Diary of a Bad Boy

by Quinn, Meghan

  I chew on the side of my mouth. “You know, you could be a little nicer. After all, we did spend the day together.”

  “Not by my choosing.” He fluffs his pillow. Not really by my choice either, Mr. A-Hole.

  I fiddle with my fingers. “Do you always sleep naked?”

  Lifting up from the bed, he points at the door. “Go. Now.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sure. Night, night.”

  Night, night? Come on, Sutton. Try better to not look like a fool.

  When I look back over my shoulder, all I can see is the slight shake of his head. Figures. I’ve humiliated myself enough today, why not end the entire day with a simple night, night?

  Just perfect.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Sebastian,

  Who the fuck says night, night?

  Who at the age of twenty-fucking-four says night, night to a grown-ass man?

  Sutton Grace, that’s who.

  Christ. What a goddamn day. I couldn’t shake her off me to save my life, and do you know what the really messed up in the goddamn head thing is? I liked it.

  Yeah, I liked having her around. I liked her shock, her innocence, the way she grumbled whenever I did something she didn’t approve of. I liked every fucking second of it, and if that isn’t a red flag I don’t know what is.

  So, I set out to get rid of her. I thought the nightclub would be her final straw, but instead she sat back on the couch, ate like a queen at her palace, and cutely tapped her foot to the music.

  Tapped her goddamn foot.

  What did I do with that? What every other idiotic man would do. I brought her back to my place and told her to sleep in the guest room. Mind you, the room is entirely too far away for me to even notice, but it’s like I can feel her breathing the same air. I know she’s there, and that’s why I’m up at three in the morning, writing to you like some agonized teen. Hell . . .

  This entire time I thought I was writing to a talking crab, kind of cool, but not going to work for me. Sorry, Sebastian.

  Roark

  * * *

  ROARK

  Light sleeper… bullshit.

  Fully dressed for the day and drinking a hot cup of coffee, I stare at Sutton, whose mouth is half open, drooling all over my goose-down pillow, ass high in the air, and arms strangely flanked at her side. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Honestly, it looks like she’s an ostrich with her head stuck in the ground. I don’t know what to make of it.

  There is really only one thing I can do at this point . . .

  To maintain my reputation, I might have taken a few pictures for emergency use later. Can’t pass up an opportunity like this.

  I pocket my phone and walk closer to the bed, unsure how to wake her up. I could shout, scaring the shit out of her, or I could turn on a blaring alarm right next to her ear, guaranteeing a straight piss to my Egyptian cotton sheets. I could poke her with a broom—if I knew where one was. Smack her in the ass like she’s a newborn baby. Gently rock her back and forth until her eyelids flutter open or soothingly rub her back. Maybe let the sun shine through the curtains.

  Nah, I’m not that nice.

  Instead, I pick up a pillow from the ground and toss it at her. Hair scattered all over her face, she lifts up and looks around, trying to gain her bearings. Brushing her hair out of her face with her hand, she makes eye contact with me and yelps, startling backward on the bed.

  I sip my coffee casually. “Morning.”

  She pats down her body, clearly checking for clothes and then sighs in audible relief. “We didn’t have sex.”

  “Thank fuck, right?” I press my hand to my chest. “What a relief. I can’t afford to get pregnant right now.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “It’s my nature, lass. It’s what I do.” I nod at her. “Now get your arse out of my bed; I have to get to work, and I’m betting you do too.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, what time is it?”

  I flick my eyes down to my watch and then take another sip of my coffee. “Quarter past nine.”

  “What?” Frantically she springs out of bed and starts running around the room gathering things. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “Do I look like your goddamn alarm clock? Not my responsibility.”

  “I can’t believe I slept in.” Slipping on her shoes but fumbling terribly, I hold back the smile I’m sure would grant me a kick straight to the crotch. “What kind of trickery do you have in that bed?”

  Amused, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s like you had a sleeping potion in it or something.”

  “It’s called money, Sutton. It buys you sleep.”

  She glances at me. “Not true, some of the richest people have insomnia.”

  “Then they’re not doing it right.”

  Although, I barely got any sleep last night, because good old ostrich-ass-in-the-air was in the other room, fucking with my head. But I won’t mention that to her.

  Finishing with her last shoe, she stands, grabs her purse, and starts walking out the door when I clear my throat and nod toward the nightstand when she looks at me. “Forgetting something?”

  She spots the phone and groans. “This contraption. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for this damn thing.”

  Clearly not in the best mood—I don’t think she’s a morning person—she stomps through my penthouse but stutter steps when she sees the kitchen island. Turning back around, she gives me a quizzical look.

  “Did you make breakfast for me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I ordered some shit from the place across the street. Feel free to take something to go.”

  Yeah, I might have gotten something specifically for her.

  “There’s huevos rancheros in there.” I point to the top to-go box. “You know, since you’re from Texas.”

  “That’s my favorite.” She reaches for the box and gives me a grateful look, which quickly turns into a snarl. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t try to be nice to me now. That ship has sailed. Niceties were thrown out the window the minute you took my phone hostage and missed our first scheduled meeting.”

