Banking Her: A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella (Book 2.5) (Bad Boy Billionaires) (11 page)

“Thatcher Kelly, come in,” Georgia said, her most serious voice mocking me with each word.

I snatched it from the box, keyed the mic, and put the stupid thing to my lips.

“What the fuck is going on here, Georgia? And, yes, I can tell it’s you. Is Cassie with you?”

If she was, I was so fucked.

The silence went on too long, to the point that I got frustrated. “Answer me, goddammit.”

“You have to say ‘over’ so I know it’s my turn to talk. Over.”

“My patience is really fucking thin right now.” I paused for a second before squeezing my eyes tight and cursing to myself. “Over.”

She giggled.

“Goddammit, Georgia. I’m seriously five seconds from wringing your pretty little neck—”

“Watch yourself, you fucking prick,” Kline interrupted.

“
Kline?
” I asked. Jesus. What, were they all there mocking me?

“Yep,” Kline answered stonily thanks to my empty threat. He and I both knew I’d never manhandle Georgia in a way that could bring her harm. But fuck, I guess neither of us thought I’d turn into a stalker either.

Apparently unaware they had the mic still keyed, Georgia and Kline’s conversation played out into the otherwise silent air of my room.

“Kline! You have to say ‘over.’”

“I’m not saying ‘over,’” he told her, a smile evident in the lilt of his voice.

“Baby! You have to say it. That’s the only way Thatch knows it’s his turn to talk.”

“Where did you learn this shit?” Kline asked. But I could tell he was just barely holding back laughter.

“You know I was watching
Dog the Bounty Hunter
the other day—”

“Guys!” I interrupted on a shout, a shrill squeal ringing out at the moment my walkie-talkie tried to overpower theirs.

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Come to your door,” Kline instructed.

Georgia couldn’t help herself, adding, “Over.”

I shook my head but charged back to the door nonetheless. Bonnie and Clyde were rounding the corner, twisted up in each other, smiles on their faces. I stepped outside, propping the door open with one big foot.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, and Kline knew I was addressing him directly.

His face was pseudo-serious as he directed, “Let’s talk inside. We don’t want to wake anyone up.”

“Oh, yeah,” I agreed on an unmistakable growl. “We wouldn’t want that.”

They sure hadn’t been worried about waking me up.

Kline raised his eyebrows, and knowing the son of a bitch could outwait me on nearly any fucking thing, I sighed deeply, pushed the door open, and waved for them to precede me.

Georgia smiled big and patted me on the face like a grandmother as she walked past, and Kline’s amusement couldn’t have gone unnoticed if I’d been in space.

As soon as the door shut, I took their walkie-talkie and tossed it across the room, so it bounced on the bed with a thump. Both sets of their eyes followed and then swung back to me, but their smiles never left their cute little faces.

“This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever been a part of,” I told Kline.

“And yet, I still look sane compared to you.”

They knew what I was doing. That much was clear. Now I just needed to figure out what the hell they intended to do about it.

“Don’t get too excited. That doesn’t mean much these days.” I scrubbed my hands up and down my face and then admitted with a hefty load of self-deprecation, “I’m stalking her, for fuck’s sake.”

“We know,” Georgia agreed with glee. “It’s fantastic.”

Two very separate, but equally important issues to be addressed, all in one little statement.

“How do you know?”

Kline tilted his head, and I sighed. Give him enough time, and he’ll figure motherfucking anything out.

“Okay. Fine. Next issue. Why the fuck do you think it’s fantastic? You want my baby to have an insane father?”

“It’s just so sweet,” Georgia swooned, and my eyebrows drew together.

Kline laughed and added, “In a totally fucked-up, illegal, mentally ill kind of way.”

Georgia sighed dreamily. “Yeah.”

“So, what? What now? Are you going to tell Cassie?” I looked right into Georgia’s eyes.

“Nope.”

“No?”

“I said ‘nope,’” she repeated, starting to get exasperated.

“Okay. Why not? I thought you’d be running to rat me out. Isn’t that what women do?”

“Easy, Killer,” Kline warned as Georgia’s face transformed with female affront.

Shit
.

“Sorry. Sorry. Jesus. I just don’t understand. What’s with the walkie-talkie? Why didn’t you just knock on my door and tell me to my face.”

“Because we’re going to help you.”

“You’re going to help me…
stalk
Cassie?”

Where was the
Twilight Zone
music? Seriously. It had to start soon.

Kline shrugged, but then clarified, “We’re not really going to help as much as we’re going to watch. And fuck, when Georgia suggested the walkie-talkie bit, I couldn’t deny it was brilliant.”

“Why?” I nearly yelled. I didn’t understand. I didn’t even understand my own drive to be involved in something as ridiculous as this, but I really didn’t understand Kline’s. He was Mr. Practicality. Mr. Rational. Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Stupid-Shit-Like-All-of-My-Friends-Do.

“It’s entertaining.”

Georgia nodded enthusiastically. “Really entertaining.”

I closed my eyes, tipped up my head to the ceiling, and pressed my hands desperately into my face. “Fuck me. Seriously, Kline?”

“Definitely.” He gestured to Georgia. “We’re happy, and you know, sane, so we don’t do any of this shit on our own—”

“Thanks so much,” I muttered.

“But you guys are still really finding your way, and quite frankly, it spices things up for us.”

“My psychosis is your goddamn kink?”

Georgia laughed outright, clasped her hands together, and nearly jumped up and down.

