Bram claps his hands in amusement. “What a twist; I didn’t see that coming.” He takes a sip of his drink and says, “Let me guess, you have to work for her dad’s foundation to fulfill your community service?”
I scratch the side of my jaw. “Something like that.”
“Fucking perfect. You two are going to fall in love.”
“We’re not going to fall in love. Not only is she my client’s daughter, she’s only twenty-four.”
“So?” Bram shrugs. “Eight years isn’t that big a deal when you think about it. And Julia is younger than I am.”
“Julia is only two years younger than you,” I point out, kind of agreeing that age doesn’t matter all too much. She just seems younger to me because I work with her dad. And she’s so naïve and prim . . . and fucking adorable. No. Scratch that. Client’s daughter . . .
“Two years, eight years.” He weighs his hands. “Same thing.” He’s so delusional. “Tell me this, do you find her attractive?”
“I’d be blind if I didn’t. But she’s not my type. Way too innocent. She has that whole good girl vibe going with the big eyes and the inability to swear. I would feel like I was robbing her of her innocence if I attempted to do anything with her.”
“You’ve thought about it,” Rath says with a smile.
“Not in the way you’re thinking. It’s not something I’m interested in.”
“You say that now. . .” Bram drags out, “but just you wait. You’re going to be begging to go on a date with her. I can see it in your eyes.”
I don’t know what the hell he’s seeing, but there is nothing there, nothing at all.
* * *
Sutton: I gave you a day to gather yourself. Now can you please act like an adult and tell me when we can meet?
Sutton: Avoiding me is not a choice you’re going to want to make.
Sutton: I’m not afraid to get my dad involved. Don’t make me play that card.
Sutton: Okay, you’re tempting me. I have an email typed out to him, ready to send, ratting you out.
Sutton: I just put his name in the address bar.
Sutton: I’m about to press send.
Roark: Jesus, six texts in an hour. I have a goddamn job, you know.
Sutton: Oh hi. How’s your day?
Roark: What do you want?
Sutton: You know what I want.
Roark: You don’t have to ask, lass. Come and take it.
Sutton: Are you talking about your penis?
Roark: Heavens no. That would be unprofessional.
Sutton: Ah, I see what you did there with the sarcasm.
Roark: See, asterisk not needed.
Sutton: Look at this fun banter. Don’t you want to do this in person and talk about the camp?
Roark: No.
Sutton: We have to meet up.
Roark: The only thing I HAVE to do is take a leak. Talk to you later.
Sutton: You can . . . “take a leak” and talk to me at the same time.
Sutton: Hello?
Sutton: How long does it take you to pee?
Sutton: Does your pee ever burn.
Sutton: ^^^ sign of an STD.
Roark: You’re so goddamn annoying.
* * *
Sutton: Did you smoke today? Remember when you told me you were going to quit?
Roark: What? I never said that to you.
Sutton: Ah ha! Got you to answer on the first text.
Roark: Unbelievable. Didn’t anyone ever tell you lying is a sin?
Sutton: You lie to me constantly.
Roark: Never claimed to be a saint.
Sutton: Neither have I.
Roark: You’re not kidding anyone, Sutton. You’re a good girl.
Sutton: Not true. I do things.
Roark: Someone who is a badass doesn’t say they “do things”
Sutton: Oh yeah, well . . . I used to steal Tic Tacs while in line at the grocery store.
Roark: How old were you?
Sutton: Irrelevant.
Roark: Were you seven?
Sutton: No . . .
Roark: Yeah, okay. Night, Sutton.
* * *
Sutton: Rise and shine. Are you ready for our meeting today at nine? I’m bringing scones.
Roark: We don’t have a meeting.
Sutton: We could.
Roark: I’m busy.
Sutton: You’re not! I know you’re not. Please, for the love of freaking Jesus, meet up with me.
Roark: Why do you need me so badly? Just give me a job.
Sutton: Your job is co-organizer.
Roark: The fuck it is.
Sutton: Don’t you read your emails? Whitney said the only way she’s going to approve your hours is if you help me organize. We’re in this together.
Roark: She did not say that.
Sutton: Yes, she did. Check your emails.
Sutton: Did you check them?
Sutton: Hello?
Roark: I’m going to have a conversation with your father about this.
Sutton: Don’t even bother. I already tried talking to him. He’s set on this decision.
Roark: Then just do it all by yourself and slap my name on it.
Sutton: I wish I could, it would be a hell of a lot easier, but it’s too much work and I need your help with celebrities.
Roark: Christ.
Sutton: So . . . nine? Scones?
Roark: No.
Sutton: Roark! PLEASE!!
Sutton: Hello?
Sutton: Don’t ignore me!
Chapter Eight
Dear Ralph,
Ralph, Ralphy? Ralph-sef?
Yeah, not feeling it.
Did you hear the news? Word on the street is Foster Green is an imaginative and evil asshole. I love the guy for many reasons, millions of them sitting in my loaded bank account, but ever since he decided to be my sponsor, it’s like he somehow detached my balls, stuck them in his little fanny pack, and is wearing them around his waist, keeping them in close quarters, making it impossible for me to get around his little game.
