Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) (5 page)

I let out a breath of relief. “I’m in full support of this plan. I’ll even chip in fifty bucks.”

“Perfect.”

“Hey, you’re throwing that card out, right?” I asked before he made his way out of my office doors.

He only responded with a shrug and a few more cackles.

Dean was such a bitch.
If I didn’t love him so much, I’d have definitely disowned his designer-tag-wearing ass.

As his laughter faded, the annoying crescendo that signaled a text on my phone built.

I grabbed it quickly, knowing if I didn’t read it now, I wouldn’t remember it until the end of the day.

Cassie: I just watched the police arrest two guys for fucking right up against a wall on Broadway.

Not sure how to respond, I said the only thing that came to mind.

Me: Well, it is the Theater District.

I exited my messages, and before I locked the screen, I noticed the little red notification on my TapNext app. A message from
BAD_Ruck
from this morning made promises of sexual normalcy despite his indiscretions. A truce was in order.

TAPRoseNEXT (12:14PM): Awkward apology accepted.

His response came two minutes later.

BAD_Ruck (12:16PM): Thank God. Though, to be fair, your profile name really does nothing to discourage bad behavior.

TAPRoseNEXT (12:19PM): Ugh. Don’t remind me. I owe it mostly to a bottle of wine and an ill-advising roommate.

I
chuckled to myself and then glanced at my watch, compelled to double-check the time even though the display on my phone told it to me just fine.

A pastrami and corned beef on rye from the deli on the corner was calling my name, yelling louder with each passing minute, but every single action of the day seemed to move as if it were coated in molasses.

“What are you laughing at?” Thatch asked from the screen in front of me.

I’d nearly forgotten I was on a video call with him.

“Your ugly mug,” I countered, pointedly electing not to tell him I was having any further conversation with
TAPRoseNEXT.

“This face? No way. This is my moneymaker, son.”

“You sound like the biggest douche on the planet right now. Can we work, please? I’d like to eat lunch sometime this century.”

“You and your delicate stomach.”

“It’s not fucking delicate,” I argued grumpily. But he really couldn’t blame me. I
was
hungry after all. “It’s manly and it needs food on the regular. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Right. Now you’re justifying your PMS symptoms—”

“Yes, Leslie?” I interrupted Thatch as she pushed open the door to my office.

“I just finished moving all of your meetings from this morning to this afternoon,” she purred, smiling at me like I should praise her.
She
was the one who’d told Dean to schedule the investor calls for that morning rather than this afternoon, necessitating a schedule flip in the first place.

“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. Catching sight of Thatch’s “Duran Duran” face on the screen in front of me stopped me from rolling my eyes. Operation
Cockblock Hungry Wolf
superseded my needs.

“You can just leave the new schedule by the door and head to lunch,” I offered, hoping she’d telepathically understand what I was trying so hard to communicate—
get out
.

She giggled.

Nope. Life wasn’t that easy.

The tile of my office floor turned into a runway, her dramatic, foot-crossing steps designed to amplify the swing of her hips and elicit a man’s attention.

And for any other man, it probably reached into his pants and hardened the attention right out of him.

I, however, was too busy cleaning up her mistakes and trying to finish a phone call so I could go to goddamn lunch.

Tits suddenly filled the frame of my vision, and I practically had to slam my head back into my chair to keep from eating them by accident.

No, I wasn’t
that
hungry. That was how close she had placed them.

“Here you go.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, dismissing her and averting my eyes as much as possible. It wasn’t a battle of wills, but rather, strictly a game of proximity.

The day I was willing to subject myself to that kind of pussy was the day my cock would rot off and my office would burn straight to the ground. I was sure of it.

Come hell or high water, I was done being this amenable to my mom’s suggestions. Leslie needed to be gone by the beginning of next week. Soon, but not soon enough that I couldn’t talk my way out of it at family dinner.

I watched as she walked, counting the seconds and praying he’d wait until she left the room.

“Ho-ly hell—”

“Thatch—” I attempted to interrupt, recognizing his tone from experience and knowing it would only lead to bad things.

“Where the hell have you been hiding that one?”

“Don’t say another word,” I warned, just as the door shut blessedly behind Leslie.

“Fuck me hard, fast, and dirty, Kline-hole. Did you see the tits on her? Seriously, let her know she can swaddle me up and ride me like a cockpuppet any fucking time she wants.”

I picked up a pen and pretended to scribble on a piece of paper.

“Ride…you…like…a…cockpuppet. Got it.”

The muscled chords of his throat flexed with a bark of laughter, and recognition of his absurdity flashed in his eyes.

“All right, point taken.” He raised his hands and winked, his fingers in air quotes, mocking, “Business.”

I didn’t waste any time getting back to it. “I’ve got two investor meetings in L.A.—”

“And you want me to be there.”

“Yeah.”

He sat back in his leather chair and crossed his thick arms. “Done.”

“You don’t even know when they are,” I pointed out. I reached forward and took hold of my mouse to double-check the timing, but he didn’t wait.

“For you, my love, no time is a bad time.” He blew me a kiss.

“Why do I put up with you?” I asked, sitting back again and raking a hand through my hair.

