Breaking the Billionaire's Rules

by Annika Martin

“Millennial Dean Martin,” Slate magazine once called him. I read somewhere that he laughs about that. I don’t doubt it for a minute; of course Max would think he’s too cool even for suave Rat Pack playboy Dean Martin. “Will it help if I carry a black magic marker around town and black out one of his teeth whenever I see his face on a bus stop ad?” Kelsey asks. Noelle widens her eyes at the very suggestion of vandalism. “Yes,” I whisper. “That would be extremely helpful.” “I’ll give him a Frankenstein scar,” Lizzie offers. “That might make him look hotter.” “A penis coming out of his nose?” she tries.

I rip open the plastic, press the package to my nose, and suck in the smell of my childhood. It was always a good day when you found Kandy Kakes in your lunch bag. It was about the treat, but it was emotional, too. Finding one of these meant our family was on a good streak. “You guys want one?” “Not so much.” Kelsey wrinkles her nose. “You have to be from Jersey to like those. I think it’s a rule.” “Lizzie? Noelle?” They shake their heads. “All for you,” Lizzie says. Nobody I know appreciates Kandy Kakes, which is fine by me. I sink my teeth into the sponge cake-y, peanut-buttery goodness, which is of course wrapped in a thick layer of milk chocolate.

Lizzie rips the back cover off the book and tacks the picture onto the dart board. Kelsey clears the wall of our mementos, my fun cross stitches and even the picture of my dream shoes, Louboutin Solibria pumps in starshine pink. “You got me a game of darts?” I say. “On Max Hilton’s face,” she says, handing me the darts, which Kelsey has finally liberated. “Oh, yikes!” Noelle exclaims. “You shouldn’t have,” I say. “Go go go!” Kelsey claps. “Kill, pussycat, kill!” Kelsey has the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen when she’s excited. I don’t really want to throw darts, but my friends have gone through all this trouble. I shoot. I hit the wall. My galpals clap. “I don’t know about this, you guys.” I sink back down onto the couch. My friends take their turns with far more luck, then it’s time for more beer. We leave the darts on his face. It was a sweet thought. “It’s a good look on him,” Kelsey says.

“I was thinking,” Noelle says, “if you were truly insignificant to him, why would he bother making you deliver sandwiches? What if he needs you to do the delivery because you’re not insignificant?” Such a weird idea. My chest buzzes with forbidden hope. Always dangerous. “You never know,” Lizzie says. “Noelle might be right.” “Spoken by a woman newly in love,” I say. Lizzie grins. She’s enjoying living with her man now. And she owns her own cookie bakery, so to say that she’s seeing the bright side of things is an understatement. She’s looking through a kaleidoscope of hearts and sugar frosting.

Sienna even has an amazing talent for posing. It helps that she has a really long, willowy body and long limbs, so when she leans against a wall, it’s willowy girl leaning cool, whereas when I do it with my considerably shorter and less willowy limbs, it just looks like pasta-fed girl of sturdy Italian stock is sooo weary. Pasta-fed girl needs to work on cardio. Pasta-fed girl shouldn’t have gotten bangs, but she’s doing the best she can, so give her a break already. Sienna is eyeing my sparkly boots. “What’s up with the boots?” “Nothing. Just…” I decide it’s now or never. I pull off my hat and take off my coat and shove the stuff in the back of the truck. And then I turn and try to look natural. Sienna is staring at my uniform with a stunned look. Utterly stunned. Let’s just say here that you wouldn’t call it stunned admiration. She devotes extra staring time to my sequined ears, her pretty features twisted into horrified yet delighted confusion. “You lose a bet or something?” I’m about to explain the whole thing, but then I decide not to. An actress commits to a part. “No, I’ve decided that I’m the queen of delivery cats.” Sienna adds a lip twist. “Are you trying to be funny?” “Do I look like I’m trying to be funny? Do you see the work that went into this? I’m the queen of the delivery cats.” “What? You just…decided that?” she asks. “That’s right,” I say, trying to keep the uncertainty out of my voice. “I decided it.” She gapes at me a bit longer.

We used to play this nerdy guessing game in acting class where you had to pantomime things in a really specific way—like you’d pantomime washing the dishes smugly or charmingly or happily or anxiously or whatever, and the others would have to guess the adjective you were going for. It’s a fun game—if you’re an actor—and great for building nuance. So I’m looking at my girlfriends, old and new. And yeah, maybe I’m fighting a losing battle, but I’m fighting for them, and that means something. I grab the marker and march over to the chart swashbucklingly. I slash out an X resolutely, and spin around. Boldly I jam my fists onto my hips. I’m fighting for my friends. I’m fighting for all women. I’m Joan of Arc in kitten ears. “One golden rule down, nine to go, bitches!”

