Diary of a Bad Boy

by Quinn, Meghan

  When I look at Sutton, she’s staring at me, worry and anger in her eyes. Before I can say anything, she says, “We have to get out of this.”

  How the young live in the clouds.

  I might spend my days with a bottle in my hand, but I also know reality when it smacks me across the dick, and Foster Green just pulled down my pants and handed me a hefty dose of dick smacking. I heard finality in his voice. His mind is set, and there is no way either one of us are going to get out of our predicament without losing a valuable part of our jobs.

  “It’s cute how delusional you are.” I fold my hands over my stomach.

  “You don’t have to be a condescending ass,” she counters, wincing with the swear word. I shouldn’t find that adorable, but unfortunately I do.

  “Just telling you like it is. There is no way in hell your father is going to change his mind on this, so you better figure out a way we can work together without really having to work together.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, sounding curious.

  “You’re the planner of the event. Just give me a task that grants me a shit ton of hours and lots and lots of miles away from you.”

  Hand on her hip, she says, “I can hardly see why you want to be away from me. It’s not like I’ve done anything to you. You’re the one who’s kept my phone hostage.”

  “Yeah, and because of that, I’ve learned all your annoying tendencies, and I would like to stay as far away from them as possible.”

  She shakes her head in disbelief and stands from her chair. “You really are something else, Roark McCool.”

  “Why thank ya, lass.” I smile proudly.

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Eh, I took it as one.”

  Fuming, she walks over to me and pulls on my sleeve. I swat her away, but she pulls on it again. “What the hell are ya doin’?”

  “Encouraging you to stand. We’re getting my phone, now.”

  “That’s what you call encouraging? If you wanted to encourage me to stand, you would have held a bottle of whiskey between your tits, and I would be at your beck and call.”

  “Oh my God.” She pulls her jacket close together. “Don’t be so crude.”

  “Just giving you a little lesson on Roark, that’s all.” I stand, feeling heavier by the second. Cursing the mac and cheese, I swing my coat over my shoulders and punch my arms through the holes. Looks like I’ll be doing some goddamn cardio tonight, the devil’s chore.

  “I don’t need a lesson. I need to make this as painless as possible.” She secures her purse over her shoulder and pulls me by the jacket out of the restaurant and onto the chilly street.

  “Christ,” I mutter, buttoning up my jacket.

  “Okay, take me to my phone.”

  “I don’t have time,” I lie, bouncing on my toes as the wind punches me in the face.

  In defiance, she says, “Well, I’m going to be your shadow until I get it.”

  “Fine by me.” I shrug and reach out to hail for a taxi. “Follow me all you want.”

  “I will,” she says, sliding next to me, her small body lining up against mine. “And don’t try to ditch me either. I’m going to be stuck to you like glue.” This is going be fun . . . or epically bad.

  Chapter Six

  Dear Ebenezer,

  I’m typing this into my phone—which I easily confiscated from Sutton when she wasn’t looking—as I ride down the streets of New York, trying to look like I’m doing something.

  I might have made an unnecessary big show about my job, and yeah, I worked semi-hard to get where I am today. I drank a lot, made friends, and know how to please the right people with tales from the land across the pond. But now that Sutton is watching my every move, I feel the need to act like I’m sending a shit ton of emails, when in reality, I’m a sad motherfucker making a journal entry I couldn’t care less about.

  And while we’re on the topic of being a sad motherfucker, I really think Ebenezer is a terrible name. If there is one thing I know, no self-respecting lady is ever going to fuck a guy named Ebenezer. Sorry, pal, but facts are facts. You might have a giant dick but no one will ever see it.

  Sorry your sex life sucks.

  Roark

  * * *

  SUTTON

  I wasn’t kidding when I said I was going to be his shadow. I have not let this guy out of my sight and I refuse to give in until I get my phone, especially since he already took his back when I wasn’t paying attention. Well, I might have been showboating a bit with it in my hand, trying to tease him in the taxi, so when he popped my hand up from underneath, knocking his phone away, I was caught off guard.

