Diary of a Bad Boy(30)

“He said you would say that.” She smiles, but it’s not so charming this time. “I’m going to level with you, Sutton. Roark is a busy guy. He doesn’t have time in his day to talk about menial things like kids’ camps.”

“Menial?” My voice rises. “Let me tell you this, Siri. I spent an entire day with the man, following his every move, and if he has time to go to random post offices and have two-hour massages, the least he can do is have the decency to show up to this required business meeting.” I toss my napkin on the table, now devoid of all my southern charm. “And I’ll have you know, what my father does for those kids is anything but menial. I suggest you research a little harder next time.”

With that, I grab my things and storm out of the restaurant with one though on my mind, giving Roark a big southern tongue-whipping.





Sutton: I have lost all respect for you.

Roark: Didn’t even know you had a little left.

Sutton: Why didn’t you come to the meeting?

Roark: Didn’t Siri explain?

Sutton: Excuse my language, but Siri is a bitch. She was very rude and unpleasant.

Roark: Funny, I heard the same thing about you.

Sutton: She called my dad’s camp menial. I don’t know about you, but that is both condescending and insulting to me. I don’t take kindly to people disparaging my dad and the years of hard work he’s put into helping others. He takes more pride in that than the stats he’s racked up and the awards he’s won over the years. So for your assistant, sent on YOUR behalf to represent YOUR thoughts, to belittle his legacy like that is unacceptable, Roark. I know you have no respect for me. Whatever. But this has certainly taught me how little YOU respect my dad. And in my eyes, that’s even worse. Clearly, all you care about is the money you’ve made from him. It’s disgusting. You disgust me.

Roark: Hell, Sutton. I’m sorry.

Roark: Sutton?

Roark: Hey, you there?

Roark: Fuck.





After a long bath, a large hot chocolate with a cup of marshmallows, and half a package of Oreos, I’ve finally calmed myself down and can act like a rational adult.

At least that’s what I told myself when I was in my apartment, but now that I’m pacing the lobby of Roark’s apartment building, waiting for him to get off his nightclub shift, I’m thinking rational adult is nowhere to be found and crazy person is present.

I thought I said my peace through text, but when I saw his texts after, the heavy regret in his words, I had to see if he meant it, if he really was sorry. But he’s out partying, so there is my answer. Surely . . .

Maybe a little crazy, maybe a little desperate, but that’s where I’m at, because that’s where he’s put me. I’m not sorry for what I said to him, because it was all true, and it still angers me. But if he’s sorry . . .

“Can I get you a water bottle, Miss Green?” Harris asks.

“I’m good, Harris.” I look at my phone. One fifteen. “How long does Mr. McCool usually stay out?”

“Depends on the night. I wish I could be more exact.”

“That’s okay.” I take a seat on one of the stiff couches in the entryway. “Does he stay out late every night?”

“Almost every night, but at least once a week he stays in.” He winks. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

The door blows open and Harris rushes over to prop it open for a very wobbly and glassy-eyed Roark. Oh great, he’s drunk. I should have known. This was a stupid idea. Why did I bother?

“Mr. McCool, good evening.”

“Hey Harris.” He pats him on the shoulder and makes his way into the entryway. He gives me a brief glance before continuing toward the elevators. He’s about to press the up button again when he slowly turns back around and looks at me, head tilted. “Sutton?” He studies me for a few beats before something crosses over his features. Before I can address him, his eyes narrow and he strides toward me, taking my hand in his, pulling me toward the elevators.

“What are you doing?”

He presses the up button and the elevator immediately opens. He pulls me in, inserts his card, and pushes the P button. He then turns on me and laces his fingers with mine, an intimate hold I wasn’t prepared for, and in that second as we climb up the multiple floors in his apartment building, his warmth spreading through me, I feel the icy fa?ade I erected start to melt away.

I want to be mad, I want to yell and scream at him, make him feel as bad as I felt earlier, but with one glance at the regretful look in his face, I realize he was sincere in his texts. Not just sincere, but heartfelt and that cools the heated anger that was billowing inside of me while I was waiting downstairs.

I know it shouldn’t . . . but it does.

There is something about this man that scarily pulls on my heartstrings in ways I’ve never experienced before. He runs hot and cold, confusing me and flipping my opinion of him from good to bad in seconds. He’s exhilarating with his smart mouth and quick wit, but there is also a softer side of him I could bet my life he doesn’t show to many people.

And I know I can honestly say I’m one of the few people who is privileged to see past the bad boy persona.

The doors part and he pulls me into his apartment, eyes fixed on me, the heat in his pupils sending off a serious warning alarm.