Antonio rubs his hands. “I will be such a suitor. He will see my passion.” “My plan is that you just smile at me a lot and laugh at whatever I say. It doesn’t have to be over the top.” “He would see my desperation for you.” “Just passion is good,” I say. “No, it’s desperation.” Antonio puts on a dark expression. “I grew up poor in the streets. My father rejected me. My mother was cruel but beautiful. So poor were we that they sold me to a brothel when I was but a boy. I was forced to sell myself in the alleyways of Milano.” “Double Dark Chocolate Milano is my favorite cookie,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Milano is not a cookie,” Antonio growls. “It’s a city.” “Sorry, Antonio…” Jada winces. “In America it kind of is a cookie.” “If you knew the underbelly of Milano as I did,” Antonio says, “you would not think it.” “The underbelly of Milano,” I say. “Is that near the hardscrabble alley behind the Keebler Elves’ Factory?” I ask. Jada raises a finger. “I believe it’s located east of the Pepperidge Farms killing fields.” “Stop it, you guys! Let Antonio tell his backstory.” Kelsey turns to Antonio. “Ignore them, Antonio. Please go on.” Antonio fixes her with that dark expression, something I might describe as Scarface meets Blue Steel. “I grew up fighting hoodlums. The fist, the blade. What did I care? What did ever I see of life?” I suck in a breath. “Too many productions of West Side Story, maybe?” He gives me a dark look. “Dude, I’m just saying you should save this ba...

“Seeing me is always a religious experience for women,”

I set the sandwich he didn’t order on the perfectly flattened bag-bed, showing meticulous care, adjusting it just so. I’m close enough to feel the heat of him, the electricity of him, and something else—annoyance, maybe. Anger. Some high emotion. And I’m pretty sure he’s watching me, too. Discreetly watching me. It feels amazing. I don’t know why, it just does. I decide to push things even further by making presentation hands, like a game-show hostess presenting a special prize. I peek up. A muscle in Max’s jaw fires. I bite back a smile, imagining how Sienna’s jaw would drop if she saw me doing presentation hands like this. Especially if she knew that this wasn’t even the sandwich Max ordered. I spin around and go back to my cart. I can literally feel his eyes on me, like an angry caress, waking up my skin. The only good thing about my outfit is the short multipocket apron that covers most of my middle and is designed to hold utensils and stirrers and salt packets and things, and in my case, it doubles as a really effective tummy hider. I fuss in my cart, like I can’t find something, trying not to smile or laugh. I sneak a glance. Quickly he looks away. My pulse races. He totally hasn’t noticed that I gave him the wrong sandwich yet. I can’t wait. This shouldn’t be exciting, but it is!

I bite back a smile as he lifts the bun. “What is this?” he asks. “Grilled whitefish with a spicy curry sauce. It’s only available in December.” “I ordered the roast beef and swiss cheese croissant sandwich.” I fix him with a steady gaze. Max’s book stresses the importance of believing in yourself, or at least looking like you do. Fake it until you make it is a recurring theme, though he never puts it like that. “I know what you ordered,” I say sweetly, “but this is the sandwich that you want. You’ll like it much better.” “I’d like a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich much better.” “Wrong,” I say. He frowns. “You can’t just change my order.” I blink, all sunshine and innocence. “This special-edition grilled whitefish sandwich comes from a food truck on Seventh that was recently purchased by a five-time Michelin-rated chef. Way better than your stupid croissant sandwich.” He looks between me and the sandwich, baffled. “You can’t just...” I cock my head, feeling happy and excited. Max needs to do a revised edition of his book, because nowhere does it say how crazy fun the process is. “It’s the superior lunch,” I say, with the attitude of being in charge, as his book instructs. The secret truth is, he will like it best. Not only is it objectively the superior meal, but it matches his taste. I might not be able to tell you what my best friend in junior year preferred for lunch, but I can tell you what kinds of food Max always went for, yet another unfortunate side effect ...

