Diary of a Bad Boy(18)

“I don’t have time,” I lie, bouncing on my toes as the wind punches me in the face.

In defiance, she says, “Well, I’m going to be your shadow until I get it.”

“Fine by me.” I shrug and reach out to hail for a taxi. “Follow me all you want.”

“I will,” she says, sliding next to me, her small body lining up against mine. “And don’t try to ditch me either. I’m going to be stuck to you like glue.” This is going be fun . . . or epically bad.





Chapter Six





Dear Ebenezer,

I’m typing this into my phone—which I easily confiscated from Sutton when she wasn’t looking—as I ride down the streets of New York, trying to look like I’m doing something.

I might have made an unnecessary big show about my job, and yeah, I worked semi-hard to get where I am today. I drank a lot, made friends, and know how to please the right people with tales from the land across the pond. But now that Sutton is watching my every move, I feel the need to act like I’m sending a shit ton of emails, when in reality, I’m a sad motherfucker making a journal entry I couldn’t care less about.

And while we’re on the topic of being a sad motherfucker, I really think Ebenezer is a terrible name. If there is one thing I know, no self-respecting lady is ever going to fuck a guy named Ebenezer. Sorry, pal, but facts are facts. You might have a giant dick but no one will ever see it.

Sorry your sex life sucks.

Roark





SUTTON





I wasn’t kidding when I said I was going to be his shadow. I have not let this guy out of my sight and I refuse to give in until I get my phone, especially since he already took his back when I wasn’t paying attention. Well, I might have been showboating a bit with it in my hand, trying to tease him in the taxi, so when he popped my hand up from underneath, knocking his phone away, I was caught off guard.

And when I reached for it, trying to steal it from his iron-clad grasp, I was instantly assaulted by his cologne, his wonderfully hypnotizing cologne. I failed and was put into a dizzy stupor for a few seconds before I recognized that my nose was planted into the sleeve of his coat, sniffing. When he asked what I was doing, I thankfully recovered quickly by saying I was sniffing him for drugs. Maybe slightly insulted—still can’t read him well—he told me he might be a fuck-up, but he didn’t do drugs.

He didn’t seem like he did, but I didn’t want to be caught sniffing his arm like a creepy stalker who finally got her captive alone in a small space.

“Where are we going now?” I ask, tapping my knee while looking out the window. “The post office was a real treat.”

“Yeah, a fucking joy.” He looks at his watch and smiles. I can tell there’s something up his sleeve, and I want to know what it is. We’ve already been to his office, where we walked around the main floor, tapped the tops of cubes, and then walked back out. After that, we went to a juice place, and I watched as he downed two of those wheatgrass shot things, which was a total shock. We then went to a tailor where he was fitted for a suit, which might have done a little something to my insides, seeing this ultimate bad boy get fitted, the fabric stretching perfectly over his well-defined muscles. That was a hard hour for me, wanting to look anywhere but at him, and when he called me out for avoiding him in the mirror, I flushed even more. It didn’t help that he stripped right in front of me, wearing nothing but black briefs.

Briefs!

What man just wears briefs these days?

A confident man, that’s for sure. All I saw was his tight butt encased in black. I think that’s what led to the arm sniffing.

Can’t be sure.

The taxi stops—I’m surprised he uses public transportation given the amount of money he makes—and he quickly gives the cabbie some money and heads out the door. I stumble out the door, trying to keep up with him as he heads into a spa.

A spa?

When I catch up to him, I say, “What are you doing?”

He barely glances at me. “Getting a massage, what does it look like?”

Before I can answer, the receptionist says, “Mr. McCool, it’s so nice to see you. Right this way.”

Er, do I follow him? I mean, I told him I was going to be his shadow, but a massage? That seems rather personal. You just saw him in his briefs. That wasn’t personal?

Then again, what if there is a back exit? That is not a chance I’m willing to risk. I am taking my phone back today, and that’s the end of it.

Without giving it another thought, I catch up to him. I sense the humor in his voice when he says, “Had to think about that for a second, didn’t ya?”

“Maybe a little.” I bite on my lower lip.

He chuckles. “Well I’m glad you’re seeing through on your promise. I’m impressed.”

Impressed?

No, that does not make me happy. It really doesn’t. I don’t want his approval.

But . . . a little piece of me is maybe having the tiniest gleeful moment. It’s stupid, and I tell that tiny part of myself to lock it up and be a professional, but . . .

Ugh, it’s stupid.

The receptionist walks us through a door in the back where there are two massage tables set up in the middle, and the lights are dimmed.