The Billionaire Book Club

Maybe I should rethink my “drink lots of water” goals?

I mean, who needs to be hydrated, right?

Cap

As I settle into my chair at the third assembly of biweekly poker night in Thatch’s apartment’s smoke room, Quince claps Trent on the back and Thatch takes his seat at the table across from me. The gang’s all here tonight, and even an evil, sentiment-hating, mostly unemotional-bot like me has to admit it feels good.

I’m obviously closer with some of these guys than others—or I was before we started these shindigs—but this is a group that meshes naturally.

I’m also happy to report the apartment is free of women, and I know this because I did a walk-through inspection myself.

Thatch found it annoying, but I enjoyed it immensely.

Besides wanting to have the guys to myself, my scheme for the Billionaire Book Club is highly dependent on the women staying away.

Females are, by and large, related to bloodhounds.

They sniff out trouble and tricks and all sorts of things with an ease a man could only dream of. No doubt, at the first hint of my acting—brilliant or not—these bozos’ wives would be hip to my game.

My phone buzzes in the breast pocket of my suit jacket and, seeing as the guys are still busy swinging their dicks together, I take it out and check the cause.

A message bubble beckons from Liz.

Liz: So, I got your gift.

I smile and move my thumbs over the virtual keyboard.

Me: Good to hear. And don’t worry, you don’t have to say thank you.

Liz: Oh, trust me, I’m not. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK MY NEWBORN SON IS GOING TO DO WITH A PLAYBOY SUBSCRIPTION, CAP?

Me: I know you’re excited, but you don’t have to yell. Some of the articles are really poignant. They’ll make great bedtime stories. I really think little Christopher will love them.

Liz: NO.

Me: No? As in, no? Or no as in yes?

Liz: You’re the most annoying human being ever born.

I roll my eyes and snort to myself.

Me: Right, Liz. Right. Do you know how many humans have been born in the history of the earth? Statistically, I’d have a really hard time being the “most” anything. Though, I am a front-runner in both charm and looks.

Liz: I don’t know why I bother texting you.

Me: Well, it is an inconvenience, but I wasn’t going to mention it. I’m very polite like that, Liz. It’s very immature of you to try to make me act otherwise.

Her response chimes back in at a record pace, and I laugh to myself as I read it.

Liz: I quit.

Me: God, you must not be sleeping at all. Poor thing. We’ll talk when you’ve had more rest.

Liz: I’m rested. It’s not that.

Me: Delusional, too. Wow, sweetie. Tell Bill to get off his ass and give you a break. Now, I have to go because I have a very important meeting, but there’s another gift coming next week.

Liz: I’m hiring a hit man.

Me: La-la-la. Gah, Liz. I’m a lawyer. You can’t tell me stuff like that and expect me to defend you.

Liz: You won’t be around to defend anyone.

“Can you get off your phone, for fuck’s sake? You’re the reason we’re not playing cards. I’m not waiting for you to reinvent phone sex,” Trent grumbles, making me look up from my phone.

The table is full, everyone in their seats, and all their eyes on me.

I love the attention so much, I decide Liz’s statement was really more rhetorical anyway and tuck my phone back into the pocket of my jacket.

“Don’t worry, Turn. All my attention is now devoted to you.” I blow him a kiss, and he shakes his head.

“Not really the point, but okay.”

“Enough of this small talk bullshit,” Thatch interjects, lighting his cigar and putting it in his mouth. “I wanna get a status report. How close to swept off her feet is your new lady?”

I sigh, tilting my head to the side before shrugging. “We’ve had some setbacks, guys. Primarily in the form of women sending explicit pictures via fax.”

Trent drops his head into his hands and shakes it. “Again, I ask. How are you not disbarred at this point?”

“Because receiving consensual pictures is in no way illegal, Turn,” I say, wagging a tsking finger at him. “But it doesn’t matter. The why of the setback isn’t important. The how to fix it is.”

“I think the why is actually pretty relevant to the how,” Wes says, shrugging a shoulder when I shoot him a glare. “Just trying to be supportive of this shitshow you have going here, Cap.”

“True,” Kline says. “You can’t figure out how to apologize without knowing what you’re apologizing for.”

“I always apologize with a bouquet of flowers from my dick,” Thatcher chimes in helpfully. “Flowers from me are great, but flowers from my dick and Cass really goes crazy.”