Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) Page 8

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:23PM): A couple of years.

  BAD_Ruck (2:24PM): And in that time, has he ever seemed like the kind of man who lets his personal life affect business?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:25PM): Actually, no. Picture of professional. Business always comes first with him.

  BAD_Ruck (2:25PM): Then what’s different now?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:26PM): I honestly don’t know.

  BAD_Ruck (2:26PM): Smart money says it’s you, Rose.

  He had a point. Kline Brooks had never given me any reason to doubt the decisions he made. He wasn’t a player. He didn’t make a show out of fucking anything in a short skirt and pair of heels that sashayed around the office.

  Leslie was a perfect example. The girl was gorgeous and made a job out of flaunting her curves for the world to see. And I’d yet to see Kline act anything but annoyed with her—no salacious glances or devilish intents flashing across his eyes. He was ever the professional when his new intern was around. Most days, he was doing everything he could to push her off on someone else.

  But my dating Kline equaled us getting to know each other on a more personal level. If one date turned into more, then eventually, he would know other things about me. Things I wouldn’t normally want my boss to know.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:27PM): Can I be frank with you?

  BAD_Ruck (2:28PM): I guess. I’m surprisingly partial to Rose.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:28PM): I said frank, not Frank, Ruck.

  BAD_Ruck (2:29PM): Have you ever not been frank with me?

  I laughed, startling the pen out of the crossword woman’s hands.

  “Sorry.” I cringed, leaning forward and picking it up from the aisle.

  “No worries, honey.” She took the pen from my outstretched hand. “Two words for puppy amuser?” she asked, grinning.

  “Chew toy,” I answered.

  “Aha! You’re right! Thank you!” And that was that. She dove right back into her crossword, tuning the rest of the world out.

  I replayed past convos with Ruck in my head. I tended to be pretty open and honest with him, maybe a bit too much. The other night I had kept him up until one in the morning discussing why most men thought anal sex was a good idea.

  He’d ended the conversation with, “I’m not going to speak on behalf of all men, because let’s face it, there are some real morons in my gender. But for me, when I really want a woman, I want to claim every part of her.”

  See what I mean? He gives damn good convo.

  That response made me instantly jealous of the woman Ruck had set his sights on. Even I couldn’t ignore the sexiness of Ruck going caveman and wanting to claim every part of her, whoever she was. Lucky bitch.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:30PM): There’s another reason I’m nervous.

  BAD_Ruck (2:31PM): Okay…

  BAD_Ruck (2:32PM): Are you going to freely give this reason or is this an invitation to pry?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:33PM): Ugh…

  BAD_Ruck (2:34PM): Do you have a foot fetish you’re trying to hide?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:34PM): No. I don’t even like my own feet, much less anyone else’s.

  BAD_Ruck (2:35PM): An ex-boyfriend’s name tattooed across your lower back?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:35PM): I do not have a tramp stamp!

  BAD_Ruck (2:36PM): Hairy back moles?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:36PM): I’m a lady, Ruck. I’m smooth everywhere.

  BAD_Ruck (2:37PM): Damn, Rose. Stop talking dirty to me. We’re trying to talk you off the ledge, remember? Not push me out onto it.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:40PM): I’m a virgin.

  BAD_Ruck (2:41PM): An anal virgin?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:42PM): No. A certified, my-pussy-has-never-been-penetrated virgin.

  BAD_Ruck (2:44PM): Jesus.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:45PM): That’s sweet, but we don’t have time to pray right now.

  For what seemed like an hour, I watched the text box bubbles move as he gathered a response.

  BAD_Ruck (2:48PM): This scenario deserves a prayer. Hell, it deserves an airplane banner with the words, “Get your shit together, men, because dreams can come true. There are still gorgeous, sexy, intelligent women out there who are saving themselves for the right guy.” Christ, I think you might be the last twenty-something virgin in New York.

  The last twenty-something virgin in NYC? Gah. That did not make me feel better. That made me feel a hell of a lot worse. I sounded pathetic.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:50PM): That’s one crazy long banner. And thanks for the vote of confidence. I feel even worse about it now. I’m not a total prude, by the way. I’ve been with men. I know what a penis feels like in my mouth. I’ve just yet to find the right penis I deem worthy of sex.

  BAD_Ruck (2:51PM): You’re killing me right now. Do you even realize how rare you are, Rose?

  Now, I do. I was the last twenty-something virgin in New York! I might as well have offered up my vagina to the Museum of Natural History. Surely, it would be shown in the fossils display. I could already picture it, right beside Tyrannosaurus Rex’s teeth.

  The Last Virginal Vagina in New York.

  Georgia Cummings 1990-2080

  Died happily in her Chelsea apartment, surrounded by all sixteen of her tabby cats.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:53PM): Yeah, I’m the last single virgin in NYC. I might as well start stocking up on cat food because my future is looking very glum at the moment.

  BAD_Ruck (2:54PM): Rose. Listen to me. This is not a bad thing. You’re funny, intelligent, and obviously beautiful. And you’re confident enough to know what you want and how you want it. Your confidence and self-respect are sexy as hell.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:54PM): Well, when you put it that way, I sound really awesome.

