Diary of a Bad Boy(19)

What is he up to?

“Would you like water for you and your guest, Mr. McCool?”

“I’m good. Sutton, ya want anything?”

“What? No.” I shake my head, confused. “What’s going on? I’m not your guest.”

The receptionist leaves, letting us know that our masseuses will be with us shortly, leaving me alone in a dark room with Roark.

“I’m not getting a massage with you.” Is he deluded? “And you seriously couldn’t have rescheduled this? You said you didn’t have time to get my phone. This seems like a luxury rather than a responsibility.”

“I never said I had responsibilities to fulfill, just said I didn’t have time. That was the truth. And if I’m going to get a massage, I’d rather pay for you to get one than have you sit in the corner and stare at me the whole time.”

“I’m not getting a massage,” I state firmly. Not cracking.

He shrugs off his jacket and reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt off.

Holy.

Hell.

Cords upon cords of muscle flex under the low lights in this barely lit room, his pecs clearly defined above his six-pack that ripples with his movements, and the V in his waist, sharply defined . . . How on earth can this man have such a good body with the amount of alcohol he drinks?

“Suit yourself, lass,” he says, pulling my gaze away from his chest. “But from the looks of it, you need this massage more than I do.” He undoes his jeans and pushes them to the floor, standing in only his briefs now. Again. Lord, have mercy.

I gulp.

His . . . oh God, his package is right there in front of me, all bulgy and . . . big. Sweet molasses, it’s big.

“Get a good eyeful?” he asks, right before turning toward the table and peeling his underpants off, displaying his perfect butt.

I turn away, shielding my eyes, even though the image of his bare butt is imprinted in my memory, as if it were just stamped on the inner part of my eyelids, so every time I blink, I see it.

“What are you doing?” I ask, dumbfounded with his audacity to strip right in front of me.

“What does it look like? I’m not going to get massaged wearing clothes.”

“You take off your underwear?”

“Yeah. Now get undressed.” He reaches out and pats the table next to his. “It’s time to pull the stick out of your arse.” The stick out of my ass?

Insulted, I pull my jacket closer together. “I don’t have a stick up my ass, nor am I undressing in front of you. And I’m not getting a couples massage with you either.”

“Suit yourself. There’s a chair in the corner you can stew in.”

Huffing my discontent, I march over to the chair and remove my jacket before taking a seat. “How long is this massage?”

“Two hours.”

“Two hours?” I shriek. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope, so enjoy your chair, lass. I hope it’s comfortable.”





Did I end up getting a massage? No.

But did I take a nap on the second table while Roark was getting rubbed down? Yup.

After fifteen minutes of the serene music, essential oils, and a dark room, I had no choice but to give in and rest my head. I only wish I didn’t fall into such a heavy sleep that Roark had to shake me by the shoulders to wake me up.

I also wish I didn’t leave a drool stain on the floor from where I stuck my face through the head hole.

That was kind of embarrassing.

“You still have a red ring around your face,” Roark points out while we’re in the taxi headed to who knows where.

And there is nothing I can do about it. “It’s my fair skin,” I answer. “It will go away.”

“Fair skin but grew up in Texas; how does that work?”

“Dipping yourself in sunscreen every day,” I answer. “My gammy was adamant about making sure I was fully covered whenever I went outside.”

He nods, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. I guess there goes our conversation.

It’s late. We’ve hit nine at night, knowledge gained thanks to the taxi cab clock. We have to be heading to his place, right?

But when I hear his one-sided conversation with whoever is on the other line, I realize we are far from going to his place.

“Hey man. Yeah, I’m done. Are we hitting up Seventh Floor? Killer drinks tonight. Yeah, I’m headed there. Nah, haven’t eaten, and don’t plan on it.” Of course he hasn’t. Meanwhile, my lunch has already made it through me and I’m very much ready for another meal. “Yeah, see you in ten. Name is on the list, meet you in the back.”

When he hangs up he sends off a text. I tap him on the shoulder with my index finger. “Uh, where do you think we’re going?”

He doesn’t look at me when he answers, “Seventh Floor. It’s a nightclub.”

I gathered as much.

“Can’t you stop by your house quickly so I can get my phone? I’m sure you’re not going to miss out on much partying.” I am one more stop away from kicking this man in the family jewels, stealing his wallet, and buying myself a very nice dinner, accompanied by a trip to the cell phone store.

“Nope, have to meet a client.”