Diary of a Bad Boy(63)

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She tries to walk away, but I snag her wrist before she can get too far and pull her back. Growing serious, I lift her chin and look her square in the eyes. “Tempt me all you want. Flaunt your cute little ass in those jeans, wear the lowest-cut shirt while riding a horse, I don’t give a fuck—well I do, but do it all you want. But I swear to God, Sutton, do not throw another man in my face. Don’t play those fucking games.”

She studies me. “I’m not throwing him in your face.”

“Bullshit. Why else would you talk about him like that and let him touch you all over? You’re trying to make me jealous.”

“You made your choice about me when you left my apartment yesterday morning. This is my home. There is no point throwing another man in your face, Roark. You left.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Sutton.” She’s right. She’s so fucking right. I don’t deserve to feel jealous. But, unfortunately, I can’t hide that I’m so pissed.

She rolls her eyes, clearly not taking me seriously. “And what are you going to do? Ignore me? Leave me alone? Never talk to me again? You’re pretty much already doing that, so what’s the difference?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” I repeat. “Or else you’re not going to like what happens.”

“Try me, Roark. I can handle pretty much anything you throw my way at this point.”

My jaw moves back and forth as I chew on that information. Honestly, what would I do? I’m just tossing empty threats her way, unsure how to handle the entire situation. And she knows that.

Am I jealous? Fuck yeah. I don’t want anyone even looking at Sutton, let alone touching her. And yeah, I have no claim to her whatsoever but that still doesn’t mean I want to see other guys throw their dicks in her direction.

I take a step back and drag my hand over my face, irritated with myself, irritated with the entire situation. “Let’s just get the horses and get this over with.”

“If you’re going to act sour, you might as well not go.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what you want, for me not to go so you can hang out with Josh some more.” When did I become so petulant?

“Why does it matter?” she counters. “It’s not like I belong to you.”

“You sure as fuck do,” I say before I can stop myself. Anger seeps from my pores as my hands twitch at my side, the realization that I want her more than anything hitting me square in the chest. I close the distance between us and talk through my teeth. “The moment ya came on my tongue was the moment ya became mine. Don’t fook with me.”

Not even flinching, she says, “In order for me to be yours, I have to want it too and honestly, Roark, I’m over it.”

“If you were over it, you wouldn’t be flaunting your tits every chance you get.”

She gives me a once-over. “Who said it was for you?”

“I swear to Christ, Sutton.” But before I can toss her another empty threat, she walks away.

Fuck.





Grammy is a temperamental bitch.

You know what else? Riding a horse isn’t great on the old balls.

My sack is numb.

My back is tight from not wanting to startle Grammy.

And I can’t feel my goddamn thighs.

How do people find this enjoyable? Yeah, sure the scenery is nice and all, but nice enough to endure this torture? No fucking way.

And then there’s Josh and Sutton having a little laugh fest up ahead, sharing jokes, and riding in sync while I’m back here with Grammy trying to make sure she doesn’t kick me off again.

Yeah . . . again.

When I first mounted the crotchety wench, she wanted nothing to do with me and bucked me off. Thankfully I’m agile and landed on my feet. It was an impressive landing, and if I had been drunk there is no doubt in my mind I would have thrown my arms up in the air like a gymnast, waiting for my scores. Instead, I gave the old lass a pat on the arse and mounted her again, holding on tight, silently pleading with the mammal to work with me.

And since then, she has.

“What do you think?” Foster asks, maneuvering his horse next to mine like a pro. It’s odd, seeing him in this element, where he looks like an oversized quarterback on a horse. I’m so used to seeing him in a suit or football gear but seeing him like this—a cowboy hat on his head, chaps on his legs, reins in his hands—seems so strange but also natural. This is home to him.

“You have a great property, Foster.”

“Thank you. I love it here.” He looks toward his property as we make our way to the barn. He seems content. “This last season will be hard, saying goodbye to the many people who’ve played a huge part in my career, but there is promise of a new beginning at the end.” He gestures toward the barn. “Peace . . . and lots and lots of baths.”

I chuckle as Grammy slows down. “Are you thinking about settling down?” Foster gives me a look and I roll my eyes. “Come on, who are you kidding? I know you have a thing going on with Whitney.”

His eyes narrow and he slows down his horse as well. “Quiet down,” he whispers, his eyes flashing to Sutton, who’s in a deep conversation with Josh.

Fucking Josh.

“She can’t hear you and even if she could, she’s twenty-four. I’m sure she’d like to see you with someone so you’re not alone for the rest of your life.”