I blot all sexy thoughts from my mind. I’m on a mission. I position the knife and fork perfectly. I clear my throat. “You know, I can see your tower from my bedroom window.” “Can you,” Max rumbles, velvety cool. “It’s a beautiful building, it really is, but…” I trail off. “But what?” “I’m afraid I can’t give it more than three stars.” His expression is just a little bit stony; no sign of emotion whatsoever unless you count that muscle twitching at the side of his jaw. “I know you would’ve wanted at least a four-star rating from me, if not a five. I hope you’re not disappointed.” “I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he says dryly. “Disappointed is not the word I’d use.” “I’m glad,” I say. “You’re a good sport.” His jaw twitches. “And what piece of Manhattan real estate would the lunch-cart girl have me purchase?” he asks. Again with the lunch-cart girl. Deep inside my chest, small demons stoke a fire of outrage. Somebody needs a demerit. “That’s not something I can solve for you, unfortunately.” I arrange the mustards, feeling his gaze fixed on me, which makes it difficult to think.

I’m refilling the chips and utensils just as Antonio strolls up in his beautiful suit. “Can I help you?” Rollins asks, because Antonio looks more like somebody we’d deliver to than somebody we’d know. “I’m past help,” Antonio says darkly. “So far past help.” “It’s cool, he’s my cousin,” I explain. Antonio slides his hand up the side of the truck, gazing down at me. It’s a smoldering, sensual, uniquely male stance. “Do not minimize it, cara,” he says. “Do not minimize what we are to each other. We are more than mere cousins.” Rollins straightens, nervously restocking chips. I widen my eyes at Antonio. Antonio turns to Rollins. “I came to look at her beauty, hoping that it would ease the despair and darkness in my heart.” “Oh,” Rollins says. “Antonio, stop being funny.” “Pah! You wish me to hide my love. I will not. I had no beauty coming up on the streets of Roma, you know.” He turns to a wide-eyed Rollins. “I sold myself, I hurt people. The blade was my friend. I am not proud. But everything I went through is worth it…” “Okay…” I say. “But do you remember our discussion?” Rollins is busying himself with the condiments box. Antonio glances significantly over my shoulder, then back at me, and he turns a thousand-watt smile on me.

By the elevators on Blade’s floor, there’s a pair of enlarged photos of Max. In one of them, he’s looking bored in a fabulous suit, sprawled on a kingly piece of furniture. A woman stands behind him with her hand in his hair. My belly grinds at the sight. Which just goes to show the devastating power of prize-positioning, as described in his book. So smart. Max has many flaws, but ignorance was never one of them. I only wish he’d seen Antonio admiring me so that I could be prize-positioned, too. What did all of that maneuvering get me instead? Rollins thinks I’m dating my murderous gigolo cousin.

I retreat to the back of the elevator and pull open the last cheesy puff bag and stuff a handful into my mouth, allowing bright orange crumbs to cascade down my shirt. I stifle a grin, imagining Max’s face after I tell him I’m out of cheesy puffs and he specifically sees them all over my front. I shove another bunch in, kind of smashing them into my mouth so that they get into my hair a little bit. It’s right about here that I realize the statuesque beauty is watching me in the reflection of one of the slim, highly polished panels. She quickly looks away. My pulse races. I think about saying something, but what? There are some instances when explaining an awkward thing will only make it more awkward.

“Who’s your little friend out there?” he asks. I still. He saw Antonio and me out there? Was he pretending he didn’t see? “Out where?” “Out where,” he snorts. “The strapping fella in Hugo Boss out by your lunch-cart truck?” I get the sense he’s going for lightness in the strapping fella bit, but it sounds slightly adversarial, too. Is he jealous? Excitement surges through me. I’ve never been excited by jealousy before. “Ah,” I say with faraway eyes. “Antonio.” I’m stoking it now. What’s going on with me? I continue my machinations, reveling in his covetous gaze. I set out his mustards with my usual flourish. He picks up a pen, moves it carelessly around in his fingers. His hands really are large. And warm and soft. “Please,” he says. “What?” “Ah, Antonio,” he echoes, matching my intonation exactly. “He’s a friend. You look at him like a friend. Like one of your galpals.” I give him a sympathetic look. “Poor Max Hilton. I think that’s maybe what you wanted to see.” “I know what I saw.” “That was not a galpal face,” I say. I set a bag of Lay’s plain potato chips next to his sandwich. “What is this?” He picks them up, brow furrowed. “Where’s my array?” “Can’t you just go into your robot memory files and access the image of the last time I displayed them?” He shakes his head. “Ungh.” I go back to the cart and pluck out four bags of chips. I hold them up. “We have Lay’s, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.” “No cheesy puffs today?” “I ran out.” He finally zeroes in on the...

