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

by Stevens, Camilla

  I grab the bottle and work the champagne open. We both laugh at the sudden pop when the cork is free.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” she asks, as I pour some into the flute. I top it with some OJ and hand it to her.

  “This is your carnival, you get to pick the ride,” I say, making a mimosa for myself as well.

  “I had a pretty good tour of the place yesterday. You have a perfect paradise here. I envy anyone who can afford it.”

  I lift the glass up. “My first five-star review. I think that’s cause for celebration.”

  “And how does the man who has everything celebrate?”

  “Morning sex?” I say, one eyebrow raised.

  Vanessa laughs and takes a sip of her drink. As she swallows, she gets serious and tilts her head to consider me.

  “What is it?”

  “Everything we talked about last night. You know, you don’t have to expose yourself that way. I mean, I’m sure Ideal Gentlemen will love it, but…you’d be revealing a lot. Are you sure you want the real Dylan Sexton—Dylan Serafin—to come out?”

  I sip and consider that for a moment. Then, I shrug.

  “The only one I’m concerned about is my friend. He doesn’t deserve the publicity. I know the statute of limitations is up on what we did—trust me, I looked into it—but so long as his name is kept out of it, I have nothing more to hide. Like you said, why not be authentic? Frankly, it would be somewhat of a relief. At the very least, it would save me a fortune in buying people off or paying lawyers to keep the vultures quiet about it.”

  She gives me a mild smile.

  “The bigger question is, who is going to join me in that photoshoot to help gussy up my public image? I need a woman in my life to show the world I’m a changed man.”

  Her smile turns into a smirk. “One night of sex and already he’s trying to update his Facebook relationship status.”

  “First of all, I don’t do Facebook. Second, is that a yes?”

  “No!” she says with a laugh. “What happened to being authentic?”

  “You telling me you don’t sense something between us?” I say it in a slightly teasing tone, but a part of me really wants to know the answer.

  She eyes me over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip, finishing it off. “Okay, last night was…fun. And yes, you are far different from the extremely terrible first impression I had of you, but...that doesn’t make a relationship, Dylan.”

  “It has to start somewhere.”

  She stares at me, suddenly realizing that I’m not joking. “I can’t…you’re just—you’re too much, Dylan.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She turns away with a mild frown.

  “Is this because of what happened with your sister?”

  Her head quickly swivels back to me, eyes wide in surprise.

  “I can be pretty perceptive when I need to be.”

  She relaxes, and a small smile comes to her face. “I’ve never been like her. I can’t be in the spotlight like that. I’m not shy or some kind of wallflower—”

  “That’s for sure.”

  She grins before continuing. “—but I try to avoid as much drama in my life as possible. Getting in front of the camera only welcomes it. Look at everything that’s happened to you just in the past several weeks.”

  “To be fair, I deliberately welcome the attention.”

  “And I don’t.”

  I nod, considering that. “And…what about being daring?”

  “There’s a difference between being daring and being reckless. Even if I did go into photojournalism like you suggested. Maybe even do a biopic or documentary, I’d still be firmly behind the lens.”

  “A shame, you’re so suited to being in front of it.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she says with a smirk.

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t keep trying. Besides, it’s true. I saw it that first night in the elevator the night of the Sexton Spring Fling.”

  “Even with that much competition to distract you?”

  “All the more so. It’s saying something that the woman who was completely dressed stole my attention away from two models in nothing but bikinis.”

  “I think you just like a challenge.”

  “True. And I think you like me more than you’re letting on.”

  She laughs and grabs a strip of bacon to nibble on. “Is that so?”

  “It’s so…and I’m going to spend the rest of the week making you realize it. By the time we head back to New York, you’ll be begging for that photoshoot of the two of us.”

  She laughs again. “I’ll take that bet. So, where do we begin?”

  “Have you ever been parasailing?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Vanessa

  I have to give it to Dylan, the week has been the adventure of a lifetime. Not only have I done things I’ve never done before (parasailing), but I’ve had some of the best experiences with things I have had before (sex).

  One would think that a man who has some of the most stunning women on Earth throwing themselves at him would be a selfish lover or at least not bother going the extra mile. Dylan goes about a hundred extra miles. It’s enough to make me want to step up my own game—not that I heard any complaints from him.

  It’s our last night here, and we’re having a sunset dinner on one of the yachts that service the island. We’ve just finished the bruschetta appetizer and are waiting for the salad. Tomorrow it’s back to the reality of New York. The mac and cheese from a box that used to be my quick and dirty guilty pleasure will never look the same after a week of so much gourmet indulgence.

  The view isn’t half bad either, and I’m not just talking about the sun in a sky of pink and orange hues sinking into crystal blue waters. Dylan is wearing his staple for the week: A white button-up shirt, the top few buttons undone and a pair of tan pants, today with boating shoes. Pretty atypical of a bad boy from Detroit, but he still manages to make it look overtly masculine.

  “So, have I maintained my five-star status?” Dylan asks.

