“Two weeks? I don’t know, Foster. I have clients—”
“Who will understand that you need to work remotely. Not all of them live in New York, so they’re used to not having you at their beck and call. We have Internet and phone on the ranch, so you’ll still be able to work. We’re going to need those hands of yours to get everything ready.”
Why do I picture Foster greeting me at his doorstep with a lasso in hand and cowboy boots on loan for me?
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” I say, trying to avoid two weeks in Texas.
“I have a feeling it’ll be clear,” Foster says with conviction.
Hell. Someone is going to get a call.
* * *
“You finally decided to call me back,” I say, lying on my bed, completely naked and watching an animal documentary about polar bears on Netflix. Noting the absence of whiskey. “Took you long enough.”
Sutton chuckles softly. “Long day at the office. I figured whatever you had to tell me wasn’t that important or you would have texted me.”
“I could have been dying.”
“Well, next time, if you’re dying, let me know your last wishes so I won’t feel bad about not calling you.”
“Harsh but fair.”
Her sweet laugh echoes through the phone. “What do you want, Roark?”
“Did your dad happen to tell you we had dinner tonight?”
She pauses and then says, “No. Oh God, did you tell him I tried to have sex with you?”
“I’m a dick, Sutton, but not that big of a dick.” I actually haven’t told anyone, besides my giddy diary.
“Oh, thank God.” She exhales. “That would have been so embarrassing. If you did, I would have told him you were the one who showed me your ass first.”
“You keep bringing that up. Is the image of my arse engrained in your brain?”
“It is,” she answers honestly. “It was a nice ass.”
“Was? Is it not a nice arse anymore?”
“Eh, it’s all right now.”
“Liar.” I chuckle.
“Enough about your butt. Tell me what you talked to my dad about.”
I prop my hand behind my head. “Your dad told me something today that I think you’ve neglected to inform me of.”
“Oh no, did he tell you about Texas?”
“Bingo,” I answer, playfulness in my voice. “When were you going to tell me about that?”
“I was working you up to it. You don’t seem like someone who can kick it out in the countryside of Texas.”
“Yeah, not so much. I prefer the city.”
“Fresh air won’t kill you.”
“You know the kind of fresh air I enjoy,” I counter.
An irritated groan falls from her lips. “You’re not smoking still, are you? That’s so bad for you, Roark.”
“Do you know what’s bad for me? You.”
“Me?” she asks, and hell I wish I could see her face. I love the expression she makes when I shock her.
“Yeah, you.”
“How am I bad for you?”
I press my fingers into my scalp, giving my head a little massage as I speak. “You’re trying to eliminate all my vices. It’s not good for me, and it’s ruining my image.”
“Oh,” she answers softly. “You don’t have to smoke and drink to maintain your image, you know.”
“And how else do you expect people to think I’m a bad boy without a whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other?”
“You don’t need accessories to be a bad boy, Roark, it’s all about the attitude.”
“Attitude isn’t everything, lass. I prefer my accessories, as you put it.”
“Your accessories are going to lead you to an early death.”
“Might as well live life now then,” I counter. “Send me a picture of your tits, so I can start living life right now.”
“You’re relentless. Not that I don’t trust you, but I would never send a picture of my bare breasts to anyone especially since I’m Foster Green’s daughter. If that ends up in the wrong hands I could ruin everything my dad built.”
“I’ll be very careful with it.”
“No. Never going to happen, but if you want to see them in real life, I can make that happen.”
“No.” I copy her answer, even though my cock is hardening from the thought.
“Your loss. Anyway, back to Texas.”
Dick hard, I hold back the irritated groan bubbling up in my throat. “Two weeks in Texas is not going to happen.”
“It is. Sorry, but we need you for two weeks, plus my dad is going to want to give you the full ranch experience.”
Twisting my lips to the side, trying to envision myself in a country atmosphere, I ask, “What exactly is the full ranch experience?”
“You know . . .” She mutters something I can’t quite understand.
“Can you repeat that?”
She mutters again and all I can make out is horse.
“Uh, what about a horse?”
She yawns loudly. “I’m tired. I really should get to bed. Unless there’s anything else you need. I’m going to get going.”
“Yeah, I want to know about this horse,” I press, wild thoughts forming in my head.
“So, nothing else? Okay. Well, thanks for emailing the guys. Let me know what they say when you find out. Night, Roark.”
“Wait—” But she hangs up before I can get another word in. Vixen.
Damn it. Her avoidance makes me nervous. I’m not much of a horse man. I’ve never ridden one, and I don’t plan on straddling the back of one at any point in time.
Not even to see a great pair of tits.
* * *
“What about this one? How do my eyes look while holding it near my face?”
“What do your eyes have to do with a diamond?” I ask Bram, who dragged me along for ring shopping. “Your eyes are going to be bloodshot from crying anyway.”