  And when I reached for it, trying to steal it from his iron-clad grasp, I was instantly assaulted by his cologne, his wonderfully hypnotizing cologne. I failed and was put into a dizzy stupor for a few seconds before I recognized that my nose was planted into the sleeve of his coat, sniffing. When he asked what I was doing, I thankfully recovered quickly by saying I was sniffing him for drugs. Maybe slightly insulted—still can’t read him well—he told me he might be a fuck-up, but he didn’t do drugs.

  He didn’t seem like he did, but I didn’t want to be caught sniffing his arm like a creepy stalker who finally got her captive alone in a small space.

  “Where are we going now?” I ask, tapping my knee while looking out the window. “The post office was a real treat.”

  “Yeah, a fucking joy.” He looks at his watch and smiles. I can tell there’s something up his sleeve, and I want to know what it is. We’ve already been to his office, where we walked around the main floor, tapped the tops of cubes, and then walked back out. After that, we went to a juice place, and I watched as he downed two of those wheatgrass shot things, which was a total shock. We then went to a tailor where he was fitted for a suit, which might have done a little something to my insides, seeing this ultimate bad boy get fitted, the fabric stretching perfectly over his well-defined muscles. That was a hard hour for me, wanting to look anywhere but at him, and when he called me out for avoiding him in the mirror, I flushed even more. It didn’t help that he stripped right in front of me, wearing nothing but black briefs.

  Briefs!

  What man just wears briefs these days?

  A confident man, that’s for sure. All I saw was his tight butt encased in black. I think that’s what led to the arm sniffing.

  Can’t be sure.

  The taxi stops—I’m surprised he uses public transportation given the amount of money he makes—and he quickly gives the cabbie some money and heads out the door. I stumble out the door, trying to keep up with him as he heads into a spa.

  A spa?

  When I catch up to him, I say, “What are you doing?”

  He barely glances at me. “Getting a massage, what does it look like?”

  Before I can answer, the receptionist says, “Mr. McCool, it’s so nice to see you. Right this way.”

  Er, do I follow him? I mean, I told him I was going to be his shadow, but a massage? That seems rather personal. You just saw him in his briefs. That wasn’t personal?

  Then again, what if there is a back exit? That is not a chance I’m willing to risk. I am taking my phone back today, and that’s the end of it.

  Without giving it another thought, I catch up to him. I sense the humor in his voice when he says, “Had to think about that for a second, didn’t ya?”

  “Maybe a little.” I bite on my lower lip.

  He chuckles. “Well I’m glad you’re seeing through on your promise. I’m impressed.”

  Impressed?

  No, that does not make me happy. It really doesn’t. I don’t want his approval.

  But . . . a little piece of me is maybe having the tiniest gleeful moment. It’s stupid, and I tell that tiny part of myself to lock it up and be a professional, but . . .

  Ugh, it’s stupid.

  The receptionist walks us through a door in the back where there are two massage tables set up in the middle
, and the lights are dimmed.

  What is he up to?

  “Would you like water for you and your guest, Mr. McCool?”

  “I’m good. Sutton, ya want anything?”

  “What? No.” I shake my head, confused. “What’s going on? I’m not your guest.”

  The receptionist leaves, letting us know that our masseuses will be with us shortly, leaving me alone in a dark room with Roark.

  “I’m not getting a massage with you.” Is he deluded? “And you seriously couldn’t have rescheduled this? You said you didn’t have time to get my phone. This seems like a luxury rather than a responsibility.”

  “I never said I had responsibilities to fulfill, just said I didn’t have time. That was the truth. And if I’m going to get a massage, I’d rather pay for you to get one than have you sit in the corner and stare at me the whole time.”

  “I’m not getting a massage,” I state firmly. Not cracking.