  “Are you talking about yourself or the resort?” I reply before taking a sip of my wine.

  He grins. “I wasn’t aware the Dylan Sexton had a five-star rating to maintain. Definitely an upgrade from the negative one you handed me in that elevator a few weeks ago.”

  “Things can change. You of all people should know that.”

  “Nah, you’ve always been a five star for me.”

  I hide my smile behind another sip of wine.

  The waiter brings our salad entree, spinach mixed with citrus fruits and feta.

  “So, where do we go from here? You ready to take that photoshoot together?” he asks before taking his first bite.

  I lean back and sip my wine for a moment as I study him. “I think it makes more sense for it to be only you. This story of yours, it’s too big to water it down with the nonsense of a fake relationship.”

  “Fake?”

  I smile at him. “It’s only been a week.”

  “A lifetime for some people.”

  “Okay, yes, you’ve impressed me, and not just with…all of this,” I say, waving around at the luxury surrounding us. “But, New York is a different story. I go back to my life of photography, you go back to your life of, I don’t know, running a billion-dollar company? The two don’t mesh.”

  “How so?”

  “Because…they just don’t.”

  “And here I thought I’d cured you of your inhibitions,” he says with a subtle smile. “You don’t want to even try it out and see what happens?”

  I stab my salad and take a bite, chewing as I mull that over. Being Dylan Sexton’s “plus one”—and let’s face it, that’s exactly what I’d be, the usually unnamed woman at his side in every photo, standing there with a gracious smile on my face—is not what I signed up for when I moved to New York.

  “How about a proper date?”

  I blink out of my thou
ghts, swallowing the bit of deliciousness in my mouth. “A date?”

  “Yes, that’s what people who ‘mesh’ do, isn’t it? I’ll pick you up, take you to a nice restaurant, give you a chaste peck on the cheek when I drop you off at your front door. I’ll even bring flowers.”

  I laugh. “Why do I have a feeling you aren’t going to take no for an answer?”

  “Because you already know me too well. Like I said, when I want something, I go for it.” His green eyes, darkly emerald in the twilight and the small string of lights hanging above us, bore into me with a deep intensity that belies the levity of the moment.

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. “It’s a date.”

  He grins, and the pleasure reflected on his face sends my head into a spin. I can’t deny the wave of elation flowing through my body at the idea.

  “Okay, I know the rules. No coffee dates. No weeknight dates. A proper dinner at a fancy restaurant, my treat, of course. I want to make sure I do this right, so, Vanessa, are you free next Saturday for dinner? Should I throw in a movie, or is that no longer the thing?”

  I laugh. “Dinner would be just fine. After all, we may discover we aren’t a fit,” I tease.

  He raises one eyebrow. “Based on the way you screamed my name last night, I think the fit is more than perfect.”

  “Dylan!” I say with a laugh, kicking him lightly in the shin and turning my head around to make sure that no one on board heard that.

  He laughs. “So it’s a date. Saturday at eight o’clock?”

  “No!” I announce, sitting up straighter in surprise.

  “No?” He replies with a wrinkled brow.

  “Shit…I can’t believe I forgot. It’s my dad’s birthday on Saturday, and I’m flying out to celebrate.”

  “Ah, well…unless?” He raises an eyebrow suggestively.

  “Wait, you want to go with me?”

  “I’m not afraid to meet the parents,” he says with a grin.

  I laugh and shake my head. “That would be…” I look out at the water. What would it be? “It’s not even a real party. Just my mom, my sister and her husband and me having a nice dinner with Dad.”

  “Even better.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What’s ridiculous about it? I mean unless you think I’d be intruding?”

  “It’s not that it’s just…” I look out at the water again, then bring my attention back to him. “Why would you even want to go? We can always do a normal date when I get back.”

  He tilts his head. “Truth? I’m curious to see where you come from. You know all about me, but your bio left me a little bit wanting. I have to know how this woman named Vanessa Paige came about.”

  I feel a grin come to my mouth, but can’t think of an argument against that.

  “Unless you’re embarrassed to bring me? Which I can see.” He nods to himself with understanding.

  “It’s not that,” I say quickly, wanting to rid him of that notion.

  But now that it’s out there…

  I think of his past antics. What would my parents have to say about the Dylan Sexton they think they, along with everyone else in the world, know? I’m surprised to find myself not just not caring, but wanting desperately to change their minds about him. I’m not sure if it’s because of everything he’s revealed to me, or because I actually…really like the guy?

  “Okay then, but just keep in mind, it’s no Sexton Spring Fling,” I say before taking a sip of wine.

  Once again, the grin of pleasure on his face sends a similar ripple of pleasure through me.

  “Speaking of your reputation, let’s get back to that photoshoot. I still think it should focus on you, and only you. It’s more authentic that way, more poignant.”

  “Poignant…there’s a word I never thought would be associated with yours truly,” he says, raising his brow.

  “Well, here’s to the new and improved Dylan Sexton, the authentic version.” I raise my glass in salute. “I could still do the photography. In fact, I’m kind of more excited about this one than that silly couple’s shoot in that cafe. I could really do something with this.”

