Diary of a Bad Boy(54)

“Roark, I’m being serious.”

“I can tell, from the stick that seems to be shoved up your arse. If you want me to respond, be real.”

I don’t want this fake—prim and proper—Sutton to tell me what she wants. No, I want the tenacious, canny, and unrestrained beauty I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks. I want that girl to confront me.

“You want me to be real?” Her eyes start to well up. Shit, I didn’t expect her to get emotional. “Fine.” She takes a deep breath and says, “I can’t do this touching, flirting thing anymore with you. We either date, or we’re colleagues. None of this in-between stuff.” Her chest puffs out. “I know what I’m worth, Roark, and I deserve more than being strung along, waiting for the next treat you decide to toss my way. If you want to touch me, feel my skin, cuddle into my back, smell the lavender in my hair, then I need a commitment from you; I want all of you too. If that’s not something you can do, then the texts stop, the touching stops, the flirting stops, and the staring at my breasts stops. If you can’t give me that, then we resume work, finish up this camp, and go our separate ways.”

Fuck.

I know she’s right, we can’t continue this charade—this sexy repartee—without progress or someone getting hurt, but am I really willing to give up the chance to feel her skin against mine? Am I willing to throw away the late-night conversations and the sweet, playful texts from her? They’ve grounded me. Soothed me. Can I lose that?

No. I don’t think I can.

Not really.

But can I give her what she wants? Dating? Commitment?

Fuck, I don’t think so.

I must have been thinking far too long because she stands from her chair and throws her jacket back on. “I’m going to take your silence as your answer that you can’t commit.” She flips her hair out from her collar, letting it fall gracefully over her shoulders and walks toward my office door. “I’ll see you in Texas, Roark.”

“Wait,” I finally say, ungluing myself from my chair and making my way to her. I take her hand in mine and slowly nudge her against the wall, unsure what my next move is. I watch as her chest rises and falls a little more rapidly, how her lips part, and her eyes search mine, looking for answers I don’t have.

“What, Roark?” she asks, her body stiff, her hand loose in mine rather than holding it tightly like she has in the past. I can’t lose her. Can’t.

“I . . .” I swallow hard. “I don’t want you to go.”

“But can you give me what I want?”

“Does it have to be so black and white?”

“Yes,” she answers with conviction. “This isn’t fair to me, to give me little pieces but not the full thing. If we’re going to be intimate, I want all of you, not glimpses.” She looks at her hands and murmurs, “It hurts me.”

Feeling her slip away second by second, I let out a deep breath. “You know I can’t let you go.”

“You’re going to have to,” she says, side-stepping away from me.

I grab her wrist before she makes a full retreat. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Sutton. I don’t do relationships.”

“You have said I deserve more, so why don’t you try to be the more? Why don’t you want more . . . with me?” Fuck. She shouldn’t be questioning that. Ever.

“Because I know I can’t.”

“Can’t . . . or won’t?”

“Is there really a difference.”

She pulls her wrist away from me. “There is to me. One shows your weakness, the other shows your indifference. I can handle weakness in a man, but indifference, that’s something I don’t bother with.” She looks at me tentatively then shakes her head. “You’re indifferent. I’ll see you in Texas, Roark.”

With one final tug, she exits my office, leaving me in a state of uncomfortable and unexpected panic. I know I can’t give her what she wants—at least I don’t think I can—but I can’t have her slip away.

I push my hand angrily through my hair and turn toward the windows of my office, away from Sutton’s retreating back.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my body vibrating with frustration, my mouth going dry, my veins begging for relief. Apart from the fucking phone call from my ma, I haven’t needed this for weeks, felt this unexplained uneasiness within me. How can watching her walk away stir this . . . unease? This restlessness?

Because she’s the one who gave you the reason to not indulge.

I walk to the mini fridge and grab a few small bottles of whiskey, uncapping them in one twist. I take a long swig, toss the empty bottle and then take down the other. I can’t have her, so I need help easing the pain that’s starting to erupt all over my skin.





Roark: Can I come over?

Sutton: It’s one in the morning. I don’t work this late.

Roark: It’s not about work.

Sutton: Then no.

Roark: Let me come over. I want to snuggle into you, hold you.

Sutton: Are you going to give me what I want?

Roark: You know the answer to that.

Sutton: Then you know mine. Good night, Roark.





Roark: Tomorrow is the fundraiser. I have a stylist on hold for you at Bloomingdales.