  BAD_Ruck (2:55PM): Because you are. So, tell me why your sexual history is even factoring as a problem in your mind?

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:57PM): My experiences in telling a guy I’m a virgin have never ended well.

  The reactions I received were not usually great. I either became a challenge, where getting into my pants became their sole purpose in life, or treated like some pariah, as if my virginity was a problem that needed a solution. Sometimes, I wondered if it would be easier telling a guy I had crabs.

  BAD_Ruck (2:58PM): I can imagine. Most of us are just grunting cavemen.

  TAPRoseNEXT (2:59PM): Exactly. And I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I told this guy I’m a virgin. He has potential. He could end up being more than just one date. I’m just worried if I tell him, I’ll end up being a challenge instead of something more.

  Wow. Even I was surprised by that response. Did Kline Brooks really have the potential to be something more?

  BAD_Ruck (3:01PM): If he’s worth your time, he won’t see you as a challenge. Of course, he’s going to be silently thanking God you’re willing to give him the time of day, but he won’t make a one-eighty and just focus on trying to get in your pants. And from what you’ve told me, he doesn’t seem half bad. He apparently knows how to separate his personal life from business. And he doesn’t have a reputation of screwing all of the women in your office. This isn’t the New York norm.

  Everything he said was true. Kline’s track record was a good one. He wasn’t plastered all over Page Six with a different woman on his arm. He wasn’t known as some playboy. He was just Kline—handsome, attractive, and all-business Kline Brooks. Which only made me more curious what he was like outside of the office.

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:04PM): So, let’s just act like you’re him for a second. When would you want the whole “I’m a virgin” bomb to be dropped?

  BAD_Ruck (3:05PM): Before it got to the point where our clothes are off and I’m sliding a condom on.

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:05PM): LOL. Obviously.

  BAD_Ruck (3:07PM): If you’re asking me when to bring it up…I don’t really have an answer for you. It should come up organically. You know how dates go. Eventually, the whole sex topic does come up. Your being a virgin isn’t a fucking crime, so don’t feel like you have to confess
it the second the date starts.

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:07PM): Good point.

  BAD_Ruck (3:08PM): Feel better?

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:08PM): Consider me officially off the ledge.

  BAD_Ruck (3:09PM): Fantastic. Good luck tonight.

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:10PM): Thanks, Ruck. Enjoy your date with whomever the lucky woman may be.

  BAD_Ruck (3:11PM): Dirty talk and a compliment in one convo? You’re too good to me. And listen…

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:12PM): LOL. Yeah?

  BAD_Ruck (3:12PM): If all this advice turns out to be shit, I might be able to help you out with the cat acquirement. I know a guy.

  TAPRoseNEXT (3:13PM): And that’s my cue to officially end this convo. Bye, Ruck.

  BAD_Ruck (3:12PM): Bye, Rose.

  I hopped off the subway way uptown, and instead of heading to my apartment, my legs strode for the one place that always helped take my mind off things. It was a quarter after three. I had four hours to get my hair done, get ready, and meet Kline at the event.

  If there was one thing I was good at, it was choosing a kick-ass hair color to suit my mood.

  And if there was one thing Betty, my hair stylist, was good at, it was fitting me in last minute. She was a genius when it came to color and cut. If I told her blonde, she’d find the perfect shade to match my skin tone and have me trimmed, dyed, and out the door within two hours.

  Hmm… From red to blonde? That might be the best idea I’ve had all day.

  “Nervous.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m fucking nervous.”

  I guess Walter was having an effect on my life like my mother had predicted. Although, I highly doubted me talking to myself was what she’d had in mind.

  That was what this was, though. It had to be. The illusion of someone being there, listening, and fooling me into saying all of my rambling thoughts out loud rather than reciting them internally.

  Long and unkempt, his whiskers flowed freely from beneath his nose, and in keeping with his old man status, stuck out haphazardly from his kitty eyebrows. His white-rimmed eyes rooted me to the spot with their contempt, and the subtle stripes in his fur did nothing to soften his appearance.

  “This is your fault,” I told him, his wolflike ears mocking me with every word.

  One uninterested lick of his lips is all he gave me in return.

  “What? Nothing to say? No support?”

  He licked his paw and wiped his face before turning abruptly and sauntering out of the room, holding his tail pointedly straight in the cat version of a middle finger salute.

  “Thanks for nothing, asshole,” I shouted after him.

  Jesus.

  I shook my head as I stepped in front of the mirror to adjust my tie. This was a whole new level of low. Not only was I talking to the fucking cat; I was yelling at him.

  Tonight had my stomach on edge in a way it hadn’t been since I’d given Tara Wallowitz my first kiss behind the gym after our seventh-grade dance. She’d had braces and I’d been drowning in all my awkward, barely-a-teenager glory. Two sets of fumbling hands, an overaggressive tongue, and a cut to my lips later, it was over.

