Diary of a Bad Boy

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Hey,” he says, pushing a piece of my hair behind my ear. My face turns to him for the briefest of moments.

  Oh God, this isn’t good. I did not come here for intimacy, nor did I come here for a booty call—not sure if that’s what he wants, but from the look in his eyes, I feel nervous about his next move.

  “Roark.”

  He cups my face, his thumb passing over my cheek, my stomach somersaulting from the touch. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice raspier than normal, but the intention in his words is so genuine, so sincere. It’s confusing . . . and tempting.

  Swallowing hard, I look up at him. “Do you really mean that?”

  He nods. “I do. I really fucking do.” His thumb strokes my cheek again as his eyes search mine. I barely know this man, but there is this pull I feel toward him, an ache starting to form in the pit of my stomach, an ache only for him. An ache I want relieved. He nods behind me toward the hallway breaking the spell and says, “Go.”

  Wait. What?

  “Go?” My excitement drops.

  He nods again, as if he’s trying to convince himself and takes a step back, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Guest bedroom. Now.”

  Is he serious? He wants me to go to the guest bedroom? After all of that, the look, the apology, the light touches. He just wants me to leave?

  If I truly think about it, I don’t want to stay here. But then, I don’t want to leave either.

  Mustering up a little bit of backbone, I say, “I’m not staying here again.”

  He levels me with those searing green eyes. “It’s almost two. Are you really going to make your way back to Brooklyn now?”

  I hate that he’s right. “I can get a hotel room.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Sutton.” He nods again. “Go. Sleep.”

  “But I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Not now. Not like this.” He takes a step back while running his hand through his hair. “Go, Sutton.”

  I don’t want to talk with him like this either, however I don’t want this abrupt end to our evening. But it looks like I don’t have a choice.

  Sighing heavily, I turn away and walk toward the guest room, wishing he wasn’t drunk, wishing we could hash this all out.

  Right before I touch the handle, I hear him say he’s sorry one last time.

  Ugh, why can’t he not be drunk? He seems so open, so vulnerable, as if he dropped the sarcastic and witty wall he likes to hide behind, making him that much easier to communicate with.

  But then again, maybe he’s in that state because he’s drunk.

  I spend the next few minutes getting ready for bed, picking up a T-shirt he left on the dresser, which makes me wonder if he was expecting me, if he knows me well enough that a text wouldn’t have been sufficient. But when did he put it here? Why would he think to?

  The shirt smells like him, and I shamelessly take in a deep breath as I slip it over my naked body. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and then head to bed where I plug my phone into a charger. That’s when I see a text from him.

  Roark: You look pretty tonight.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my phone close to my chest. Oh Roark . . .

  Sutton: You’re drunk.

  Roark: I know.

  Sutton: Why, Roark?

  Roark: I didn’t like how I treated you. I had to wash away the day.

  Sutton: You could have just messaged me, called, come to my office.

  Roark: I could have.

  Sutton: But you didn’t.

  Roark: I’m an asshole, Sutton. The sooner you realize that, the better.

  Sutton: You have moments when you’re not.

  Roark: Don’t hold onto them, because they’re few and far between.

  Sutton: They are, but when you have those moments, they make a big impact.

  Roark: Like when?

  Sutton: A few minutes ago, when you said I looked pretty.

  Roark: Stay away, Sutton. Stay far, far away.

  But what if I don’t want to . . .

  Chapter Nine

  Deal Sal,

  I’ve always been a fan of alcohol. Have been since taking my first sip at the ripe old age of thirteen. It’s been a friend, a confidant, a protector against emotions, and a good fucking time. Never once have I been mad at alcohol, nor have I ever said anything terrible about it, even when I’ve been kicked in the crotch and buckled over the next day from too much imbibing.

  But last night, Sal, last night alcohol betrayed me.

  Some might have thought I was too drunk to remember anything about last night, but I’ve never been that kind of drunk. I’ve been the lucky inebriated asshole who remembers every idiotic thing he’s said and done, including saying stupid shit to a girl he has no right saying anything to.

  You guessed it, I might have said some things to Sutton unwillingly. You know, things like ‘you look pretty’—which I know every girl wants to hear—but not every guy wants to say out loud especially when he doesn’t want to give the girl false hope.

  I blame alcohol. I blame it for everything. For being a dick to her most of the time when she doesn’t deserve it—even though most of my dickish moves happened sober. I blame it for holding her hand in the elevator, for entwining our fingers, for taking a moment to breathe her in, something I would have never done sober. And I blame it for the wicked thoughts I had about her last night, especially the one where my head was buried between her legs. And I blame alcohol for having to jack off in the shower this morning so I am somewhat presentable when I go to wake the ostrich.

  Christ.

  Thanks, Sal. You know, I might consider keeping the name. We’ll see.

  Roark

  * * *

  ROARK

  Just open the goddamn door. It’s your apartment, you own that doorknob, so put your hand on it and twist.

  I reach out but don’t grab it.

  Hell, what if she’s naked or something? I’m barely making it through my morning remembering those big, bold eyes of hers and the way she smelled like a fresh meadow even though it was so late.