Co-organizer? Do I look like a goddamn planner? I don’t do shit like that. I hire people . . .
Whoa, hold up a second.
An idea just sparked in my head. Yes, a very brilliant one. An incredibly brilliant idea.
Maybe this diary thing isn’t so bad, after all.
Don’t get excited, that was a lie. I’d rather poke my balls with a freshly sharpened pencil than sit here and write to you.
Roark
* * *
SUTTON
Sutton: Did you know I make the best butter cookies out there?
Roark: You’re just going to text me random things now?
Sutton: You’re refusing to answer my phone calls.
Roark: You can stop those by the way. I’m never going to pick up. Stop wasting your time. Work efficiently.
Sutton: I highly doubt you’re the one to be giving out advice on work ethic.
Roark: I don’t know. My bank account thinks otherwise.
Sutton: You’re so full of yourself.
Roark: And yet you keep texting me.
Sutton: When are we meeting?
Roark: Tomorrow, noon, at Makers on Broadway.
Sutton: What? Are you serious?
Roark: Yes, don’t be late.
Sutton: You better not be kidding me.
Roark: I would never.
Sutton: Yeah, right.
* * *
Clutching my folder close to my chest, I shift from side to side, looking around for Roark. I’m early so I don’t need to panic yet, but he does have a track record for not showing up, and his instant change of heart was a little startling. I almost didn’t believe him, so when I called the restaurant to see if he made reservations and he did, I was shocked to say the least.
“Miss Green, your table is ready. This way.”
“Thank you.” I glance back at the door one more time before heading toward the back of the restaurant. She
sits me next to a window, offering me a street view. At least I can keep an eye out for Roark if he walks this way.
After getting situated, I pick up the menu but all the words kind of float together, making it impossible to concentrate. To be honest, I’m a little nervous about seeing Roark again. Not because of what we have to talk about, but because of the way my body reacts to him whenever he’s around. I get all hot and bothered, my face flushes, and for some reason all I can picture is his ass when he talks to me.
I might also think about it when he texts.
I blame him.
Butt cheeks should be sacred, not something you show a stranger willy-nilly, and do you know why? Because when you have nice, tight butt cheeks, it’s all the other person can think about. And is that fair? No.
Now you can see my apprehension of seeing Roark.
Butt cheeks.
Firm, tight butt—
“Miss Green?”
Startled, I nervously laugh and look up to find a young lady with brown hair standing over me, a welcoming smile on her face and a laptop bag clutched to her side.
“Yes?”
She holds out her hand proudly and says, “I’m Siri, like the lady on the phone.”
“Uh . . . hi.” I shake her hand, because I don’t want to be rude.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” She sets her bag down and removes her jacket before taking a seat across from me. “Can you believe this weather? They have no idea what to do with all the snow, but of course the city never sleeps, right?” She picks up the menu and gasps. “Oh, I love a good wedge salad.”
Am I missing something?
Who is this Siri, and why does she know me?
And why is she acting like I’ve been expecting her this whole time?
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Siri looks up at the waitress and nods. “Unsweetened iced tea please, and can I get the wedge salad? I’m famished.” She hands off the menu and smiles at me.
“And for you, miss?”
I blink a few times, utterly bewildered. What is happening right now?
“Uh, I’ll have the same,” I answer, perplexed.
Once the waitress leaves, Siri starts up again. “Do you have a love affair with wedge salads too? I’ll tell you, it’s an absolute problem for me. Whenever I see one, I always get it because I can’t help myself. It’s the bacon. I really think it’s the bacon. What about you?”
Smiling psychotically—I can feel it—I nod and gently place my hands on the table, trying to be as nice as possible. “I’m sorry”—I swallow hard—“but do we know each other?”
She chuckles. “No, but I do come on a little strong, so I can see how you would get that impression.”
Still confused, I glance around the restaurant for Roark, wondering if he’s standing at a distance, watching me, as if this was some weird joke he’s playing on me, but when I don’t see any sign of him, I turn back to Siri who’s sitting there . . . staring at me.
“You’re very pretty.” She covers her mouth, almost embarrassed. “I don’t mean to be weird, but I’m a little outspoken.” You think? “But you are very pretty. Your eyes are gorgeous. Such long eyelashes. Are they real?”
Okay, is this some weird setup? Am I on a date and don’t even know it?
“I’m sorry.” I try to be as polite as possible. “But I’m a little confused. I’m supposed to be meeting Roark McCool for lunch—”
“Oh my gosh, of course he didn’t tell you. That’s so Roark.” That’s so Roark? As if they are really familiar with each other. Who is this Siri, really? “I’m his assistant. He put me on this project. He wants me to head up everything with you. I’m super excited. I was doing research all morning, and I have so many wonderful ideas. Starting with moving the entire camp to the city. We’d be able to have so many more celebrities at our disposal, and the media coverage would be explosive. We could really turn this into a promotional piece.”
I hold my hand up, my politeness slipping. “Excuse me, but the plans are set for the ranch in Texas. We don’t want media attention, because that’s not what this is about. Roark is supposed to find and liaise with the select athletes chosen. I’m sorry if this is rude, but I’m afraid your involvement on this project is not needed, Siri.”
