
king adorable lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless.

  Maybe: Well, I just want to say again, thank you for getting me that interview and helping me with this. I am forever grateful.

  Me: No thanks needed. I’m glad to help.

  Five minutes pass by without her saying anything else, so I dish out my food onto a plate and put it into the microwave. Just as the microwave announces it’s done, my phone buzzes again. I leave the food and pick up my phone again.

  Maybe: Can I ask you something?

  With the way this evening’s conversation has gone, there’s absolutely no telling what’s on her mind. And honestly, that’s kind of the fun part.

  Me: Shoot.

  I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a swig while the bubbles of her message that indicate she’s typing whirl.

  Maybe: How often do you sext? A rough calculation is fine. Round up, round down, that sort of thing.

  I spew water all over myself and the counter, and then quickly wipe it away from my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt.

  She’s asking me about sexting? Where in the hell did this come from? Was it a typo?

  Me: I’m sorry…did you say sext? As in text messaging about sex?

  Maybe: Yes.

  Part of me is thrilled about the prospect of talking about sex with this gorgeous woman. It’s so thrilled, it’s giving the idea a big ole standing ovation.

  I groan and adjust my pants before rubbing at my eyes to try to make myself think with other, more rational parts of my body.