  The hand not holding my coffee drags over my face while my mind debates. She was upset last time when I didn’t wake her up, even though technically it’s not my responsibility. Still . . .

  I sigh and reach for the handle again, slowly opening it. Please don’t let her be naked. Please don’t let her be naked.

  Although . . . a little nip slip wouldn’t kill me.

  No! It would. It would destroy me.

  Don’t be naked.

  I creak the door open and peer in.

  What the hell?

  I push the door all the way forward and find the bed completely made up and empty. The bathroom light is off, and it looks like no one has even been here.

  What the fuck? Did she go home last night?

  She better not have.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and walk toward the kitchen, where I set down my coffee to type out a text to Sutton.

  Roark: Did you go home last night?

  I wait for a response, wondering if she possibly woke up early and traveled home to her place, but when I don’t hear back from her after ten minutes, I start to panic. So many things could have happened to her if she went home last night, and I don’t think I would forgive myself if she met with trouble.

  Pacing, I consider my next move. A phone call. That’s simple.

  I dial her number and wait.

  And wait.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Sutton. Sorry I missed your call, but if you give me a little bit of time, I’ll be sure to get back to you. Have a great day.”

  Fuck.

  I hang up.

  Her voice sounds so chipper, so sweet with the cutest hint of a Texas drawl.

  Why didn’t she answer?

  I tap the counter, my fingers drumming over the hard surface as I decide what to do. Maybe another text.

  Yes, a text. Maybe she’s in a meeting and couldn’t answer. A text she can discr
eetly answer.

  Roark: Hey, can you just let me know you’re okay?

  Simple. If she had any decency at all, she’d text me back. Given her addictive southern charm, she’d never let a text go unanswered, especially one that clearly shows concern. Hell, should I have used asterisks to show concern?

  I bite my lip and stare at the text. Maybe.

  Fuck, okay . . .

  Roark: Just a quick text. *concerned*

  I’ve been playing it cool. I’m managing the panic that’s currently floating in my chest, but that text, yup, that made me look desperate.

  Very desperate.

  But you know, I’m desperate to make sure she’s okay, because she’s my client’s daughter, one of my closest clients, and I would feel like utter shit if something happened to her on my watch. Not that she is mine to watch over, but she was here last night, and if she was upset, really that upset and she left, that’s on me. I don’t want to disappoint my clients. Ever.

  That’s why I’m doing this. Trying to reach out. For my client.

  Not because I’m starting to feel something for her . . .

  * * *

  Half an hour later with no response. I’m going to kill her if she’s not already dead.

  Remember when I said I was panicking? That was nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now. I’m in full-blown heart attack mode as I make my way to her office at her dad’s foundation. I have no idea where she lives or I would have gone there, and I sure as shit wasn’t about to ask her dad. The office was the next best thing.

  When the elevators part, I storm to reception and ask, “Is Sutton Green here?” Startled, the woman who’s worked behind the desk for years now, the same woman whose name I can never remember, greets me with a smile.

  “Mr. McCool, how nice to see you—”

  I grip the desk and lean over it, trying not to look as crazy as I feel. “Is Sutton Green here?”

  The poor lady swallows hard and nods while pointing. “Down the hall, third door on the right.”

  And just like that, the lid of my head pops off and a ball of fire furies out of me as I spin on my heel and stomp toward the third door on the right.

  It’s going to happen. I’m going to kill her.

  Right here, in her dad’s business, I am going to murder his one and only child.

  Not even bothering to knock, I whip the door open, causing Sutton to jump drastically in her chair and spill tea all over her desk.

  Hand to her chest, breathing hard, she glances up at me in utter shock. “Roark, what the hell are you doing?”

  With my foot, I slam the door closed, then I lean over her desk, hands gripping the wood, my eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck haven’t you answered your phone?”

  “What?” She genuinely looks confused.

  “I sent you multiple texts and called. Are you trying to punish me? Is that your game, Sutton?” I’m positively seething and there’s no chance I can pull it back, not when there are too many unwanted and fucking confusing emotions flowing through me right now.

  “I . . . no.” Scattered, she reaches for her purse and digs around while sopping up the tea with some napkins. “I don’t have my phone on me. It’s . . . here it is.”

  Fuck.

  I reach for it. “Give me that.” She doesn’t need to see my texts. She sure as hell doesn’t need to see my asterisk usage.

  She pulls away quicker than expected, scooting her chair away and hitting the wall behind her. She clutches the phone to her chest and says, “No. This is my phone.”

  “It was mine for a while.” There is maturity and logic buried deeply within my demand. “Now give it.” I hold out my hand.

  Head thoughtfully tilted to the side, she says, “What don’t you want me to see or hear?”

  “Nothing, just give it to me. I need to check . . . uh . . . for poison. There was rat poison all over my apartment last night, and I want to make sure it didn’t get in your phone.”

  “You’re such a liar.” She looks down at the screen and her eyes soften. “Aw, you used asterisks.”

  “Christ,” I mutter, turning away, hand in hair.

