Diary of a Bad Boy(3)

What is happening?

This is crazy.

Over hot dogs.

“Oh God,” I screech as they move toward us, backing Maddie and me into a corner. Like the voyeur she is, Maddie’s eyes never leave the brawl as she chews on her hot dog, fully invested in the fight, while my heart practically beats out of my throat, terror eclipsing me.

Curses are being thrown, cell phones, including mine, scatter across the floor, and the man in the tie reaches for his friend, trying to tear the two apart.

“Roark, leave it,” he shouts, as both guys roll over the dropped dogs. There will be ketchup on the jacket now.

“We’re going to die, we’re going to die,” I mutter, burying my head into Maddie’s shoulder.

“Ouch, that one is going to hurt,” Maddie says, attention still fixed on the fight. “The Irish guy took a jab straight to the eye.”

Oh, that’s what that crunch sound was.

“Oooo.” Maddie jolts backward. “Irish just pummeled jacket guy in the jaw.”

“I don’t need the play-by-play. Just get me out of here.”

“Take it outside,” Miguel yells over the grill.

For some reason, the two listen to Miguel and roll outside, but not before knocking over a small high-top table and some of the signs in their path. From the reflection in the mirror, I watch tie guy bend to grab his friend’s cell phone while still holding his hot dog, his face clearly annoyed. He doesn’t look particularly surprised. Maybe this isn’t the first time he’s had to deal with his friend fighting.

And I can believe that, given Irish went from zero to sixty in only a few seconds. I’ve never seen anything escalate that quickly, and I’ve watched a lot of football over the years.

Still beating the crap out of each other outside, I turn to Maddie, who has a huge smile on her face. “Wasn’t that exhilarating?”

Blinks.

“Are you insane? We could have been stabbed.”

She waves me off and goes back to her phone where she takes a selfie of herself, hot dog in her mouth. She chews and then says, “There were no knives involved. Just some good old-fashioned street fighting.”

“We need to get out of here.” I don’t bother with my hot dogs, entirely too freaked out to even consider eating them now. I pull on Maddie’s arm, who waves bye to Miguel and, luckily, flags down the first taxi she sees.

Once we’re settled in the vehicle and I’ve given the cab driver my address, I lean back on the seat and let out a long, scared breath. I take a few seconds to gather myself, my hands shaking, my nerves completely shot. What on earth would cause someone to launch into a fight with so little provocation? It was almost . . . animalistic.

“This is exactly why I don’t stay out past nine. We could have been seriously hurt.”

“Look at this picture,” Maddie says, leaning over. “You look hot in it.”

For the love of God.

Entirely uninterested, I don’t spare her screen a glance. “Maddie, how can you be calm after what just happened?”

She groans and sighs, eating the last of her hot dog. “Can you take a chill pill, Sutton? We’re fine. If anything, you should be thanking me. You just experienced a touch of culture. Wasn’t that fun?” She hands over my phone she must have picked up and says, “You dropped this.”

“Thank you,” I quietly say while looking out the window. “And I think I could do without that touch of culture. I’m fine with my life.”

“Have it your way, but I’ve never felt more alive.”

I guess that can happen when you’re faced with a near-death experience.

And yes, I might be over exaggerating about the near-death thing, but that was seriously scary. The guys were out of control. One wrong swing and we could have been clocked in the head. Given how many hours of football I’ve logged over the years, I really shouldn’t be so squeamish. But it’s probably why I am. I’ve seen the head injuries resulting from fights on the field, so I’m not interested in seeing much of the same when I’m out buying a hot dog on a celebratory night.

Peering down at my phone in the dark, I try to unlock it, but it asks for a password.

What?

I got this phone today and haven’t had time to activate any facial ID or enter a password. I bring the phone up into the light and examine it. Black case . . .

“Oh crap!”

“What?” Maddie asks, leaning over. “Did you break a nail in your attempt to climb inside my jacket?”

Funny.

“No. This isn’t my phone.”

“Seriously?” Maddie takes a look at it, flips it around. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “I had a purple case, but this is black.”

“Well, would you look at that.” She examines a picture, blowing it up with her two fingers, “I bet it’s the Irish guy’s phone.”

Of course, it is. Just my luck.

“Could this night get any worse?”





I pace the small space of my studio apartment, staring at the phone on my nightstand, willing it to ring. Maddie tried calling my phone several times but no one picked up, and since it was late, she wanted to get home. She told me she’d keep calling.

You would think Irish would have called by now since my phone doesn’t have a passcode on it.