  “Not trying to be nice.” I leave my empty cup on the counter. My housekeeper will get it later. “Just don’t want you bitching to your dad about what a bad host I was.”

  I walk toward the elevator and she follows, food to go in hand along with a cup of coffee I might have gotten her as well.

  “Oh, we won’t be telling my dad about this. He doesn’t need to know.”

  I press the down button on the elevator. “I don’t lie to my clients.”

  “This isn’t lying; this is just not talking about it. That’s all.”

  “Eh.” I shrug. “I would rather tell him.” The elevator opens and I walk in, tossing my jacket over my shoulders. She follows in quickly, a little huff in her step.

  “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

  “Because it drives you crazy.” I toss a grin in her direction that she practically spits back with her eyes.

  “Seriously, don’t tell my dad.”

  “Too late, I already sent him a text this morning.”

  Eyes even wider than before, she says, “No, you didn’t. What did he say? Did you really tell him?”

  “Told me he couldn’t have picked a better guy to court his daughter. Said he always thought we would be great together. Oh, by the way, he thinks we’re dating.”

  I’m pretty sure fire shoots out of her ears when she screeches, “What? Why would he think that?”

  “According to the Old Testament, if you sleep in my house, that means we’re dating.”

  “The Old Testament? Are you drunk?”

  “I wish I was.”

  The elevator doors open and I start walking away when she catches up to me and pins me with her hand to my chest. For being such a little thing, she sure packs a big punch.

 
“Does he really think we’re dating?”

  I grin. “Nah. I didn’t tell him anything, but seeing your reaction was so worth it.” I give her a pat on the arm, feeling rather chipper now and say, “Have a good day, Sutton.”

  And with that, I take off out of my apartment building and flag down a taxi, leaving a very irritable Sutton Grace behind me. For the first time in my life, I’m leaving my apartment with a smile on my face—because that little spitfire is so goddamn fun to tease.

  * * *

  Sutton: We need to get together.

  Roark: It’s been two hours. You really can’t be away from me for that long? #clinger

  Sutton: I’m not a clinger! We have to get together to talk about your community service.

  Roark: Nah, I’m good.

  Sutton: I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.

  Roark: Aren’t you a fucking treat.

  Sutton: Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting your massage? Or your multiple visits to the post office?

  Roark: You’re interrupting a good cigarette. Now my mouth tastes bitter.

  Sutton: Maybe you should stop smoking. There’s an idea.

  Roark: You get your phone back and now you’re sassy? How does that work?

  Sutton: Just trying to find an effective way to communicate with you.

  Roark: Effective would be with your shirt off, because then I would pay attention.

  Sutton: Don’t be a pig.

  Roark: You know, you don’t hear people call each other pigs very often anymore. I kind of like it.

  Sutton: You’re not supposed to like it.

  Roark: It’s a shame you can’t control my emotions.

  Sutton: We are getting off topic. We need to meet.

  Roark: Hmm . . . do you really foresee that happening?

  Sutton: Please don’t be difficult.

  Roark: Where’s the fun in that?

  * * *

  “This is why you ditch your friends who get hitched to a relationship,” I grumble, slouching in my chair.

  “He’s five minutes late,” Rath says.

  “And I want a goddamn drink. How come I can’t order one until he gets here?”

  “You’re acting like a child.”

  Maybe, but I need something. Christ, I’ve had meeting after meeting since I got my phone back—a huge reason why I wasn’t bothered about trading with Sutton—and I’m exhausted. Everyone needs something, everyone wants more money, and everyone is looking for the next big endorsement. I don’t know how many times today I said good things come to those who wait. Even thinking it makes me want to throw up in my mouth, because it’s a bullshit saying. Whoever came up with that saying probably never got anything good in their life because they sat on the sidelines and waited instead of taking action.

  Taking action for my clients is my job, and I’m doing shit behind the scenes they don’t need to worry about. Therefore, I tell them they need to be patient.

  Athletes are never patient.

  When do I get a shoe deal?

  When am I going to be on The Tonight Show?

  When am I going to have a multi-million-dollar, multi-year deal?

  You know when? When you pull your head out of your goddamn ass and score a few touchdowns.

  I might have shouted that at a client today. It was the end of the day, and I was already irritated. Thankfully the dude was cool, laughed, and agreed with me. He hit the gym after that.

  But I could really use a drink right now to wash the day behind me, and Rath is being a turd-nugget, not letting me order until our best friend, Bram, gets here.

  “Ah, there they are,” Bram says, hands clasped together, staring at us. “My boys.”

  Jesus Christ.

  He floats—yes, fucking floats—over to us, a huge smile on his face, love beams pouring out of his eyes as if Cupid is right behind him, permanently striking him in the ass.

  Rath is scooped into a hug—a full embrace—and then set back in his chair. From over Rath’s head, Bram points at me and wiggles his finger. “Come here, you handsome Irish bastard.”

  I hold up my hand. “I’m good.”

  “Nope.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get to pass up Bram snuggles.” Before I can move, he swoops to his knees and buries his head in my chest . . . and nuzzles.

