Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  Still, one hundred thousand dollars.

  I want to laugh. I have to be financially judicious while buying these groceries today—no name brands or non-seasonal produce—and I’m about to turn down more money than I’d make in a year.

  But I couldn’t forgive myself if I agreed. I’d be letting myself down if I did. Worse, I’d be letting down someone even more important to me.

  “I can’t, Dylan,” I say, shaking my head. “What you did …it’s unforgivable. There’s a line I won’t cross, and you’ve set it.”

  He’s actually stunned, rightfully so. Not many people would turn down this opportunity. I remind myself that there will be other opportunities, ones that don’t require me to betray myself.

  “So…you have your answer,” I say. We’re finally at the store, and I turn to walk in.

  “Wait,” he says. Something in his voice stops me, enough to make me turn around.

  He’s pulling out his phone. “I just want you to remember that you signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

  Now I’m just straight-up confused, but I wait all the same.

  He punches the screen then brings the phone to his ear. His green eyes stay focused on me, and the expression on his face is a rare instance of seriousness that actually borders on grim.

  “Hi, it’s me.” A smile finally breaks on his face as he listens to the person on the other end. “I have a tiny request. That thing we agreed upon, I’m going to need you to spill the beans to one person.” His eyes depict a little gleam as they focus even more intently on me. “She needs convincing that I’m not a completely despicable human being.”

  I can hear the animated female voice on the other end. Who is he talking to?

  Dylan just laughs and nods his head as the woman rattles on into his ear. “Okay, okay…and don’t worry, you can trust her.”

  I wrinkle my brow at that.

  He pulls the phone away from his ear and hands it to me. “Here,” is all he says, which gives me no clue as to who or what to expect on the other end.

  I reach out to take it from him as I give him a wary look. “Hello?”

  “Hi. I don’t know if you recognize my voice. It’s Ginny Lawson….”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dylan

  Zora Petrinksa.

  Enough notoriety as a current model du jour to appeal to women. Enough of a face and body to appeal to men. But not too much of either to cause a circus.

  My usual arm candy, at least as far as the public believes, is even more manufactured than this soon to be “relationship”: Barbie doll meets sheik’s spoiled girlfriend. Fake everything from their lips to their ass and enough makeup to restock Sephora.

  Zora is none of that. Her long, willowy body with just a hint of curve is more suited to cocktail dresses and evening gowns than clubwear and thong bikinis. Her face projects the kind of sophistication and intelligence that most successful men would clamor for in a wife. She even has the soft but sensual voice, with just a hint of Eastern European lilt, to tie everything together.

  All class.

  I stare at her across the conference room table. Even beyond the scope of a fake relationship, she should be everything I want in a partner. For some reason, I’m disillusioned.

  I didn’t even pick her. Gene decided to preempt me by doing the honors of choosing my “girlfriend.” But I suppose she’ll do as well as any other.

  Anything to keep control of my own damn company.

  My thoughts on the matter aren’t important. What is important is that she was more than happy to play her role in the Dylan Sexton Finds True Love story.

  I look off to the side with idle boredom. I’m far more enthused at the idea of seeing Vanessa again. I’m stupidly impressed with her morals. Not even the hundred thousand dollar payday could make her budge. It was only after her phone conversation with Ginny that she finally agreed to be the photographer.

  I think back to the Sexton Spring Fling, where I first saw Vanessa. Where I made an offhand comment about offering her something more longterm. The moment I uttered those words, I was seriously feeling them. My eyes slide back to Zora, and now I’m wondering if maybe the wrong woman is playing the role of my significant other here.

  “I wouldn’t have to give up modeling, would I?” Zora asks her own attorney sitting next to her. “I still have a contract with Cartier that I can’t break.”

  “You’re free to continue your modeling career,” David Clark assures her. “Sexton Enterprises will, of course, have the final say in any new contracts you are a party to. It’s right there in the clause—”

  “And I would still keep the million dollars, no matter what?” she interrupts, one eyebrow arched in warning.

  “Yes, but again, all the money is forfeit if you disclose any part of this negotiation or fail to perform the required duties—”

  “Yes, yes,” she says, dismissing the caution with a wave of her hand. Her eyes fall on me, and a seductively sly smile creeps to her lips. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  It’s the kind of fawning attention I’ve become accustomed to. The kind that likes Dylan Sexton the legend, not Dylan Serafin from Detroit; not that anyone knows who he is anymore, at least not anyone here in New York.

  Have you ever even tried just being yourself?

  I wonder what Zora would think of me if she knew the real me.

  I wonder what Vanessa would think of me if she did.

  Suddenly, I have no interest in being at this little introductory meeting.

  “So, we’re good here?” I ask, looking first to David, then Gene, then settling on Zora with a tight smile. “Sign the paperwork, and we’ll meet up next week for the shoot.”

  Before anyone can say a word, I’m gone.