  Something in my face must strike him because now he’s looking at me with a more thoughtful glance. “I’m sold. We’ll do it your way.”

  “Not my way, your way. This is your story, Dylan. It should be told properly.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dylan

  “Thanks so much for agreeing to meet with me today, Mr. Sexton.”

  “Dylan.”

  “Right…Dylan.”

  I’ve taken Vanessa’s advice, and I’m telling my story to the world—solo.

  Kevin Hoff is a freelance journalist I picked to write my “coming out” story for Ideal Gentlemen magazine. I’ve read a few pieces he’s done on other celebrities and liked his stuff. He doesn’t write in an underhanded way and always seems to give an authentic voice to his subjects.

  There’s something to be said for Dylan Sexton personally making the phone call. There’s also something to be said for Kevin nabbing the interview that every journalist has been lusting after since Sexton Enterprises began. I’ve been back from Isla Escapar for one day, and he happily cleared his schedule for us to get this done as soon as possible. Ideal Gentlemen was just as happy to make room for the article in the next issue coming out in a few weeks. Let the band-aid get ripped off as quickly as possible.

  Vanessa is lingering nearby with her camera ready. Being the “expert” at candids, she’s already taken a few while I wasn’t even paying attention during the initial set up for this interview. I’m curious to see how they’ll turn out.

  “So, what I like to do is not so much a Q and A, but allow the person I’m with to tell their own story in their own words, maybe adding a question or two to clarify or guide the narration.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, rubbing my thighs. For the first time in my life, at least since I’ve become financially secure, I’m actually feeling anxious. I instinctively turn my head and find Vanessa standing nearby with her camera. She lowers it to offer me an encouraging smile, and it puts me at ease.

  I settle into the chair and slip back into memory lane. This time around, it comes out even more effortlessly than it did with Vanessa. Part of it is Kevins’ fantastic bedside manner. Part of it is having already told the story before. Most of it is having her in the same room as me.

  “I have to say, that’s a fascinating history. I’m kind of surprised it’s been kept secret for so long.”

  “A lot of money buys a lot of privacy.”

  Kevin cocks half his mouth up into a grin. “I was actually speaking more toward the why than the how. I get wanting to maintain the image of a brand. However, especially in this day and age, don’t you think the public would be much more approving of this honest version of you than the playboy facade?”

  I shift in my seat, thinking about that. “I guess I never saw it that way.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “It’s harder when you’re looking at it from the point of view of having experienced it. I’m my own worst judge of character, especially when I’m the one weighted down by the baggage.”

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it.” Kevin’s smile fades, and I sense another “poignant” question coming. “One thing I did want to touch on that you haven’t discussed is…your father.”

  I feel my body immediately get tense. “I never knew my father.”

  He nods, his face softening in empathy. “So, your mother never once hinted at who he might be?”

  “No.” I hear how dangerously low my voice is. The years of being met with, at best, silence and, at worst, bitter anger from my mother at the topic of my father—correction: sperm donor—have turned him into my own personal demon, something I avoid at all costs.

  I can see it in Kevin’s eyes. He knows what this topic means to me, but I can also see that he isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.
r />   “Have you ever thought about trying to find out who he is? With your resources, it would—”

  “No.”

  A sympathetic smile appears on his face at the interruption. “Okay…but, one thing you might have to consider is that by telling this story, telling the world about the real you, it might open the door to him finding you instead.”

  I feel a twitch in my jaw, even as it forces a cynical smirk to curl my lips. “I imagine there will be plenty of men claiming to be dear old dad, most with their hands held out.”

  He chuckles. “Say the real father of Dylan Sexton—Dylan Serafin—did approach you. Let’s pretend it’s the best-case scenario, and he doesn’t want a handout, he just wants to get to know you.”

  “I don’t imagine I’d have anything to say to him. He made it clear from the day I was born what he thought of me, which is nothing. In fact, I’d probably write a check just to be rid of him for good.”

  Kevin’s brow rises in surprise, but I see the hint of a cynical smile on his face as though he doesn’t quite believe this.

  Let him think whatever the fuck he wants, so long as he doesn’t print it. Because as far as I’m concerned, it’s the truth. The period in my life when I needed a dad the most, whoever the hell he is, he was lost in the wind. Now, that I don’t want for anything, if he wants to have some sort of father-son reunion? Fuck that.

  My mother wasn’t always a junkie, but even before I was born, I know she never lived above the level of working class. Chances are, my dad was no different. Hell, he could be lying in a grave somewhere as well, no doubt having succumbed to the same dangers that plague many lower socio-economic communities. Drugs. Crime. Alcohol. Suicide.

  Once again, I feel my body go tense, and I hate it. I’m not sure if it’s pure curiosity or some frustrated longing that lingers in me to know who he is and maybe even hope that he isn’t dead. Even if he turned out to be some vulture, a loser who only wanted a payday from me, at least it would satisfy that part of me that knows I didn’t miss out on anything.