Diary of a Bad Boy

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Rath’s,” he answers, his voice hoarse. When he looks up, I see the bruising around his eye and nose and cringe. God, that must hurt . . . and it’s there because of me.

  Hands still in his pockets, he asks, “What are you doing here, Sutton?”

  “Didn’t you get any of my texts or calls?”

  “I turned off my phone.”

  He speaks in a monotone while avoiding all eye contact with me, the usual playfulness in his voice gone. I’m worried.

  Scared actually.

  “Roark, can we please talk? Last night—”

  “Last night was the slap in the face I needed.” He finally glances in my direction, his weary eyes circled in bright crimson.

  He moves through the living room, past me, and down the hallway to his bedroom where he starts to strip out of his suit jacket and button-up shirt.

  Unsure of what he means, I follow him. “Slap in the face? What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t be that dense, Sutton,” he answers, a dose of malice in his voice.

  “You’ve been gone all night, leaving me worried with unanswered texts and calls, so excuse me if I want an explanation,” I answer.

  “Your dad called it like it is: we shouldn’t be together. I knew it the minute I started having feelings for you, but I needed the reminder.”

  I swallow hard, trying not to react to his words but imagining myself in his shoes. He’s hurt, upset, and probably a little bruised from last night’s conversation. I can’t take his words too heavily, not when he’s probably trying to protect his heart.

  Cautiously, I step into his closet, closing him off in the space, and lean against the doorway. “I understand you’re upset. I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind after yesterday, but don’t push me away when we can easily work through this. Dad knows he was wrong. He admitted it and—”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re not working through anything, Sutton. It’s over.” He pushes past me, a new shirt and a pair of jeans in hand.

  “You’re going to give up, just like that? After you were so desperate to see me yesterday? That’s it, you’re over me?”

  He shucks the rest of his clothes and hops in the shower, not letting it warm up. I watch as he quickly washes his face, body, and hair. After a minute at most, he’s out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. When he notices I haven’t moved, he lets out a long sigh.

  “You know I can’t just get over you like that, Sutton.”

  “Then why are you fighting your feelings? Why not make everything right instead?”

  “Because,” he shoots back, looking at me in the mirror, his hands gripping the bathroom counter, his chest flexing under his imposing stare. “I’m never going to be good enough for you, and I’d rather not feel like a piece of shit every time you’re near me. I already hate myself as it is, so I don’t need the reminder when you’re around.”

  I’m strong, but that hurt.

  Not letting my pain get the best of me, I say, “Doesn’t it matter what I think? Because I do think you’re good enough, you were made for—”

  “Leave, Sutton. Just fucking leave.”

  I take a step back, shocked. His words are like a physical slap. “Roark.”

  Shoulders growing tense, he stares me down through the mirror, and in that moment, I don’t see the man I love, nor the man I know on a deeper level. Instead, I see the mask of an angry and hurt man. “Don’t make this worse than it already is. Just fucking leave, okay?” He drops his head and pushes his hand through his hair violently.

  “Roark, please. I’m sorry.” My voice grows tighter. “I didn’t want you to leave without me, I didn’t want you to have to spend the night alone. That’s why I was texting. I should have stayed with you but I knew I had to smooth things over with my father, explain what happened in the restaurant. I’m so sorry, please, let’s just talk about this. I don’t . . .” I hold back the sob that threatens to escape. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Barely lifting his eyes to look me in the mirror, he speaks in a dejected tone. One word. One word that sears me right in half.

  “Leave.”

  I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here, work things out, reassure him of my love, but from the tension coiling in his back I know anything I say this morning is going to bounce straight off him, untouched and unheard.

  It pains me to do this, but I take a step backward and then another, retreating to my clothes that I quickly put on before gathering my things. I peek cautiously through the bathroom door to see if he’s moved and he hasn’t. He stays motionless besides the tug he has on the thick brown strands of his hair.

  I stand there, purse and phone in hand, shoeless, wondering if I should speak to him one more time, if I should try to bridge the gap that so quickly grew between us.

  I can’t muster up the words, not past the thick lump that’s formed in my throat. Oh God, please. I can’t have lost him forever.

  So with a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, I somehow make it to the elevator, hoping and praying this isn’t the last time I see him. I can’t lose this man from my life. He carries my heart in his hands, and I’m aching from this gaping hole within me. I love you, Roark. I’ll always love you. And then the first sob breaks free.

  * * *

  Knock. Knock.

  Through bloodshot eyes, I look up from my computer to find my dad standing in the doorway. The small confines of my office shrink exponentially the minute he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

  “Hey Dad,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

  He takes a seat and folds his hands over his stomach, examining me before speaking. “Whitney was right. You don’t look great, Sutton.”

  “Can’t hear that enough,” I say with a soft smile.

  “Got a call from Roark’s office.”

  “Is he okay?” I ask, a small slice of panic cutting through me.

  “He’s fine, but they said he’s assigned me to one of his junior agents.”

  “What? Are you serious? What did you say?”

