The Billionaire Book Club

I stumble in the blanket, unsteady on my feet after spending a week doing nothing but wallowing, and then trip over my own foot.

I land safely with a bounce on the floor next to my coffee table and smile triumphantly at my success. “Ha!” I yell. “Take that, you blanket bastard son of a bitch! You can’t defeat Caplin Hawkins! The only fucker who can bring him down is Caplin Hawkins himse—”

In a flash of light and a blur of ceiling, I accidentally set my other foot down on an empty bottle of vodka and go ass over end. My body twists and twirls, wrapped tightly in the blanket, and land smack-dab on the corner of the coffee table—with my head.

“Is that…is he naked? Oh, what the fuck.”

Voices fill my ears—familiar voices, at that—and I blink open my eyes to find myself cocooned beneath the fucking blanket that tried to kill me.

“Come on, guys, just fucking deal with it. He’s in crisis, and he needs us.”

Jesus Christ. They’ve brought the fucking book club to my apartment.

I don’t have time for your stupid book club games, you bastards!

A sob escapes my throat. I can’t help it. Thinking about books makes me think about Ruby, and fuck everything that isn’t her. Fuck me. Fuck my idiot friends. Fuck it all!

I hear shuffling and more moronic chattering around me, and I sob louder into the blankets. “What are you doing here?” I yell. “And how in the fuck did you get in here?”

“A key,” someone I know to be Trent responds. “One that you gave me.”

Fucking hell.

“I don’t want any of you!” I yell. “I don’t want to be seen, and I don’t want to see you! Get out! Take your stupid book club and your stupid books and shove it all up your asses!”

“Pretty sure now isn’t the time for me to mention that book club was his idea, right?” Wes asks, and if I weren’t fetal, I’d find the strength to stand up and strangle him with my bare hands.

“Jesus, Whitney. Don’t be a dick,” Thatch says on a sigh. “And what am I always fluffing saying? For the love of Philmore, we can’t leave these guys unattended anymore.”

“We didn’t know he was this close to rock bottom,” Trent whispers.

“The biggest assholes always fall the hardest!” Thatch booms. “Fluffing hell, we’re in crisis mode here! Stop standing around with your dicks in your hands, and get to work!”

I tighten the blanket around my face as he starts spouting off orders. “You. Get me a clean blanket, a bottle of water, and a toothbrush. You. Get me an ounce of tequila, a lime, and some salt. You. Get me the latest Sports Illustrated and a turkey melt.”

“What the hell do you need Sports Illustrated for?” Theo asks, and Thatch snaps.

“Just do what I say! We don’t have time for motherfluffing questions!”

Theo must leave because a minute later, Thatch moans. “Shit. I should have told him I wanted the turkey melt on rye.”

“I don’t like rye bread,” I mutter from under my blanket fort. Thatch laughs.

“The turkey melt is for me. Relationship grief counseling really takes it out of me.”

“Fucking hell, Thatch,” Kline criticizes, but Thatch is too busy paying attention to the pathetic man beneath the blanket—me.

“Oh. Right. So, you’re awake. And alive. These are really good first steps.”

I lift one hand with an extended middle finger outside the covers.

“Flipping me off!” he cheers. “Even better.”

“Go away and die.”

Thatch chuckles. “It’s good to see you making progress.”

“I’m not making progress,” I disagree. “I’m not making anything. I’m going to stay right here until my body fuses to the cushions and the forensic team has to bring in a special crew just to clean me up.”

“That’s definitely an option,” Thatch says seriously, snapping his fingers somewhere in front of me now. “Though, you’re not actually on the couch right now like you think you are.”

I’m not? I peek outside of the blanket and look around. “Where the hell am I?”

“The floor,” my buddy Quince answers. He really is my most helpful friend.

There’s the scurry of feet as Thatch orders, “Clean off this table.”

“Okay,” Quince says. “But I’m not doing it because you told me to.”

“Sure, you’re not, Quincy,” Thatch says with a chuckle. “Sure, you’re not.”

I feel a flurry of activity and then the heat of Thatch’s mountainous body as he puts his ass to the top of my now clean coffee table.

I’m not sure if it’ll hold his weight for very long, but I don’t care. I hope he falls right through it.

“All right, champ. Time to get yourself out of this mess. And I mean that literally. I’ve never seen such an impressive display of shitty hygiene.”

“Go away,” I groan. “I don’t want this. I want to wallow here forever.”

Kline steps forward then, I can tell by the way he stands. He’s a whole lot less assuming. “That’s fine, Cap.”