“He said you would say that.” She smiles, but it’s not so charming this time. “I’m going to level with you, Sutton. Roark is a busy guy. He doesn’t have time in his day to talk about menial things like kids’ camps.”
“Menial?” My voice rises. “Let me tell you this, Siri. I spent an entire day with the man, following his every move, and if he has time to go to random post offices and have two-hour massages, the least he can do is have the decency to show up to this required business meeting.” I toss my napkin on the table, now devoid of all my southern charm. “And I’ll have you know, what my father does for those kids is anything but menial. I suggest you research a little harder next time.”
With that, I grab my things and storm out of the restaurant with one though on my mind, giving Roark a big southern tongue-whipping.
* * *
Sutton: I have lost all respect for you.
Roark: Didn’t even know you had a little left.
Sutton: Why didn’t you come to the meeting?
Roark: Didn’t Siri explain?
Sutton: Excuse my language, but Siri is a bitch. She was very rude and unpleasant.
Roark: Funny, I heard the same thing about you.
Sutton: She called my dad’s camp menial. I don’t know about you, but that is both condescending and insulting to me. I don’t take kindly to people disparaging my dad and the years of hard work he’s put into helping others. He takes more pride in that than the stats he’s racked up and the awards he’s won over the years. So for your assistant, sent on YOUR behalf to represent YOUR thoughts, to belittle his legacy like that is unacceptable, Roark. I know you have no respect for me. Whatever. But this has certainly taught me how little YOU respect my dad. And in my eyes, that’s even worse. Clearly, all you care about is the money you’ve made from him. It’s disgusting. You disgust me.
Roark: Hell, Sutton. I’m sorry.
Roark: Sutton?
Roark: Hey, you there?
Roark: Fuck.
* * *
After a long bath, a large hot chocolate with a cup of marshmallows, and half a package of Oreos, I’ve finally calmed myself down and can act like a rational adult.
At least that’s what I told myself when I was in my apartment, but now that I’m pacing the lobby of Roark’s apartment building, waiting for him to get off his nightclub shift, I’m thinking rational adult is nowhere to be found and crazy person is present.
I thought I said my peace through text, but when I saw his texts after, the heavy regret in his words, I had to see if he meant it, if he really was sorry. But he’s out partying, so there is my answer. Surely . . .
Maybe a little crazy, maybe a little desperate, but that’s where I’m at, because that’s where he’s put me. I’m not sorry for what I said to him, because it was all true, and it still angers me. But if he’s sorry . . .
“Can I get you a water bottle, Miss Green?” Harris asks.
“I’m good, Harris.” I look at my phone. One fifteen. “How long does Mr. McCool usually stay out?”
“Depends on the night. I wish I could be more exact.”
“That’s okay.” I take a seat on one of the stiff couches in the entryway. “Does he stay out late every night?”
“Almost every night, but at least once a week he stays in.” He winks. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
The door blows open and Harris rushes over to prop it open for a very wobbly and glassy-eyed Roark. Oh great, he’s drunk. I should have known. This was a stupid idea. Why did I bother?
“Mr. McCool, good evening.”
“Hey Harris.” He pats him on the shoulder and makes his way into the entryway. He gives me a brief glance before con
tinuing toward the elevators. He’s about to press the up button again when he slowly turns back around and looks at me, head tilted. “Sutton?” He studies me for a few beats before something crosses over his features. Before I can address him, his eyes narrow and he strides toward me, taking my hand in his, pulling me toward the elevators.
“What are you doing?”
He presses the up button and the elevator immediately opens. He pulls me in, inserts his card, and pushes the P button. He then turns on me and laces his fingers with mine, an intimate hold I wasn’t prepared for, and in that second as we climb up the multiple floors in his apartment building, his warmth spreading through me, I feel the icy façade I erected start to melt away.
I want to be mad, I want to yell and scream at him, make him feel as bad as I felt earlier, but with one glance at the regretful look in his face, I realize he was sincere in his texts. Not just sincere, but heartfelt and that cools the heated anger that was billowing inside of me while I was waiting downstairs.
I know it shouldn’t . . . but it does.
There is something about this man that scarily pulls on my heartstrings in ways I’ve never experienced before. He runs hot and cold, confusing me and flipping my opinion of him from good to bad in seconds. He’s exhilarating with his smart mouth and quick wit, but there is also a softer side of him I could bet my life he doesn’t show to many people.
And I know I can honestly say I’m one of the few people who is privileged to see past the bad boy persona.
The doors part and he pulls me into his apartment, eyes fixed on me, the heat in his pupils sending off a serious warning alarm.
It didn’t go unnoticed that he came home alone, or that when he saw me, there was the smallest of smiles that graced his handsome lips and now he’s desperately holding onto my hand, willing me to stay with him.
And with all the unfamiliar feelings swirling inside me, I know I should let go of his hand and walk away, but my brain can’t seem to move my feet, no matter how much it screams and yells at them. I want to stay, I want to see where this electricity that’s sparking between us goes. I want to know what that soft, sincere look will bring me.
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 9