How to Marry Another Billionaire

by Elise Sax

  “Hmmm. Well, remember that he’s not the target.”

  “So, what do I do? Chew with my mouth open at dinner?” I ask.

  “No. Lead him on. Make him want you. He’ll tell Rock, and that’ll get Rock jealous.”

  Sure. Okay. How can this go wrong?

  There’s free champagne in the limo, and I drink two glasses on the way to the hottest dinner spot in L.A. The day ended pretty much how it started with me trying to create a spreadsheet. I ate lunch in the lunch room. Rock’s company brings in food every day for the employees, and today it was rolled tacos. I didn’t see Rock again, and my hopes for Operation Billionaire are pretty much in the toilet as the limo stops in front of the restaurant.

  I shimmy out of the limo, trying not to flash my panties to the whole world. I walk inside the restaurant, and something is terribly wrong. It takes me a moment to realize what it is and then it hits me. The restaurant’s empty except for the staff.

  There’s only a man sitting at a table for two by a roaring fireplace, even though it’s summer in Los Angeles. A woman in a flowy dress is playing the harp close by, and a team of waiters are waiting.

  Either the restaurant’s a dud, or the billionaire has bought it out for the night to impress me. I’m impressed. Normally, I’m a Denny’s Kids Eat For Free Night kind of gal. The seating hostess is very nice to me, and she takes me right to the only man sitting in the restaurant.

  He doesn’t have a comb-over.

  He’s a thirty-something, relatively attractive guy in a very expensive suit. He stands when I get to the table, and he does an excruciatingly slow take, ogling my body from my face to my toes.

  Briefly on my face.

  Really long on my boobs.

  “Well, I owe Rock a million dollars for this,” he says appreciatively, taking my hand and rubbing his thumb in circles on my palm. He leans close so that I can smell his sour breath. “And I can afford it, you know.”

  You need to seduce him and make Rock jealous, a voice in my head reminds me. Drat. I hate that voice.

  I smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  One of the waiters pulls my chair out for me, and I sit. “I’ve ordered for you,” Declan tells me. “Nothing but the best for you. That’s what girls get when they go on a date with me. That and so much more.”

  He says the last part with a leer and an arch of his eyebrow. “Thank you,” I croak and take a sip of water.

  “So tell me all about you,” he starts and interrupts immediately. “I’m single, as you know, but I’m up for not being single. You know, if I meet the right lady, who knows what I like and can make me feel good.”

  I wonder if my dinner fork can go all the way through his hand.

  “As you know, I’m a self-made billionaire,” he continues. This is a total lie. His grandfather built the toilet paper company, and Declan only spends the money. I googled him for hours after his telephone call. I may be terrible at Excel, but I’m kick-ass at research.

  “GQ Magazine named me one of fifty great financial minds,” he continues. Two waiters arrive with plates of escargot and serve us simultaneously. Blech. Why do rich people think that eating snails is impressive?

  “I have three thousand dollars in my wallet. In cash,” he says. “What are you? A size six? Your tits look great in that top.”

  I manage to drop two snails into my lap without him seeing, and I toss them under the table. Then, I knock back a glass of wine. I’ve decided that I don’t need to seduce Declan. He’s already seduced himself.

  My seat could be filled by any other female in a short skirt and flimsy bra, and he wouldn’t notice the difference. I don’t even need to say anything. He answers all of his own questions. I keep smiling, and that seems to be enough for him.

  I manage to toss three more snails under the table before our dishes are cleared and are replaced with foie gras. My kingdom for a pulled pork sandwich. “Rock tells me that you’re a mother. That’s cool. With my money, it’s all about the nannies. Hopefully hot ones.”

  We get through the foie gras, a salad, pasta, and veal. If someone pinches me, I’m going to pop like a tick. I’ve also drunk three glasses of wine, above and beyond the champagne that I drank in the limousine. I’m feeling no pain, even though I’m on a date with the grossest man to ever walk the earth. My cellphone rings, and I excuse myself, skipping off to the alcove where the bathrooms are. I turn around to see Declan pop a blue pill and wash it down with wine. Uh-oh.

