I am going to murder him.
Murder. Him.
* * *
This is not how I pictured my night going. I envisioned snuggling up with Louise on my bed and watching Outlander while eating my favorite Thai food from the place two blocks away. I envisioned wearing one of my night shirts, fuzzy socks, and tying my hair up and out of my face. A little lavender oil on my wrists, and the familiar comfort of a fluffy feline tucked next to me. The perfect night.
Instead, I have the frightful sound of club music blasting me in the head. I’m still wearing a pair of tight jeans, my hair is constantly falling over my face, and instead of a fuzzy feline, I’m sitting between two sets of couples doing their best to score some action tonight, their eager bodies constantly bumping against me. So gross.
I lean forward and look at the brunette with long wavy hair, plump lips, and really shiny legs that Roark has chosen for the night. She must have put oil on them, after she left half her shirt at home. I don’t quite see the appeal, but then again, I’m a country girl who never thought having to show half my breast is the way to win a man’s affection.
Despite how I feel about the girl, I should probably still warn her.
Leaning more forward, I scoot around Roark’s body and tap her on the knee. When she glances at me, giving me one of the nastiest looks I’ve received all day, I curtly wave at her. “Hey, hi. I’m Sutton,” I shout over the music and point to Roark. “I thought I’d warn you. During our activities today, we stopped by the doctor to check to see how his venereal disease is doing. Results back soon.” I hold up my crossed fingers to her.
When she gives Roark a full-on once-over and then stands, I know my job here is done. We didn’t go to the doctor today, but if he wants to make my life hell, I can easily be a cock blocker.
Once she’s gone, Roark expels a long breath and then leans against the couch. He glances in my direction and says one word. One word that satisfies me, knowing I won this round.
“Cute.”
He shakes his head and finishes off his drink, sets it on the table in front of us, then stands. Before he can get far, I pull on his shirt. “Hey, where are you going?”
“Outside to get some fresh air.”
“I’m going too.” I stand and stumble over the people next to me. Roark rights me and takes off, looking far more annoyed than necessary.
He’s fast, so I panic as I make my way through throngs of people, neglecting my jacket and scarf. I move past two bouncers, who know me by now, and follow Roark out a back door that he props open with a piece of wood.
Once outside, the chill of the air hits me first, and then I hear the flick of a lighter. Leaning against the wall, head bent over, Roark lights a cigarette then rests his head against the brick once it’s lit, blowing out a long puff of smoke.
Smoking has never been attractive to me, but for some reason, in this moment with Roark under a dim street light, his Adam’s apple poking out, one leg kicked up against the wall, there’s something very hot about the entire picture.
Not bothering to look at me, he holds out the cigarette and says, “Want a puff?”
“No. I don’t smoke.”
“Good. Don’t ever start.”
I fold my arms over my chest and move back and forth, my long-sleeved shirt doing nothing to block the cold from getting to my bones. Please let him be a really quick smoker.
He lulls his head to the side and looks me up and down, shaking his head. “You know you can go back in there. I’m not going to ditch you, not in a nightclub. I have better morals than that.”
And for some reason, I believe him.
“The break from the music is nice.”
Still staring me down, he sighs and pushes off the wall to take off his jacket that he wisely remembered. He tosses it to me, and thank God for quick reflexes, I snatch it before it hits the ground.
“Put it on so you don’t freeze to death.”
The wool of his jacket is so warm. “But what about you?”
“You need it more. Don’t make this a big deal; put the goddamn thing on.”
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
I throw the jacket over my shoulders and slip my arms through the holes, immediately getting sucked into his scent framing me in a big hug. Oh boy, this is dangerous. No wonder shiny legs was all over him. His scent alone will attract a gaggle of women, but throw in his good looks and accent and he’s the man you can’t help but be drawn to. Even if he annoys you. And I still can’t get lunch out of my mind. My dad clearly respects Roark, and once he spouted off his credentials and I realized he wasn’t just a professional drinker, I felt more confused. My dad is not someone to support fools, and if he has sponsored Roark, that means he believes in him. And that’s what boggles my mind. Roark McCool is such a contradiction, and I don’t know how to process him.
I swallow hard and try to focus on anything but his cologne.
“So,” I clear my throat, “this is what you call fresh air?”
He lets out a puff of smoke. “The freshest.”
“You know that’s not good for you.”
“Thanks, Pollyanna.”
Yeah, I deserve that one. I’m nervous. Nervous for many reasons, the biggest one being how attracted I am to him. It’s crazy—really freaking crazy—because even though he’s been rude and surly, I keep feeling pulled toward him from the smallest of gestures, like him giving me his jacket, or his slight smirk when I get angry.
I should walk away now and consider my phone a lost cause, but for the life of me, I can’t. And then instead, I step forward.
He glances at me, those green eyes cutting past the thick color of his short beard. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me weird.”
Crap. “Am I?”
“Yeah, stop it.”
“Sorry.” I look away and toe the ground, trying to come up with something to say. “Uh, how old are you?”
“Older than you.”
“Obviously, but how much? Like forty?”
