Diary of a Bad Boy(21)

Instead, I have the frightful sound of club music blasting me in the head. I’m still wearing a pair of tight jeans, my hair is constantly falling over my face, and instead of a fuzzy feline, I’m sitting between two sets of couples doing their best to score some action tonight, their eager bodies constantly bumping against me. So gross.

I lean forward and look at the brunette with long wavy hair, plump lips, and really shiny legs that Roark has chosen for the night. She must have put oil on them, after she left half her shirt at home. I don’t quite see the appeal, but then again, I’m a country girl who never thought having to show half my breast is the way to win a man’s affection.

Despite how I feel about the girl, I should probably still warn her.

Leaning more forward, I scoot around Roark’s body and tap her on the knee. When she glances at me, giving me one of the nastiest looks I’ve received all day, I curtly wave at her. “Hey, hi. I’m Sutton,” I shout over the music and point to Roark. “I thought I’d warn you. During our activities today, we stopped by the doctor to check to see how his venereal disease is doing. Results back soon.” I hold up my crossed fingers to her.

When she gives Roark a full-on once-over and then stands, I know my job here is done. We didn’t go to the doctor today, but if he wants to make my life hell, I can easily be a cock blocker.

Once she’s gone, Roark expels a long breath and then leans against the couch. He glances in my direction and says one word. One word that satisfies me, knowing I won this round.

“Cute.”

He shakes his head and finishes off his drink, sets it on the table in front of us, then stands. Before he can get far, I pull on his shirt. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Outside to get some fresh air.”

“I’m going too.” I stand and stumble over the people next to me. Roark rights me and takes off, looking far more annoyed than necessary.

He’s fast, so I panic as I make my way through throngs of people, neglecting my jacket and scarf. I move past two bouncers, who know me by now, and follow Roark out a back door that he props open with a piece of wood.

Once outside, the chill of the air hits me first, and then I hear the flick of a lighter. Leaning against the wall, head bent over, Roark lights a cigarette then rests his head against the brick once it’s lit, blowing out a long puff of smoke.

Smoking has never been attractive to me, but for some reason, in this moment with Roark under a dim street light, his Adam’s apple poking out, one leg kicked up against the wall, there’s something very hot about the entire picture.

Not bothering to look at me, he holds out the cigarette and says, “Want a puff?”

“No. I don’t smoke.”

“Good. Don’t ever start.”

I fold my arms over my chest and move back and forth, my long-sleeved shirt doing nothing to block the cold from getting to my bones. Please let him be a really quick smoker.

He lulls his head to the side and looks me up and down, shaking his head. “You know you can go back in there. I’m not going to ditch you, not in a nightclub. I have better morals than that.”

And for some reason, I believe him.

“The break from the music is nice.”

Still staring me down, he sighs and pushes off the wall to take off his jacket that he wisely remembered. He tosses it to me, and thank God for quick reflexes, I snatch it before it hits the ground.

“Put it on so you don’t freeze to death.”

The wool of his jacket is so warm. “But what about you?”

“You need it more. Don’t make this a big deal; put the goddamn thing on.”

Well, when he puts it like that . . .

I throw the jacket over my shoulders and slip my arms through the holes, immediately getting sucked into his scent framing me in a big hug. Oh boy, this is dangerous. No wonder shiny legs was all over him. His scent alone will attract a gaggle of women, but throw in his good looks and accent and he’s the man you can’t help but be drawn to. Even if he annoys you. And I still can’t get lunch out of my mind. My dad clearly respects Roark, and once he spouted off his credentials and I realized he wasn’t just a professional drinker, I felt more confused. My dad is not someone to support fools, and if he has sponsored Roark, that means he believes in him. And that’s what boggles my mind. Roark McCool is such a contradiction, and I don’t know how to process him.

I swallow hard and try to focus on anything but his cologne.

“So,” I clear my throat, “this is what you call fresh air?”

He lets out a puff of smoke. “The freshest.”

“You know that’s not good for you.”

“Thanks, Pollyanna.”

Yeah, I deserve that one. I’m nervous. Nervous for many reasons, the biggest one being how attracted I am to him. It’s crazy—really freaking crazy—because even though he’s been rude and surly, I keep feeling pulled toward him from the smallest of gestures, like him giving me his jacket, or his slight smirk when I get angry.

I should walk away now and consider my phone a lost cause, but for the life of me, I can’t. And then instead, I step forward.

He glances at me, those green eyes cutting past the thick color of his short beard. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me weird.”