  * * *

  As I make my way back to my office, I feel the phone in my pocket vibrate with an alert. Being the president of a corporation that has interests in several different areas, I have a ridiculous number of alerts set up, most of them set for me to review at the end of the day.

  This one is different.

  I almost drop the phone in my attempt to pull it out. I stare down at the message and the world around me stops.

  Thirteen years.

  That’s how long I’ve been waiting for this. For the most part, it’s been out of my mind, what with creating, building, running, and eventually just having fun with Sexton Enterprises.

  But that’s a lie.

  This has been a constant nag at the back of my brain, like a mental hangnail I can’t quite reach with a pair of clippers. It’s always been there, reminding me that the world I’ve created around me isn’t just a dream. Maybe that’s why I’ve always lived for the moment, pushing the envelope, testing my boundaries, jumping off the deep end. I knew one day, it would all come crashing down.

  After all, chickens always come home to roost.

  Demons always come back to haunt you.

  The other shoe always drops.

  I make the call.

  “Mr. Sexton? I see you got my message.”

  “Yes. What have you got for me?”

  “Lionel Johnson has been granted parole.”

  I chuckle to myself as the irony of it all hits me. Just as I’m about to clean up my image, the biggest pile of dirt is about to land right on it.

  What else is there to do but laugh?

  Laugh and wait.

  “The date of his release is May twenty-first.”

  That’s less than a month away. I stare ahead as I absorb the information. There are a hundred different ways this could turn out, all ranging from bad to worst.

  And I have a pretty good idea which end of the spectrum Fate will plant me.

  “Thanks,” I say, distractedly.

  “We’ll have all the details sent to the email address you gave when you hired us.”

  I thank the man on the other end again and hang up.

  The real Dylan Sexton, beyond even just the name, has been filtered t
hrough a series of pay-offs, legal threats, injunctions, and any other means necessary. Even Gene, who knows more about me than anyone, isn’t a party to all the gory details.

  The personification of which has just been granted parole.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vanessa

  “So I’m looking at the price tag for this lens you said Dad wanted for his camera and the ranges are insane. All for one lens?”

  I laugh on the other end of the line to my older sister. “I told you! Welcome to my world from behind the camera, Shayla. And you thought Dior and Chanel were expensive.”

  “How do you even afford to eat, let alone pay rent?”

  “Prioritize. Besides, thankfully, in my line of work, I don’t need a macro lens.”

  “Maybe we’ll save this one for when he retires. That’ll give us all some time to save up for it.”

  “Actually, I may be able to cover it,” I say, slightly hesitant.

  “Really? Was the pay for that party that good?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I say, thinking about the one hundred thousand dollar payday I have coming with this photoshoot.

  There’s a pause at the other end.

  I sigh. “Come on, go ahead and ask.”

  “What?” she protests, all faux innocence.

  “You’re wondering if I leaked those photos of Ginny Lawson.”

  “Vanessa,” she says, bluntly enough for me to feel bad. “I know my sister better than that. I know you would never, especially after…”

  She leaves the rest unsaid, not that it needs to be spoken. We both know why I would be the last person on earth to leak those photos.

  “But still…poor girl,” Shayla says, sighing as she empathizes.

  I struggle with what to say. The phone call with Ginny Lawson was enlightening. It completely absolved Dylan Sexton of all sin and gave me a closer look at the world of celebrity. It’s even more cutthroat than I thought. All those hopeful starlets wishing they could live in the limelight would learn a thing or two about the cost of fame from that woman.

  At the same time, I’d rather not open old wounds with my own sister. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I mean, how long has Can Do Town been on the air anyway? It’s time for a change. At least it gets rid of her being typecast as a children’s show character.”

  “Vanessa.” The tone in which she says it—utterly disappointed—has me wincing on the other end. “You of all people should know what it’s like to be smeared that way. Have you seen the nasty things said about her online?”

  I’ve seen some of it, and she’s right, it’s nasty. I wish I could tell my sister the truth, but not only would that violate my NDA, it would violate Ginny’s trust. Both of them were surprised that it took her telling me the truth to finally get me to agree to Dylan’s offer.

  If only they knew my reasons why.

  A little more than ten years ago—when Shayla was only seventeen, and fashion blogging was still in its early days—she had the brilliant idea of taking her amazing fashion sense and applying it to the online world. This was long before the term “internet influencer” became a household term; back when girls like my sister and I were still deciding which sparkling glitter font to apply to our MySpace pages.

  Shayla has always been the prettier one of the two of us—not that I consider myself chopped liver. In Portland, her fashion sense was wasted in a city that was still clinging to the heydays of grunge and apathy. She was a trailblazer in the shiny new world of fashion blogging, mostly as one of the first black fashion bloggers out there. If she had stuck with it, then she’d probably have her own fashion line to this day.

  But fate is a cruel interloper.

  Not nearly as cruel as the anonymity of the internet is.

