Diary of a Bad Boy(28)

“You’ve thought about it,” Rath says with a smile.

“Not in the way you’re thinking. It’s not something I’m interested in.”

“You say that now. . .” Bram drags out, “but just you wait. You’re going to be begging to go on a date with her. I can see it in your eyes.”

I don’t know what the hell he’s seeing, but there is nothing there, nothing at all.





Sutton: I gave you a day to gather yourself. Now can you please act like an adult and tell me when we can meet?

Sutton: Avoiding me is not a choice you’re going to want to make.

Sutton: I’m not afraid to get my dad involved. Don’t make me play that card.

Sutton: Okay, you’re tempting me. I have an email typed out to him, ready to send, ratting you out.

Sutton: I just put his name in the address bar.

Sutton: I’m about to press send.

Roark: Jesus, six texts in an hour. I have a goddamn job, you know.

Sutton: Oh hi. How’s your day?

Roark: What do you want?

Sutton: You know what I want.

Roark: You don’t have to ask, lass. Come and take it.

Sutton: Are you talking about your penis?

Roark: Heavens no. That would be unprofessional.

Sutton: Ah, I see what you did there with the sarcasm.

Roark: See, asterisk not needed.

Sutton: Look at this fun banter. Don’t you want to do this in person and talk about the camp?

Roark: No.

Sutton: We have to meet up.

Roark: The only thing I HAVE to do is take a leak. Talk to you later.

Sutton: You can . . . “take a leak” and talk to me at the same time.

Sutton: Hello?

Sutton: How long does it take you to pee?

Sutton: Does your pee ever burn.

Sutton: ^^^ sign of an STD.

Roark: You’re so goddamn annoying.





Sutton: Did you smoke today? Remember when you told me you were going to quit?

Roark: What? I never said that to you.

Sutton: Ah ha! Got you to answer on the first text.

Roark: Unbelievable. Didn’t anyone ever tell you lying is a sin?

Sutton: You lie to me constantly.

Roark: Never claimed to be a saint.

Sutton: Neither have I.

Roark: You’re not kidding anyone, Sutton. You’re a good girl.

Sutton: Not true. I do things.

Roark: Someone who is a badass doesn’t say they “do things”

Sutton: Oh yeah, well . . . I used to steal Tic Tacs while in line at the grocery store.

Roark: How old were you?

Sutton: Irrelevant.

Roark: Were you seven?

Sutton: No . . .

Roark: Yeah, okay. Night, Sutton.





Sutton: Rise and shine. Are you ready for our meeting today at nine? I’m bringing scones.

Roark: We don’t have a meeting.

Sutton: We could.

Roark: I’m busy.

Sutton: You’re not! I know you’re not. Please, for the love of freaking Jesus, meet up with me.

Roark: Why do you need me so badly? Just give me a job.

Sutton: Your job is co-organizer.

Roark: The fuck it is.

Sutton: Don’t you read your emails? Whitney said the only way she’s going to approve your hours is if you help me organize. We’re in this together.

Roark: She did not say that.

Sutton: Yes, she did. Check your emails.

Sutton: Did you check them?

Sutton: Hello?

Roark: I’m going to have a conversation with your father about this.

Sutton: Don’t even bother. I already tried talking to him. He’s set on this decision.

Roark: Then just do it all by yourself and slap my name on it.

Sutton: I wish I could, it would be a hell of a lot easier, but it’s too much work and I need your help with celebrities.

Roark: Christ.

Sutton: So . . . nine? Scones?

Roark: No.

Sutton: Roark! PLEASE!!

Sutton: Hello?

Sutton: Don’t ignore me!





Chapter Eight





Dear Ralph,

Ralph, Ralphy? Ralph-sef?

Yeah, not feeling it.

Did you hear the news? Word on the street is Foster Green is an imaginative and evil asshole. I love the guy for many reasons, millions of them sitting in my loaded bank account, but ever since he decided to be my sponsor, it’s like he somehow detached my balls, stuck them in his little fanny pack, and is wearing them around his waist, keeping them in close quarters, making it impossible for me to get around his little game.

Co-organizer? Do I look like a goddamn planner? I don’t do shit like that. I hire people . . .

Whoa, hold up a second.

An idea just sparked in my head. Yes, a very brilliant one. An incredibly brilliant idea.

Maybe this diary thing isn’t so bad, after all.

Don’t get excited, that was a lie. I’d rather poke my balls with a freshly sharpened pencil than sit here and write to you.

Roark





SUTTON





Sutton: Did you know I make the best butter cookies out there?

Roark: You’re just going to text me random things now?