Diary of a Bad Boy(22)
Crap. “Am I?”
“Yeah, stop it.”
“Sorry.” I look away and toe the ground, trying to come up with something to say. “Uh, how old are you?”
“Older than you.”
“Obviously, but how much? Like forty?”
“What? Fuck you.” He chuckles, thankfully. “I’m thirty-two.”
“That was my second guess.” I smirk.
He takes another drag from his dwindling cigarette. “Smart-arse.”
Silence stretches between us so I ask, “Don’t you want to know how old I am?”
“Only young people say shit like that, as if they need to prove they’re seasoned, not as young as they seem.”
Ignoring him, I say, “I’m twenty-four.”
Lazily his eyes drag up my body and settle on my face. “Yeah, it shows.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Flicking his cigarette on the ground, he stands tall and sticks his hands in his pockets while assessing me. “You’re eager, ready for work, and too bubbly to have really experienced the hardships of life just yet. Unharmed, innocent, and fresh from the educational womb, you have a lot to learn about real life.”
He pushes past me, his little lecture not bothering me since it’s coming from a pessimistic man. Hot man, but very pessimistic.
“What?” he asks, looking at my hand pressed against his arm. Large flakes of snow start to fall from the sky, lighting up the area around us.
With my best smile, I point at his discarded cigarette and say, “Are you going to pick that up? It’s littering if you don’t.”
Exasperated, he picks up the cigarette butt while muttering, “Unbelievable.”
I have no idea what time it is, as it seems like time stands still in this dark abyss of a nightclub. I do know I’ve had three sliders, probably twenty shrimp—if I’m honest—some mac and cheese balls, and at least four little macaroons that tasted like heaven on my tongue. I’ve drunk water the whole time, being that girl, and on occasion my toe has tapped to some songs I’ve thought were a little catchy.
Roark has been sitting next to me, an arm draped over the back of the couch, the other gripping a tumbler of whiskey he’s barely touched since we’ve been back inside.
His client is here. They spoke for what seemed like ten seconds, shook hands, and then the giant basketball player was on his way. He’s now in a dark corner with a girl on his lap and she’s doing all sorts of gyrating.
Let’s just say this has been an eye-opening night for me.
I glance at Roark, whose eyes are looking at nothing really in particular. “Soo . . .” I drag out. “Are you ready to go?”
I’m expecting a witty retort, something to put me in my place like he’s done all day, but instead, he stands from the couch and leaves his partially finished drink on the coffee table.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Thank God.
I quickly put my jacket on, wrap my scarf around my neck, and then pull my winter hat from my purse and secure it on my head. When I turn to Roark for him to lead the way, his brow is pinched, taking me in.
“You act like we live in Alaska.”
“It’s cold and snowing; at least last time we saw the outside it was snowing. I like to stay warm.”
Rolling his eyes, he waves to a few people and heads toward the front of the club. I try to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, but I keep getting knocked around, rubbed up against, and pushed in different directions.
“Christ.” I hear Roark’s Irish lilt right before his hand clasps around mine and pulls me behind him.
Warm and large, his hand wraps around mine, securing tightly, sending a wave of warmth straight up my arm.
I’ve held hands before, so this isn’t new, but what is new is the way his fingers hold on to my hand so tightly, or the rough texture of his skin as if he doesn’t sit behind a phone for his day job.
I’m so consumed by the feeling of our palms pressed together that I don’t even notice the guy blocking my way until he slams into me, sending me backward. If it wasn’t for Roark hanging on to me, I would have easily face-planted onto the sticky, alcohol-covered floor.
“Hey, dipshit,” Roark booms, still holding on to my hand while gripping the guy’s shirt and getting in his face. “Watch where you’re going.”
I’ve seen that look in Roark’s eyes before. He had it right before he pummeled the guy in the hot dog shop. I need to diffuse this before it gets any worse. Especially if my dad is Roark’s sponsor. He would be so upset if Roark got into more trouble.
Stepping in, I place my hand against Roark’s chest and step between the two men. Roark’s chest vibrates as he takes a step closer.
“Stop,” I sternly say, pulling his attention away from the guy. When his eyes land on me, I say, “Don’t start anything. It’s not worth it.”
His jaw works back and forth, and I can see his temper start to ease. I hold my breath, waiting for his next move, hoping I diffused the situation. The speed in which this man becomes angry astonishes me. It’s like an immediate switch. Scary really. I feel his heart beating so quickly against my hand, he’s shaking. I’ve never seen this sort of . . . raw anger at such close range. And it was only me who was bumped, not him. He takes a quick, shallow breath and turns away, heading toward the front of the bar, still holding my hand, and I smile to myself. What is he thinking right now?