  “How’s it going?” Rosalind asks on the phone as soon as I answer.

  “I’m five minutes away from killing him and then myself.”

  “Are you seducing him? You need to seduce him.”

  “Give it to him good,” I hear my mother yell. “Show him what you’ve got.”

  “I don’t need to show him what I’ve got,” I say. “He plans on taking it all, anyway. I think he has a long history of taking.”

  “This is good,” Rosalind says. “Rock’s going to be big-time jealous. We’re right on schedule.”

  “Oshay,” I say. “I mean, oshay. Uh…Oshay. Oshay. Damn it. My voice is on autocorrect. Oshay.”

  “Are you trying to say okay? What’s going on? Are you sloshed?”

  “No, I’m shot shoshed. Shot. Shot. Shoshed. Shoshed. Damnit. The autocorrect thing’s happening again. Shoshed. Shot. Shoshed. Shot. Shoot. My mouth isn’t working.” I stumble back into the wall and sort of melt, sliding down the wall like I’ve had all of my bones removed, until I’m sitting on the floor with my legs outstretched in front of me.

  “Did she get drunk with the billionaire?” I hear Bessie ask.

  “I hope not,” Rosalind tells her. “Keep your knees together,” she urges me.

  “I can’t feel my knees,” I say.

  “Do you need backup? Should I implement Mission Save Ass?”

  She probably should, but I’ve been gone too long, and Declan has left the table to come find me. I hang up as he saunters toward me. He’s taken off his jacket and loosened his tie.

  “What’re we doing? Taking a break to drum up energy for tonight’s activities?” he asks me. He puts his hand on the wall above me and looks down. My eyes are at crotch-level, and I’m not sure if it’s my inebriated state or reality, but it looks like Declan has a huge bulge. And it’s growing.

  “When I stand up, the restaurant spins around. So, I’m sitting down in order to stop it,” I say.

  “It’s not spinning around.”

  “That’s because I’m sitting down, stopping it. If I stand up, the dishes will fly off the table, and it’ll be a disaster. The shards of glass alone could take out at least two waiters and the bony hostess chick.”

  Declan may be smiling or alarmed by what I’m saying. I don’t know because I can’t see his face. His penis is in the way. Declan’s huge bulge has turned into a huge erection. A crazy large penis at a right angle to his body is growing larger by the second. I lean my head back as far as I can so that I’m not impaled through the eye by Declan’s manhood.

  And boy, what a manhood. I wonder if all billionaires have big dicks. Does a large penis come with a large bank account? Or vice versa?

  Does that mean that poor men have small penises?

  No, my husband’s poor, and he’s well-endowed. Well, not Declan well-endowed. Declan has a bigger endowment than Harvard. I try to lean my head back more, but there’s no place to go. Declan is acting like his penis isn’t rock hard and ready to hang clothes on it.

  I’m acting the same way. No sense in reminding him that he’s ready to go and he’s all man. Oh, shit. He’s all man. I hope I don’t get pregnant through his pants. I wish I could feel my knees so I can make sure they’re together.

  “Perfect,” he says about the restaurant spinning around. “I’ll get you out of here. Then, you can show me how grateful you are to your hero.”

  I so hope I throw up on him.

  But I’m afraid I would need one more drink to do that. I’ve only had enough
drinks to make the room spin.

  Damn moderation.

  Declan takes my hand and yanks me up. I do a little Elvis move so that we’re not having sexual intercourse. He’s trying to pull me toward him, but I shimmy in his embrace so that my uterus is further away from his boner. I giggle, thinking of the word boner, and this seems to encourage Declan, and he grows even longer and thicker.

  Penises shouldn’t be this big. It’s a hazard, like low-hanging power lines or running with scissors. How does it fit in his pants? Why couldn’t he have worn skinny jeans? Skinny jeans would have kept his penis in line. But I guess billionaires wear baggy pants so that their endowments have enough room.

  I don’t know how long I can avoid his boner. It’s everywhere. It’s taking up the whole room. In fact, I think it’s taking up the air. Yep, I’m having a hard time breathing. Declan isn’t having a hard time breathing. He’s doing heaps of breathing. In, out, in, out. Pant, pant, pant. It’s like he’s started already.

