Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2) (21 page)

Frankie and I laughed. Cass and I both turned to look at him now that we knew he was listening. His green eyes sparkled, but he feigned concentration on his work.

“What about you? A tattoo parlor and a… Jesus, what do you do?”

I shook my head and smiled. “A financial consultant.”

“That means next to nothing to me. I’m assuming there are numbers and money involved?”

“Am I like the Chandler Bing of the group? No one knows what I do?”

She shrugged shamelessly. “At least you’re taller.”

“Oh yeah, thank God I’m taller,” I joked.

“So how’d your business portfolio become so diversified?” She bounced her brows as if to say,
See, I can speak work jargon
.

“Well, I went to college with the idea that I needed to do something respectable.”

“An interesting concept for you,” she teased.

I pushed forward as though she hadn’t spoken, but I smiled and squeezed at her bare thighs.

Fuck, her skin was like quicksand. I could get lost in it for hours. I shook my head slightly to bring back my concentration.

“And, well, it turned out I was really good at it. Kind of a savant with numbers.”

“An idiot savant,” she said with a smile.

“Right,” I agreed.

“It’s starting to make more sense now,” she said and smiled, but I didn’t take the bait.

“Once I started to make a lot of money, I got bored.”

She shook her head and swung her legs at my sides. “Oh, man, that sounds familiar.”

“You too?” I asked to which she answered earnestly, “Always.”

“Well, I had the cash to invest in things I was interested in. A lot of property and small businesses trying to get off the ground, that kind of thing.”

“So you opened this.”

“Nope,” I corrected with a smile. “Frankie opened this place. I just stepped in as an investor about four years ago.”

“You’re obviously more than a silent partner, though.”

I shrugged. “I liked it. And Frankie liked having the help.”

“Sure did!” Frankie yelled from the back, again confirming shamelessly that he was listening to every word we said.

Cassie smiled, lips and eyes and the apples of her cheeks all falling victim to her amusement as her hair flipped effortlessly over her shoulder. She pushed me back slightly so she could tuck her foot under her ass and leaned onto her hand, and I couldn’t help but notice that she looked comfortable here.

“Get us some fucking food, T!” Frankie called from his station.

Cassie joined in enthusiastically. “Seriously! And make it a pizza, pineapple and ham.”

“I don’t get a say in this?”

The two of them glanced briefly to one another before turning back to me and speaking in unison. “No.”

I grumbled, but what I didn’t do was tell them to fuck off. It was just us, no clients to speak of, and I was liking being with both of them.

Knowing it’d take nearly a year for a pizza to be delivered to this location at this time of night, I considered going out to get it myself. But all it took was one glance at Cassie’s face, relaxed with genuine interest and wonder as she hunched over Frankie showing her the inner workings of his tattoo machine, to know I wasn’t going fucking anywhere.

Kline and Wes knew nearly everything about me—my wild teenage antics and Margo’s death. But neither of them knew I’d been apprenticing to actually become a tattoo artist.

I wanted to tell Cassie, though. So much so I had to fight the urge to just blurt it out.

Grabbing my phone off the counter, I reached for my wallet from my back pocket, but when my fingers met the seam, I knew immediately something was wrong. I patted at the fabric in shock, but that didn’t change the outcome.

“Fuck!”

“What?” Cassie asked, jumping up from her spot next to Frankie and coming toward me.

Over a goddamn decade in this city, and I’d finally been pickpocketed. All because my brain had been more concerned about the bump in the front of my pants than keeping the one in the rear.

“What happened?” Frankie called with a crease in his brow as the corners of my mouth started to turn up.

It was completely possible I was actually losing my mental stability. I’d just been taken for the first time in my life. I’d have to get on the phone immediately to cancel all of my shit, go to the DMV for a new license, alert the doorman of my apartment, and never, ever get back the cash I’d had in there, and
still
, I was smiling. Because when I thought about how distracted I’d been, how irresponsible it was to let my guard down like that, it made me think about why I’d done it—and the way her lips had followed mine like they couldn’t get enough.

I shook my head with a laugh. “Somebody stole my wallet.”

“What?” Cassie shrieked, and Frankie’s brows pushed even closer together.

“How’d that happen?” Frankie asked.

I looked to Cassie’s face and didn’t even try to stop the smile on my own. “I guess I was distracted.”

She blushed, something I didn’t even think was possible when it came to her. She was not the kind of woman who dissolved into a puddle of embarrassment or should-haves, and she never apologized for anything. But she’d felt the same thing I had, that much was more apparent than ever, and the only thing that could make her flush like that was the unexpected.

I knew that was true because the same was true for me.

“I guess rule number twelve should be no kissing in public,” she said with a quick glance at Frankie as she hopped onto the counter in front of me.

I just shook my head. “No way.”

