Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(46)
I moaned, my teeth finding his shoulder and biting down.
“Yes, just like that. Christ, baby, when you catch fire, you motherf*cking burn.”
Hot damn, Kline Brooks was a certified, class-A, deserves-the-major-award dirty talker. His words served their purpose, pushing me straight over the edge and spurring my brilliant response.
“Ho-ly f*ck.”
Monday night rugby practice was gearing up, but my mind was still on the weekend—laughter and sexiness and a Benadryl-fueled trip through an allergic reaction. The mixture of all three had me smiling to myself.
Georgia Cummings was quickly becoming one of my favorite people. She made me feel high on life and like the world’s biggest idiot all at once.
Curiosity about Rose’s weekend was the only thing that kept me from thinking about how close I’d come to never experiencing what I had for the last week. Because I wouldn’t have traded the last seven days for anything, even if it were to come to an abrupt end tonight. The memories would have been worth it.
Take note, friends. Don’t close off any one section of your life from possibility. Fate gives us chances, but we’re the ones who have to take them.
A touch of the icon brought the TapNext app to life. Realization swallowed me with an unexpected sense of accomplishment. This thing was my baby. I’d nurtured it, grown with it over the years like a close friend. I’d watched it make mistakes, veer off the path to greatness, but I’d pulled it back and I was proud of what it’d become. A place where people could find almost anything. A place where people who were lucky found something worthwhile like I had.
BAD_Ruck (6:15PM): Hey, Rose. You busy? I’m just curious how the date went. I didn’t get to check in with you over the weekend.
I stared at the message window, waiting to see if she would reply. I was just about to give up waiting when the little bubbles popped up on the screen.
TAPRoseNEXT (6:17PM): If avoiding contracting bubonic plague from the passenger next to me can be considered busy, then sure. I’m just on the train on my way back from work.
BAD_Ruck (6:17PM): And the date?
“Put your phone down, K. Everyone is waiting on us,” Thatch shouted.
I looked up to find the team captains still in the middle of the rugby field, known as a pitch, chatting, but I tossed my phone down anyway. Any amount of dawdling would only be cause for Thatch to publicly bust my balls. As my best friend of more than a decade, he had too much ammunition and a specially made gun for the job.
I broke into a jog for extra measure, joining the group of no-good *s I called my teammates. Sponsorship wasn’t necessary for obvious reasons, but we played the league on the straight and narrow, using businesses to sponsor the team like everyone else. I’d volunteered Brooks Media, but with a dating site being one of the main focuses of the company, that had resulted in a resounding, “Veto!”
Instead, Wes’s restaurant, BAD—a f*cking joke of a name for all the success he had—was our sponsor and earned our team as a whole the moniker “BAD Boys.” But because everyone thought they were f*cking cute, that wasn’t enough, and the trio of Thatch, Wes, and I were forever dubbed the Billionaire Bad Boys. It was there to stay. Trust me, I’d been trying to shake it for years.
“We’re skins,” John announced to the informal huddle when he came back from the captains’ meeting.
“Fuck,” Thatch breathed, rolling his head in distress for some reason.
“What’s the matter, Thatch?” Wes asked. “Afraid one of the boys is going to pull out your titty ring?”
“Blow me, Torrence.”
“Torrence?” I questioned, feeling a wrinkle form between my eyebrows.
“It’s a Bring It On reference,” John remarked casually as he stretched out his hamstring by pulling his heel to his ass, as though it wasn’t weird that he’d know that.
When I turned my curiosity from Thatch to him, he piped up again.
“What? Kirsten Dunst is in the movie, and she’s f*cking hot.” He added, “And I have a younger sister,” when the group was slow to buy in.
“How is your sister, Johnny?” Thatch asked with a smirk.
John’s eyes flashed brightly before turning to stone. “Eighteen, motherf*cker.”
Thatch turned to me, and I could practically see what was coming. He didn’t actually want to bone John’s little sister. Not even a little.
“What’s that he said, Kline?”
He might have been a manwhore, but Thatch f*cked women—not girls just starting to make the transition. What he wanted was to poke at one of John’s pressure points just enough to make him explode.
I trained my face to look serious and held in a laugh. “I think he said she’s legal, Thatch.”
John lunged and my humor finally broke the surface. I grabbed his shirt with both hands and shoved him away playfully while Thatch busted out in hysterics beside me.
“Relax, John,” Wes coaxed. “Thatch doesn’t need your sister to fill his * punch card. He’s got all the tramps he’ll ever need right here in Manhattan.”
Thatch tsked. “There’s no card, Wes. My dick is not a Value Club.”