Diary of a Bad Boy(4)

Which . . . God, why didn’t I set that up at the store? Oh yeah, because it took an hour to update my phone, and I didn’t want to be late to the musical. Little did I know I was going to lose my phone during a fistfight in a freaking hot dog shop.

Twelve thirty, and there is no way I’m going to be able to sleep, not when my heart is still racing from the fight. My mind is whirling with everything the guy can get into with my phone.

“Ugh,” I groan, trying to recollect the pictures I have stored. No naked shots, I know that for sure. But selfies? You take at least ten until you have the right shot. I have so many selfies on that phone it’s going to look like I’m vain.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand and I run to it, my heart rate kicking up once again when I see my number flash across it.

Fumbling for a second, I answer and hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Who’s this?” An Irish accent comes through the other end. Yup, Maddie was right, he ended up with my phone.

“Um, this is Sutton. I think you have my phone.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he groans. “How the hell did I get it?”

I don’t understand why he’s being so rude. It’s not necessary when he’s the one who ruined my night by mouthing off to the faux-fur guy.

“Well, you rudely bashed into me and my friend during your little hot dog fight and knocked my phone from my hand. Your friend must have picked up the wrong one.”

“Fucking Rath,” he mutters. “Where do you live?”

“Do you really think I’m going to tell you that? I just watched you punch the crap out of a guy over ketchup. You don’t seem like an upstanding citizen I’d want to hand over my address to.”

“I meant what borough. Christ.”

Oh, that makes more sense.

“Brooklyn.”

Another low groan.

“Of course. You seemed like a Brooklyn girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring my question, he says, “I’m in no form to hike it out there tonight, but we can meet up tomorrow to trade, in a neutral place since I don’t want you seeing where I live.”

How dare he? As if I really want to know where he rests his hot-tempered head at night. “It’s probably Jersey.”

Did I say that out loud?

“Ya think I live in fookin’ Jersey?” Lord, does this man have a short fuse.

“Where do you propose we meet?” I ask, ignoring his question.

He unhappily groans into the phone. “No idea. Fuck. I have a headache.” Well, probably because he took fists to the head tonight. “I have meetings all day tomorrow, but can ya meet in the morning.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

Seven? I can do seven, but can he? I can’t possibly imagine this guy, who was just in a New York City brawl, recovering from brutal fists and what seemed like excessive alcohol intake, as a morning person.

“Uh, yeah. I can do seven. Where?”

“Bain on Pan on Fifth. I need a goddamn pastry tomorrow morning.”

That makes me giggle. “Okay.” I chew on my lip, a little nervous. “Uh, can you be careful with my phone? It’s brand new.”

“Not smart leaving a brand-new phone on the floor, don’t ya think?”

“I didn’t leave it on the floor. You knocked it out of my hand and then your friend took it.”

“Uh huh,” he answers, sounding entirely bored. “Whatever, lass. Just be there tomorrow morning, okay?”

Someone has a stick up his ass.

“I will be.”

“Oh, and if ya need to use my phone, my passcode is 111111. There’s a folder in my photo album of some of my favorite nudes I’ve gotten over the years. Help yourself.”

Ew, is he serious? I hold out the phone from my ear as if it’s diseased. It probably is.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss. Tomorrow, seven, don’t be late. I have shit to do.”

“I’ll be there,” I say with a stern tone. “And please don’t search through my phone. Be respectful of my privacy.”

“Aye, too late, lass. You take a lot of selfies.”

I don’t think I’ve ever disliked a person this much, this fast.

“That’s private.”

“Not anymore. See you tomorrow.”

Then he hangs up. I look down at the phone, my anger building in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe he went through my pictures. Who does that?

My finger hovers over the number one on his screen, wanting to do my own exploration, curious who this man is and what drives him to be such a giant . . . asshole.

But I’m better than that. My dad taught me to be better than that. So instead, I unlock his phone and go straight to the clock where I set a wake-up alarm. I’ll be damned if I show up late tomorrow morning.





Chapter Two





Dear Melvin,

Eh, Melvin doesn’t sit well with me for your diary name. Melvin seems more like a guy who licks his pencil before writing in an answer to his on-going crossword puzzle he can’t solve, but acts like he’s on the verge of a breakthrough. Nah, I don’t want to write to fucking Melvin.