Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys, #2)(12)

"Yeah," I agreed without being able to understand why. "I'm pretty sure I get all the channels there are to get."

"Fucking excellent."

I tried my hardest to understand what was happening again. "So … I'm  leaving for work now. You're gonna hang out for a little while?"

"Yep," she said with a smile and wave. "You have any food? I'm dying for some breakfast."

I tried my hardest to wrap my brain around what she was asking. I knew  mornings were rough for her, so maybe she just needed a little extra  time.

"Yeah, I think there are some eggs in there. Maybe some bacon."

"Ooh, bacon," she hummed. "Have any lettuce and tomato?"

I thought about it. "Yeah."

"Fantastic. I love BLTs for lunch."

"Lunch?"

She nodded and shushed me. The playback of her show was starting, and she snuggled even deeper into my covers.

"So. Bye?" I said with uncertainty.

She smiled impatiently. "See ya. Good luck."

"Thanks."

I turned and left my room, walked down the hall, grabbed my jacket, wallet, and keys, and stepped out the door.

Only when it shut behind me did I let all of my manic, unorganized  thoughts channel themselves into one burning question. "What the  ever-loving fuck is going on?"




My focus today had been almost nonexistent. The night. The morning. All  of it together had my brain sprinting all out around one fucked-up loop.  I'd barely been able to do any work, and if I remembered the highlights  from any of my meetings, it'd be a miracle.

Normally, I worked efficiently from one task to the next. Today, I couldn't even find the surface of my desk.

Paralyzed by the unknown, I'd fired off an experimental text to Cassie  in an attempt to push her until she broke. All it had done was perplex  me more. She'd been overzealously responsive-to the tune of nearly a  dozen texts-and so comfortable with her banter that I would have sworn  we chatted all the time.

I grabbed my phone and stared down at the text conversation in question.



Me: Can you run the dishwasher?



Cassie: I can't right now. I'm trying to figure out your DVR. I don't want to miss this Lifetime movie that's on at 2.



Me: What are you doing at 2? And you realize it takes all of two seconds  and a press of a button to run the dishwasher, right? I know you can  multitask, honey. I've seen you play with your tits while riding my  cock.



Cassie: But that was for an orgasm. Your dishes aren't that much fun. Anyway, I'm very



"Kline Brooks is on the phone for you," my assistant, Madeline, buzzed in.

I shook off the confused stupor, moved the rogue folder that had slightly muffled her voice, and answered the phone.         

     



 

"Kline."

"Hey, T," he greeted casually. I bounced my knee, and the sole of my  dress shoe tapped erratically on the tile underneath my desk. "I need to  talk to you about-"

"You don't need to talk to me about shit," I broke in, knowing I  wouldn't be able to sit through a hot minute of him going on about  mergers and acquisitions and technical internet mumbo jumbo. "But I sure  as fuck need to talk to you."

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

Too amped up, I did the exact opposite of burying the lede. I shot that  shit straight into the stratosphere before a launch countdown even  commenced. "I fucked Cassie last night."

"What?" he asked on a shout.

"Well, I guess," I corrected, "she actually fucked me. I don't even know  how it happened or what happened or, shit, any of it, really. I'm  confused as fuck."

Shock would never keep Kline stumbling for long. As expected, he  composed himself quickly and started asking questions. "How are you  confused? Weren't you there? Aren't you the reason it happened?"

"No!" I snapped, just as flabbergasted as he was. "That's the thing. I  mean, I was there, but I didn't need to be. I didn't start anything. It  just sort of happened, and then it was happening, and fuck me, it was  really fucking good. But I still wasn't in control of anything."

"Maybe that's why it was good," he joked.

I scrunched up my face in mock laughter. "Not the fucking time, dude."

"No. Oh, no," he denied. "It's exactly the right time. This is what you  would do to me, and I can't tell you how good it feels to be the one  doing it to you."

"Fuck you." Both middle fingers saluted him rapid fire like rounds from a  gun. It didn't matter that he couldn't see it. It made me feel better.