“What? Fuck you.” He chuckles, thankfully. “I’m thirty-two.”
“That was my second guess.” I smirk.
He takes another drag from his dwindling cigarette. “Smart-arse.”
Silence stretches between us so I ask, “Don’t you want to know how old I am?”
“Only young people say shit like that, as if they need to prove they’re seasoned, not as young as they seem.”
Ignoring him, I say, “I’m twenty-four.”
Lazily his eyes drag up my body and settle on my face. “Yeah, it shows.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Flicking his cigarette on the ground, he stands tall and sticks his hands in his pockets while assessing me. “You’re eager, ready for work, and too bubbly to have really experienced the hardships of life just yet. Unharmed, innocent, and fresh from the educational womb, you have a lot to learn about real life.”
He pushes past me, his little lecture not bothering me since it’s coming from a pessimistic man. Hot man, but very pessimistic.
“What?” he asks, looking at my hand pressed against his arm. Large flakes of snow start to fall from the sky, lighting up the area around us.
With my best smile, I point at his discarded cigarette and say, “Are you going to pick that up? It’s littering if you don’t.”
Exasperated, he picks up the cigarette butt while muttering, “Unbelievable.”
* * *
I have no idea what time it is, as it seems like time stands still in this dark abyss of a nightclub. I do know I’ve had three sliders, probably twenty shrimp—if I’m honest—some mac and cheese balls, and at least four little macaroons that tasted like heaven on my tongue. I’ve drunk water the whole time, being that girl, and on occasion my toe has tapped to some songs I’ve thought were a little catchy.
Roark has been sitting next to me, an arm draped over the back of the couch, the other grippin
g a tumbler of whiskey he’s barely touched since we’ve been back inside.
His client is here. They spoke for what seemed like ten seconds, shook hands, and then the giant basketball player was on his way. He’s now in a dark corner with a girl on his lap and she’s doing all sorts of gyrating.
Let’s just say this has been an eye-opening night for me.
I glance at Roark, whose eyes are looking at nothing really in particular. “Soo . . .” I drag out. “Are you ready to go?”
I’m expecting a witty retort, something to put me in my place like he’s done all day, but instead, he stands from the couch and leaves his partially finished drink on the coffee table.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Thank God.
I quickly put my jacket on, wrap my scarf around my neck, and then pull my winter hat from my purse and secure it on my head. When I turn to Roark for him to lead the way, his brow is pinched, taking me in.
“You act like we live in Alaska.”
“It’s cold and snowing; at least last time we saw the outside it was snowing. I like to stay warm.”
Rolling his eyes, he waves to a few people and heads toward the front of the club. I try to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, but I keep getting knocked around, rubbed up against, and pushed in different directions.
“Christ.” I hear Roark’s Irish lilt right before his hand clasps around mine and pulls me behind him.
Warm and large, his hand wraps around mine, securing tightly, sending a wave of warmth straight up my arm.
I’ve held hands before, so this isn’t new, but what is new is the way his fingers hold on to my hand so tightly, or the rough texture of his skin as if he doesn’t sit behind a phone for his day job.
I’m so consumed by the feeling of our palms pressed together that I don’t even notice the guy blocking my way until he slams into me, sending me backward. If it wasn’t for Roark hanging on to me, I would have easily face-planted onto the sticky, alcohol-covered floor.
“Hey, dipshit,” Roark booms, still holding on to my hand while gripping the guy’s shirt and getting in his face. “Watch where you’re going.”
I’ve seen that look in Roark’s eyes before. He had it right before he pummeled the guy in the hot dog shop. I need to diffuse this before it gets any worse. Especially if my dad is Roark’s sponsor. He would be so upset if Roark got into more trouble.
Stepping in, I place my hand against Roark’s chest and step between the two men. Roark’s chest vibrates as he takes a step closer.
“Stop,” I sternly say, pulling his attention away from the guy. When his eyes land on me, I say, “Don’t start anything. It’s not worth it.”
His jaw works back and forth, and I can see his temper start to ease. I hold my breath, waiting for his next move, hoping I diffused the situation. The speed in which this man becomes angry astonishes me. It’s like an immediate switch. Scary really. I feel his heart beating so quickly against my hand, he’s shaking. I’ve never seen this sort of . . . raw anger at such close range. And it was only me who was bumped, not him. He takes a quick, shallow breath and turns away, heading toward the front of the bar, still holding my hand, and I smile to myself. What is he thinking right now?
But that smile quickly falters when we step outside to what feels like an all-out blizzard. At least half a foot of snow has already fallen. All the sidewalks are covered, the streets are clear, and there doesn’t seem to be a soul in sight.
“Was it supposed to snow this hard?” I ask, pulling my hood over my head.
“No idea. Don’t pay attention.” Without another thought, he turns to the right and starts walking, his hand no longer holding mine.
“Hey, wait,” I call out. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“To get the phone?”
“Sure,” he calls out, his head turned down and hiding from the fast-falling snow.
“Sure?” I jog through the thick, cold snow to catch up to him. “What do you mean, sure?”
“I think you have bigger things to figure out.”
“What do you mean?”
