Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules

by Annika Martin

  “She was devastated.”

  I don’t know what to say. I stare out at the park, so many brown trees tipped with snow. “I have to say, though, he sounds like he would’ve been a bad boyfriend without the book.”

  “Yeah, but you helped him seem like a good boyfriend. And my friend, Jada? She went to bed with a guy who did the jungle kissing move and it was like, false advertising. Those are two women I personally know.”

  I frown, confused. “Are you holding me responsible for that?”

  “Well, yeah. It teaches guys how to be jerky. The book sucks.”

  “Ouch,” I say.

  “I know you wrote it when you were twenty, but seriously?”

  “Look,” I say, “if you went and got coaching on how to say the right thing in a job interview, is that wrong?”

  “It would be wrong if the coach told me to pretend I was something I wasn’t. And meeting in a bar isn’t a job interview.”

  “Meeting in a bar is exactly like a job interview,” I say. “And the company who hires you would be responsible for confirming what you told them. Maybe giving you a probation period.” She’s shaking her head. Is this our first fight? “The book was designed to inspire guys to have confidence. To be unique, let their personalities shine through.”

  Mia’s cheeks are rosy from the steam. She looks cherubic, but she’s a cherub on the warpath. She was always fiercely loyal. She’d fight to the death for a friend. “You helped them pretend they have a personality that isn’t theirs.”

  “It’s coaching,” I say.

  “Really? What do you call the thing where you’re supposed to completely ignore the pretty girl and talk with everybody else? Emotional manipulation. Come on.”

  “All performance is emotional manipulation. At the Shiz they talked all the time how to wring emotion out of music. Method acting is emotional manipulation. The key of D minor is emotional manipulation.”

  “It’s different,” she says. “And the men are only supposed to choose girls they will never feel attached to, so that they can’t get hurt. What the hell is that?”

  I think back on my state of mind when I wrote the book. The apartment above a grocer in Little Italy. “I was definitely cynical about…romance,” I say. What the hell was she doing reading that book? And then I get the real trouble here. Or part of it. “Does Kelsey have a problem with me?”

  “A lot of my friends do. I’m honestly surprised you’re surprised. Like you never get any blowback?”

  “I’ve never pay attention to my critics. You can’t get anywhere like that.”

  “So basically, everybody you deal with is in awe of you. You’re surrounded by fans and yes-people and employees. Even in high school people were in awe of you.”

  “Not everyone,” I say.

  “Be serious. You’ve never had to deal with people who’d rather give your picture a magic marker moustache than wear Maximillion logo shit, but they’re out there.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say.

  She gives me a hard look. As though I’m being arrogant. I rub her foot, staring into the bubbly depths of the hot tub. I don’t feel like I did anything wrong, but it’s always possible I’m not seeing all the sides of this. “Let me look into it. If I feel like there’s a problem, I’ll make donation to something. The Harriet Tubman shelter, or…”

  “You can’t just throw money at it, Max. This isn’t PR. This is real people in the real world.”

  I frown. If nothing else, I’m thinking I need to look at that book again.

  She narrows her eyes. “You better not be thinking of a Max Hilton line right now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Who needs the real world when there’s hundred-year-old scotch? Or some shit like that? Is that what you were thinking.”

  “Oh, baby, you gotta do better than that for a Max Hilton line,” I say.

  She snorts, but my mind is whirring. I won’t be the boyfriend that all her friends hate. No way, that’s not acceptable.

  We get take-out from the little Indian place down the street and I press her for more details on the way back. We spend the rest of the night sprawled on the couch, watching musicals on the big-screen TV and singing along, something I can do with exactly zero other people.

  We begin with the serious warhorses, starting with HMS Pinafore. We sing along to every song. She’s such an amazing singer.

  “How do you know all of this?” she asks me at one point. “I knew your family was musical, but god. I thought it was only classical.”

  “It’s not my family. Not exactly.”

  She tilts her head. Interested. Caring.

  I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses. I never talk about my late nanny, Annette, not even to Parker. I never wanted to. But I want to tell Mia.

  So I pour the wine, and I tell her the story. What an important part of my life Annette was—more important than my parents in many ways. How I didn’t even know how to be playful until Annette came along. “I didn’t have any electronics or playmates or anything. It was just the music. But Annette brought those songs. She had dyed blond hair and huge rings on her wrinkly hands and an actual record player in her room. And when my parents went on trips, she’d bring it down the living room and we’d sing and laugh. I suppose it gave her deniability. She could always report that we were working on music.”

  Mia threads her fingers into mine. Listening. Caring. When did I stop sharing things? When did I build this wall around myself? When did I stop letting people in? Always deflecting. Everything Max Hilton. Jokes and cocktail hour.

  I don’t know if I'm telling the story right.

  I’m sure I’m not.

  It’s hard to explain about Annette, the only sunshine in a grim childhood of scales and drills. Sitting on that bench until I was dropping from fatigue. And then she died in that crash. And a few years later, the Shiz was my escape.