  But here’s the weird thing. He seems to be completely oblivious that he has enough wood to build Abe Lincoln a new log cabin.

  “Oh, hello.”

  I know that voice. That’s the voice of the father of my next five children. That’s the voice of the world’s longest orgasm—mine—in the hopefully near future.

  Rock Clarke.

  Since I’m drunk, there’s three of him, which is a big plus to being drunk.

  Somehow, he’s decided to come to the same restaurant as Declan, and he has to go to the bathroom at just the moment when I’m in the arms of a three-legged billionaire.

  Declan turns around and says hello to Rock, giving him a good look at his erection. Rock’s eyes get huge, although not Declan’s penis kind of huge. To his credit, Rock recovers quickly.

  “Hello, Declan. What’s new?” he asks.

  Again to his credit, Rock doesn’t say “how’s it hangin’,” but when I think this, I giggle. Declan crosses his arms in front of him. “Nothing much. Thanks for the tip on Eagle Eye Ventures. I bought a million in shares and have already made ten percent.”

  Rock’s nodding, but his eyes keep flicking toward the pole in Declan’s pants.

  “Are you here for dinner?” Declan asks Rock. “Sorry pal. I bought out the restaurant. I don’t like to share.” He smiles at me when he says this.

  “No. I’m…” Rock says and drifts off. I don’t blame him. Declan’s pelvis is very distracting. “I came in for a quarter for the pay phone,” Rock says to Declan, finally, but he only has eyes for me. I would blush, but I’m pretty sure that my face is already bright red from the alcohol.

  “What’re you talking about, pay phone?” Declan asks. “Is it 1980 or something? Is Reagan president?”

  “I mean, I came to take a whizz. Maybe you should take a whizz, too.”

  That could be dangerous. If Declan pees, he could knock the urinal off the wall with his water pressure. Or pee-pee pressure. The thought makes me giggle, again, and this time I stumble, and I lose a shoe.

  Rock leaps forward to catch me, even though I regain my balance quickly. I guess he’s trying to be chivalrous, and I’m not upset about it. But as he leaps, Declan turns, and then it’s Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket with a touch of Last Tango in Paris. Rock inadvertently knocks into Declan’s erection with the force of a linebacker or a running back or whatever kind of football player hits boners at thirty miles per hour.

  Declan screams like his penis has been ripped off from the root. It’s an inhuman cry. Worse than an animal. And with the scream comes his facial expression. His eyes bug out, his skin goes ashen, his mouth is wide open. He grabs for his junk, and that makes him scream, again. He looks around and lunges for the bathroom door, which is actually the women’s bathroom door. He opens it and runs inside.

  Rock and I lock eyes. “I must be really drunk,” I say.

  “You’re not seeing things. That really happened,” Rock says.

  “Are you sure? Maybe you didn’t just say that. Maybe you’re not here. Maybe I’m that drunk.”

  “Are you seeing pink elephants and little green men?”

  “Declan was pretty green there at the end.”

  “True.”

  “So, I’m not that drunk, I guess. So, that means that the restaurant is actually spinning upside down.”

  “No,” Rock says. “That’s you. Are you going to throw up?”

  “No. But I might pass out.” I think about that a second. “Yep, I’m going to pass out.”

  My eyes roll up into my head, and Rock lunges for me, again. This time, he catches me and flips me over his shoulder, like I’m a side of beef.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “My place, beautiful. My place.”

  Chapter 5

  Olivia

  Halfway to Rock’s house, I say a little prayer to God that Rock’s the kind of man who takes advantage of a drunk girl. I’m pretty sure he is. He parks his Aston Martin in front of his house and doesn’t even ask me if I want to go to the guest house.

  A man in charge. I like it. I prepare myself to be seduced.

  He opens my door, and I fall out. “They moved the ground,” I say. “Why the hell would they do that?”

  “Nobody moved the ground,” Rock says, helping me up. “Do you think I have people to move the ground?”

  “You have a telephone in the guest house bathroom. Obviously, you can move the ground.”