He picks up his pace and crosses the street, barely looking both ways, but then again, he doesn’t need to because the streets are clear. No wonder he hasn’t hailed a taxi.
“It’s two in the morning, it’s snowing, and you live in Brooklyn. How the hell do you plan on getting back home?”
Oh.
Crap.
He takes a right down a posh-looking street and then jogs up to the entryway of a nice-looking building. A doorman opens the door while giving Roark a quick nod. “Cold one, Mr. McCool.”
“Freezing my balls off,” he calls out. “Stay warm, Harris.”
Stomping his feet on the ground to knock off some of the snow, he goes to the bank of elevators and presses the up button as I take in the opulence of the marble floors and crisp black walls with gold light fixtures. Very old-school New York, very cool.
The elevator dings, and just like the rest of the day, I follow Roark and watch as he puts a key card into the elevator and presses the P button, which I’m assuming stands for penthouse. If I didn’t know already that he makes a lot of money, I know now.
We’re silent on the ride up, my mind whirling. Two in the morning? I’m never out this late, especially by myself. How on earth am I supposed to get home? I could use the subway, but this late at night? That freaks me out. Even walking around with Roark scares me, and we only walked a short distance.
The elevator doors open straight into Roark’s apartment, his very sparse apartment. There are no decorations, no frills. Furniture and that’s it.
Hmm, I don’t know why I thought there’d be more to his place.
Roark takes off his jacket and tosses it on the couch before heading to the kitchen. His built frame pushes against the fridge as he peers into it. He snags a water bottle and holds one out to me. “Want some water?”
“I’m good,” I say nervously. This oddly feels a lot like that awkward moment you have with a guy right before you start to have sex. You know, the one where he takes you up to his place to make small talk, but within five minutes you’re tearing clothes off? I hope Roark doesn’t have that impression of me. He’s going to be sadly mistaken if he does.
Water bottle in hand, he leans against the counter and takes down half the bottle in one swig. It’s weird that I’m impressed.
“So, about that phone.” I rock on my heels, looking around.
“Yeah, it’s on my nightstand, charging.” At least he had the decency to charge it.
“Can you possibly get it for me?”
“I can.”
He doesn’t move.
“Okay. Like now?”
“What are you going to do? Head back to Brooklyn?”
I adjust my purse on my shoulder. “Uh, I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
“Figures.” He finishes his drink and tosses the bottle in the sink. “Guest room is off to the right. Everything you need is in the attached bathroom.”
“What? You think I’m staying here?”
He shrugs and passes through the living room. “Your choice.”
He walks down a narrow hallway, and I’m tempted to follow him again but think better of it, knowing he’s getting my phone, but when he doesn’t return after a good ten minutes, I wonder if I should have followed him.
Why does he have to make things so difficult?
Unsure, but also desperate to have a small piece of me back, I walk down the hallway and call out his name. When he doesn’t answer, I move even farther to a partially open door.
His bedroom.
If I open this door and he’s passed out on the bed, snoring, I’m going to kick him right in the ass.
But when I press forward, his bed is empty and instead, I find him walking around in a low-slung towel, wet hair, and droplets of water cascading down his perfectly defined chest.
Oh my.
He glances in my
direction. “Took you long enough.” He grabs my phone from the nightstand and tosses it at me, then heads back into the bathroom where I hear him brushing his teeth.
I stand there. Unsure.
Do I attempt to go home? I’m not traveling the streets by myself, especially at this hour. But staying at Roark’s screams madness. Although, madness describes my day perfectly. The only thing that’s making me even consider staying is that he’s my dad’s agent, and if Roark ever tried anything, Dad would hear about it and wouldn’t be happy.
“Are you still standing there?” Roark asks, hand poised at the knot of his towel.
“What?” My gaze snaps up. “Well,” I fidget under his stare, nervous as to what to say, “we, uh . . . we didn’t have a proper goodbye.”
Out of all the things to say . . .
“If you’re looking for someone to tuck you in or bid you farewell with a goodnight kiss, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Turning away, he whips his towel off and slips into bed.
It’s the second time I’ve seen his butt today and it still has the same effect on me, setting a ball of fire off in my stomach, warming up all my veins.
I chew on my lip, and he must notice because he sighs and says, “What?”
“You wouldn’t, uh, want to escort me to Brooklyn, would you?”
“Not even if you offered to suck my cock before we left. I’m naked, in bed, and about to go to sleep. You can either leave or you can go to the guest room. Either way, tell me now so I can set the security system.”
Oddly, that’s the reaction I expected from him. I guess I don’t have a choice in the matter. I’m not going out on the streets in this blizzard by myself, which means one thing: I’ll be shacking up with Roark McCool for the night.
Pointing my finger at him, I say, “No funny business, you hear me? I’ll be locking my door and I sleep very lightly, so any movement in my room and I’ll hear it. I will report you if you try anything.”
“Christ,” he mutters, dragging his hands over his face. “Trust me, lass. You don’t have to worry about me coming anywhere near you. Now get out of here. I’m tired.” Yup. Hearing you loud and clear.
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 7