  He shrugs off his jacket and reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt off.

  Holy.

  Hell.

  Cords upon cords of muscle flex under the low lights in this barely lit room, his pecs clearly defined above his six-pack that ripples with his movements, and the V in his waist, sharply defined . . . How on earth can this man have such a good body with the amount of alcohol he drinks?

  “Suit yourself, lass,” he says, pulling my gaze away from his chest. “But from the looks of it, you need this massage more than I do.” He undoes his jeans and pushes them to the floor, standing in only his briefs now. Again. Lord, have mercy.

  I gulp.

  His . . . oh God, his package is right there in front of me, all bulgy and . . . big. Sweet molasses, it’s big.

  “Get a good eyeful?” he asks, right before turning toward the table and peeling his underpants off, displaying his perfect butt.

  I turn away, shielding my eyes, even though the image of his bare butt is imprinted in my memory, as if it were just stamped on the inner part of my eyelids, so every time I blink, I see it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, dumbfounded with his audacity to strip right in front of me.

  “What does it look like? I’m not going to get massaged wearing clothes.”

  “You take off your underwear?”

  “Yeah. Now get undressed.” He reaches out and pats the table next to his. “It’s time to pull the stick out of your arse.” The stick out of my ass?

  Insulted, I pull my jacket closer together. “I don’t have a stick up my ass, nor am I undressing in front of you. And I’m not getting a couples massage with you either.”

  “Suit yourself. There’s a chair in the corner you can stew in.”

  Huffing my discontent, I march over to the chair and remove my jacket before taking a seat. “How long is this massage?”

  “Two hours.”

  “Two hours?” I shriek. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope, so enjoy your chair, lass. I hope it’s comfortable.”

  * * *

  Did I end up getting a massage? No.

  But did I take a nap on the second table while Roark was getting rubbed down? Yup.

  After fifteen minutes of the serene music, essential oils, and a dark room, I had no choice but to give in and rest my head. I only wish I didn’t fall into such a heavy sleep that Roark had to shake me by the shoulders to wake me up.

  I also wish I didn’t leave a drool stain on the floor from where I stuck my face through the head hole.

  That was kind of embarrassing.

  “You still have a red ring around your face,” Roark points out while we’re in the taxi headed to who knows where.

  And there is nothing I can do about it. “It’s my fair skin,” I answer. “It will go away.”

  “Fair skin but grew up in Texas; how does that work?”

  “Dipping yourself in sunscreen every day,” I answer. “My gammy was adamant about making sure I was fully covered whenever I went outside.”

  He nods, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. I guess there goes our conversation.

  It’s late. We’ve hit nine at night, knowledge gained thanks to the taxi cab clock. We have to be heading to his place, right?

  But when I hear his one-sided conversation with whoever is on the other line, I realize we are far from going to his place.

  “Hey man. Yeah, I’m done. Are we hitting up Seventh Floor? Killer drinks tonight. Yeah, I’m headed there. Nah, haven’t eaten, and don’t plan on it.” Of course he hasn’t. Meanwhile, my lunch has already made it through me and I’m very much ready for another meal. “Yeah, see you in ten. Name is on the list, meet you in the back.”

  When he hangs up he sends off a text. I tap him on the shoulder with my index finger. “Uh, where do you think we’re going?”

  He doesn’t look at me when he answers, “Seventh Floor. It’s a nightclub.”

  I gathered as much.

  “Can’t you stop by your house quickly so I can get my phone? I’m sure you’re not going to miss out on much partying.” I am one more stop away from kicking this man in the family jewels, stealing his wallet, and buying myself a very nice dinner, accompanied by a trip to the cell phone store.

  “Nope, have to meet a client.”

  “In a nightclub?” I ask, my voice borderline hysterical.

  “Yup, it’s where I met him first. I cater to my clients and how they like to conduct business.”

  “We’re going to a nightclub, for business?” An hour at the most I figure. A meeting can’t go much longer, especially in an environment like that.

