Diary of a Bad Boy(43)

My fist clenches at my side. He’s your best friend; do not punch him. You’ve made it over ten years without ever shoving your fist down his throat. Now is not the time.

“Don’t fucking touch me again or you’re not going to like what happens.”

Bram rolls his eyes. “Dude, wake up and see how you’re reacting. You clearly like the girl. Why are you torturing everyone with your surly attitude?”

“Because torturing people is what I do best,” I answer and sidestep him so I can reach the door. “Get the six-carat bezel set halo ring, you know she’ll love it.”

“It’s over three hundred thousand dollars.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Good thing you’re a rich motherfucker.”

The door closes behind me and the bright sun hits me first, a rarity in New York City. Usually it’s blocked by all the tall buildings. I shield my eyes and flag down a taxi. The boys think I’m crazy for taking public transportation, but I’d rather not have a guy wait around for me in a car when I can easily flag someone down and be on the move. I’ll use a driver on occasion, but everyday life is me in a taxi.

I sink low into the seat after giving him my cross-streets and look out the window as Bram’s words bounce around in my head.

Is your black soul coming alive?

I normally wouldn’t give Bram’s mush much thought, but I don’t know if my black soul wants to be resurrected. Yet it sure as hell has found a small heartbeat.





I’ve woken up at six the past few days, worked out, and eaten a non-liquid breakfast—and I’m just as shocked as you are.

Look what a decent night sleep will bring you—responsibility. But I don’t think I like it. I don’t like being that guy. You know, the one who reads the paper in the morning after a perfect execution of his morning routine. They’re boring. I like the unpredictability of waking up at some weird hour and trying to squeeze in everything I have to do before taking meetings.

I’ll admit, I have been able to work through some contracts early in the morning and maybe type up some winning emails that have brought in a shit-ton of money for my clients and me.

But still, I don’t even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. There aren’t heavy bags under my eyes, nor are my eyes bloodshot. I don’t have a decent smoker’s cough in the morning, and instead of Baileys as a “creamer” in my coffee, I drink it black, with a splash of sugar, because why the hell not?

What is happening to me? Next thing I know I’ll be wearing a tie and waving to people on the street as I pass them, newspaper tucked under my arm with a sunny disposition on my face.

I don’t like it.

But I also kind of do.

Fuck.

Sitting in my office, I look at the skyline and consider all the sorry motherfuckers like me who have a morning routine. They’re dignified, well-established men, each with a good head on his shoulders. I catch my reflection in the window . . . is that me?

I really did lose my bad-boy accessories. Now I’m just a— Christ, I’m like Rath, a ruthless businessman.

Ah, hell.

I press my hand to my forehead, a small smile peeking past my lips. Who would have thought I’d ever be like Rath? At least I still have my sarcasm, thank fuck for that.

My phone buzzes next to me.

An international number pops up, which can only mean one thing: it’s my shitty mother. By now, you’d think I’d ignore the phone call and not pick up, but if I did that, she’d keep calling and calling and calling; it’s her way of getting what she wants.

Grinding my teeth together, I take a deep breath and answer. “Hello?”

“Aye, there’s me boy,” she answers, her voice sloshed, her words slurring. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in my family.

“Hey Ma, what’s up?” I try to keep the annoyed tone out of my voice, preparing myself for the reason she’s calling, the only reason she’s calling. This phone call comes about once a month, and if I’m really lucky, twice.

Looks like we’re going for round two this month.

“Roark, when are you going to come back home? When are you going to stop abandoning your family?”

Oh wow, she’s going to jump right into it this go-around.

I drag my hand over my face. “How much do you want?”

“Don’t you talk to me like that, using that annoyed tone. I’m not the one who left me family with nothing but a few potatoes in the field that your father can’t even harvest himself because of his disability.”

His “disability”, as she incorrectly puts it, is alcoholism.

“If you were here, we wouldn’t be famished, poor, and dealing with a leaky roof. You abandoned your family.”

Same story every time.

Same guilt trip.

Same hatred in her voice . . . for her own son.

“You left your roots for a high-rise.”

“I know, Ma. You remind me every goddamn month.”

“Don’t you dare use God’s name in vain, like that. I taught ya better.” She taught me nothing besides how to take down a Guinness bomb without throwing up after. “At least I thought I did, but it seems like I didn’t make a lasting impression.” The tears start to form, and I let out a long sigh. “What did I do to deserve this treatment from you? You never come home, you don’t love us. Your father is sick and needs you, Roark.”