Diary of a Bad Boy(14)

“What? No.” Insulted, my dad says, “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. I mean, you haven’t dated in so long, I thought maybe you wanted some help now that you’re in your final season.”

He plays with the cufflinks on his dress shirt and says, “Trust me, I don’t need assistance in dating.” More than I wanted to know. “Roark is my agent.”

“What?” I shout.

There is no way Roark is my dad’s agent. The guy is irresponsible, a total disaster, and . . . young. Aren’t agents supposed to be old with balding heads from running their hand through their hair for too many years?

I shake my head. “Stop playing with me. He’s not your agent.”

Stepping forward, Roark reaches his hand out to me and says, “Roark McCool, best agent in New York City.”

I swat his hand away then turn back to my dad. “He’s a joke. I can’t believe you’re using him. He got in a fight over ketchup, Dad. How is that professional?”

“Never said he had the best level of personal professionalism, but he’s done more for me in the past two years than any agent ever has.”

Ugh, if I think about all the endorsements and major contracts my dad has signed over the last few years, especially at his age of forty, I can see what he’s talking about, but still . . . Roark is his agent?

“Dad, you can’t be serious.”

“As much as I love this conversation about your lack of confidence in me, I believe I have a meeting with your father.” Roark gestures toward the hostess, but I cut him off before he can make a move.

“Just hand me my phone and I’ll leave.”

He shrugs. “Don’t have it with me.”

“What? Yes, you do.” Without thinking, I reach toward him and dig my hands in the pockets of his jacket. “It has to be in here somewhere.” I fling his jacket open looking for an inside pocket. When I come up short, I reach for his pants pockets, but a hand grasps my shoulder and pulls me away.

“Sutton Grace, stop feeling up the man in front of your father.”

“No need to stop her.” A full-on grin spreads across Roark’s face. “I was enjoyin’ it.”

Ignoring both of them, I point at his pants. “Empty your pockets.”

Eyes locked on me, he pulls his pockets inside out, revealing . . . nothing. “Son of a Ritz freaking cracker.” I toss my hands up in the air. “Why on earth don’t you have my phone?”

“Didn’t need it for my meeting with your dad. Left it back at my place.”

I pull on my hair, frustration eclipsing me. “I need it.”

“You know, this is perfect actually,” my dad says, “because I wanted you two to meet anyway.” He gives Roark a serious look and points to him. “We’ll have that private conversation a little bit later, but for now, how about we all sit down to eat? I’m starving, and I want to speak with both of you.”

“What? Why?” I ask, but my questions go unanswered as my dad guides me with his hand at the small of my back.

What on earth could my dad possibly want to talk to Roark and me about? We have nothing to do with each other.

And why does Roark smirk every time we make eye contact?

And why does he smell like God blessed him with all the pheromones He had bottled up?





Chapter Five





Dear Gary,

Do you know what song always plays on repeat when I hear the name Gary? That stupid fucking song Ron Howard sings as a young kid with a lisp in The Music Man. Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana, my home sweet home. Fucking little pint-sized Ron Howard.

Gary’s not going to work out, because I can’t be singing a goddamn showtune in my head day in and day out. Sorry, pal.

I have a meeting with Foster Green today and I’ll be honest, I’m going to lie out my ass about my eye, because I know he’ll have a fire lit under his ass if he finds out I was in another fight. And even though he’s my client, I look up to the man. It’s why I work hard for his wrinkly old ball sac.

I have a few options I can go with when it comes to the black eye. What do you think I should say?

Walking and texting, ran into a light post?

Yeah, kind of lame.

Old lady beat me in the face with her purse because she thought I was robbing her when in fact, I was helping her across the street?

Totally unbelievable, I know.

Then I’m going to go with an old classic: wasted off my ass and ran into a wall.

Always a winner. Once again, you were a trooper.

Thanks, Gar,

Roark





ROARK





I need another goddamn drink.

Badly.

This one is getting low.

If I knew the girl with the cell phone was Foster Green’s daughter, there is no way in hell I would have told her about the naked pictures in my phone.

I still would have given her a hard time, naturally—because that’s the kind of dickhead I am—but the naked pictures I would have deemed too much.

And what are the goddamn odds?

And why is she so fucking gorgeous? She’s prettier in real life with her platinum-blonde hair and wide blue eyes, all innocent looking but full of unreleased rage.