  “Of course not. I never go to a nightclub for just a meeting. You’re going to be my wingwoman tonight, Sutton.”

  Oh hell no.

  * * *

  “You know, that bouncer could have been nicer,” I say over the loud music that’s thumping in the center of my chest, shaking every bone in my body.

  Roark gives me a once-over. “To him, you look like a nun.”

  “Because I’m wearing a jacket and scarf? I’m sorry for not wanting to be cold.”

  “I don’t think he accepts your apology,” Roark says, his mouth close to my ear, his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the nightclub to the very back, past a curtain and into a roped-off space.

  The music isn’t as loud where I feel like my eardrums are about to rupture, but loud enough that if you wanted to dance, you wouldn’t feel like a fool.

  And believe me, I won’t be dancing.

  I give the space a once-over while Roark quickly pours himself a drink. “So, this is what a nightclub is like, huh?” I run a finger over the black leather couch. “Fancy.”

  Tumbler head close to his mouth, Roark peers at me. “Wait, you’ve never been in a nightclub?”

  “No, never found a reason to be in one. I’m the good girl, and nightclubs aren’t my thing. I’ve always found them very intimidating.” He walks closer. “It’s why I put it on my New Year’s resolution list, because it scared me. I put all the things that scared me on there.”

  His brow lifts, and he scoots in even closer. “New Year’s resolutions, huh? What else is on there?”

  Feeling a little crowded, I take a step back. “That is none of your business.”

  “Let me guess, is one of them skinny dip?”

  “No, Mr. Wise Ass. It’s not.”

  He sips his drink, eyes still trained on me. “That’s surprising. You seem like one of those bubbly, cotton-candy girls who would have that on a bucket list or something. Let me guess”—he scratches the side of his jaw—“one of your resolutions is trying anal?”

  “Oh my God. No. What is wrong with you?”

  He grins. “From your reaction, I’m going to guess you’ve never tried it.”

  “Yeah, and I plan on never giving it a second thought. That’s not for me.”

  He nods, looking me up and down, then turns away. Has he had anal before? Honestly, I wo
uld be surprised if he hasn’t from the way he seems so . . . seasoned. The mere thought of it skyrockets the heat in my body, forcing me to take off my jacket and scarf.

  I set my belongings on the couch and eye the space. He catches my perusal and waves toward the decked-out tables full of freshly prepared food including shrimp cocktail and sliders, as well as the immaculate display of alcohol. “Help yourself, we’re going to be here for a while.”

  “What do you mean a while?”

  His back is toward me, his shoulders tightening the fabric of his shirt as he leans down and grips the short wall in front of him. He doesn’t answer right away. I watch him survey the club and the partiers who seem to have started early. If there is one thing I know about nightclubs—which I know pretty much nothing—is nine o’clock is too early for people to start getting drunk and dancing. Which means . . . a while very well might be three hours.

  Crap.

  Finally, he turns around, sipping from his tumbler. Smacking his lips, he looks at me and says, “No idea when my client is going to get here.”

  “Wait, didn’t you give him a time?”

  He slowly nods, almost in a condescending way. “You can give them all the timeframes you want, but until they decide to show up, your meeting doesn’t start.”

  Defeated, I lean against a pole and say, “You’ve got to be kidding me. This has been the most exhausting day of my life.”

  “Exhausting?” His brow creases. “You took a two-hour nap and drooled on a floor, so explain to me how that’s exhausting.”

  “Mentally exhausting,” I snap. “This is mentally exhausting. If you’d just met me that first morning, all of this could have been avoided.”

  “Why? Are you not having fun?” He smirks.

  “No. I’m not. How is this fun? Parading around the city with you has not been my ideal day.”

  “And here I thought you were having a good time, lass.”

  “How did you get that impression?”

  He shrugs and then quickly glances at my chest. “Your nipples have been hard all day.”