  I didn’t foresee tonight with Georgia being like that at all, but the basis of my feelings was remarkably similar. Out of my element and thrown off by her initial lack of enthusiasm, I’d put in a lot of effort over the last couple of days to turn it around and smooth the way for tonight’s date. But now I was invested. I cared how tonight went. And that hadn’t been the norm in a long time. I felt a little like I was walking into a set-up with no tools to escape the consequences. That wasn’t cool. MacGyver was cool, and he always made tools out of whatever he had. I’d have to do the same.

  “Mr. Brooks?” my intercom squawked.

  I grabbed my phone from the counter and jogged the five steps to press the button.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your driver’s here.”

  “Thanks.”

  I snatched my wallet and keys off of the front table and slid out the door without looking at myself in the mirror again. I’d already spent far too much time questioning my tie color.

  I was not the kind of guy who carefully considered every element of my outfit. Tonight was the closest I would ever get to contradicting that.

  “Frank,” I greeted as I approached the car, reaching a hand out to shake his. On days like today, I couldn’t help but notice how much of his time I monopolized.

  “Mr. Brooks.” His greeting was warm, and he had a face to match. A smattering of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes pointed to a life filled with laughter, and the gray of his hair hinted at the possibility of a daughter or two.

  “I wish you’d call me Kline,” I said with a smile, knowing it would never change.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I shook my head and gave him a friendly slap on his shoulder with the hand not clasped in his. “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should apologize—dragging your ass all over town all day and night.”

  “No trouble at all, sir.”

  I chuckled again. “This makes twelve hours in this shift, right?”

  “Yes—”

  “And you’ve still got the rest of the night to go?”

  “It’s no trouble, Mr. Brooks.”

  A nod was all I could give at the time, so I did. It was a gesture that made it possible to get on our way, to get to the benefit, and to get busy letting Frank off the hook. I’d embellish the not-nearly-enough gesture with a fatter-than-expected tip on the bill later.

  I slid into the car and Frank closed the door behind me. I unbuttoned the coat of my tuxedo and pulled at the lapels to make it stop feeling like it was choking me.

  As Frank climbed into his seat, he spoke again. “Another stop, sir?”

  Forced to give an answer I didn’t like, I shook my head. “No. Straight to the benefit.”

  He nodded and pulled the gearshift into drive. “Yes, sir.”

  I’d been hell-bent on picking Georgia up like a proper date, but apparently, on this matter, she had a closer relationship with the devil. Refusal was too kind a word to describe her reaction when I had suggested my driver would pick her up. In fact, she’d looked like the suggestion was more revolting than stepping in dog shit.

  And I understood to a point. I personally hated taking the car, preferring immeasurably to take the subway and people-watch. I didn’t even mind walking fifteen blocks on a nice Manhattan day.

  But certain aspects of my life demanded the car. It kept me on schedule during the day, on time to the office, and never late to meetings. Without the motivation of someone like Frank waiting on me, and the desire to respect his time, I’d have been late everywhere I went.

  I liked to wander too much, experiment with new spots in the city and observe people as they met and chatted and said goodbye.

  Human behavior was fascinating, and I found the more I studied it, the easier it was to manage all of my people-based businesses.

  I glanced down at my phone, feeling guilty for checking it on my way to my first date with Georgia, but at the same time, not being able to help myself.

  Nothing. All quiet.

  My conversation from that afternoon with the mysterious Rose burned in my mind. I hated the fact that any woman would feel like being a virgin was something to be ashamed of or even be embarrassed to talk about it. But I was also a man, and fuck, it wasn’t a stretch to understand why. I could feel myself becoming more and more irrational the longer she’d talked about it, even knowing that she’d come to me for honest advice.

  I’ll be honest. I had to advise my dick to calm the fuck down.

  Very scumbag-like of me, I supposed, but I was convinced hearing or seeing the word ‘virgin’ or ‘anal’ or ‘sex’ fired some kind of hormonal response in the heterosexual male mind.

  Maybe it fired it in the homosexual male mind too, but I didn’t have any firsthand experience to confirm.

  Photographers lined the entrance as we pulled up to 30 Rock, a well
-known skyscraper in New York City and home to several entities, including NBC Studios. For me, on this night, it was the Rainbow Room I wanted, an iconic restaurant on the sixty-fifth floor and host to the benefit for Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital. The fundraiser was being held by an outside organization made up of the well-meaning wealthy. I wished they’d spend less money on the event and donate it all to the fucking hospital, but the truth of it was that this was what it took to entice people into donations and make it feel worthy of their money. Schmaltzy entertainment, expensive food, and an evening out.

  I was here to hand over a check, make my mother happy, and enjoy the evening with Georgia, the level of importance of each not relative to their order.

  The dog and pony show passed by in a blur, camera flashes and shouted questions melding and mixing together as I covered my eyes and stepped inside.

  Security for the event had taken over two of the elevators, and a small line trickled from the doors of each all the way back to me.

  I scanned the crowd for Georgia, hoping to find her sooner rather than later, but, after several sweeps, came up completely empty. It was one of the perils of coming separately, I supposed, but I didn’t want her to feel awkward or alone while she waited for me.

  A check of my watch confirmed that I was on time, and the line was moving fast. I’d be up there to look for her in no time.