Diary of a Bad Boy Read online

  * * *

  I pace the small space of my studio apartment, staring at the phone on my nightstand, willing it to ring. Maddie tried calling my phone several times but no one picked up, and since it was late, she wanted to get home. She told me she’d keep calling.

  You would think Irish would have called by now since my phone doesn’t have a passcode on it.

  Which . . . God, why didn’t I set that up at the store? Oh yeah, because it took an hour to update my phone, and I didn’t want to be late to the musical. Little did I know I was going to lose my phone during a fistfight in a freaking hot dog shop.

  Twelve thirty, and there is no way I’m going to be able to sleep, not when my heart is still racing from the fight. My mind is whirling with everything the guy can get into with my phone.

  “Ugh,” I groan, trying to recollect the pictures I have stored. No naked shots, I know that for sure. But selfies? You take at least ten until you have the right shot. I have so many selfies on that phone it’s going to look like I’m vain.

  The phone buzzes on the nightstand and I run to it, my heart rate kicking up once again when I see my number flash across it.

  Fumbling for a second, I answer and hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Who’s this?” An Irish accent comes through the other end. Yup, Maddie was right, he ended up with my phone.

  “Um, this is Sutton. I think you have my phone.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” he groans. “How the hell did I get it?”

  I don’t understand why he’s being so rude. It’s not necessary when he’s the one who ruined my night by mouthing off to the faux-fur guy.

  “Well, you rudely bashed into me and my friend during your little hot dog fight and knocked my phone from my hand. Your friend must have picked up the wrong one.”

  “Fucking Rath,” he mutters. “Where do you live?”

  “Do you really think I’m going to tell you that? I just watched you punch the crap out of a guy over ketchup. You don’t seem like an upstanding citizen I’d want to hand over my address to.”

  “I meant what borough. Christ.”

  Oh, that makes more sense.

  “Brooklyn.”

  Another low groan.

  “Of course. You seemed like a Brooklyn girl.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ignoring my question, he says, “I’m in no form to hike it out there tonight, but we can meet up tomorrow to trade, in a neutral place since I don’t want you seeing where I live.”

  How dare he? As if I really want to know where he rests his hot-tempered head at night. “It’s probably Jersey.”

  Did I say that out loud?

  “Ya think I live in fookin’ Jersey?” Lord, does this man have a short fuse.

  “Where do you propose we meet?” I ask, ignoring his question.

  He unhappily groans into the phone. “No idea. Fuck. I have a headache.” Well, probably because he took fists to the head tonight. “I have meetings all day tomorrow, but can ya meet in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven.”

  Seven? I can do seven, but can he? I can’t possibly imagine this guy, who was just in a New York City brawl, recovering from brutal fists and what seemed like excessive alcohol intake, as a morning person.

  “Uh, yeah. I can do seven. Where?”

  “Bain on Pan on Fifth. I need a goddamn pastry tomorrow morning.”

  That makes me giggle. “Okay.” I chew on my lip, a little nervous. “Uh, can you be careful with my phone? It’s brand new.”

  “Not smart leaving a brand-new phone on the floor, don’t ya think?”

  “I didn’t leave it on the floor. You knocked it out of my hand and then your friend took it.”

  “Uh huh,” he answers, sounding entirely bored. “Whatever, lass. Just be there tomorrow morning, okay?”

  Someone has a stick up his ass.

  “I will be.”

  “Oh, and if ya need to use my phone, my passcode is 111111. There’s a folder in my photo album of some of my favorite nudes I’ve gotten over the years. Help yourself.”

  Ew, is he serious? I hold out the phone from my ear as if it’s diseased. It probably is.

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss. Tomorrow, seven, don’t be late. I have shit to do.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say with a stern tone. “And please don’t search through my phone. Be respectful of my privacy.”

  “Aye, too late, lass. You take a lot of selfies.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever disliked a person this much, this fast.

  “That’s private.”

  “Not anymore. See you tomorrow.”

  Then he hangs up. I look down at the phone, my anger building in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe he went through my pictures. Who does that?

  My finger hovers over the number one on his screen, wanting to do my own exploration, curious who this man is and what drives him to be such a giant . . . asshole.

  But I’m better than that. My dad taught me to be better than that. So instead, I unlock his phone and go straight to the clock where I set a wake-up alarm. I’ll be damned if I show up late tomorrow morning.

  Chapter Two

  Dear Melvin,

  Eh, Melvin doesn’t sit well with me for your diary name. Melvin seems more like a guy who licks his pencil before writing in an answer to his on-going crossword puzzle he can’t solve, but acts like he’s on the verge of a breakthrough. Nah, I don’t want to write to fucking Melvin.

  I don’t want to write at all, but guess who has “homework”? This sorry motherfucker. So here I am, a glass of whiskey in my right hand and completely fucking nude.

  Yup, my dick is peering up at you, asking what the hell I’m doing writing to some pansy-ass named Melvin instead of jacking off to the pictures of the girl on the phone.

  Wide blue eyes, naturally platinum-blonde hair, big-ass tits, she’s a goddamn wet dream. And that voice of hers? A hint of southern charm and sweet molasses dripping from her plump lips.

  Those lips would look amazing wrapped around my cock, that’s for damn sure.

  But I have morals—not many, but I have ’em—and whacking my cock to a selfie isn’t necessarily a low moment I want to log away as a memory. So, I turned to you, Melvin, and just like that, my erection deflated like a fizzled-out balloon animal.

  Poof.

  Gone.

  Thanks, pal.

  Roark

  * * *

  ROARK

  “Christ.” I roll out of bed, my head still pounding, my mouth dry, and my dick hard as a rock. I press my palm to my eye to wipe the sleep away when a sharp pain ricochets through my head. “Ah hell,” I mutter, as I recall last night’s events.