  “I told them that was unacceptable and that per my contract with him, he’s the only one to handle my affairs, and that I expect nothing less.”

  “Did you sugarcoat it?”

  He shakes his head. “There is no sugarcoating in business. I scheduled a meeting with him for Thursday.”

  I would love to crash that meeting, but I know it won’t do any good. Nothing is reaching him right now. Not the texts or the phone calls, or even the emails. And when I go to his apartment to check on him and make sure he’s okay, Harris politely tells me I have to leave, even though it clearly pains him.

  When Roark says it’s over . . . it really is. Whitney may think I look awful on the outside, but it’s nothing compared to the desolation within.

  “What are you going to talk about?”

  Dad rubs his jaw with his large hand and says, “That’s not anything you need to worry about.”

  “Well, I’m worried, Dad. He won’t talk to me, won’t even see me.” My throat starts to grow tight again, making it hard to vocalize my feelings. I take a calming breath and will my stomach to stop flipping with nerves. “I’m terrified I’ve truly lost him before I could fully have him.”

  “I think he needs time. Time to think and to feel, that’s how we work. Men aren’t like women who can process their feelings right away. We need to take a step back and think. Roark is a smart man, so give him time; he’ll realize how important you are to him.” But Dad didn’t hear Roark’s words or see his dejection. I’m never going to be good enough for you, and I’d rather not feel like a piece of shit every time you’re near me. He doesn’t want me.

  “He’s had a week. How much more time does he need?” How long before he forgets our love and forgets me?

  Dad shrugs. “Depends. He was hurt, and the scars he’s worn for years were reopened, no thanks to me. He’ll need time to re-evaluate and work out truth versus falsehood
.”

  “Why won’t he let me help him? He let me in the past. He needed me in the past.”

  “Because, sweetie, you’re what he’s trying to re-evaluate. If he loves you as you say, there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll realize how special you are to him. With Roark, once you’re in his heart, you’re in. He’s extremely loyal, but it’s letting him accept you into his life that’s going to take time.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then he’s a dumbass.”

  “Dad,” I groan. “Not the answer I was looking for.”

  He leans forward and reaches for my hand, which I give him. His thumb strokes lovingly over my knuckles before saying, “If he’s a smart man, which I think he is, he’ll figure it out.”

  “I wish that were the case.” I pull my hand away and push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “One thing I learned about Roark while we were together, when he’s set on something, there’s not much you can do to change his mind. I think when he said it’s over, he truly meant it.”

  “He is a man of his word,” my dad confirms, ramping up the panic in my heart. “But there is one thing you don’t know about the man. When he realizes he’s wrong, he owns it.”

  * * *

  “Good morn—yikes,” Maddie says, when I look up at her. “Uh”—she leans forward and whispers to me as she quickly looks around the coffee house—“do you realize you look like death?”

  “Oh really?” I answer sarcastically, setting my cup of coffee on the table as Maddie takes a seat with her to-go cup in hand. “I thought I looked like a dignified debutante this morning.”

  Maddie shakes her head. “Check the mirror again, Sutton. I love you, but you look like a Barbie doll that’s been dragged across the train tracks all night.”

  “You’re incredibly sweet.”

  “I’m sorry, but when have I ever not told you the truth?”

  “I know, but at least you can finish saying good morning before insulting me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. “I was caught off guard. I’m going to guess he hasn’t contacted you?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, and he even spoke to my dad two days ago.”

  “Did you talk to your dad about the conversation?”

  I nod, remembering how tight-lipped he was. “He wouldn’t tell me anything really. He said it was between him and Roark, and what Roark did with their discussion was up to him. Clearly he doesn’t want to do anything.”

  “And he’s still not answering you?”

  “Honestly, I threw in the towel on trying to communicate with him. It started feeling desperate rather than concerned. I don’t want to be that girl. If he wants me, he wants me.” My stomach churns in knots as tears start to well in my eyes. “And it’s clear he doesn’t . . . want me.”

  “Oh, Sutton.” Maddie scoots her chair to my side as I bury my head in my hand, hating that I’m crying in public. Maddie pulls me into a hug, her arms securing tightly around me. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could say something that would make you feel better, but I don’t want to fill you with hope. Roark, from what you’ve told me, doesn’t open up easily, nor does he permit himself to feel.”

  “He doesn’t, and that’s what I’m afraid of, that he’s going to walk away, without ever letting himself figure out his feelings for me.”

  “Have you gone to his office?”

  I shake my head as Maddie pulls away but rests her hand on mine, keeping her comfort close. “That would be too desperate, and what if he turned me away? I would be humiliated, just like I was when Harris told me Roark didn’t want to see me.” Tears streak down my cheeks as I barely voice what’s at the forefront of my mind. “I really . . . think it’s over.” I suck in a deep breath, my chest rattling with sorrow. I feel so broken and hate it. I hate this pain. This agony.