Why is Antonio looking at Mia like that? Did she deliver some astonishing news? But she still has that fond scolding look. She reaches up and fixes his tie. Is she whispering to him? My blood goes cold as he slides his hand to the side of her head. He leans in and kisses her. I wait for her to push him away. Instead she shoves her hands into his hair, vigorously messing it up. Her hands grip his back. The kiss is getting dramatic. I’m off, heading down to the lower level, my legs moving before my mind can stop me. I’m rushing down the stairwell, out the door. My jaw is tight as I emerge onto the busy thoroughfare. I need to get to them. I don’t know why. I don’t need a reason. Traffic is insane—I’m waiting at the light for what feels like forever. Finally it clears. The walk light flashes on and I’m stomping across the street. Around the corner. My brow lowers as I approach the truck. They’re both gone. There’s just the redheaded kid. The driver. “Can I help you?” he asks. I take out my wallet and extract a fifty. “Who was that with Mia?” The driver gapes at the money. “I can’t take that.” “Why not? Did you take an oath of silence?” “No, but…I don’t want trouble with Antonio.” “Trouble? What kind of trouble?” The kid looks up and down the street, as if he’s worried Antonio might jump out of the shadows. “He has a lot of darkness in his heart.” I frown. “What does that mean?” “You don’t want to know. Just leave it. And don’t ask around about him—he’s dangerous.” I get a lit...

I go over what I know: Roman male prostitute who graduated to knife fighting. He murdered several people. Sharp dresser. Model good looks. And the way he looked at her, like a man in hell seeing an angel. And the way she gripped his back, the high drama. I turn the thing over in my mind. And then I just start laughing. Mia’s out the door moments later. She pulls her cart to my side. “Max! What are you doing?” “I heard some disturbing news about Antonio,” I say. “I don’t think Antonio is really any of your business,” she replies, eyes sparkling. “He’s extremely dangerous,” I say. “Did you know that he sold his body in the gutters back in Italy?” She looks bewildered. “Huh?” “Antonio would plunge a knife into a man’s heart as readily as he would slice a tomato. He’s killed before, you know. I’m thinking about alerting a friend on the force.” She looks pale. “A cop?” “He bathes in the blood of his enemies. Though on the upside, tomato-slicing skills like that would make him handy around the kitchen.” Confusion fills her face. I do my best not to smile, but I fail, and she sees it. “Shut up!” She slaps my chest. “Screw off. I can’t even with you.”

“Kissing me is always a deeply religious experience for women.”

I don’t know what to say. I stare out at the park, dark trees tipped with snow. “I have to say, though, he sounds like he would’ve been a bad boyfriend without the book.” “Yeah, but your book 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 know you wrote it when you were twenty, but seriously?” I frown, confused. I think back on my state of mind when I wrote the book. The apartment above a grocer in Little Italy. What the hell was she doing reading that book? “So, your friends have a problem with me?” “Some of my friends do. I’m honestly surprised you’re surprised. Like you never get any blowback on the book?” “I 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.”

“You know that hat doesn’t disguise you any more than glasses disguise Clark Kent,” I say. “Glasses do disguise Clark Kent,” he says. “Nobody ever guesses he’s Superman.” I snort and pick up the menu, which has exactly five items on it, and no prices. “Magic 8-Ball says verrrrry fancy,” I say. “Everything’s delicious,” he says. “You still like seafood?” “Love.” I reach across the table and put my hand out. He takes it. “Me too.” There’s this silence where it’s almost like we confessed our love for each other. I still love him. I loved him over the Oklahoma! summer. I thought he loved me. “How was your day, honey?” he asks. I grin, because he’s thinking what I’m thinking—that things feel almost normal now. We’re even at a restaurant! Yes, he’s wearing a hat and we’re in a dark booth, but still. “My day was good enough. How was yours?” “Good. We did Vicious campaign stuff.” I’m smiling. “What?” he protests. “It’s just fun to be out and ask each other about our days,” I say. “Also, it’s funny that you named your campaign Vicious, you must admit.” His smile is a small crinkle around the edges of his eyes.

“It’s sad you can’t play publicly. Why can’t Max Hilton play? You could pull out that Ligeti,” I say. Ligeti is a Hungarian composer whose etudes are among the most terrifying works for the piano. They’re beautiful, but in a hard way. “Or Schoenberg? Max is remote and super cool. Not a man who skips through the park. I could see your persona whipping that out.” “I told you, I don’t play those songs anymore,” he says simply. “Only tunes that people would hum, now.” “Really.” “Remember how you said I attacked the keyboard like Terminator?” “I’m sorry,” I say. “No. Don’t be sorry. You were right. I was playing angry. I hated those pieces. You heard it and you were right. I was playing technically. This might sound a little strange, but it meant something that you saw it.” “You hated those pieces?” “Yes. And you’re the only one who noticed. You heard what was really inside that music. It made me feel less alone.” The admission hits me in the gut. I think back to him bent over that keyboard, jaw hard. I didn’t know he hated the music he was known for. “You reached an elite level of musicianship in a type of music that you hated?” “You’re supposed to be miserable in high school, right?” he asks. “Isn’t that a rule?” “I kind of can’t get over it. You were in a performing arts school and you hated performing.” “Not all performing.” I grin. “You liked Oklahoma!” “I loved it. I mean, I never had the chops for doing it professionally, but I loved it. Maybe that’s part of why I loved ...