Kline just laughed.

"Ah, shit," I grumbled when I realized my only other option was to hang  up the phone. A sounding board had never been more necessary in my  day-to-day life, and I didn't have anyone else to talk to right now, so I  was just going to have to take his shit and like it.

"Fine. Make your jokes."

"Thanks," he said. "I will."

My eyes narrowed at his glee, but I dove right into the basics anyway. "She fell asleep on my dick."

"O-kay," he ventured. "Maybe I shouldn't be hearing these details."

I ignored his delicate sensibilities. "Right after she orgasmed. Like creamed all over my dick-"

"Jesus!"

"And then, boom. Out like a light. There I was with my dick in the  sweetest pussy it's ever entered, and I literally couldn't fuck it. I  mean, I could have, but even I draw the line somewhere, and that would  have been creepy as fuck."

"I don't know what to do with this," Kline admitted. If my savant of a  friend didn't have the answers, I didn't know if anyone would.

"I don't either. She used me as a goddamn sleep aid!"

The roll of what I now considered his constant chuckle clucked in my ear.

One thought bled into the next with no transition, and as all of the  worsening details came back to me in waves, I just kept on blurting.  "She's still at my apartment!"

"What?"

"This morning, she wouldn't leave." I rubbed at the tense skin of my forehead. "I think maybe she's moving in with me."

"Good God. Slow down. She's not moving in with you, for fuck's sake. And if she is, this is completely out of my depth."

Fuck. I knew she probably wasn't moving in with me. I mean, that'd be  fucked. But so was last night, so really, maybe that was right on point.  I didn't know. It was a miracle I even knew my left hand from my right  anymore.

"I'm going to have to consult with Georgie."

"Don't spread this shit around!"

"If you think I'm not telling my wife this as a way to earn points, you're cracked."

"I hate you right now."

"Yeah, well, I've hated you for years, and you're still around. I'd imagine it works the same way in the other direction."

No answers. No advice.

And no chance of getting over any of this until I got to the bottom of it.





Around noon, I decided to take a break from screwing with Thatch via  text message and took a shower. As I brushed my wet locks with one hand,  I ran the other across the granite counters of his bathroom and checked  the pads of my fingers for evidence. Nothing. Not even a speck of dust.  For a single dude, he did a relatively good job of keeping his place  clean. Almost a little too clean.         

     



 

Yeah, maybe I'd screw with Thatch just a teensy bit more. Because, let's  be honest, I was finding an awful lot of enjoyment out of bugging the  hell out of him.

I grabbed my phone off the counter and typed out a text as I headed into his closet.



Me: Do you have a maid?



Thatch: Rita is a very nice lady who comes to my apartment twice a week.



Me: I knew there was no way a single guy kept his shit this clean. The shower clued me in.



Thatch: You're in my shower?



Me: Not anymore, Numbnuts. Right now, I'm in your closet.



Thatch: My closet?



Me: Um. Yeah. That's where the clothes are. I needed something to wear.



Thatch: Do NOT steal my favorite shirt.



I didn't even have to ask to know he was referring to his "Single and Ready to Mingle" shirt.



Me: You can calm the fuck down because I found an even better one.



Thatch: Which one?



I walked over to his freshly made bed-see, I was a good houseguest-and  laid the shirt in question out, then snapped a quick picture and sent it  to him.



Thatch: What in the fuck did you do to my shirt?



Me: It was too big.



Obviously, I'd had no other option but to put my amateur seamstress  skills to good use. His T-shirt could've easily been a dress, and I was  talking more muumuu than stylish maxi. Lucky for me, I only had to cut  off a few inches, utilize some needle and thread, and boom, Thatch's old  shirt was now an adorable crop top.



Thatch: Wait … why isn't that shirt on you? Are you naked in my bedroom right now?



Me: No. As a matter of fact, I have on a pair of tighty whities. Which, I  gotta say, that's real cute, Thatch. I love that you actually wear  these.



Thatch: I have to when I play rugby, smartass.



Me: Better support for your Supercock?