  Hot dogs before clubbing. That’s all I wanted—a hot dog with ketchup—and I wound up rolling around in a puddle of New York City scum with a blue faux-fur-covered dick trying to beat the shit out of me. Too bad for him, I’m numb to any kind of punch at this point. Well, numb until the next morning.

  But I welcome the pain. It makes me feel like I’m alive at least.

  Standing from my bed, I stretch my hands over my head. Light from the expanse of windows filters into my room, lighting the path to my bathroom.

  As I pass the mirror, I glance at my reflection and wince. Deep shades of purple and blue circle my eye and a red abrasion sits just below it. The douche got in a good hit with a ring on his finger. I’ll give him that.

  I lean against the wall in front of the toilet and take a long piss, my head resting against my arm for support from the incessant pounding. Flushing, I turn toward the bottle on the counter and bring the cool glass to my lips, taking a long swig of whiskey. No better way to start the morning than with a shot of pure Irish blood right down my throat.

  The burn doesn’t even hit me anymore.

  I start my shower and press against the bathroom counter, the cold surface cutting over my bare
ass, taking some of my sleepiness away.

  I take one more swig and then set the bottle on the counter before hopping in the shower. The warm water hits me, soothing my aching bones that were roughed up last night. By no means was the other guy the winner of our brawl, but I’ll admit, I underestimated him. He was tougher than I thought and a lot quicker on his feet. It’s why my ribs are sore this morning. He got in a few blows before my drunk ass was able to spring to my feet and defend myself again.

  Leaning against the tile, I soap up one hand and drift it over my body to soap up the contours and divots in my abs, then run it gingerly across my ribs and move on to my pecs. I flick each nipple, because why the hell not, and then I run my hand to my dick where I tug on the hardened length.

  Fuck that feels good.

  I press my forearm against the tile of the shower, letting the water roll down my back as I glide my hand up and down my cock, seeking the release I wasn’t granted last night. I was supposed to meet up with Candace at the club, but since I had a small detour, I was out of commission—not by my choosing. I’m sure Candace wouldn’t have made out with my goddamn bloody face. I don’t have very high standards when it comes to fucking, so taking her wouldn’t have been an issue on my end, but I spared her the encounter. Fuck. I wonder if Miss Brooklyn Hottie received a text or two on my phone last night. The thought makes me laugh. And now I have Sutton on my mind. Gorgeous, perky-tits Sutton.

  Pumping harder, I roll my hand over the head of my cock. My breathing starts to pick up as blood pools to the center of my body. I spread my feet a little more and run my hand down to the root where I grip my balls for a few seconds and then drag my hand back up, this time, squeezing harder.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  My hand moves faster now, my erratic breaths aching my bruised ribs. Just a few more strokes.

  I groan, my grip growing impossibly tight as my balls seize and I lean forward to release onto the tile of the shower floor.

  Christ. I needed that.

  I finish washing myself, scrubbing my hair and leaving it a wild mess as I hop out of the shower and turn on the heat lamp above me before wrapping my towel around my body. The worst part about taking a shower is being fucking cold when you get out. When I made my first million, the first thing I did was install the heat lamp. It cost me a few hundred dollars, but in that moment, I knew I’d made it in life. All the rich fucks had heat lamps in their bathrooms. Me being one of them now.

  A buzzing sounds off in my bedroom, but I ignore it as I take one more swig of whiskey to dull the aching pain coursing through my bones and then brush my teeth. Mint and whiskey, lucky I don’t mind the combination.

  The elevator to my penthouse dings. I should be alarmed, but I’m surprised I got a shower in before he showed up. He’s usually earlier than this.

  “Roark,” Rath, one of my best friends, calls out. “Where are you?”

  “Bathroom,” I shout over a mouthful of toothpaste.

  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 thou
ght 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.”

  “Would it hurt you to say thank you?”

  “No, but I’m not thankful, so it would be wasted words.”

  She huffs. “You’re a jerk. I’m . . . I’m going to toss your phone in the trash can.”

  “Suit yourself, I’m fine with using yours. Plus the selfies you took are an added bonus.”

  “Stop looking at my pictures.” I smile to myself, but when I look up at Rath, his arms are crossed over his chest, and he shakes his head at me. “Can we please set up another meeting? I really need my phone back.”

  “Sure thing, lass.” I scratch the stubble on my cheek. “How does next Tuesday work?”

  “Next Tuesday?” she asks, outraged. “Next Tuesday does not work. How about in the next hour?”

  “Ah, I’m naked and not decent. It’s going to take me at least two hours to put pants on. I do have a black eye, ya know. Hard to see.” She doesn’t need to know I’m already halfway dressed.

  I have no idea why I’m being such a dick to this girl. Honestly, I kind of like the anger in her voice, the fiery sparks being flung my way.

  “It’s not my fault you got in a fight over ketchup.”

  “Don’t judge. I didn’t judge you and the duck-lip photos in your phone.”

  “I’m going to kick you square in the balls.”

  “You’re not making me want to meet up with you anytime soon.”

  Blowing out a frustrated breath, she says, “Just tell me a freaking time . . . today. Not next Tuesday.”

  I glance at my nightstand clock and think about it. “Tonight, eight, at Marlo.”

  “Marlo, I don’t know—”

  I hang up and toss the phone on the bed, exhausted.

  “You’re a dick,” Rath says with a roll of his eyes.

  I can’t stop the chuckle that bubbles out of me. “I know. But it’s my nature.”

  Standing from the bed, I walk to the bathroom and peer into the mirror, checking my eye out again. It looks even worse now that I’m more awake.