“What?” I shout.
There is no way Roark is my dad’s agent. The guy is irresponsible, a total disaster, and . . . young. Aren’t agents supposed to be old with balding heads from running their hand through their hair for too many years?
I shake my head. “Stop playing with me. He’s not your agent.”
Stepping forward, Roark reaches his hand out to me and says, “Roark McCool, best agent in New York City.”
I swat his hand away then turn back to my dad. “He’s a joke. I can’t believe you’re using him. He got in a fight over ketchup, Dad. How is that professional?”
“Never said he had the best level of personal professionalism, but he’s done more for me in the past two years than any agent ever has.”
Ugh, if I think about all the endorsements and major contracts my dad has signed over the last few years, especially at his age of forty, I can see what he’s talking about, but still . . . Roark is his agent?
“Dad, you can’t be serious.”
“As much as I love this conversation about your lack of confidence in me, I believe I have a meeting with your father.” Roark gestures toward the hostess, but I cut him off before he can make a move.
“Just hand me my phone and I’ll leave.”
He shrugs. “Don’t have it with me.”
“What? Yes, you do.” Without thinking, I reach toward him and dig my hands in the pockets of his jacket. “It has to be in here somewhere.” I fling his jacket open looking for an inside pocket. When I come up short, I reach for his pants pockets, but a hand grasps my shoulder and pulls me away.
“Sutton Grace, stop feeling up the man in front of your father.”
“No need to stop her.” A full-on grin spreads across Roark’s face. “I was enjoyin’ it.”
Ignoring both of them, I point at his pants. “Empty your pockets.”
Eyes locked on me, he pulls his pockets inside out, revealing . . . nothing. “Son of a Ritz freaking cracker.” I toss my hands up in the air. “Why on earth don’t you have my phone?”
“Didn’t need it for my meeting with your dad. Left it back at my place.”
I pull on my hair, frustration eclipsing me. “I need it.”
“You know, this is perfect actually,” my dad says, “because I wanted you two to meet anyway.” He gives Roark a serious look and points to him. “We’ll have that private conversation a little bit later, but for now, how about we all sit down to eat? I’m starving, and I want to speak with both of you.”
“What? Why?” I ask, but my questions go unanswered as my dad guides me with his hand at the small of my back.
What on earth could my dad possibly want to talk to Roark and me about? We have nothing to do with each other.
And why does Roark smirk every time we make eye contact?
And why does he smell like God blessed him with all the pheromones He had bottled up?
Chapter Five
Dear Gary,
Do you know what song always plays on repeat when I hear the name Gary? That stupid fucking song Ron Howard sings as a young kid with a lisp in The Music Man. Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana, my home sweet home. Fucking little pint-sized Ron Howard.
Gary’s not going to work out, because I can’t be singing a goddamn showtune in my head day in and day out. Sorry, pal.
I have a meeting with Foster Green today and I’ll be honest, I’m going to lie out my ass about my eye, because I know he’ll have a fire lit under his ass if he finds out I was in another fight. And even though he’s my client, I look up to the man. It’s why I work hard for his wrinkly old ball sac.
I have a few options I can go with when it comes to the black eye. What do you think I should say?
Walking and texting, ran into a light post?
Yeah, kind of lame.
Old lady beat me in the face with her purse because she thought I was robbing her when in fact, I was helping her across the street?
Totally unbelievable, I know.
Then I’m going to go with an old classic: wasted off my ass and ran into a wall.
Always a winner. Once again, you were a trooper.
Thanks, Gar,
Roark
* * *
ROARK
I need another goddamn drink.
Badly.
This one is getting low.
If I knew the girl with the cell phone was Foster Green’s daughter, there is no way in hell I would have told her about the naked pictures in my phone.
I still would have given her a hard time, naturally—because that’s the kind of dickhead I am—but the naked pictures I would have deemed too much.
And what are the goddamn odds?
And why is she so fucking gorgeous? She’s prettier in real life with her platinum-blonde hair and wide blue eyes, all innocent looking but full of unreleased rage.
And her tits . . . Foster needs to tell her to lock those things up. Her shirt is way too low-cut. I keep catching myself as my eyes are like magnets to her nipples, trying to see right through the fabric of her shirt.
This little lunch date is uncomfortable for many reasons, and one big one is pressing against the zipper of my jeans.
If I knew I’d be this attracted to the girl, I might have returned the phone a little sooner and then taken her out . . . for a drink. I don’t do dates.
“If you have any questions about the specials, just let me know,” the waitress says, giving me a sly once-over before retreating, an extra sway in her hips.
Nice.
Uh, what were the specials? Between Sutton’s tits and the waitress eye-fucking me, I don’t know what happened over the last few minutes.
“The chef’s salad sounds good, don’t you think?” Foster asks. “But iceberg lettuce, I don’t know.”
Sutton leans over, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. Sexy. “But Dad, the iceberg is of such high quality.”
“With zero nutritional value. Might as well eat the guacamole burger and onion rings.”
“Not even close to the same.” Sutton gives her father a look.
