Diary of a Bad Boy(52)
And then he departs, leaving me angrier and more pissed off than I was this morning.
Who does that?
Roark: I can feel your anger from here.
Sutton: Wow, you’re pretty attuned to my feelings then.
Roark: I didn’t have to get very far to know how you might be seething.
Sutton: Seething is not a good enough word.
Roark: Why so angry?
Sutton: Hmm, I don’t know, maybe because you keep turning me on and then leave me hanging with no release.
Roark: Did you . . . do anything to take care of it?
Sutton: Yeah, and it felt good, having my hand between my thighs, working out the frustration you put there.
Roark: Fuck.
Sutton: Your loss, Roark. Every time you leave my apartment, or leave me hanging like that, just know that means it’s my hand getting to do the work, not yours.
I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe because it’s eleven at night and Roark is texting me. Maybe it’s because I’ve been physically wound up twice today with no release from the man I want more than anything, but I’m feeling bold and I’m not even sorry about it.
My phone buzzes in my hand, Roark’s name on the screen. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but knowing him, he would call again, so I answer.
“What?” I lie flat on my bed, my finger twisting a lock of my hair. “Unless this is about camp, I don’t want to talk right now.”
“It is about camp.”
My heart falls. I don’t want him calling me about the stupid camp—I don’t mean stupid, it’s not stupid. I’m frustrated. Sexually frustrated and wound up like a tight ball.
Trying to hide how irritated I am, I say, “What’s up?”
“I booked my flight for Texas for the day after that event I have to go to.”
“Okay . . .” I drawl out.
“That’s it.”
“That’s all you called me for, to tell me you booked a flight when you could have easily taken a private jet down?”
“You know how I am about personal transportation. I don’t mind riding with the masses.”
I rub one of my eyes, trying to comprehend this man. “Okay, well good to know. Thanks for calling me at eleven at night to tell me that. Unless you have anything else to tell me, I’m going to go.”
He’s silent for a second, and I’m about to hang up when he finally says, “Did you think about the event?”
“Yeah, that’s going to be a no for me,” I answer more bitterly than I would have liked.
“Sutton,” he sighs. “Please go with me.”
Okay, I need to take a step back for a second.
Why am I angry?
Because he won’t have sex with me.
Should I be angry at that?
Well, not really, since technically he doesn’t owe me anything. We’re not dating, and we really are only colleagues. It’s not like he’s technically done anything wrong. Are the lines blurred? Yeah, big time, but if this case was brought to a judge does Sutton Green have the right to be mad at Roark McCool? Not really, no.
Resigned, I say, “Who is the event for?”
“Jericho Stanton.”
“The basketball player?”
“Yeah, it’s a fundraiser for the local YMCAs here in the city. He raises a lot of money; it’s a high-end event. He said my donation isn’t good enough this year. He wants me there . . . with a date.”
That puts a smile on my face. “Do your clients always try to shape your life? My dad, Jericho, anyone else?”
He chuckles, the deep vibration rumbling my own body, as if we’re both sitting on my bed and my head is resting on his shoulder. “Yeah, they all have a hand in trying to make me better. I think they worry about me flying off the deep end and hurting their careers.”
“Valid concern.”
“Won’t happen. I know when things start to get bad I pull away from my, as you like to call them, accessories.”
“Do you have to pull away a lot?”
“Nah, I’m pretty good. There are only a few times where I’ve had to assess what I’m doing.” He lets out a sigh. “That’s beside the point. Do you think you can make it?”
“What’s the dress code?”
“Short red dress, lots of cleavage.” And that response right there is why I’m so confused, why I feel like I’m going to combust in seconds from my stomach constantly being rolled into a tight, tight ball.
Unable to commit, I say, “I don’t know, let me think about it.” Before he can respond, I add, “I have to go. Have a good night, Roark.”
I hang up and toss my phone to the side, unsure of what to do. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I consider my options. I can either let him continue to flirt with me, tease me, make me feel electric inside only to tamp it down with a wet towel. Or, I can be the one to set the off-limits boundary, to let him know we are purely working together, and that’s it. After all, that’s all he’s offering. If he wants to talk to me, it needs to be professional—not that he really knows what professional is.
The thought of shutting down his intimate touches just about slices my heart up, but then again, today was a hard day. I’m not sure how many more of these kinds of days I can take.