  It’s one thing to be teased by the peers you see on a daily basis, which is a normal rite of passage. Shayla was able to weather the occasional taunt from silly boys, and jealous girls from high school at her thrift-shop finds and Old Navy basics mixed with second-hand luxury label steals that she somehow managed to make work together. It was something that came with the territory of being “different.” There was also the salve of having a supportive sister-slash-amazing-photographer and a good group of friends who had her back.

  But then came the world wide web.

  The saying is true, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  Neither of us knows how the first rumor started, but it was perfectly timed to the point at which my then seventeen-year-old sister had something that could legitimately be called a following.

  I was happy to stay behind the camera as her official photographer. Her rising tide could only buoy my budding abilities and future prospects.

  That’s when the tsunami came…right on the heels of a nasty rumor that she’d made out with another girl’s boyfriend. In retrospect, it was all so laughably amateur, and so high school, it should have been easily dismissed. But too many people took that ball and ran with it.

  From there, the rumors only quadrupled, not only in number but in outrageousness. If it had continued, I’m pretty sure my sister would have been blamed for the Kennedy assassination. Every pathetic, bitter, gleefully vicious attack dog, filled with the venom of schadenfreude delight, jumped right on that bandwagon.

  The things it did to my sister are memories I never want to return to. It wasn’t just the blog, and any online presence she had that was shut down, it was Shayla herself. That beautiful light she had in her that made everyone around her shine was gone. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

  The worst is something I don’t even want to think about.

  In the end, she turned out okay. She met the most awesome man anyone could ask for who she eventually married.

  She was the one to convince me, with all the authority of an older and wiser sister, that I should continue with my photography. She told me that my talent was too good to go to waste, and my dreams of moving to New York shouldn’t go down in flames because of her.

  “You’re right, of course,” I say since I can’t very well tell her the truth. “But hopefully, she’ll overcome this.”

  “Yeah,” Shayla says, not convinced.

  “But since we’re on the topic, I have some good news!”

  “Oh?” she says, feeling my excitement through the phone. “What is it?”

  “I’m photographing an Ideal Gentlemen spread!”

  “You’re kidding!” she exclaims.

  “Nope,” I say, my smile growing as I feel her excitement on my behalf. “And of none other than Dylan Sexton himself.”

  “All because of this party?” she asks. “I knew they’d see what I do in your amazing work.”

  I’m not sure that’s entirely what sold him on the idea, but I’m sure as hell not going to burst this balloon of elation by giving her details.

  I’d be happy to offer you something more longterm.

  A purely visceral reaction electrifies my nerves as I recall the intensity of his gaze when he said that.

  “This is great, Vanessa,” Shayla says, still floating on that bubble of joy I’ve just blown her way. “I knew you’d make it out there. You’re so talented and brilliant at what you do.”

  I bask in her flattery, feeling any hint of insecurity fade away as it always does under her reassuring words.

  “So give me all the deets,” she urges.

  “Unh-uh,” I say with a laugh. “You’ll just have to wait and see it when it’s published.”

  Obviously, this is mostly because of the nondisclosure agreement (which I’m beginning to realize is par for the course when it comes to Sexton Enterprises) I’ve already signed. Another part of me still feels slightly conspiratorially fraudulent, knowing what those details are.

  It’s a fake relationship with him and some model hired to play the role of girlfriend. Even the most overly photoshopped and filtered Instagram shoot I’ve done seems more authentic.

  Still, a job is a job.

  I’m no longe
r in violation of the no-cyberbullying rule that I stuck to thanks to my own sister. As such, I have no excuse for turning down the one hundred Gs staring me in the face.

  At the very least, Dad will be thrilled with his birthday present when I go back home to visit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dylan

  The location is some bistro on the Upper East Side. That alone makes me roll my eyes. I can’t even remember the last time I was in this part of Manhattan.

  I do, however, remember when the sort of people who live here turned their noses up at the likes of me. I’m not bitter, mostly because it was a continuation of the treatment I’d always been exposed to. But this sure as hell isn’t my scene.

  I suppose making it my scene is all part of the New and Improved Dylan Sexton.

  Always. Be. Reinventing.

  The interior is the sort of trendy but classic decor that makes me think of those cafés in Paris. I’m wearing a white button-up shirt, top button undone, sleeves rolled up. The fabric shows off the contours of the body I damn well keep in prime condition but without clinging too much to make me seem vain or perhaps batting for the wrong team.

  Vanessa is already here when I arrive, her back turned to me as she says something to one of the worker bees mulling around. I observe her for a moment, watching as she says something, her hands gesturing. Her fingers are long and graceful, more suited to tinkling the keys of a piano or manipulating some other instrument as opposed to clicking the button on a camera.

  The man she’s talking to says something that makes her laugh, and I feel an immediate surge of jealousy fill my veins. He’s attractive and carries himself in a way that leaves his sexual orientation open to interpretation. That’s still all the motivation I need to intervene.