Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(3)

Now he’s remote and beautiful in his Manhattan lair, the head of the billion-dollar men’s style empire that grew out of his infamous pickup guidebook, the international bestseller that helped catapult him to a level of notoriety to rival the Kardashians.

“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.

“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.

“Here’s the only thing I’m wondering—is he planning on guffawing and being all boo-yah as I set out his sandwich? Or will he go for superior silence with a smirk? Never mind,” I decide. “It’ll be the smirk.”

I sit back and stare at the nearly empty pizza box. I was a lot more excited about the pizza when it was still in the box.

Lizzie grabs her giant purse. “I have treats. First, dessert!”

“Did you frost special anti-Max cookies?” I ask hopefully.

“Something better.” She pulls out a three-pack of Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes and tosses it to me.

“Oh my god! Where in the city did you find these?”

“Internet.”

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?”

“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.

When I re-emerge from my dessert bliss, I notice Lizzie’s tearing at something, trying to tear the molded plastic wrap off something rectangular. “What is that?”

“Something else I think might help.”

“What?”

“Hold on.” She claws at the package with her fingernails. “Uhh!”

“Is it a one-woman performance art show depicting wrap rage?” I ask.

She throws the package at me.

I catch it and turn it over. It’s a dart set. “Um, thanks?”

Kelsey has scissors. “Gimme that.” She cuts open the dart set.

“It goes with this.” Lizzie pulls a beat-up paperback from a bag and slaps it onto our coffee table.

Not just any paperback. I grab it. “Excuse me? What is this?”

A rhetorical question. I know what it is. The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room. Most people call it The Hilton Playbook. It’s Max’s “how to get girls by being an arrogant jerk” guide. It sold millions of copies back when it came out, just a year or two after we graduated from high school.

Max launched his men’s style empire after that. Shoes. Watches. Body spray. Instagram stardom. They’re saying he has a deal for a Netflix show.

I flip the book over.

The entire back cover is Max’s face. It’s one of the more iconic pictures of him; he looks devastatingly handsome, but that’s not what’s special about it—it’s the way the shot captures his gaze, his ability to make you feel like he’s looking right into you and you alone, all sparkling, knowing humor. Like he knows all of your secrets because you trusted him for a little while, and he stomped all over your heart, and he’s just a little too proud of himself.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t buy it new,” Lizzie says, grabbing it from me. “No jerky billionaires were made richer in the acquisition of this book.”

“That’s not my question,” I say. “It’s more like, why is this thing even here?”

Lizzie smiles at Kelsey. “Because plans.”

“Did you ever actually read this thing?” Lizzie asks.

“Hell no,” I say. “Who would read it?”

“Not me.” Lizzie rips the back cover off the book, pulls an old dartboard from behind the couch, and tacks the picture on. 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.”

“On Max Hilton’s face,” she says, handing me the darts, which Kelsey has finally liberated.

“You shouldn’t have,” I say.

“Go, go, go!” Kelsey claps. “Dart therapy!” Her pretty dimples are in full flare.

I feel a little weird about it, but I throw. I get his cheek. My galpals clap. My next hits the board, wide of the picture. I still get applause. “I don’t know, you guys.”

I sink back down onto the couch. My friends take their turns, then it’s time for more beer. We leave the darts on his face. It was a sweet thought.