  “It was your escape, but you still hated it,” she observes. And then I see when the understanding dawns. “And then you were in Oklahoma! with me. I assumed it was like a punishment to you.”

  “It was the best thing that could’ve happened,” I say.

  “For me, too,” she says.

  “That summer,” I say. There’s nothing much to add to it. We tossed it away. Retreated to our corners. Insecure teens.

  “Do you see your parents?”

  “Not much. They’re in France now.”

  “I’m so sorry about Annette,” she says.

  I shrug.

  “I hate that you were made to hate music,” she says.

  “Not this music. It represents everything good. Your turn to pick,” I say. “Go ahead.”

  She trolls through the streaming menu, looking for a new musical to watch.

  I wind my fingers through her hair, thinking how there’s nobody else I could do this with. Talk. Sing. Nobody else in the world. “We need to go to Calle Corrientes,” I say. “We could fly down next weekend.”

  She widens her eyes. Calle Corrientes is the Broadway of Buenos Aires. “Just fly down? Just like that?”

  “I’ve never been and I’ve always wanted to. Haven’t you always wanted to go?”

  “Of course I have. I’m surprised you haven’t taken your jet down there if you wanted to go so bad.”

  I tuck her hair behind her ear. I rarely take trips for just pleasure. I never had the urge until her.

  20

  Never ask a woman what she wants. Tell her what she wants.

  ~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM

  * * *

  MIA

  It’s hard to go back to reality after that long weekend with Max. Hard to put the Meow Squad uniform back on.

  The good news: Max is still on my route.

  The first day back, I bring him a lunch of my own choosing. Which is convenient because, even though I left him just hours before, I suddenly have a whole list of things I need to tell him about. Plus an ins
atiable need to touch him.

  “I have to go,” I say, kissing him. “The Edgar building has been complaining.” I tear myself away and turn the cart.

  “Hey, before you go, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

  I still. It’s a Tuesday night. The night he customarily goes to the secret yoga place. “Umm…a few errands. Nothing, really.”

  “You think you’ll be done by seven or so?” I nod. He scribbles down an address. “Meet me here at eight-thirty. Call when you get there.”

  “What…do you have planned?”

  “It’s a surprise,” he says.

  “Should I wear something special?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  I finally see Kelsey at home after work. She’s already in her dance workout clothes. “Chop chop,” she says. “Get in your leotard and you’re going to give me the Ryan details on the way to the studio.”

  I go in and change, feeling like an asshole.

  “Every last one,” she calls out.

  Five minutes later we’re traipsing the block avenue to her dance studio, and she has her arm in mine. “Well?”

  I take a deep breath. “Ryan is out of the picture,” I say.

  Her dimples deepen. “Uh-oh, already?”

  I take my arm from hers and stop, pulling her from the stream of pedestrian traffic.

  “What?”

  “Max,” I say.

  Her dimples disappear. “Max…w-what?”

  “That’s who I was with all yesterday. All the night before.”

  “Excuuuuuuse me? No! Mia, no!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been so torn and just…I don’t know. You have this experience with his book—”

  “—an experience with his book wrecking my life.”

  Nathan wrecked your life, I think, but is that me drinking the Max Kool-Aid?

  “Max is not his book. He’s not like his book at all. We have this history, and we’ve reconnected so powerfully. I fell for him so hard that summer, and it’s all right there. You know how I fell for him.”

  “And he hurt you.”

  “It was high school. And we talked about everything that happened and it’s amazing—”

  “Nooooo!” She presses her palms to her eyes.

  I grab her arms, pull them down. “I’ve felt like such a jerk. I want to be in solidarity with you, but I can’t. It’s so, so good with him. Like I never imagined…”

  “Mia,” she says.

  “I want you to…at least keep an open mind?”

  “Oh my god, Mia. Come on.”

  She’s silent all the way to the next corner, thinking. But at least she’s holding onto my arm.

  “He was twenty when he wrote it. He didn’t set out to ruin anybody’s life.”

  She turns to me at the Don’t Walk. “Look, the book didn’t ruin my life. I’m the one who decided to move in with that asshole. And the jungle kiss, guys have been using lines forever. Though, that’s a diabolically good one. But the thing is, who writes that kind of book? I can get past it on behalf of me. I can’t get past the book on behalf of you. Because you don’t have a complete personality transplant between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight.”

  “I know what I’m doing. I know him.”

  She rests her hands on my shoulders. “I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you. Some friggin’ player.”

  “It won’t,” I say.

  “He wrote the book. ‘The last thing you want is a woman you can’t walk away from.’ Remember? He literally wrote the book on being a jerky player.”

  “But he’s not like that. Think of how you were at the age of twenty. Personally? I was a basketcase.”

  “Excuses won’t unwrite the book for him.” The light turns green and we’re on the move again. “I’m officially registering my objection.”

  “This isn’t a jury trial.”

  “I’m just saying. I’m not going to harp on this going forward. I want you to be happy, and as your friend, I’ll support you. But if he pulls a Nathan.”