  “And you called.”

  “Well, you’re not dead, so I’m leaving.”

  “Wait.” She races out of her chair and rounds her desk where she pulls on my hand to keep me in place. A wave of lavender hits me all at once as she tugs on me, forcing me to look at her. “Roark, you were concerned.”

  She’s not going to let this go. I can see it in her eyes. Sighing, I say, “Yeah, okay. I was concerned. I expected you to be in the guest room, so when you weren’t there, I thought that maybe you tried to go home, and when you weren’t answering your phone, I thought the worst.” And Harris wasn’t on shift, understandably, so I couldn’t even fucking ask him when she left.

  Her fingers lace with mine, and I know I should pull away. I know I need to discourage the intimate hold, but for the life of me, I can’t. Not when I have this weird sensation to make sure she truly is okay.

  “I set an alarm this time, figuring you wouldn’t be up for a while given your state last night, and I went back to my place to get ready for work.”

  I nod. “Yup, makes sense.”

  Her hand reaches up and fidgets with the lapel of my jacket. Christ, she’s way too damn close. “Thank you for checking on me. It makes me think you actually do have a heart.”

  “A small one, but it’s there . . . on occasion.” Knowing I owe her an apology, I suck up my pride and try to keep my hands to myself, even though my fingers are itching to push her hair behind her ear.

  Eight years younger.

  Client’s daughter.

  Sweet and innocent.

  Not the kind of girl for you.

  No. I’m not the kind of man for her.

  Subtle reminders as to why I need to keep my distance.

  “Hey, I, uh”—I pull on the back of my neck, I’m not good at this apology thing—“I’m sorry about yesterday, and how everything went down with Siri. I had a long conversation with her, and there’ll be an apology made from her as well.”

  “I don’t care about Siri. I mean, I kind of do.” She glances at the ground. “I care about how you treat the work I value. You act like it’s a joke when it means a lot to me. I’m not here to chase you around. If you really don’t want to help, I can do it all myself, but I ask that you give me the phone numbers for the celebrities who can assist at the camp. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  When the hell did I gain a conscious?

  “I’m sorry, Sutton. I wasn’t . . . in sending Siri, it wasn’t to undermine you or your job. And I certainly didn’t think about how it would look regarding your dad either. I’d never disrespect him, Sutton. Please believe that. I’m kind of an arsehole and don’t recognize when I’m hurting someone.”

  “I can’t believe you’re actually apologizing,” she teases as I pull away, needing some distance.

  “Yeah, well don’t get used to it. I’m feeling bloated this morning, off my game, so you got lucky.”

  She chuckles and takes a step back to sit on her desk. “So, are you going to help me?”

  Why does she have to look so goddamn beautiful in this tiny-as-shit office? It’s doing things to me, especially when those ridiculously long eyelashes of hers flutter, pulling back like a curtain to reveal giant pools of blue.

  Christ.

  When have I ever referred to eyes as pools of blue? Not until now, that’s for damn sure.

  Avoiding her question, because spending more one-on-one time with this woman is terrifying me, I glance around the four walls of her office. No windows, no walking room, and she barely has a functioning light.

  “What the hell is this? Did it used to be a . . . a janitor’s closet?”

  “Yeah. It’s the lemony smell that clued you in, isn’t it?”

  “This is where they stick you? The daughter of the founder? What kind of treatment is that?”
Furious, I turn toward the door about to tell Whitney to find Sutton a better place to work when once again, Sutton pulls on my hand.

  “Don’t.”

  “You can’t work in this space. The fumes alone are horrible.”

  “They’re renovating. It’s temporary and not a big deal. I don’t want special treatment just because Foster Green is my dad.”

  “Well, you sure as hell should get special treatment.”

  She shakes her head. “You, more than anyone, have proven to me I don’t deserve respect for being my dad’s daughter, Roark. So, no. I also don’t deserve special treatment, but thank you for your concern. Now . . . the camp, please?”

  Fuck. She’s not wrong.

  You, more than anyone, have proven to me I don’t deserve respect.

  I’m such a dick. Keeping her phone, making her follow after me to asinine appointments, telling her she had to stay in the guest room when I should have made sure she got home safely . . . sending Siri to meet with her yesterday . . . And she’s not even saying those words in anger. Like I deserve. It’s as though she’s . . . resigned. And she has a fucking master’s degree. I am such a fuck-up, and she’s a much better person than I am. “Yeah,” I sigh, annoyed. Annoyed at myself, not her. There is no more avoiding it.

  “And you promise you’ll show up to the meetings we agree upon?”

  Staring at the floor, I nod. But possibly because that’s not good enough for her, she lifts my chin with her delicate fingers and forces me to look her in the eyes. In that moment, I realize this is how it’s going to be between us: a demand for honesty, respect, and time. All qualities I’ve never been able to give to one single human. I’ve always faltered in at least one category, but the way her eyes fix on me, a startling awareness strikes me: I want to try for her.

  “Look at me and tell me yes, that you will dedicate your time to helping me.”

  Licking my lips, I study her for a beat before I say, “I’ll show up.”