Diary of a Bad Boy(6)

Rath appears in the doorway, wearing his signature navy-blue suit and tan Berluti dress shoes. The smartest of my friends, he’s a take-no-prisoners asshole in the business room, has zero time for any relationships unless it’s with his phone, and he really fucking loves pastries.

Like, hides them in his office for bad days.

I sometimes dip into his stash whenever I’m hungover and in the need of a fix . . . which is often.

He gives me a once-over. “Glad to see you’re not dead.”

I spit. “It’s going to take a lot more than a guy in a douchey jacket to kill me.”

The buzzing sounds off again.

“Are you going to take your meetings today?”

I scrub my tongue and then spit, rinsing my mouth with a splash of water. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you look like you got run over by a taxi.”

I glance in the mirror at my black eye. “My clients have seen worse, like they really give a fuck. As long as I’m making them money, that’s all they care about.”

“If I were an athlete, I wouldn’t want you as my sports agent.”

I straighten and tap Rath’s cheek. “Good thing you were blessed with zero ability to shoot a ball in a basket then, huh?”

I move to my closet where I pluck a pair of jeans from the shelf, not bothering with underwear, I drop the towel and slip my jeans on.

“What about your probation?”

“What about it?” I tuck everything in and zip up the front of my pants.

“You can’t get in a fucking fight, Roark. If you violate your probation, you can be tossed in jail.”

Yup, that’s how my lawyer spelled it out for me, and I would love to say I actually tried last night to hold back my temper, but who am I fucking kidding? I didn’t. I was looking for trouble, felt the need to get into it with someone, and it’s why I was such a dick.

When I have an itch, I need to scratch it, and after a shitty day, I wanted nothing more than to get into it with someone.

“The dude wouldn’t have pressed charges, because he had his own shit to worry about.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Rath says, most likely wondering why he became friends with me. When you’re in a fraternity together and see each other get slapped on the bare ass like a brand-new baby by every brother, you form an unfortunate, special bond. “Dude, you’re the top sports agent in fucking New York. You have a waiting list clamoring to sign up with you. Don’t throw it away on a goddamn ketchup stain.”

He does have a point. Always the smart one.

“Yeah, fine.” I drag my hand over my face. “I’ll try harder.”

“Or how about you just don’t get into fights. The last punch you delivered made that guy ralph on the sidewalk.”

I chuckle. Ralph, what a fucking way to say puke. “You know what I always wondered about?”

Annoyed, Rath bites out, “What?”

“What kind of violent retching did Ralph go through to grant him the title of puke king?”

The furrow in Rath’s brow eases as a small smile passes over his lips. “No idea, but I’m just glad I’m not Ralph.” My phone buzzes again. “Are you going to answer that?”

“My clients know I’ll call them back when I’m available.”

“Uh . . . dude, do you not remember ending up with that girl’s phone last night?”

“What ph—” Oh motherfucker. I jog to the phone on my nightstand with the purple case and answer the call. “Hello.”

“Hello?” Fuck, she sounds annoyed.

“Hey there, lass.”

“Are you kidding me right now? Do you know what time it is?”

I sit on my bed, getting ready for her lecture. “Must be late for something from the bitchy tone in your voice.”

“Excuse me? Did you just call me a bitch?”

“No. I said bitchy tone. Totally different.”

“You are two hours late. I’ve been sitting at this restaurant waiting for you to bring back my phone.”

“Oh yeah.” I push my hand through my wet hair. “I slept in. Sorry about that, lass.”

“Are you . . . I can’t . . . you told me to be here at seven sharp, and you slept in?”

I shrug even though she can’t see me. “I had some drinks last night. I can’t be held accountable for what I said.”

“You . . . you are so rude.”

“Whoa, look out, she’s slingin’ the insults.” I lean back on one hand.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, and even though I don’t know this girl and have a fuzzy recollection of what she looks like from browsing her pictures, I can imagine her counting to ten.

Finally, “You know, I’ve been very kind answering your non-stop calls and telling people that you are without your phone but will get back to them—”

“Why not let it go to voicemail? That way I can actually hear what they have to say.”

“Well . . .” She pauses and I chuckle. “I thought it was polite since your phone wouldn’t stop ringing.”

“Being polite isn’t on my radar, and I already have a secretary, so don’t answer the calls.”