Diary of a Bad Boy(44)
He only wants my checkbook. He needs to support his bad habits.
“I have a meeting, Ma. I have to go.”
A loud sob escapes her. “You’ve always been ungrateful for everything I’ve given ya. At this point it would be easier if you were dead. At least I could mourn the loss of my oldest son and move on, rather than being taunted constantly, knowing you’re in America, living a posh life while your family can barely afford food for the table. Before you lived in that high-rise, you lived in this stone house.”
I count to three, but it still doesn’t work. My skin itches, my anger starts to boil, as my mom presses every one of my buttons, and a dark cloud starts to move in over my head.
Teeth grinding together, there is a grit to my voice when I speak. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Ma.”
“I just wish ya showed more care for us, for the people who’ve always been there for ya.”
“Right. And?” I ask, wanting this to be over.
“Can you send us some money?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head, knowing exactly what my night is going to entail.
Chapter Eleven
Dear I Don’t Give a Fuck,
All they ever want from me is money.
They don’t care about how I earned that money, how I’m faring, or the name I’ve made for myself. All they care about is the green in my pockets and how quickly I can get it wired to them.
I dread the monthly phone call. I know it’s coming, and I dread it.
It’s a sharp reminder that even though it may seem like I have family, I really am alone in this world.
Bram says I have a black soul, well there’s a goddamn reason for it.
Bottoms up.
Roark
SUTTON
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I shoot up from my bed, scaring the crap out of Louise, who runs in midair and flees under the bed. Blanket clutched to my chest, heart pounding, I look toward the door. Was that a knock on my door? Or a neighbor’s?
What time is it?
Pitch-black, I light up my phone to see a bunch of unanswered text messages and the time. Three o’clock.
Bang. Scratch. Scratch.
I turn my head toward the door. That’s definitely coming from mine. Heart rate picking up even more, I weigh my options. No one I know would be up this late, so it might be a drunk neighbor who has gotten lost in our little brownstone building. That has happened before. Instead of getting up to answer the door—I’m not the girl who gets killed off first in a horror movie—I bring my knees to my chest and open my text messages, all from Roark.
Oh no. My eyes are slightly blurry from my abrupt wake up, but I can still make them out.
Roark: Hi.
Roark: What are ya doin?
Roark: Sleeping? Of course you’re sleeping. Like an ostrich, right?
What is he talking about?
Roark: Kind of wish you were sleeping in my apartment. I like when you sleep there.
Roark: Are you wearing my shirt?
I glance down and bite on my bottom lip. Yeah, I am and I haven’t washed it, because I like the way it smells . . . like him.
Roark: If you were wearing my shirt, I would slip my hand up your thigh to see what kind of underwear you’re wearing.
Roark: It’s a thong, right?
Roark: Fuck, I want to see you in a thong so damn bad. On my lap, I want you on my lap.
My face heats up just as there is another scratch on my door and then . . . a voice.
Heart pounding against my chest, I set down my phone and walk to my door as quietly as I can, tiptoeing against the hardwood floors. I press my hands against the wooden door and peek through the peephole and hold my breath. That’s when I see Roark, leaning, his head lightly knocking against the door.
How on earth does he know where I live?
And why is he here?
“Sutton,” he whispers, just as another scratch hits the door. “Open up.”
“Roark?” I ask through the door, causing him to rear. He sways back and forth then lifts his hand as a welcome.
He’s completely wasted.
Oh, Roark. I sigh and unlock my door, opening it just wide enough to fit my body in the entrance. Despite his obvious state of inebriation, my body can’t help but react to him. I take him in—black jeans, black shoes, black long-sleeved shirt, no jacket, and his hair perfectly styled on the top of his head. He looks absolutely delicious with his shirt clinging to his muscles and his jeans riding low on his hips. Dark and broody with a hint of sensitivity under that searing gaze, he’s all trouble, and I want to be a part of it.
He takes a step forward and puts a hand against the doorjamb of my apartment, his eyes scanning my bare legs and braless chest. “Hey,” he says softly. “Did I wake you?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. It’s three in the morning.”
“Is it?” he asks, and I get a whiff of the whiskey on his breath.
I nod and fold my arms across my chest while leaning against the wall. “It is and you have me wondering how you know where I live.”
He smiles wickedly at me, and the mischief in his expression tempts and teases me. “I have my ways.” Hands in his pockets, he rocks on his heels and nods toward my apartment. “Can I come in?”