  “What the fook are ya doin’?” I ask, my accent strong with my anger as I try to push him away.

  His nose runs along the lapel of my suit coat. “You smell like heaven.”

  “Get out of here.” I palm his face and push him away.

  With a laugh, he retreats to his seat, unbuttons his jacket, and sits down. Hands on the table, he looks between us and then says, “I’m in love.”

  Christ.

  “We know,” Rath and I say at the same time, irritation heavy in our voices.

  Bram has been dating Rath’s sister for a few months now, so it’s no surprise he’s like this—a bubbly idiot with a relentless smile. Hell, he’s been in love with the girl for years. It took him a really, really long time to admit it—not admit it, but make a move. He was Ross Geller to an extreme.

  He adjusts his collar as he says, “You don’t have to be rude about it. I’m just sharing. Isn’t that what this is all about? Sharing?”

  “Yeah, sharing things we don’t know already,” Rath says, flagging down our waitress. Thank God.

  When she arrives, I talk above the guys and quickly say, “Jameson, neat.”

  “Stella, please,” Rath says.

  When she turns to Bram, he rubs his stomach and says, “You know, a nice warm milk would be delightful right now.”

  What the actual fuck?

  “No.” I step in, waving him off. “He’ll have a tequila mule. Thanks.”

  A little confused and probably slightly disturbed, she takes off as Bram complains. “Hey, I really wanted a warm milk.”

  “You’re not drinking that shit around me. Not happening. And also, you’re a grown-arse man, so nut up and drink some beer.”

  “Sheesh.” Bram unfolds his napkin and sets it on his lap. “What’s up your ass?”

  “Nothing.” I push my hand through my thick hair.

  “It’s a girl,” Rath says, causing Bram to practically jump out of his seat and do a kickball chain right in front of us.

  “A girl?” he gushes. “Not Roark McCool, permanent bachelor. My fucking heart can’t take it.”

  You know when people say payback’s a bitch? This is my payback. I might not have been the best of friends when Bram was going through lady problems with Julia. Yeah, I helped him, but I was a dick about it most of the time.

  I can feel him rearing back and letting me have it now, especially with that evil glint in his eyes.

  But to be fair, this isn’t the same thing, not even close. I’m not in love with the girl, nor do I want to date her. Yeah, she’s gorgeous and has amazing tits, but it doesn’t mean I’ll make a move.

  Okay . . . and yeah, she’s fun to drive crazy, but that’s not the same thing as what Bram has with Julia or the struggle he went through.

  “It’s not what Rath is making it out to be.”

  “He held her phone hostage for days and she slept over last night.”

  “What?” Bram’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. “A reoccurring interaction? What’s this nonsense? Roark McCool doesn’t have reoccurring interactions with women.”

  Christ.

  Thankfully the waitress brings our drinks at that moment so I have a second to compose myself and not lash out, bringing unwanted questioning from my friends.

  “You already slept with her?” Bram asks, sipping his drink then puckering his lips. Being in a relationship has really softened the bastard. Once the most popular guy on campus, he now spends his Friday nights curled up with his girl. I can’t remember the last time he went out with us. It’s been a really long time.

  “I didn’t sleep with her.”

  “You didn’t?” Rath asks, surprised. �
�When you said she stayed the night, I thought you had sex with her.”

  “How come you know about this girl and I don’t?” Bram complains. “Dude, you know I’m the romantic. Rath over here has a brick for a heart, you need to discuss these things with me.”

  “I don’t have a brick for a heart,” Rath says.

  “No, you’re just hung up on your ex,” I say with a smirk.

  He shifts in his chair but doesn’t say anything. His silence is all I need. Now to get Bram to shut up. I turn toward him, and he folds his arms across his chest in challenge, as if to say you have nothing on me. And it’s true, I don’t. I used to when he was pining after Julia, but now it’s like he’s an open book for everyone.

  “So . . . who is the girl?”

  For fuck’s sake. Might as well get it over with.

  “I’m going to preface this with I’m not interested in her, so before your little heart starts beating wildly for a potential coupling, it’s not going to happen.”

  In a snarky tone, Bram replies, “Never say never.”

  He’s so fucking annoying.

  “We ran into each other at Gray’s Papaya right before I got in that fight. I dropped my phone and so did she. They were mixed up and Rath grabbed the wrong one. Naturally curious, I looked through her phone, which wasn’t locked, and started going through all her crap.”

  Bram elbows Rath and says, “I would have done the same. I love snooping.”

  “And I might have taken my time delivering the phone back.” I shrug. “I don’t know, it gave my asshole personality something to do. That was until I found out she’s the daughter of Foster Green.”

  “What? Seriously?” Bram asks. “What are the odds?”

  I pull on the back of my neck. “Tell me about it. She then followed me around all day yesterday until two in the morning when I finally took her back to my place to give her the phone back. At that point it was too late, the streets were covered with snow, and she was too nervous to travel back to Brooklyn. She slept in the guest bedroom. That’s it. End of story.”

  “Besides having to work with her now,” Rath adds, finding his voice again.