He pats his stomach and says, “It’s the off-season, Sutton Grace, which means your dad can eat whatever he wants.”
Well, isn’t this just fucking cute. Dad and daughter with playful banter. It’s not nauseating at all.
And the asshole in me is tempted to make a snide comment about wanting to throw up after that little display of family ties, but I hold back because Foster Green is one of my biggest clients, and I want to keep him, especially given the endorsements I’ve been able to score him lately.
Instead, I sit back in my chair, bring my tumbler to my lips, and take a long swig, letting the amber liquid slide down my throat, coating me with numbness.
“What are you going to get, Roark?” Foster asks, peering at me over his menu.
I lift my tumbler in his direction and give it a little shake. “Drinking my lunch today.”
A disapproving sound comes from his daughter that I ignore as I take another—long—chug from my drink. When I set down my empty tumbler, she sneers at me, clearly not on board with my lunch idea.
“Do you have a problem with my lunch, Sutton?” I ask, her name rolling off my tongue with ease.
Chin held high, eyes still trained on the menu, she says, “No problem. I just don’t think it’s very professional, but I guess you skipped right over being professional, didn’t you?”
“I think your father would be concerned if I didn’t have a drink at one of our meetings.”
We both look toward him, and like the smart man he is, he lifts his menu, avoiding eye contact with both of us. Playing Switzerland. Foster Green has always been one of my more intelligent clients.
“Maybe try a meeting without it,” Sutton suggests. “Get some fiber in your system.”
“Fiber, when all they’re serving is iceberg lettuce these days? Fuck that.” I pick up the menu and spot the first thing under the pasta dishes. I set it back down. �
�I’ll get the mac and cheese. Happy?”
“I couldn’t care less. It’s your choice.”
“Couldn’t care less?” I laugh. “You just lectured me about not drinking my lunch. I’m only getting mac and cheese so you’ll stop judging me with that sneer in your lip.”
She covers her mouth. “There is no sneer in my lip.”
Foster leans to the side and speaks quietly, but not quietly enough. “There was a little sneer in your lip.”
“Dad!”
“What?” He chuckles. “There was,” he answers with a shrug and then sets down his menu. “Besides, you two are going to have to start getting along if you’re going to work together.”
That makes me sit up straight. “Work together?”
“What?” Sutton practically shouts, eyes wild.
The feeling is mutual, sweetheart.
Tamping his hands down to control our outburst, he says, “Let’s order and then we can get to business.” Turning toward me, he points at my tumbler and says, “That’s your last drink for this meeting. Get some food, man.”
With a smile tugging on her lips and a lift in her shoulders, Sutton proudly picks up her menu again and peruses it, acting as if she just bested me.
It’s going to take a lot more than that to best me, lass.
* * *
And this is why I don’t really eat food, or heavy meals for that matter.
Mac and cheese was such a bad idea. It feels like I just swallowed a brick of cheese. It’s swirling around in my stomach with my whiskey in the worst way possible.
I’m bloated.
I want to pass out on this table, forehead into half-eaten plate.
And the burps. Christ. So many unflattering, what feels like beer burps that I’ve had to discretely hide because, heaven forbid, I let one out with Miss Manners sitting across from me. She might wilt in her chair.
“You look like you’re ready to take a nap.”
I glance at the all-black Gucci watch on my wrist, making a show of it, and say, “Well, we are closing in on my nap time.”
Foster chuckles but Sutton doesn’t look the slightest bit amused.
“I don’t want to keep you too long, so I’ll get to the point. I called this meeting not only to catch up with you, Roark, but to discuss the hours you have to put in.”
“Hours?” Sutton asks.
“Community service hours,” Foster clarifies and then turns to me. “Do you mind if I share with my daughter?”
“My life is an open book.” I wave him off.
It really is. I couldn’t care less about what people know about me. The more they know, the better actually, because maybe they’ll get the hint I’m not looking for any new connections in life, and I’m perfectly fine with just my two best friends.
Want to know about my childhood? It was simple, boring. Raised in Ireland, had a father who didn’t give two shits about me, and a strict Irish-Catholic mother who used—and broke—wooden spoons on me more times than I can count.
College, yeah, I’d tell you if I could remember. What I do know is I was part of a fraternity. I was drunk every day, threw up in trash cans around campus a lot of the time—I was that guy—and my social game was so damn good I ended up managing the careers of some of my close athlete friends straight out of college.
And now, I pull my head out of my ass when I need to do business, I land some of the biggest endorsement and contract deals in the sports field, and I party almost every goddamn night to get away from the rest of the world.
To forget.
It’s a simple life, one I’m happy with.
And yeah, I might get in some fights, and I could have possibly gone to jail, but only because the hairy-backed, pointy nipple shithead I nailed in the jaw was too much of a pussy to punch me back. He called the cops and reported me.
I’m sure it won’t be the last time it happens.
Clearing his throat, Foster turns to Sutton and says, “Roark got in a bar fight recently and rather that going to jail”—Sutton’s eyes widen—“he’s on probation, has to fulfill multiple hours of community service, and has to go to anger management courses.”