  He sweeps me into his arms. “The telephone in the bathroom is for emergencies,” Rock explains as he walks toward the front door. “We don’t want any Elvis replays in the guest house. Liability issues.”

  “I’m totally regular,” I tell him. “I poop every morning after my morning coffee. Sometimes I poop a second time if I eat a big dinner. Not like tonight’s dinner. That dinner was a horror show. They fed me animals that creep along the floor and animals that are force fed and animals that are penned in so tight they can’t move. Oh my God, please don’t tell PETA about my dinner. I have children. I don’t want them to be orphans. They don’t like gruel, and they won’t get more, and then they’ll run away and be pickpockets.”

  “I’m reasonably sure you’re describing the plot of Oliver.”

  “Well, how do you think that Dickens thought that story up? It didn’t just come to him out of thin air. It’s based on reality.”

  “Based on PETA discovering that you ate politically-incorrect meat?”

  “Where are we?”

  “My house. I’m carrying you up the stairs.”

  “How did we get in here?”

  “The butler opened the door, and I walked in,” Rock says.

  “You have a butler. Of course, you do. You can move the ground, and you have a butler.”

  “I’d like to move the ground for you. I’d like to move the earth with you.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t say a thing.”

  His face is close to mine, and he’s studying me. Studying. That’s the word for it. And there’s something in his expression that sobers me a little. It’s not the leering expression of Declan. It’s a leering expression with something deeper. Much deeper. Good deeper.

  We get upstairs, and he places me on a bed made for Henry VIII. This is it. He’s going to seduce me. It won’t be hard to do. My skirt is up around my hips, three buttons of my shirt have come undone, and I’m showing all kinds of boob.

  “You did say something,” I insist.

  He sits on the edge of the bed. “Nope. You’re drunk. You’re hearing all kinds of things.” He pulls the covers over me. Damn it. He’s got the seduction thing all mixed up. He’s working backwards.

  “I’m pretty sure I heard something,” I say.

  “Slip of the tongue.”

  “What? You’re going to slip me your tongue? Wait a minute. What bed is this? Am I in your bed?”

  I sit up and clutch the sides of my head so the room stops spinning. The room is cavernous. An actual cavern.
The walls are paneled with large rocks, and there’s a large rock fireplace across from the bed, which could fit at least five people.

  “It’s my bed,” Rocks says.

  “Why do you have a bed for five people? Do you have roommates? Do billionaires do it with four women at a time? Or men? Or something that only billionaires have access to?”

  “You should lie down and sleep this one off.”

  “Huh? You want to get me off?” I’m trying too hard. Trying to get him to try, but he’s pushing me back down on my pillow and urging me to sleep. Operation Billionaire has failed miserably.

  I open one eye. At first, I’m disoriented, but quickly I remember where I am. I’m in Rock’s big bed. And I’m not alone. I put my hand out and touch the space next to me. Legs and housedress fabric.

  “Mom?” I croak. Any fluid in my body has been sucked out by the evils of alcohol.

  “Did you get a ring?” my mother asks me.

  “I’m telling you, nothing happened,” I hear Rosalind say, impatient. I open my other eye, and my head pounds in complaint.

  “Nothing happened,” I croak again. I really need some water. That thought and a little memory tickles my hungover brain. Something about me falling asleep, and Rock’s hand on my head, his fingers combing gently through my hair. And maybe a word or two. What did he say to me? The memory evaporates like the moisture in my mouth.

  “Told you so,” Rosalind says. Sitting up in bed, Rosalind hands me a tall glass of ice water. “Rock came by this morning on his way out for business and told us that you were in his bed. He also said you have another date.”

  “Oh, no. Not more Declan,” I complain.

  “No. Another one. Ficus or Fern or something like a plant,” Bessie says. “I’ve never heard of him, so he’s obviously scraping the bottom of the barrel now.”

  “But he’s still on board,” my mother says. “Still supporting our mission.”

  “But how did you get in his bed?” Bessie asks. “Did you make a wrong turn at Declan’s bed?”

  “Declan’s bed would have been the ultimate wrong turn,” I say. “Rock showed up at the restaurant, and when Declan had to rush off to nurse his boner, Rock carried me off over his shoulder.”