Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(6)

“Hopefully, that nap helped you remember a number. You’ve got one minute to think and three to call. I’d suggest you make the best of all four of them.”

Shit.

Still groggy from sleep and frustration, I didn’t waste time, scooting out of the cell and heading straight for the phone. If I didn’t go now, I had a feeling I wouldn’t get a third chance. I mean, the practical side of my mind knew he couldn’t actually keep me there forever just because I didn’t know a phone number, but after the night from hell, it sure felt like it. I tried to use the brain in my head, man up enough to call my parents, but the effort was fruitless. Any time I spent avoiding this call was nothing but a delay in getting out of here, and today was the last day I could afford to spend on piss-scented vacation.





A shrill ringing in the distance echoed in my ears. I stirred in my sleep, turning over to blearily glance at the clock on my nightstand. The blood-red numbers revealed it was half past two in the morning.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I mumbled to no one in particular, pulling the comforter back over my head to form a cave of covers.

But the phone continued to ring, vibrating across the nightstand and mocking my sleep-deprived brain. I loved my sleep. Loved. It. While most women daydreamed about Henry Cavill sexing them into oblivion while his Superman cape slapped them in the face, I split my daydream time between Henry Cavill, Channing Tatum, and my bed—and the men weren’t the majority of my fantasies.

I could only assume whoever was calling me must have lost a limb or literally been on fire because anyone who knew me understood not to interrupt my sleep time.

Two seconds away from screaming myself into a full-on tantrum, I wrenched the blankets off my body, and with eyes still closed and fumbling hands—knocking shit onto the floor in the process—I grabbed my phone, held it to my ear, and let fly with my best guess. “Georgia, I swear to God, if this is you, I will kick your husband’s big dick so hard he won’t be able to spend his nights banging you into the headboard.”

A chuckle filled the receiver, but it wasn’t of the female variety. It was deep and throaty and one hundred percent male.

When no words replaced his laughter, I sighed, pulling my comforter back over my head. “Seriously, dude. If you don’t tell me who the f*ck you are and why you’re calling me, we are going to have some serious issues.”

“What kind of issues?” he asked, amusement evident in his voice.

“My-foot-up-your-ass kind of issues,” I snapped back.

He chuckled again. “Maybe I’m into that kind of kinky shit.”

“All right, you deranged psychopath,” I said, irritation highlighting my tone. “I don’t care what kind of kinky shit you get off to. You could enjoy jerking off with cream cheese smeared on your schlong, and I wouldn’t care. What I do care about is the fact that you’re calling me at two in the morning.”

“Cassie,” he responded, still sounding irritatingly amused by f*cking up my sleep. “It’s Thatch.”

“Thatch? I don’t know a Thatch,” I lied. I knew it was him, and more than that, I’d known before he told me. That voice had been rooting around inside my brain for a while now. Fucking Thatcher Kelly. He’d wiggled his way into my thoughts and hung around for-f*cking-ever, seemingly quite the parasite.

Hopefully, if I continued to feign confusion, he’d let me go back to sleep.

He laughed again at that. “It’s the guy you’ve been finger-f*cking that perfect * to for the past month. Don’t you remember? We were in a wedding together. I helped you find Walter after you lost him. You even called me from Key West because you missed me so much.”

“None of this is ringing a bell.”

And I didn’t lose that goddamn cat. He did.

“I even let you feel my dick. Which you f*cking loved, by the way.”

“I did not f*cking love feeling your dick,” I retorted. “It was hardly memorable, if we’re getting down to the real details.”

“How big is it?”

I was this close to f*cking answering.

“Why are you asking me so many goddamn questions?”

He chuckled again.



Yeah, the whole Jolly Green Giant nickname was right on the money, wasn’t it?



But seriously, if he laughed again, I was adding “Kill Thatch” to my to-do list for Monday morning.

“Why are you calling me? Couldn’t it have waited until, I don’t know, the sun is up and I’m not sleeping?”

“Sorry,” he responded, clearing his throat. His breathing was muffled as though he was moving around. “But this couldn’t wait. I’m in a bit of a bind, and I could really use your help.”

“My help?” I asked, sitting up on the bed. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” He started to say more, but he was cut off when someone in the background shouted, “Your three minutes are up, Kelly!”

My eyebrows scrunched together of their own accord. “Where are you?” I questioned, highly suspicious. “And who was that?”

“Oh, that was just Sheriff Miller,” he answered, his tone nonchalant. I could almost picture him shrugging as he said it.

“Sheriff Miller?” I repeated his words, having a pretty good idea where this conversation was headed. I mean, I was still kind of half asleep, but it didn’t take a genius to deduce the basic details. “Tell me you’re not calling me from where I think you’re calling me from.”