Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(80)

“Well, that’s really f*cking ungrateful of you.”

He showed no signs of remorse. “The last time you got me a surprise, I ended up with a pig and the city of New York thinking I have chronic anxiety.”

I laughed. “But you love Phil!”

“Yeah, now, I do,” he answered. “He’s grown on me. But initially, no. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of a barnyard animal sleeping in the corner of my bedroom.”

“Well, this is even more exciting than Phil,” I announced. My voice was ecstatic over the idea of getting a rise out of him again. It was literally one of my favorite things. And after his little “fear of heights” test last week, I was really itching to one-up him again. Although, it should be noted, that test had gifted me with the most powerful orgasm of my entire life.

But those were just minor details, right?

“Get ready, Thatcher, because guess what? You’re going to be a Big Brother!”

“Huh?”

“A Big Brother!” I repeated.

“What are you talking about?”

“I signed you up to be a Big Brother for the Boys and Girls Club of Manhattan.”

The line went silent before he finally asked, “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I felt like it was the next big step in our relationship,” I explained as a devilish grin kissed my lips. “It will prepare us both for kids someday.”

“How does me being a Big Brother prepare you for kids?”

This f*cker. He kept my bullshit game on its toes.

And I kind of loved it.

And him.

“You can teach me everything you know. One of us has to be the expert on children, and I just felt like this was more your realm than mine,” I explained. “There are just a few confidentiality papers and other legal mumbo jumbo that you have to sign, but otherwise, you’re all set. You’ll get to meet your little brother next week!” I exclaimed, but stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk when I came across a booth with the word GuyFi displayed on the side.

My eyes scanned the fine print below the logo. Masturbation Booth for men that comes equipped with a chair, a privacy curtain, and a laptop.

“What in the ever-loving f*ck is this shit?”

A twenty-something woman dressed in Doc Martens and a baby-doll dress stopped beside me and stared at the booth with a disgusted look on her face. “Gross, huh?”

“What shit?” Thatch questioned, but his call wasn’t my number-one priority anymore. I needed my own answers, and I needed them now.

“How long has this been here?” I asked her.

“I think about a month.” She shook her head. “I swear, girlfriend, New York just keeps getting weirder, and men are pigs,” she added before resuming her stroll down the sidewalk.

I agreed with her one hundred percent. My blood started to boil, and my anger rose by the second as I continued to glare at the vile display.

“Cassie,” Thatch voiced louder in my ear. “What shit?”

“This shit!” I shouted and pointed to the booth in an erratic gesture, even though he couldn’t see me. “This f*cking jerk-off booth in the middle of the sidewalk!” I stomped my boot-clad heel against the concrete.

“And it figures it’s just for men! What if I’m a horny broad who needs to rub one out?”

For f*ck’s sake, I was a horny broad.

“Can I not go into this stupid little booth and work things out?”

“Cass—” he tried to interrupt me, but it was too late. I was already on a tirade.

I pointed at a man walking past me. “How about you, baldy? You need alone time to tug on your wang?” He averted his eyes and picked up his pace to an almost sprint and crossed the street in a blur of uncomfortable avoidance.

“Cass—”

“Hey, guy in the red hat! What about you?” I gestured toward the booth. “You need a little afternoon jerk sesh before you head back to work?” I threw my hands in the air in disgust. “Fucking perverts! Goddammit, Manhattan! Get your shit together!”

Why couldn’t they choke the chicken at home into their socks or in the bathroom at work like every other goddamn guy in the country?

“Hey, Crazy.” Thatch’s loud voice caught my attention.

“What?” I snapped.

“Stop verbally assaulting every man who walks past you.”

“I can’t help it, Thatcher. I’m appalled.”

Quite frankly, it was probably more about the blatant gender discrimination than anything else.

“Wait, where are you?” he asked. “Are you on the corner of 28th and 5th?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Do you have the Big Brother paperwork with you?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Fantastic. I’m in the booth, enjoying my lunch break. Just bring them in here.”

My face scrunched up in confusion. “What?”

“Bring the papers in here,” he instructed again, speaking slowly as if that’d help me understand.

“Shut up, you liar. You’re not in that booth.”

“Just come inside the GuyFi booth, honey. I could use your tits for the motivation. All of the commotion outside the curtain has kind of ruined the mood.”