Thankfully, Laura returns, steps into the aisle right between my brother and me so I can no longer see his descent into oblivion, and sets my coffee next to the unopened beer. “Sorry it took me a minute, Mr. Cruz. We’re getting ready to get underway, and I didn’t want to hold things up. I had to do my preflight checklist.”
I shake my head and smile slightly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff?”
“No,” I say in dismissal. “I’m good.”
Of course, Brogan hears her question from the other end of the plane and inserts himself without shame. “I need something, Laura Lou!”
She turns and makes her way farther down the aisle toward him. I sigh heavily in her wake.
“Sure. What can I do for you, Mr. Cruz?”
Despite my misery, I can’t help but laugh a little. No doubt, this is the only time Brogan has been referred to as Mr. Cruz in his adult life.
“Can you put a few towels and shampoo and shit like that in the bathroom for me? I’d like to take a shower.”
“Of course.” Laura nods. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff?”
“Hmmm…” Brogan taps his chin. “You wouldn’t happen to have any Oreos and milk back there, would you?”
Jesus H., I’ve entered the Kindergarten Twilight Zone. It’s apparently time for snacks now. I can only hope nap time is next.
Laura nods again. “We have both in the galley.”
Brogan grins and slaps his knee. “Fantastic!”
I swear to God, if he starts asking for fruit snacks and M&M’s, I’m going to throw his eccentric ass off this plane—but not until we hit peak altitude.
“Do you want them now or after your shower?” Laura asks kindly, and the utter insanity of her question makes my head throb.
“Just bring ’em out, and I’ll decide,” he says and puts his slipper-covered feet up on the backward-facing seat in front of him.
I sigh. This is going to be a long-ass flight. We’re not even off the fucking ground yet.
Laura brings out the cookies and milk, but thankfully, my phone chimes from inside my pocket with the sound of a text message before Brogan starts gorging himself on them.
I dig it out and open the alert to find it’s a message inside an ongoing group chat with a few of my closest buddies.
Cap: Book Club tonight. Be there or be square, losers.
Ah hell. The Billionaire Book Club.
About a year ago, our weekly poker night turned into a literary spectacle, all thanks to Cap wanting to get laid. In the end, though, the joke was him. The motherfucker up and fell and love and is now engaged to be married.
Despite a good seventy-five percent of us attending under protest, for some unknown reason, the Billionaire Book Club has lived on.
Between the lot of us, we own billion-dollar hedge fund companies, tech companies, media conglomerates, world-renowned hotel chains and resorts, one of the most prominent law firms in North America, and the New York fucking Mavericks.
The outside world would be shocked to find out we read romance books on a biweekly basis.
Wes: The fact that we’re still having Book Club, after you somehow managed to get Ruby to fall in love with you, makes zero fucking sense.
I grin. My thoughts exactly, Wes.
Thatch: The first rule of Book Club, Whitney, is that you don’t fuck with Book Club. That’s sacrilegious, and I will not fluffing tolerate it.
Wes: Maybe we should change the name to The Billionaire Book Cult. We’re one step away from mandatory matching outfits anyway.
Thatch: Very fluffing funny. Cassie would never allocate the funds to build a Thatcher Kelly altar for you fools to worship at, and we can’t have a cult without an altar.
Kline: Right. That’s the reason we shouldn’t have a cult.
Thatch: And you bastards better have read the book and come prepared to discuss it tonight or else.
Wes: Or else, what?
Thatch: DON’T TEST ME, WES.
Wes: Calm your tits. I’ll be there. And I read the book.
Kline: Did you read it, or did you make Winnie read it and give you the rundown?
Wes: Does it really matter?
Kline: LOL.
I have to smile. I wonder how many of us, statistically speaking, are actually reading the books. Fifty percent? Maybe?
Thatch: Wes, how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t have your wife reading the books for you! Fluffing hell.
Cap: Wes, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re getting awfully fucking close to getting the boot from Book Club.
Wes: Oh…no… What will I do without Book Club?
I laugh to myself. Wes’s sarcasm couldn’t be any clearer if he stenciled it on their foreheads in permanent marker. These chickens are about to cluck, so I type out a message quickly, while I still have a shot in hell at getting a word in edgewise.
Me: I can’t be there for the next two weeks. I have a club opening in Positano. On a plane right now as we speak.
Cap: WHAT THE FUCK, THEO???
Wes: You lucky bastard.
Thatch: I expect that you’ll keep up to speed on the nightly reading, Theodore. I would be really fluffing disappointed if you came back from your Italian getaway and hadn’t read a single word.
Cap: Speak for yourself. Just this once, I’ll be disappointed if he comes back and knows anything about these books at all. Get out there and get your back scratched, young man.
Good God. My hand comes up to cover my eyes instinctively. I don’t know the exact reasoning, but I know immediately I’m not going to want to read what comes next.
In an attempt to rein them in before they get out of hand, I text a concise reminder.
Me: This is a business trip.
Cap: There’s no law that says you can’t get business done and get “down to business” at the same time, son. Get that sad, lonely, little dick sucked, for shit’s sake. Even second-string cocks need to get off the bench every now and then.
Thatch: Theo’s cock isn’t a second-stringer. I’ve seen it at the gym. That thing’s a goddamn starter.
Jesus. Sometimes I really have to remind myself why I’m friends with these guys. At the very least, I’ll be looking for a new gym when I get back.
Me: Great talk, guys. Really. Loved it.
Cap: Thank you.
Smartass.
Kline: Have a good trip, Theo. I wouldn’t recommend you listen to the stooges, but I do think there’s time for a life outside of work. Just think about it. You might find something completely unexpected.
I sigh. It’s one thing to ignore the circus clowns, but it’s usually another to ignore Kline Brooks. He’s acted as a guidepost for almost every single one of these guys—and for good reason.