“Come on, Thatcher. The rules need a good, solid foundation, and it seems like this one is warranted.”

“I’ll burn the whole house of rules down. No rule number twelve.”

“Not ever?” she asked with faux seriousness.

I couldn’t find it in me to care that she was mocking me.

“Nope. It’ll be like the thirteenth floor of buildings. It just doesn’t exist.”

“Is it because you’re afraid of it?” she teased.

I shook my head. “It’s because if that rule exists, it’ll only be as a literal example of
made to be broken
.”

“Why waste the paperwork, then, huh?”

“Exactly.”

Me: Rule #25: Don’t use my body wash.

Thatch: But what if I’m using it on you?

Me: Are you asking for shower sex, Thatcher?

Thatch: I’m not asking, honey.

Me: Ohhhhh, T’s going all alpha male. Will Sir spank me later too?

Thatch: Only if Mistress Cassie begs.

Me: On my knees?

Thatch: You’re making me hard.

Me: Considering a fucking breeze could get you hard, this is not surprising.

Thatch: YOU make me hard. All the fucking time.

Me: Charming me with your snake?

Thatch: What can I say? I have my sweet moments.

Thatch: What are your plans today? Can you do me a favor?

Me: Nothing major. Just editing some photos. You want another office blow job?

Thatch: Yes, but let’s put that on the books for tomorrow. Today, I’ve got something else going on.

Me: And what’s that?

Thatch called my phone thirty seconds later.

“Well, hello,
Master,”
I teased.

His deep chuckle filled my ear. “Can you be flexible with your schedule today?”

“I can probably work something out. What’d you have in mind?”

“Well, I’m supposed to pick Mila up at one for a Central Park date, but I’ve got a last-minute investors meeting at noon that I can’t skip out on. By the time I get out of this, it will only give me ten minutes to get to Claire and Frankie’s.”

“You want me to pick her up and bring her to your office?” I offered. I generally wasn’t one to rearrange my schedule for a man, but Mila was an exception. I looked around Thatch’s apartment. It wasn’t like I had to travel from Guatemala to do it either.

Next time you have the opportunity to spend time with Mila you probably
will
be doing a shoot in Guatemala,
the little voice inside my head told me.
Don’t pass this up.

“Do you mind? Mila is always waiting for me on the front porch, and I’d feel like a bastard for showing up forty minutes late.”

“I’ll do it under one condition,” I negotiated.

I could tell he was smiling when he said, “And what would that be?”

“I’m driving your Audi.”

He laughed again. “You can drive the Audi, but only if you promise to stick around and hang out with us today.”

Yeah, I would have done that anyway. No way was I driving all the way up there to get her and not get to spend the day with her.

“Awwww…Thatcher can’t get enough of me?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay. I’m in. Text me their address, and I’ll get ready to head out now.”

“Thanks, honey.”

I hung up the phone and saved the open files on my laptop before shutting it off. Even though I was on a deadline, and would probably need to put in a sixteen-hour day tomorrow to finish up the pictorial I owed
Men’s Health
, I decided Mila was more important. And, well, hanging out with Thatch for the day wasn’t exactly a chore.

Actually, I was finding it was the opposite; I really enjoyed spending time with him. He teased and flirted with me relentlessly, and he always found a way to make me laugh.

Last night, I had come home to Thatch sitting in a bubble bath with my favorite exfoliating treatment smeared across his face. The fact that he had finished off a fifty-dollar bottle of face cream—
that bastard’s big head had some serious square footage
—should have earned him a dick slap, but even I couldn’t deny he had looked fucking adorable.

So adorable, I’d stripped right out of my clothes and joined him.

God, he was a creative motherfucker. And so goddamn much fun. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed being with someone so much that the tank never topped up—I always wanted more. His ridiculous smirk or stupid fucking winks or the feel of his big body spooned around mine. No matter how much he did it, it never felt like enough.

When in the hell had he become so vital to my daily life?

It had to be the Supercock. Or his big hands. Or maybe it was his talented mouth.

Yeah, it’s none of those things, moron. This isn’t a game anymore,
my brain whispered
. You’re falling straight into the real deal with the charming ogre.

I quickly shook off those thoughts and set my focus on less confusing things, like getting ready to pick up Mila.

An hour later, I was pulling up in front of Frankie and Claire’s sweet house in Thatch’s sweet-ass ride. The Audi in question was red, a convertible, and drove like a fucking dream. Since owning a car in New York was generally more hassle than it was worth, it was nice to be able to drive on occasion. And the car made it that much nicer. I made a note to myself to find more reasons to borrow this car. Or one of the others. The proud owner of several, he was no Kline Brooks in that department.

Mila jumped up from the porch swing and came barreling down their front steps, sprinting toward the car before I had a chance to get out of the driver’s seat.