The Billionaire Next Door (Billionaire Bad Boys #2)(73)

Last night Reese and Tag had showed up at Eli’s warehouse apartment to find Eli at the end of a session with his physical therapist. They’d hired a male therapist, knowing that Eli’s particularly abrasive attitude might be tempered by a guy he could relate to. The therapist they’d found was former military, tough, and didn’t take any shit. Eli seemed to be conforming and had done his leg exercises with minimal swearing.

“I’m not used to seeing him without a leg yet.”

Tag might never get used to it, and he had no idea how the hell Eli felt about it either. His brother hadn’t exactly opened up.

“He has these bouts of pain. Last night they were so close together…” Eli had a big one during dinner—delivered submarine sandwiches. Eli had cried out and slumped over in his chair. Tag had vacillated between unhinged anger that this had happened to one of the best people he knew and the now familiar feeling of helplessness that he couldn’t do a damn thing to help Eli through it. After Eli had caught his breath, he’d left his veggie sub uneaten and retreated to his bedroom.

“He’s tough as nails, Tag. Always has been,” Lucas said gently, pulling Tag from his thoughts. “He’s going to make it through this and come out better for it.”

God, he hoped so.

“Keep getting in his face. He needs you, even if he doesn’t show it.”

“I know.” Tag reached for his water bottle. No way was he going to bail on his brother. Eli was stuck with him. “What are you grinning like a jackass about?”

“Rachel,” Lucas said, pushing himself to standing and snagging his own water bottle in the process.

Tag stood, too, and Lucas kept smiling, even when he took a drink of his water.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Seriously. Lucas looked like the freaking Joker.

“What are you talking about?” Tag tossed his towel over his shoulder and angled for the exit. He knew exactly what Lucas was talking about, and frankly, he didn’t want to talk about it.

“You and Rachel.” Lucas followed him out of Crane Tower’s gym and into the elevator. Tag punched the button for his penthouse.

“You joining me in the shower or something?” he grumbled as they rode up.

“I’m going to use one of your showers, and then I will require a beer and an explanation.”

“For?” Tag stepped out on his floor and opened his front door.

“Come on. You’re not going to admit it?”

“Lucas. What?” Tag elevated his arms, half pissed, half terrified at what his best friend was about to say. Because he knew. God help him, Tag knew exactly what Lucas was about to say. Then with an even bigger shit-eating grin, Lucas stabbed the air and told him.

“You’re spun.”

“Am not.” Tag tossed a hand and walked to his bedroom. “Towels in the hall.” But Lucas wasn’t shaken.

“Like a Tilt-A-Whirl, Taggart Crane. You are f*cking spun.”

Tag stopped in the doorway and regarded the ceiling, looking for what, he wasn’t sure. Strength? Answers? A clue Lucas was wrong?

Spun was a term they’d used when one by one their friends began falling victims to women, losing their single status and voluntarily handing over their man cards. Lucas was among the last, save for Tag, who’d kept the dream alive.

“Shit, I thought I was going to be sick the night when we all went to the concert,” Luc said. “And not because you and Rachel were kissy-facing all night.”

“Give me a break.” Tag so did not want to have this convo with his best bud. Not now. Not ever.

“I live vicariously through you.” Luc put a palm to his chest. “Through your conquests and exploits. I love my wife, but watching a player that good at the game turn in his balls…” He gave his head a reverent shake. “You are a master. Or used to be, anyway.”

“Lucas, for Christ’s sake.”

“You know when to get out, how to keep the honeys happy. I swear the only thing you’ve ever been scared of in your life is one of them sticking around.”

Tag took a deep breath and wondered if he marched over and punched Lucas in the face if he’d shut up or hit him back.

“You act different with her. And it’s because you’re spun,” Lucas continued. “I think you know it, and I think you want Rachel to know it. Have you told her yet? Have you tested out the three-word bomb in the bathroom mirror?”

“I’m not spun. I’m not scared,” Tag bellowed. “And if you’d like to find your own balls and have a manly discussion when I’m out of the shower, I’ll offer you a beer. You keep going with this chick shit, you can leave.”

Without waiting for Lucas’s response, Tag shut his bedroom door, but through the wood, he heard his so-called friend comment, “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Tag kicked off his sneakers and went to the bathroom sink, bracing his hands on the edges. He regarded his reflection, a slightly sweaty guy who needed a shower and a slap in the face.

Wake up, man.

He hadn’t practiced the three-word bomb in the mirror like Lucas had suggested, and he wouldn’t do it now. But Tag was beginning to think he’d lied to his best friend—that he’d been lying to himself.

Because right now the Tag in the mirror looked both scared and spun.