The Billionaire Book Club

I never drink enough, and after years of living in a constant state of dehydration, I’ve finally decided I should probably do something about it in an effort to spare my organs.

I make my way through a long list of simple requests and proposals, forward them through to Cap’s email, and am just about to hit a milestone at the bottom of my first bottle of water when the fax machine starts to whir.

I jump up and head over to it immediately.

The printing module moves back and forth rapidly on the paper, spitting out sheet after sheet of Excel spreadsheet-style numbers. I wait patiently as they gather, then scoop them up, tap them on the machine to consolidate the stack, and turn to take them to Cap without delay.

I’ve only taken a step when the machine fires up again.

Hmm. Maybe there’s still more?

Not wanting to take him anything less than the complete fax, I step back over to the machine and wait as the sheet prints.

It goes slower than the numbers, like there’s more digitized media to print, and I find myself tapping a toe on the floor and staring out the window with impatience.

I don’t really understand why fax is still a thing in this day and age.

Is it really better than using a secure portal online or even encrypted email?

I’m not convinced.

Still, I quickly snag the sheet when it finally finishes and add it to the top of my stack.

I tuck the papers to my chest and knock on Cap’s door. He calls out for me to come in, and I do, shoving the door open with one hand and tipping the papers down to give them a final look with the other.

“Here are your…” I say just as what I’m looking at registers, making my brain almost explode. “Nipples.”

Cap chokes on his coffee. “I’m sorry?”

Clearly, I meant to say numbers, but I was distracted by the big, perky breasts that someone faxed here on the stupid top page!

Throat closed up tight and unable to speak, I do the only thing I can, ripping the sheet away from the stack of actual figures and holding it out for the intended recipient to see.

His eyes go wide as he glances at me. “You having some fun on the copy machine, doll?”

“These aren’t mine!” I shout. “They came in on the fax! I thought they were a part of the numbers you needed from HawCom.”

He laughs a little, and I scowl.

When he sees my reaction, he holds up his hands and forces his mouth into a fake straight line. “Right, right. That’s terrible.”

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “You look devastated.”

He chuckles shamelessly, opening his mouth and closing it again when he apparently can’t come up with anything productive to say.

“I just don’t understand. What kind of human being sends a picture of their breasts via fax?”

He shakes his head thoughtfully and then snaps his fingers. “Felicity Ludwig!”

I frown.

“The shape, the size, the nipples. Definitely Felicity Ludwig.”

I grimace. Oh God. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “I know.”

I roll my eyes and fake a smile. “Shall I get her number for you?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. I’m not gonna call her.”

I squint. “You’re not?”

He shakes his head and then promptly holds out a hand. “You have the HawCom numbers, then?”

I jolt and look back down to the other papers in my hand. Right.

“Yes. Here they are.” I step forward with a hop and hand them to him.

“Great, thanks.”

Still holding the boobs, I wave them at him curiously.

He glances up quickly, holds out a hand again, and takes the boob selfie.

He studies them like they’re a court document, hums, and then says, “Definitely Felicity.”

I roll my eyes, and Cap simply balls up the paper and throws it across the room and into the trash can.

With nothing left to say, I turn and head for the door, geared up to feel disgusted with him for a good long while, when he calls my name. “Ruby!”

Reluctantly, I rotate back to face him and raise an eyebrow.

“After lunch, it should slow down enough that we can run through a few of my current cases more closely. Maybe break some of it down and do some theorizing so you can practice.”

Disgust is quickly replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning some real stuff. I know he needed an assistant, but I don’t want to waste my whole internship doing coffee runs and delivering titty faxes.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

“Awesome. Thanks,” I say. “I’m really looking forward to learning something.”

“No problem.”

I turn to leave again, this time with a completely different outlook.

New minute, new mood.

I’m practically skipping as I head back out to the desk and get back to work.

There’s a lot of it—so much so, there’s not even a hint of time for me to eat a snack, but when lunch rolls around, I’m feeling incredibly accomplished.