Diary of a Bad Boy(31)
It didn’t go unnoticed that he came home alone, or that when he saw me, there was the smallest of smiles that graced his handsome lips and now he’s desperately holding onto my hand, willing me to stay with him.
And with all the unfamiliar feelings swirling inside me, I know I should let go of his hand and walk away, but my brain can’t seem to move my feet, no matter how much it screams and yells at them. I want to stay, I want to see where this electricity that’s sparking between us goes. I want to know what that soft, sincere look will bring me.
“Hey,” he says, pushing a piece of my hair behind my ear. My face turns to him for the briefest of moments.
Oh God, this isn’t good. I did not come here for intimacy, nor did I come here for a booty call—not sure if that’s what he wants, but from the look in his eyes, I feel nervous about his next move.
“Roark.”
He cups my face, his thumb passing over my cheek, my stomach somersaulting from the touch. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice raspier than normal, but the intention in his words is so genuine, so sincere. It’s confusing . . . and tempting.
Swallowing hard, I look up at him. “Do you really mean that?”
He nods. “I do. I really fucking do.” His thumb strokes my cheek again as his eyes search mine. I barely know this man, but there is this pull I feel toward him, an ache starting to form in the pit of my stomach, an ache only for him. An ache I want relieved. He nods behind me toward the hallway breaking the spell and says, “Go.”
Wait. What?
“Go?” My excitement drops.
He nods again, as if he’s trying to convince himself and takes a step back, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Guest bedroom. Now.”
Is he serious? He wants me to go to the guest bedroom? After all of that, the look, the apology, the light touches. He just wants me to leave?
If I truly think about it, I don’t want to stay here. But then, I don’t want to leave either.
Mustering up a little bit of backbone, I say, “I’m not staying here again.”
He levels me with those searing green eyes. “It’s almost two. Are you really going to make your way back to Brooklyn now?”
I hate that he’s right. “I can get a hotel room.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sutton.” He nods again. “Go. Sleep.”
“But I wanted to talk to you.”
“Not now. Not like this.” He takes a step back while running his hand through his hair. “Go, Sutton.”
I don’t want to talk with him like this either, however I don’t want this abrupt end to our evening. But it looks like I don’t have a choice.
Sighing heavily, I turn away and walk toward the guest room, wishing he wasn’t drunk, wishing we could hash this all out.
Right before I touch the handle, I hear him say he’s sorry one last time.
Ugh, why can’t he not be drunk? He seems so open, so vulnerable, as if he dropped the sarcastic and witty wall he likes to hide behind, making him that much easier to communicate with.
But then again, maybe he’s in that state because he’s drunk.
I spend the next few minutes getting ready for bed, picking up a T-shirt he left on the dresser, which makes me wonder if he was expecting me, if he knows me well enough that a text wouldn’t have been sufficient. But when did he put it here? Why would he think to?
The shirt smells like him, and I shamelessly take in a deep breath as I slip it over my naked body. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and then head to bed where I plug my phone into a charger. That’s when I see a text from him.
Roark: You look pretty tonight.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my phone close to my chest. Oh Roark . . .
Sutton: You’re drunk.
Roark: I know.
Sutton: Why, Roark?
Roark: I didn’t like how I treated you. I had to wash away the day.
Sutton: You could have just messaged me, called, come to my office.
Roark: I could have.
Sutton: But you didn’t.
Roark: I’m an asshole, Sutton. The sooner you realize that, the better.
Sutton: You have moments when you’re not.
Roark: Don’t hold onto them, because they’re few and far between.
Sutton: They are, but when you have those moments, they make a big impact.
Roark: Like when?
Sutton: A few minutes ago, when you said I looked pretty.
Roark: Stay away, Sutton. Stay far, far away.
But what if I don’t want to . . .
Chapter Nine
Deal Sal,
I’ve always been a fan of alcohol. Have been since taking my first sip at the ripe old age of thirteen. It’s been a friend, a confidant, a protector against emotions, and a good fucking time. Never once have I been mad at alcohol, nor have I ever said anything terrible about it, even when I’ve been kicked in the crotch and buckled over the next day from too much imbibing.
But last night, Sal, last night alcohol betrayed me.
Some might have thought I was too drunk to remember anything about last night, but I’ve never been that kind of drunk. I’ve been the lucky inebriated asshole who remembers every idiotic thing he’s said and done, including saying stupid shit to a girl he has no right saying anything to.