Diary of a Bad Boy(26)

Sutton: Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting your massage? Or your multiple visits to the post office?

Roark: You’re interrupting a good cigarette. Now my mouth tastes bitter.

Sutton: Maybe you should stop smoking. There’s an idea.

Roark: You get your phone back and now you’re sassy? How does that work?

Sutton: Just trying to find an effective way to communicate with you.

Roark: Effective would be with your shirt off, because then I would pay attention.

Sutton: Don’t be a pig.

Roark: You know, you don’t hear people call each other pigs very often anymore. I kind of like it.

Sutton: You’re not supposed to like it.

Roark: It’s a shame you can’t control my emotions.

Sutton: We are getting off topic. We need to meet.

Roark: Hmm . . . do you really foresee that happening?

Sutton: Please don’t be difficult.

Roark: Where’s the fun in that?





“This is why you ditch your friends who get hitched to a relationship,” I grumble, slouching in my chair.

“He’s five minutes late,” Rath says.

“And I want a goddamn drink. How come I can’t order one until he gets here?”

“You’re acting like a child.”

Maybe, but I need something. Christ, I’ve had meeting after meeting since I got my phone back—a huge reason why I wasn’t bothered about trading with Sutton—and I’m exhausted. Everyone needs something, everyone wants more money, and everyone is looking for the next big endorsement. I don’t know how many times today I said good things come to those who wait. Even thinking it makes me want to throw up in my mouth, because it’s a bullshit saying. Whoever came up with that saying probably never got anything good in their life because they sat on the sidelines and waited instead of taking action.

Taking action for my clients is my job, and I’m doing shit behind the scenes they don’t need to worry about. Therefore, I tell them they need to be patient.

Athletes are never patient.

When do I get a shoe deal?

When am I going to be on The Tonight Show?

When am I going to have a multi-million-dollar, multi-year deal?

You know when? When you pull your head out of your goddamn ass and score a few touchdowns.

I might have shouted that at a client today. It was the end of the day, and I was already irritated. Thankfully the dude was cool, laughed, and agreed with me. He hit the gym after that.

But I could really use a drink right now to wash the day behind me, and Rath is being a turd-nugget, not letting me order until our best friend, Bram, gets here.

“Ah, there they are,” Bram says, hands clasped together, staring at us. “My boys.”

Jesus Christ.

He floats—yes, fucking floats—over to us, a huge smile on his face, love beams pouring out of his eyes as if Cupid is right behind him, permanently striking him in the ass.

Rath is scooped into a hug—a full embrace—and then set back in his chair. From over Rath’s head, Bram points at me and wiggles his finger. “Come here, you handsome Irish bastard.”

I hold up my hand. “I’m good.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get to pass up Bram snuggles.” Before I can move, he swoops to his knees and buries his head in my chest . . . and nuzzles.

“What the fook are ya doin’?” I ask, my accent strong with my anger as I try to push him away.

His nose runs along the lapel of my suit coat. “You smell like heaven.”

“Get out of here.” I palm his face and push him away.

With a laugh, he retreats to his seat, unbuttons his jacket, and sits down. Hands on the table, he looks between us and then says, “I’m in love.”

Christ.

“We know,” Rath and I say at the same time, irritation heavy in our voices.

Bram has been dating Rath’s sister for a few months now, so it’s no surprise he’s like this—a bubbly idiot with a relentless smile. Hell, he’s been in love with the girl for years. It took him a really, really long time to admit it—not admit it, but make a move. He was Ross Geller to an extreme.

He adjusts his collar as he says, “You don’t have to be rude about it. I’m just sharing. Isn’t that what this is all about? Sharing?”

“Yeah, sharing things we don’t know already,” Rath says, flagging down our waitress. Thank God.

When she arrives, I talk above the guys and quickly say, “Jameson, neat.”

“Stella, please,” Rath says.

When she turns to Bram, he rubs his stomach and says, “You know, a nice warm milk would be delightful right now.”

What the actual fuck?

“No.” I step in, waving him off. “He’ll have a tequila mule. Thanks.”

A little confused and probably slightly disturbed, she takes off as Bram complains. “Hey, I really wanted a warm milk.”

“You’re not drinking that shit around me. Not happening. And also, you’re a grown-arse man, so nut up and drink some beer.”

“Sheesh.” Bram unfolds his napkin and sets it on his lap. “What’s up your ass?”

“Nothing.” I push my hand through my thick hair.