She snorts. “And how’s that going for you?”
I pluck a piece of lint off my black jeans. “The therapist and I are still getting to know each other.”
“And since he’s going to anger management and checking off that box—”
“Doesn’t seem to be working since he clearly still loses it over the stupidest thing. Dad,” Sutton says, “he got in a fight over ketchup.”
“The dick was making a big deal over nothing and needed to be put in his place.”
“You almost ran me over with your idiocy.”
“Is that what this is really about?” I ask. “Were you scared?”
“Yes, I was scared. I was terrified. How did you know the guy didn’t have a knife or a gun?”
I shrug. “You just know.”
Sutton throws her hands in her air. “I can’t believe this guy is your agent. Out of all the people, Dad, you picked the most ill-behaved, unprofessional, out-spoken guy on the planet.”
“On the planet?” I lift my brow. “Wow, now that’s quite the title.” I pretend to write in my hand. “Making note of that for my résumé.”
“Enough,” Foster says, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “Christ, it’s as if I have two children.”
“Yes, exactly,” Sutton points out. “I’m so glad you’re finally realizing that. This man is a child.”
Leaning forward, I nod at her. “He said children, plural, meaning you’re acting petulant too.”
“You are, Sutton Grace,” Foster says. “And it’s making me question if you’re ready to work for the foundation.”
“What?” she asks, panic searing through her eyes. “Dad, I worked my ass off and got a master’s degree, even though it wasn’t required for my position. That’s more than I can say for him.” She thumbs toward me, and though I can be even-cooled for the most part, all it takes is one person to flip my switch and I fly off the deep end.
She’s tinkering with my switch.
“How do you know I haven’t worked my ass off to get to where I am?” I counter.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Please. Did you even go to college?”
“He went to Yale,” Foster says with a grin.
“Yale?” Sutton sits a little taller. “You went to Yale?”
“Yeah, I did, lass. And I fucking graduated with a three-point-eight GPA. Understanding economics was a bitch for me.” And also, it was the early class, and I had a hell of a time trying to stay awake through it.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. From there, I managed Tyler Gaines, Henry Kumar, and Westin Hanks straight out of college. Made some mistakes, but then I created some huge opportunities. From there, my business grew. I have twenty employees who work under me, I represent more than fifty professional athletes including your father, and I have secured some of the biggest contracts in sports history. I make twenty percent—yeah, twenty because I’m that damn good—off every single athlete I manage. Your dad made over one hundred million dollars between his last contract and endorsement deals that I’ve landed him. Do the math.”
She’s silent, mulling it all over, so I continue. “I might drink like my ancestors and get myself into bloody trouble whenever I get my hands on it, but when push comes to shove, my job comes first, and I do a damn good job at it. So, before you go and judge me, know this: I know I’m a fuck-up socially, but when it comes to business, I’ll talk my way through any contract, tripling the income of my client every goddamn time.”
Finally, she lifts those bright blue, soul-searing eyes at me and says, “You could still stand to be more professional.”
Jesus Christ.
Foster laughs out loud and pats Sutton on the back. “That’s my girl. Raised with sweet southern charm.”
Is that what society is calling retched witches now? Ladies with sw
eet southern charm? I beg to differ.
“And as much fun as I’m having watching you two spar, I need to go. But before I take off, I want both of you to know I spoke with Whitney and since I vouched as your sponsor, Roark, I’ve set up a way to meet all your community service requirements while helping me out as well.”
I glance at Sutton whose mind looks like it’s whirling a mile a minute, and before Foster can tell me what the plans are, she reaches out to him. “Dad, no.”
“Sutton Grace.”
“Please, Dad. I never ask you for anything, but please don’t do this.”
“You asked me last week for tickets to the Justin Timberlake concert.”
I snort—loudly—which in returns grants me an evil eye from Sutton.
“Only because you were taking pictures with him at a game. I wasn’t entirely serious.”
Entirely . . . nice way of putting it.
“But seriously, Dad, I can’t work with this man.”
Work with me? Hold on a second. “Work with her?” I ask, pointing at the woman in question.
“Yes, you two will be working together on the Gaining Goals camp down at the ranch.”
Sutton groans and I sit up straighter. “Down at the ranch? What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to be spending some time in Texas.”
“Texas?”
“Yup, Texas.” Foster stands and puts on his suit jacket while staring at the both of us. “I think it will do you both some good to get to know each other. The best way to shape our lives and add more culture to it is learning to understand others who might not be like us.” He turns toward me and with a stern look says, “Don’t let me down, Roark. You owe me this.”
Fucking hell. Way to lay the guilt on thick. Although, he is right. I do owe Foster Green, as he did step in where others may have not. Shit.
Leaning down, he places a kiss on Sutton’s head and then shakes my hand. “I’ve got the tab,” he says before leaving us in our stunned and speechless state.
Texas? Working with Sutton? Working for free? Seems like Foster just set up my own personal hell.
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 5