  Maddie once again pulls me into a hug and presses her hand to the back of my head. “I’m so sorry, Sutton. I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but love is unpredictable. Sometimes it sweeps you off your feet and carries you off into the sunset. And then there are moments where love is a learning lesson, a small chapter of experience in your long and beautiful life. Have your moment, learn from the love you had with him, and when the time is right, the ache in your chest will start to ease and the colors around you will begin to brighten again.”

  Even though I know she’s right, that in time I’ll probably get over this, I know deep down, there’s no way I’ll be able to truly let this love go. This was the first time I ever felt another human bury themselves within the marrow of my bones. There will always be a part of my life that reads a little duller before I met Roark McCool, and that’s a realization I’m going to live with for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dear Who Gives a Fuck,

  I don’t know why I’m still writing in this damn thing, it’s not like I have anything else to really say other than . . .

  I drank until I blacked out last night.

  I smoked what feels like three cartons the night before.

  And I paid some dickhead in a bar three nights ago to beat the living shit out of me in the back alley.

  He did a shitty-ass job.

  Now I’m left with subpar black eyes, a wicked cough, and a massive hangover that has me dragging my ass even worse than before.

  For the first time since I started my company, I’m taking a sick day.

  I called my assistant, pretending to cough, saying I was going to hit up a doctor, but she and I both know the only kind of sick I really am is lovesick.

  Fuck my life.

  Roark

  * * *

  ROARK

  It took about three shots and four swishes of mouthwash to get me here this morning, but I made it, sunglasses draped over my eyes, and a thick scruff covering up my bruised jaw.

  Sitting in the back, coffee in hand, I lean into the booth and press my eyes shut, willing the pounding headache beating into my skull to settle enough so I don’t toss my cookies during this meeting.

  I know why he wants to meet up, and it’s not to discuss business, given there’s nothing pressing going on. The only reason he’s here is to talk about her, and even though this is the last conversation I want to have, I know I have to take it because it’s in our contract to be open and available whenever the client beckons.

  Foster Green has beckoned. Therefore, I’m here.

  The door to the coffee house opens, and I don’t have to open my eyes to see who it is; his presence is obvious from the sound of his strong steps on the old New York City floors. He sits across from me and without looking, I slide him a cup of coffee as well as one of those chocolate croissants I know he loves, because if anything, I’m still a damn good agent.

  “Went on a bender?” he asks, his voice gruff.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” I mutter, eyes still closed.

  “I think this is the most unprofessional I’ve ever seen you. Are you trying to lose me as a client?”

  “It would be a hell of a lot easier if that was the case.” I finally lift my head, the pounding at the front of my skull incessant. “But given your stubborn personality, I know you’re not about to let me out of our contract.”

  “Damn right, I’m not.” He reaches across the table and flicks my sunglasses down, revealing my blackened eyes. He shakes his head in defeat and then leans back in the booth. “Roark, what are you—?”

  “Unless your question has to do with your pending contracts, I suggest you don’t ask anything. I’m not here to chitchat about my personal life.” I push my sunglasses back up on my sore nose and rest my head against the booth again.

  “You’re better than this, Roark.”

  I laugh. Sardonically. “Coming from the guy who doesn’t think much of me at all.”

  Audibly he exhales and shifts on the leather seat beneath him. “About that.”

  “Forget it,” I say, and start to move out of my booth, not in
the mood for this conversation.

  “Don’t move. I have something to say to you,” Foster says with authority.

  “Save it,” I reply back, getting out of my seat. I start to walk by him when he snags my wrist tightly. “Let the fuck go, Foster, or you’re not going to like what happens.”

  “What are you going to do? Fight me? Because that solves everything, right? Man up, sit down, and have a conversation with me.”

  Man up.

  For some reason, it irks me whenever he uses that term, probably because I’ve never truly felt like a man in my own right. Just a thirty-two-year-old boy who can’t get his personal life together.

  “Sit,” Foster reiterates.

  I do what he says, because Foster has that effect on me. He digs deep inside me and pulls out this desperate boy who wants to please.

  I sit at the edge of my seat, arm draped on the table as I push my hand through my hair. “Talk.”

  “Look at me, without your sunglasses.”

  I should have known this wasn’t going to be easy. Facing him, I remove my sunglasses, fold them up, and set them to the side. He studies me for a few beats before the hard edges in his face go soft and his eyes turn sincere.

  “I’m sorry, Roark. I was out of line the other day, assuming the worst about you when I should have thanked you.”

  Fuck. I was right, I don’t want to listen to this.

  He must sense how uncomfortable I am, because he stares me down, holding my attention. “I was blindsided, and in that mindset, I jumped to extremely wrong conclusions. The things I said to you. Shit, man, you were protecting my daughter from . . . I can’t bear to think what you saw happening to her, Roark. But I also can’t thank you enough for pulling that asshole away from her. Taking him out. I’m sorry—”

  “Yeah, don’t sweat it,” I answer.

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  Exhausted with no fight left inside me, I slowly nod. “Yeah, I do.” Palm to the table, I look Foster in the eyes and say, “I love her more than my own messed-up life.”