Tapping The Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 1)

“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.