Diary of a Bad Boy(105)
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.”
“For how long?”
I shrug. “Does it really matter?”
“It does to me.”
I run my tongue over my teeth and think back through all my interactions with Sutton, the good and the bad. The moments we were teasing, the times we simply held each other, to the early interactions we had through text. Through all of that, there is one moment that sticks out to me, one moment I’ll never forget.
“I had a bad fucking day. My mum called me, looking for money again. Her words penetrated the armour I usually wear when I talk to her. It was a fucking low for me, so I turned to my vices to smother the pain, but they didn’t work. That’s when I showed up at Sutton’s apartment, drunk, and in need of something. Instead of judging me and pushing me away, she let me hold her that night and seek comfort from her warmth. I knew then, I’d never be the same.” I press my forehead into my hand, coming up with my next words. “I know she’s better than I am. I’m not blind to how goddamn perfect she is, and I knew getting involved with her wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had, but I couldn’t stay away, no matter how hard I tried.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t stay away.” And now I’ve lost her forever and my heart has turned to stone.