Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(6)

Jada just looks mystified. “The Shiz?”

“Yup. Classical piano,” I add, because I know that’s going to be her next question. “A little bit jazz.”

She looks at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head. “Piano? Max Hilton can play…piano?”

“Dude,” Kelsey says from the couch. “He got into the Shiz.” She says it like that explains it, and it does explain it. The Shiz is one of the most elite performing arts high schools on the planet. “He comes from a classical music dynasty—don’t you know that? His father is some famous conductor, and his mother is Gloria Perez, the violinist. And he and Mia were high school rivals in a bitter feud.”

“You hated each other?” Jada says.

“Ninety-nine percent of the time.” I hand her the darts. “Go for it.”

Jada lines up her shot, one eye closed.

I watch her shoot, glad none of them thought to ask me to tell about the one percent where Max and I didn’t hate each other. That’s the part that hurts the most.

Jada nails his face with scary precision, three times in a row—whop-whop-whop—much to Kelsey’s delight. She’s acting upbeat, but I can tell she’s hurt and angry, and I don’t blame her. Finding out that Nathan was following Max’s stupid book the entire time has opened old wounds—and even made them worse. Their whole relationship was even more fake than she thought.

Jada turns back to me. “Max Hilton got into the Shiz for classical piano?”

I nod. “Yup. But his true talent? Really dorky old-timey show tunes.”

“No!” Jada says.

“You should hear him sing songs from Oklahoma! playing the aw-shucks lovesick cowpoke, Curly McLain. Goofy comic songs. I’m telling you.”

Jada claps a hand over her mouth. Kelsey’s jaw hangs open. “Definitely the last thing I can imagine out of Max Hilton.”

Exactly.

Because Max’s brand is all about ordering cocktails by the pool and careless jet set fun. And high-style shots of him on billboards and the sides of busses and the pages of magazines. And being surrounded by beautiful women on the society pages.

And those women? They become known as Max Hilton girls. That’s his power—the girls he dates actually lose their names. Because he has a million times the gravity of anyone else. He’s James Bond and David Gandy’s love child on steroids.

The opposite of a goofy singing cowboy.

“Is this something we can find on YouTube?” Jada asks. “Pretty please, please say yes?”

“Do you think, with all of Max Hilton’s money and power, that he would allow a YouTube of him singing goofy to be out there?” I say. “That he and his people wouldn’t put the boot down on something like that so hard?”

What I don’t say is that I’ve looked. Like there have been times I go back to it in my mind and I think it maybe never happened, and so I look. And it’s never there. And it crushes me anew every time.

“How did you never tell any of us this bit of gossip?” Kelsey demands.

I shrug. Lizzie knows about it, but in general, I don’t talk about it. Maybe that is weird that I’d store the memory in a little box inside me like a fragile keepsake. Especially considering it was all a cynical joke to Max.

“But you witnessed it?” Jada says.

“I was in the summer production with him. I sang opposite him. So yeah.”

Jada blinks, newly baffled.

I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t been there.

“And you were enemies,” Jada says.

“We made careers out of humiliating each other. Max’s business partner Parker went there, too,” I say. “It’s just old Shiz week over there.”

“And guess which Meow Squad delivery cat is going to have to deliver his lunch from now on? Starting tomorrow?” Kelsey says.

Jada gasps. “No!” Then, “Not that it’s that bad.”

“Don’t even,” I say. “I have to be a servile minion to my high school rival. Wearing a cat suit. And he’s a billionaire in a gleaming tower.”

Lizzie gives me an exaggerated frown.

“Would you be fired if you let your friend Jada poison his sandwich?” Jada asks.

I smile.

We spend the next hour reading the book to each other. Max’s ideas are diabolical. Creative genius. There are lots of lists of principles and things. Women are like dogs. They like to know you’re in charge. That one gets major groans.

There’s a knock at the door at nine. I think it’s a neighbor, coming to complain about the noise, but it’s Antonio, my cousin from Italy, script in hand.

“Oh my god!” I say. “Antonio, I completely forgot.”

Antonio’s a male model who did a lot of runway work in Milan, and now he’s here trying to break into acting. He doesn’t have a lot of stage experience, which is a nice way of saying he’s awful at acting. I’ve been trying to help him, but he has a serious overacting problem that hasn’t been improved by his fascination with books on character motivation and method acting.

Antonio’s smile is tentative—wary, even; I can’t tell whether he’s upset that I forgot about our practice date or whether he’s overwhelmed by the angry vibe in the room.