Diary of a Bad Boy(86)
I chuckle. “I fucked the sense back into you.”
She kisses my chest and laughs herself. “I hate to admit it, but you did.”
“What were you like as a kid?” Sutton asks while licking some cheese sauce off her finger. We ended up ordering cheesesteaks, and what I thought was going to be a simple meal has turned into an erotic show of Sutton fitting the hoagie in her mouth and licking every single finger. It hasn’t been easy controlling myself.
Clearing my throat, I take a sip of my Coke—just plain Coke, nothing in it, boring shit. “A troublemaker. A stook—you’d say a punk—who knew how to get under everyone’s skin. I terrorized people in town, at least when I was younger. When I turned ten, I was put to work.”
“What do you mean put to work?”
I wipe my fingers off and sit back against the headboard. I chose to wear my pants while Sutton is wearing my shirt. “At the pub, I washed dishes for four dollars an hour every day after school. And then when I was done, I’d do homework in the corner until my dad was shit-faced, and that’s when I’d drag his sorry arse back home.”
“How many hours did you work?” Sutton’s voice is concerned, and it does something to my heart, tripping it up.
“Depended on the day, but on average about five hours a night.”
“Did you get the money?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Paid my dad’s tab with it.”
She presses her hand to her chest, probably not quite believing what she’s hearing. “From the age of ten, you worked so your dad could drink?”
“Pretty much. As he put it, I was doing my part for the family.”
“That’s horrible, Roark.”
I shrug. “It was all I knew, but it was the main reason I wanted to leave. When my English teacher told me about the exchange program at Yale with scholarship opportunities, I applied. I never thought I’d get in, but when I did, I knew it was my way out. When I was studying at Yale, and partying”—she rolls her eyes—“I was also studying to get my green card.”
Her brows shoot up in surprise. “You have your green card?”
“I do.”
She snaps her fingers in disappointment. “Darn, there goes my chance to have a green card marriage checked off my bucket list.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She winks. “I’ll forgive you.” Then she grows serious. “I’m impressed, Roark, that you’re self-made and have been able to build a business around you without any help.”
“Impressed, huh?” I pull her in closer. “That wasn’t your first opinion about me.”
“Because you got in a fight with a guy over ketchup.”
“Ah, I can’t help what happens when I have alcohol running through my veins, which it hasn’t been now for a fucking long time might I add.”
She smiles sheepishly. Fuck, I want to kiss her. “You can drink, Roark. You just couldn’t drink at the ranch.”
“I’m aware of what I can do. I’m a grown-arse man, and if I want to skip the alcohol, I will.”
She leans forward and runs her finger down my chest. “And smoking?”
I pull on the back of my neck. “Yeah, that’s been a bitch, and I’m doing that for you. Or else, after what we did half an hour ago, I’d be smoking a cigarette for sure.”
“Isn’t my kind of fresh air better?”
“No.”
She chuckles. “It’s good you quit.”
“I wouldn’t say quit, more like currently suffering.”
“Poor baby, can I help you with your cravings?” Her finger swipes over my nipple.
I raise a brow in question. “What kind of help are we talking?”
“The sexual kind,” she answers cutely before taking her shirt off.
Who am I to deny the girl what she wants? I move our food out of the way and push her against the mattress. Her hair spans across the comforter, framing her like a goddamn angel. I move my hands up her sides and lean above her.
“You’re addicting, you know that?”
“The best kind of addiction, right?”
I nod and bring my mouth to her neck where I mumble, “The only kind of addiction I want.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dear Branson,
Branson . . . hmm, sounds like I’m a manager, calling for Branson, the fuck-up of the company, to get into my office so I can rip him a new one.
Don’t worry, Branny. That’s not going to happen.
Just stopping in to let you know I spoke with the evil witch with the stick up her ass, told her I was speaking with you consistently, and then I might have mentioned Sutton.
I know, I know. What the hell was I thinking? It just slipped. She called me out on smiling, which I’ve been doing like a goddamn fool day in and day out, and apparently I can’t seem to tamp it down while in therapy.
Of course, her mouth twitched, and I knew she was hiding a knowing smile, it was evident from the annoying glint in her happy smile. As if she was giddy that I have a girl in my life. It was the first time I ever saw a shred of personality peek through her tough-as-nails veneer.
And do you know what that glint in her eyes made me do? It made me tell her that Sutton is the daughter of one of my clients. I know Bran-man, I’m cringing too.