“Don’t worry,” Kline said as he ushered Georgia toward the door. “It’ll be over before you know it, and then we’ll use Wes and Winnie for our entertainment. It’s brewing. I can feel it.”

I wanted to scream and yell and carry on, but at the same time, I couldn’t deny my fucking palpable desire to be on their side of things. To watch Wes and Winnie suffer through torment and torture as I laughed maniacally on the sidelines.

God-fucking-dammit.

Kline winked just before the door closed behind him.

“P
erfect, Quinn. Just a few more like this, and I think we can move on to the workout photos.”

My camera shuttered in quick succession as I continued to take photos of the Mavericks’ quarterback posing in nothing but his football pants. We had scouted out a really cool location in Phoenix for the pictorial Georgia’s marketing team had hired me to shoot. And I had a moment of silent satisfaction when the urban landscape of red-brick buildings and darkened alleys managed to highlight the strong and lean lines of the rookie quarterback the exact way I had visualized when searching for this setting.

“Front cover material, Cass?” Quinn asked with a cocky grin.

I laughed. “Now you know I can’t play favorites, Q. It will make all the other boys jealous.”

He grinned and flashed a wink in my direction, but it failed to hold the power of Thatch’s signature move.

God, I missed that man. Normally, I’d be half sated from late-night Skype sex with my favorite penis, but our nightly ritual whenever I was out of town hadn’t happened before I fell asleep.

Something was up with Thatcher.

I didn’t know what, but I knew when he texted me and said the Wi-Fi in our apartment was fucked up, he was definitely hiding something. Call me Crazy, but I knew the Supercock wouldn’t have let anything stand in the way of screen time with my tits.

“I think we’re all set here,” I said as I stood up from my kneeling position. “Quinn, go on ahead into the makeup tent and get changed for the team workout photos. We need to head over to the next location in about fifteen minutes to stay on schedule.”

My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I looked at the screen to find a text from T.

Thatch: I’m seeing a lot of charges on my credit card from last night…

Me: Maybe you should learn to never cancel Skype sex.

Thatch: How on Earth did you spend $2000 on Amazon?

Me: Books.

Thatch: Books? You planning on opening your own library?

Me: I’m planning on replacing sex with reading.

Thatch: Take it back. Your tits would never speak such blasphemy.

Me: They’re mad at you.

Thatch: I’ll make it up to them. Tell them I love them and I miss them and I’ll suck on their perfect pink nipples for hours when you get home.

Me: Not interested.

Obviously, I was. Hell, my nipples were already hard at the thought. But Thatch needed to grovel for a good while before I’d admit to that.

Thatch: Don’t be mad, honey. I’m sorry I canceled Skype sex. I swear I’ll never do it again.

Me: Peddle your bullshit promises to someone who cares.

I watched the text bubbles move as he typed out a response.

Thatch: My hand is a piss-poor substitute for your perfect pussy.

Before I could even think of responding, he quick-fired two more.

Thatch: I didn’t even jerk off last night. I couldn’t. Nothing feels as good as you do, honey. I’m so fucking hard for you. God, Cass, I miss you so much.

Thatch: You still there?

Me: Keep going…

Thatch: I love you, Crazy. I love you and that most likely crazy but beautiful baby girl growing inside your belly. Come home, honey. I miss my family.

Thatch: Phil misses you too. He’s been moping around since you left.

Poor Phil. The mere thought of him sad and mopey had me two seconds away from bursting into tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones.

Me: Even though you were an asshole last night, I miss you too, T. So much. Call me so I can talk to Phil.

Thatch: I’m actually not at home right now, baby. I’m getting ready to meet a client for a late lunch at Alberto’s.

My brow furrowed as I read through the message. Thatch going into the tattoo shop on a Saturday seemed legit, but a client meeting? On the weekend? It would’ve been more likely to see Phil grow wings and fly around our apartment.

Me: On a Saturday?

Thatch: Unfortunately, yes.

Like I said, something was up.

Me: But you never do meetings on Saturday.

Thatch: What’s the point of being at home on a Saturday when you’re not there?

Thatch: Answer: There is no point.

Evasive response laced with charm. Thatch was undoubtedly up to something, and I was undoubtedly going to figure it the fu-fluff out.

Me: Gotta go. Getting ready to start shooting again.

Thatch: Love you, Crazy.

Me: I know ;)

I searched Alberto’s NYC and found their number quickly thanks to Google. The line rang three times before someone picked up. “Alberto’s. How may I help you?” a man with a strong Italian accent greeted.

“Hi, I’m supposed to meet a man named Thatcher Kelly for a late lunch this afternoon, and I’m running a few minutes behind schedule. What time is his reservation?”

“I have no reservation for Mr. Kelly this afternoon,
signorina
.”

My lips pursed together in irritation. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I know Mr. Kelly very well, and he has no reservation for today. Has there been a mix-up?”

“Oh, you know what? Maybe I got the restaurant confused. I’ll just call him directly. Thanks for your help,” I said and ended the call.

That sneaky son of a butter knife had lied to me!

He
lied
. To
me
.

I stared at the cracks in the red-brick wall across from me as I searched my brain for answers. Why would he lie? What in the hell was he hiding from me? Nothing made sense, but there was one thing I was certain of—Thatcher Kelly was in big flipping trouble.

Before I read him the riot act, I knew there was one person who probably knew what was up, which meant my best friend, Georgia, who also happened to be a terrible liar, would know too.