  “He makes me happy.”

  We go on in silence.

  “Okay,” I say, “And what if I told you he invited me to his secret Yogic sex lair for the acrobatic arts of love tomorrow night?”

  She whips her gaze around to me. “He did?”

  “Will that make a difference? That we get the answer to that burning mystery? You’re at least glad for that, right?”

  “What did he say about it?”

  “To meet him at that address. And that it’s a surprise.”

  “What the hell.”

  “Right? Though he did say eight-thirty. Whereas he got there around seven the night I followed him.”

  “Did you tell him—”

  “That I followed him like a freak? No.” I poke her arm. “So? Are you happy for that at least? To get the answer to our burning mystery?”

  She puts on a grumpy face. “You’ll miss drinks for Jada’s wrap. For that Fox in the Henhouse show.”

  “Jada has a wrap party every month.”

  “Still.” She sighs. “Okay, it makes one percent difference in how happy I am. Because I’m mostly worried on your behalf. That he’s a player.”

  “I’ll tell you for two. If you say it makes two percent difference.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Troll doll full-costume sex fetish film,” I whisper. “You never know.” Though, I do. I know that’s not it.

  “You are such a dork. Okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “He’d better be a good lay at least. Like amazing.” She looks over and I’m just grinning.

  “Jesus.” She sniffs and takes my arm again.

  21

  Open your eyes. Start seeing what’s in front of your face.

  THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED PROOF - YOU MAY FIND TYPOS, BUT THOSE WON’T BE IN THE FINAL VERSION.

  * * *

  MIA

  I’m outside the Namaste Way Yoga building at a quarter after eight. Only the windows on the top floor are lit. A woman comes out the door with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I’m here to meet someone.”

  “Max?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Go on up. They should be almost done.”

  What. The. Hell.

  I swallow.

  “I can just go in?”

  “Well, you’ll want to wait in the hall until they’re done.” She puts the cigarette into her mouth and cups her hand, shielding the lighter flame from the wind. I add my hand, and the thing finally lights. “Thanks,” she says, blowing a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth.

  “How will I know…when they’re done?”

  “When all the banging and pounding stops, I imagine.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I go in and study the directory, reluctant to go up. Was Kelsey right? Is he just a master player? Because, banging and pounding?

  I find Namaste Way on the directory. Studio 503. It takes up half the entire floor, and it doubles as a ballet studio. It’s pretty common for yoga studios to share spaces with ballet studios. All that expanse of wood flooring. Not cheap.

  I take the elevator and get out on the fifth floor, dreading what I’ll find.

  As I head down, I hear music—Bach—played badly. Noisily.

  What. The. Hell. Camouflage for the banging?

  I draw nearer. No way is it Max. No way could Max have lost his abilities so completely. Is this some sort of perverse live accompaniment to whatever is happening?

  The same prelude is played again, but this time, it’s played beautifully. And then it’s played poorly again.

  I draw nearer to the door. Is he having dueling pianos with his alternate shitty-at-piano self?

  And then Max’s voice. “Listen.” A string of notes. “Let’s play the left hand. Do you hear the voice here? This voice is telling a story underneath t
he top voice. I’ll play the top voice, you play the voice that tells the story below it. The quiet story.” I hear murmuring. Not Max. It’s a kid.

  Notes. Faltering stops and starts. A few more stabs.

  I blink, unsure what I’m hearing. There’s more talk about voices. Notes.

  It seems that Max…is teaching a piano lesson?

  Yes. A piano lesson.

  Laughing, drink-swirling, Ferrari-driving Max secretly teaches piano?

  Suddenly there’s the sound of shuffling. Mumbled questions. Footsteps. I step aside as the door opens. A kid comes out. He’s maybe thirteen. He nods and heads to the elevator.

  The door closes behind him.

  I knock.

  “Did you forget—” The door flings open and I’m face-to-face with Max. His shirtsleeves are rolled up; his tie hangs loose. My heart skips a beat.

  “What are you doing up here? I thought you were going to call first,” he says.

  “Somebody let me in.”

  “Well…you didn’t have to come all the way up here.”

  He’s tentative. Did he not want me to find out? I push in and look around until I find it—the piano, glinting in a dark corner. I go to it, ignoring the click of the door. The footsteps behind me.

  “Were you giving a piano lesson?” I ask stupidly.

  “Yeah.” Arms snake around me.

  “I don’t get anything that’s happening here,” I say.

  Or at least, most things I don’t get. I sit at the bench and run my fingers lightly over the keys. It’s a Kawai—a nice one. That’s the kind Max would prefer, I think with a rush of affection. He’d want it for the tone.

  “You’re secretly teaching piano?”

  “Busted,” he says.

  I turn to him. “Why the secrecy? It’s not like you’re making troll doll full-costume sex fetish films up here or something.”

  He look at me strangely.

  “I mean, it’s piano lessons.”

  He sits down at the bench next to me and plunks the middle C. “I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want it to be a thing.”

  “A Max Hilton persona thing.”