“I’m not going to cry.” Before I can counter his statement, he laughs and shakes his head. “Who am I kidding? I’m going to be a bawling mess. Do you think she’s going to say yes?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” I pick up a ruby ring and hold it out to him. “If you’re looking for something to match your eyes on that day, this one will be perfect.”
Bram eyes the ring and then glances at me. “This is an important day for me. Can you not be a sarcastic asshole for a second?”
I set the ring down. “If you wanted someone to help, you should have asked Rath. He is Julia’s brother, after all.”
“And that’s why I couldn’t ask him. I wanted to be able to find this on my own.”
“Then why the fuck are you asking for my opinion if you want to do this on your own?”
“For confirmation,” he answers, holding up a ring to the light.
“Still not doing it on your own.”
Frustrated, he lowers the ring and gives me a once-over. “Why are you being a bastard right now? Have you not gotten any ass lately? Whenever you get like this, impossible to be around, it’s because you’re hard up. Is that the problem?”
God, yes.
“No.”
“Is it?” And then he pauses, a slow grin playing at his lips. “Oh hell, is it that girl?”
I push off the glass counter and start walking toward the door. I’m not getting into this with Bram because he’s going to make it a huge deal when it’s not, and I don’t feel like standing around while his happy heart lights up with excitement.
“Send me a pic when you find the ring.”
“Hold up.” Bram quickly stands and gets in front of me, hand to chest. “You’re not leaving. You can’t leave. I need help.”
“You don’t need help. You know Julia better than anyone. You’re the only one who could pick out the perfect ring.”
“I know, but now I want to hear about your girl problems.”
“I don’t have girl problems. You’re about to have girl prob
lems if you don’t move the fuck out of my way.”
Not even the slightest bit scared, Bram says, “What’s her name again? Sally?”
“Move.”
“Wait, no, it isn’t Sally. It’s Sara, right?”
“Bram . . .”
Snapping his fingers, he says, “No, it’s Sassafras. That’s right.”
“Sutton, you fucking moron.”
And I know it was exactly what he was looking for, but Christ, I didn’t want him thinking her name was Sassafras.
“Ah, yes, good old Sutton. How is she?”
“She’s a lot better than how you’re about to be.”
Out of the blue, Bram taps my cheek and then the other, but a little harder. I move away just as he gets in one more swat.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Waking you up to your feelings. Is that black soul coming alive?” He reaches for me again but I shove his hand away.
My fist clenches at my side. He’s your best friend; do not punch him. You’ve made it over ten years without ever shoving your fist down his throat. Now is not the time.
“Don’t fucking touch me again or you’re not going to like what happens.”
Bram rolls his eyes. “Dude, wake up and see how you’re reacting. You clearly like the girl. Why are you torturing everyone with your surly attitude?”
“Because torturing people is what I do best,” I answer and sidestep him so I can reach the door. “Get the six-carat bezel set halo ring, you know she’ll love it.”
“It’s over three hundred thousand dollars.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Good thing you’re a rich motherfucker.”
The door closes behind me and the bright sun hits me first, a rarity in New York City. Usually it’s blocked by all the tall buildings. I shield my eyes and flag down a taxi. The boys think I’m crazy for taking public transportation, but I’d rather not have a guy wait around for me in a car when I can easily flag someone down and be on the move. I’ll use a driver on occasion, but everyday life is me in a taxi.
I sink low into the seat after giving him my cross-streets and look out the window as Bram’s words bounce around in my head.
Is your black soul coming alive?
I normally wouldn’t give Bram’s mush much thought, but I don’t know if my black soul wants to be resurrected. Yet it sure as hell has found a small heartbeat.
* * *
I’ve woken up at six the past few days, worked out, and eaten a non-liquid breakfast—and I’m just as shocked as you are.
Look what a decent night sleep will bring you—responsibility. But I don’t think I like it. I don’t like being that guy. You know, the one who reads the paper in the morning after a perfect execution of his morning routine. They’re boring. I like the unpredictability of waking up at some weird hour and trying to squeeze in everything I have to do before taking meetings.
I’ll admit, I have been able to work through some contracts early in the morning and maybe type up some winning emails that have brought in a shit-ton of money for my clients and me.
But still, I don’t even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. There aren’t heavy bags under my eyes, nor are my eyes bloodshot. I don’t have a decent smoker’s cough in the morning, and instead of Baileys as a “creamer” in my coffee, I drink it black, with a splash of sugar, because why the hell not?
What is happening to me? Next thing I know I’ll be wearing a tie and waving to people on the street as I pass them, newspaper tucked under my arm with a sunny disposition on my face.
I don’t like it.
But I also kind of do.
Fuck.
Sitting in my office, I look at the skyline and consider all the sorry motherfuckers like me who have a morning routine. They’re dignified, well-established men, each with a good head on his shoulders. I catch my reflection in the window . . . is that me?
I really did lose my bad-boy accessories. Now I’m just a— Christ, I’m like Rath, a ruthless businessman.
Ah, hell.