His response was immediate. “I personally think it’s because you like a reminder of the fine male specimen you’ll never live up to.”

I shook my head and smirked, knowing I’d never be the six-foot-five monster he was and not struggling to swallow it even one little bit. My leaner but no less toned six-foot package hadn’t failed me yet.

“I’ll see you in L.A. tomorrow night, Adonis.”

“No way. I’ll see you here, at the airport, so you can hold my hand during—”

Raising my middle finger in salute, I clicked the button to end the call.

Thatch’s ability to bounce back from a night out was almost unfathomable. I needed more than four hours of sleep, and I needed to do it for some other reason than being blackout drunk.

My best friend and money man could go several nights in a row without, it seemed, and holding his liquor had practically been his first childhood milestone.

Nights out were dwindling for both of us, though. My tendency to be “an old man,” according to Thatch, and his secret rendezvous with every available pussy in Manhattan pretty much soured the deal.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy nights out or the company of a beautiful woman. I loved women. I loved every fucking thing about them. I just didn’t love the idea of having drunken sex with some chick I picked up at a bar. I wasn’t a fan of Pussy Roulette, and when I ate one, I wanted to be able to remember the taste.

My phone rang on my desk as though the call had been put straight through without a heads-up from a lunch-eating Leslie. Normally, Pam rolled my calls to voicemail when she was away from her desk, sorting through them and passing along worthy callers upon her return.

Every ring made it that much more painfully obvious she was out, a duck-lipped, inexperienced seductress in her place.

“Brooks,” I answered, putting the phone to my ear.

“Yo,” Thatch greeted. “I forgot to ask. Do we have BAD practice tonight?”

I covered my groan. I’d forgotten about rugby practice.

That didn’t stop me from busting his balls. “Yes, Princess Peach. We have practice every Monday night.”

“Yeah, but with it being football season and all, I thought maybe Wes was busy cheerleading or whatever.”

Wes was the third member of our bachelor trio and the owner of the New York Mavericks. We teased him relentlessly, but in reality, it was
cool as fuck
to know somebody who owned a team in the National Football League. A little sweet-talking got us tickets anytime we wanted and field time with the players.

“I take no offense, by the way. Princess Peach is a badass bitch.”

“Most of their games are on Sunday. You know, like the one you talked me into going out to watch last night. I’ll see you at practice tonight,” I said, shaking my head at another ridiculous conversation.

“Geez, Diva. Eat a Snickers.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know, you force me to say
fuck
, as in
fuck you
, way more than I ever dreamed in a business environment.”

His answering chuckle was dry. “Just one of my many talents, K. Most of the others involve a lighter, a forty of beer, and my cock—”

I ended the call before he could finish.

Jesus. Is this guy really my best friend?

The short of it was, yes, he
was
my best friend. And I wouldn’t change it despite his ability to produce migraines. I was never short on entertainment, that was for sure. But my well of patience had run dry for the day. Simple as that.

Standing quickly, before I could be interrupted again, I yanked the skinny end of my tie from its knot, unwound it from my neck, and hung it on the hook next to my jacket.

I dropped my keys with a clang into my pocket and slid my wallet snug into its spot in the one in the rear.

Retracing my steps from several hours earlier, I passed Meryl with a nod and escaped the building without having to do more than smile politely at passing employees.

The sun nearly blinded me as I pushed the front door open, and the sounds of an active fall lunch hour overwhelmed my office-trained ears. Horns honked and cabbies yelled and pigeons took off in a rush as a toddler ran screaming through the middle of them.

I popped the buttons on my sleeves as I walked, rolling them up to expose my forearms and bask in the dramatically warm weather, and faded into the crowd of pump-wearing women and suit-clad men.

Indian summer, I think they called it, the desertlike arid heat settling deep into my bones and radiating from the inside out.

I could see the sun and city from the wall-to-wall windows of my office, but my lunch hour was pretty much the only opportunity I got to
feel
it.

That was the real root of my grumpiness, I guess. I worked hard from sunup to sundown, and one simple hour in between was what helped keep a happy head on top of tense shoulders.

“Kline!” the owner of my favorite little mom-and-pop deli called as I pushed my way inside the door.

“Hey, Tony!” I answered, gently making my way through the standing-room-only crowd to shake his hand over the counter.

“Here, here,” he urged, moving some old memorabilia to unearth the one empty seat in the place.

“No way,” I denied with a smile and a shake of my head. “I’ll wait for a table like everybody else. I could use the extra time to clear my head today.”

“Sit, sit, sit,” he said over me, his refusal to let me stand in the crowd and wait a regular occurrence. But he didn’t do it because I had money. Tony didn’t even
know
I had money. All he knew was I’d been coming in every workday I was in town for the last ten years, and I looked him in the eye and shook his hand every single time I did.

“Thanks, Tone.” Giving in was the only option.

“We got a sandwich for you today, buddy,” he said as I slid my butt onto the seat.

“I hope it’s a pastrami and corned beef on rye. I’ve been fantasizing about it all morning.”

“Ah,” he said with a shout and a wink. “For you, I’ve got just the thing!”

And the truth was, he did—a warm smile, familiarity, and a genuine exuberance. Stuff I needed way more than a sandwich.