And, 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, Max, you have to at least admit that.” I should admit it, but I’m feeling defensive, now. “All performance is emotional manipulation. At the Shiz, you worked your ass off to wring emotion out of music. And the actors there? Method acting is emotional manipulation. The key of D minor is emotional manipulation. But I’m the bad guy here?” “It’s different,” she says. “And the men are only supposed to choose girls they will never feel attached to, so they can’t get hurt. Like, what the hell is that?” “So you think there’s no point in me going up there? Are we back to high school? To a thing where our friends hate each other? Because that’s not where I want to be. You think I can’t make it right?”

I’m angry at her for not believing in me enough to let me talk to her friends. Assuming the worst. I’m also angry at myself for overreacting. She clearly wanted to prepare her friends instead of having me burst in with no notice. But I had to be an asshole about it. And when I’m really and truly honest with myself, I know that I’m angry because she has a lot of good points about the book. Maybe I’m even a little ashamed. I hadn’t thought about that book in years. I didn’t even remember what’s in it—until I started to reread it. It turns out that I did tell guys to pretend the dog story was their own. I coached them to lie.

I text her under the table. I tell her that Tarquin was there, and I had to throw him off the scent. Nothing comes back. People are coming to me with questions. I answer them, trying to act unaffected. I built an empire, but right now, it’s feeling like a cage. I step out into the alley and call her. It’s a five-alarm fire, me actually calling somebody. She picks up. “How could you say that in front of a reporter?” she demands. “How could you? Oh my god!” “It was the perfect way to make you uninteresting,” I say. “It was for the best⁠—” “For the best? Are you kidding me here? I was going there to apologize, and that’s what you do? You paint me to look like a Max Hilton girl wannabe in front of a reporter? I can’t believe you said that, Max! I have the most important audition of my life coming up.” “I was trying to throw him off the scent,” I say. “Trust me, it made you uninteresting.” “I wanted to apologize, to you.” She pauses. The pause is ominous. “You think I wanted to say that?” I ask. “No, I don’t think you wanted to say it,” she says finally. “But how does this thing with us even work? When that’s the best option as a thing to say?” “We make it work,” I say. “Says the guy who has so much less to lose,” she says. Voices in the background. “Where are you?” I ask. “Does it matter? I have to go. I need to focus on this audition. And look, it turns out the grad student will be a fine accompanist. He’ll be fine, and I’m going with him for the audition.” “Fine isn’t good e...

“Have you ever quit when you shouldn’t have? Have you ever looked back and said, if only I’d stuck with that one?” She sighs and stares at her can, fat red letters up the side. “Do you remember the millinery shop?” she asks. “You were pretty young at the time.” I narrow my eyes. “The millinery shop? You mean the hat store?” “Yes, the hat store! It was a little hole in the wall. You were just a baby and I’d bring you there and I made these beautiful hats. People didn’t really want them for the most part. The sales barely covered the rent. It was before Etsy was a thing, of course, so I only had the storefront, and a few local people to outsource fabric cutting to. But making those hats, with you in your little playpen, that was the best time of my life.” “I didn’t know,” I say. I love hearing that one of her businesses brought her joy. She shrugs. “Oh, I suppose my hourly probably worked out to five bucks an hour on a good day, so it really wasn’t a get-rich store, but when I look back, I wish I’d stayed. Because I loved that work. I loved making those hats. We wanted a deal with Bloomingdale’s and we thought we were going to get it, but when it didn’t materialize, we gave up. But I like to think that if we hadn’t given up, maybe it would’ve been something humble but doable. A small dream that we could love.” “You wish you would’ve stayed with it? You think you would’ve made it with the hats?” “The point is, it doesn’t matter. You can never know the outcome of a thing, Mia....

“You good?” “Yeah. I’ve always wanted to meet the people who draw moustaches on me,” he says.

“They say cynics are just disillusioned idealists. You should know that writers of pickup books are just heartbroken romantics.”