I press my hand to my forehead, a small smile peeking past my lips. Who would have thought I’d ever be like Rath? At least I still have my sarcasm, thank fuck for that.
My phone buzzes next to me.
An international number pops up, which can only mean one thing: it’s my shitty mother. By now, you’d think I’d ignore the phone call and not pick up, but if I did that, she’d keep calling and calling and calling; it’s her way of getting what she wants.
Grinding my teeth together, I take a deep breath and answer. “Hello?”
“Aye, there’s me boy,” she answers, her voice sloshed, her words slurring. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in my family.
“Hey Ma, what’s up?” I try to keep the annoyed tone out of my voice, preparing myself for the reason she’s calling, the only reason she’s calling. This phone call comes about once a month, and if I’m really lucky, twice.
Looks like we’re going for round two this month.
“Roark, when are you going to come back home? When are you going to stop abandoning your family?”
Oh wow, she’s going to jump right into it this go-around.
I drag my hand over my face. “How much do you want?”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, using that annoyed tone. I’m not the one who left me family with nothing but a few potatoes in the field that your father can’t even harvest himself because of his disability.”
His “disability”, as she incorrectly puts it, is alcoholism.
“If you were here, we wouldn’t be famished, poor, and dealing with a leaky roof. You abandoned your family.”
Same story every time.
Same guilt trip.
Same hatred in her voice . . . for her own son.
“You left your roots for a high-rise.”
“I know, Ma. You remind me every goddamn month.”
“Don’t you dare use God’s name in vain, like that. I taught ya better.” She taught me nothing besides how to take down a Guinness bomb without throwing up after. “At least I thought I did, but it seems like I didn’t make a lasting impression.” The tears start to form, and I let out a long sigh. “What did I do to deserve this treatment from you? You never come home, you don’t love us. Your father is sick and needs you, Roark.”
He only wants my checkbook. He needs to support his bad habits.
“I have a meeting, Ma. I have to go.”
A loud sob escapes her. “You’ve always been ungrateful for everything I’ve given ya. At this point it would be easier if you were dead. At least I could mourn the loss of my oldest son and move on, rather than being taunted constantly, knowing you’re in America, living a posh life while your family can barely afford food for the table. Before you lived in that high-rise, you lived in this stone house.”
I count to three, but it still doesn’t work. My skin itches, my anger starts to boil, as my mom presses every one of my buttons, and a dark cloud starts to move in over my head.
Teeth grinding together, there is a grit to my voice when I speak. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Ma.”
“I just wish ya showed more care for us, for the people who’ve always been there for ya.”
“Right. And?” I ask, wanting this to be over.
“Can you send us some money?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head, knowing exactly what my night is going to entail.
Chapter Eleven
Dear I Don’t Give a Fuck,
All they ever want from me is money.
They don’t care about how I earned that money, how I’m faring, or the name I’ve made for myself. All they care about is the green in my pockets and how quickly I can get it wired to them.
I dread the monthly phone call. I know it’s coming, and I dread it.
It’s a sharp reminder that even though it may seem like I have family, I really am alone in this world.
Bram says I have a black so
ul, well there’s a goddamn reason for it.
Bottoms up.
Roark
* * *
SUTTON
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I shoot up from my bed, scaring the crap out of Louise, who runs in midair and flees under the bed. Blanket clutched to my chest, heart pounding, I look toward the door. Was that a knock on my door? Or a neighbor’s?
What time is it?
Pitch-black, I light up my phone to see a bunch of unanswered text messages and the time. Three o’clock.
Bang. Scratch. Scratch.
I turn my head toward the door. That’s definitely coming from mine. Heart rate picking up even more, I weigh my options. No one I know would be up this late, so it might be a drunk neighbor who has gotten lost in our little brownstone building. That has happened before. Instead of getting up to answer the door—I’m not the girl who gets killed off first in a horror movie—I bring my knees to my chest and open my text messages, all from Roark.
Oh no. My eyes are slightly blurry from my abrupt wake up, but I can still make them out.
Roark: Hi.
Roark: What are ya doin?
Roark: Sleeping? Of course you’re sleeping. Like an ostrich, right?
What is he talking about?
Roark: Kind of wish you were sleeping in my apartment. I like when you sleep there.
Roark: Are you wearing my shirt?
I glance down and bite on my bottom lip. Yeah, I am and I haven’t washed it, because I like the way it smells . . . like him.
Roark: If you were wearing my shirt, I would slip my hand up your thigh to see what kind of underwear you’re wearing.
Roark: It’s a thong, right?
Roark: Fuck, I want to see you in a thong so damn bad. On my lap, I want you on my lap.
My face heats up just as there is another scratch on my door and then . . . a voice.
Heart pounding against my chest, I set down my phone and walk to my door as quietly as I can, tiptoeing against the hardwood floors. I press my hands against the wooden door and peek through the peephole and hold my breath. That’s when I see Roark, leaning, his head lightly knocking against the door.
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 13
