The Reverse of Perfection (Bad Decisions Book 2)

by Christi Barth

  “Dylan,” she gasped. Partly in surprise at his arrival, and partly at his vastly improved look. “I wasn’t expecting you yet.”

  “No kidding.” He sauntered closer, hands deep in the pockets of black pants, and jerked a chin at Raimondo. “Want me to start by decking the guy trying to cop a feel?”

  “No!” Although the thought of her honor being defended did send a shiver of feminine appreciation through Ariel. The hard edge to Dylan’s voice made it clear that it wasn’t an empty threat. It bordered on funny how quickly Raimondo released her and took several quick-shuffle steps back to his clothes rack. “Raimondo is here to do us a favor. To do you a favor, actually. With a full wardrobe redo.”

  “Thanks.” Dylan extended his arm to grab the doorknob. Voice still dripping shards of ice, he announced, “You can go now.”

  Raimondo lunged for the door. Who knew he was such a coward? “Adios, Ariel.” As soon as he cleared the threshold, Dylan slammed the door shut behind him.

  “What was that about?” Ariel asked, crossing her ankles and bracing her palms on the desk.

  Dylan jerked a shoulder. In a borderline surly tone, he said, “I didn’t like seeing him paw you.”

  Somebody had a temper. Admittedly, when it was aimed at protecting her, Ariel couldn’t exactly complain. “Flirting with Raimondo is just good business. Nothing ever happens. You decking him would’ve undone months of strategic hair flipping and smoldering glances.”

  “Too bad. Anyway, I thought you wanted me to be a bad boy.”

  Biting her upper lip barely kept the smile from escaping. “Not the kind of bad that gets you tossed in jail for assault.”

  In her shoebox of an office, it took only two steps for him to be in her space. “Maybe you should write up a list.” Dylan bracketed her hands on the desk with his own. Then he leaned forward, his lips a breath away from hers. “The places where I should and shouldn’t cross the line.”

  Dylan was baiting her. Being deliberately provocative. The problem with that? It wasn’t just annoying. It also happened to be turning Ariel on. A lot. “You’re getting close to one right now,” she warned.

  Taking a step back, he gave a slow nod. Shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s not a bad song title. Crossing the Line. Leans a little towards a country feel, but paired with a hard enough rock beat, people won’t notice.”

  Ariel found it so fascinating to watch his mind slip into creative mode. “You write your own songs all the time?”

  “No.” Then a deep sigh. “Well, yes. I write. Nobody’s let me do anything with them yet. I guess you could say I’ve been drafting this whole time. Learning the craft. Yesterday was the first time I ever performed one of my songs for another person.”

  God. Oh, God. How was she supposed to maintain a professional, detached demeanor when Dylan admitted to gifting her with a gesture so personal? “I loved it.”

  “Good. I plan to spend all my time on the Riptide bus writing.”

  Come to think of it, Ariel hadn’t heard any whispers as to what his plans were for after the mini-tour. Was 4X4 re-forming? Would he join another group, start a new one or stay solo? “For a new album?”

  “If I get my way.” He prowled the perimeter of her office. Paused in front of the window that had a view of nothing but a wall of skyscrapers. Ariel, as a relative newbie, perched on the bottom rung of the ladder at PKCL. The cramped office, the bad view and the way her shared secretary spelled her name wrong didn’t depress her. It all just gave her the motivation to work hard enough to be promoted. Fast. “I talked Leo into convincing the label to let me audition them in front of a studio audience. If the response is good, hopefully they’ll let me record.”

  “Why not do it on your own?” That’s what Cam and Riptide were doing. The label turned up their noses at turning out their new music. So they’d recorded it themselves and were paying out of their own pockets for a bare-bones bus tour to raise interest. Risky, definitely. But they were doing everything on their own terms and loved it so far.

  Dylan shook his head. “I’m not established enough in the business. The flop of this last album proved that. Going solo is a big enough step. Plus, I know my limitations. I can write. I can sing the shit out of anything. The business stuff? Not a clue.”

  So many performers led with their ego. Assumed they could do it all. Dylan drawing that line proved how savvy he actually was. Darn it. Ariel really needed him to do something that didn’t impress her. That didn’t make her want to throw her professionalism aside and climb him like a tree.

  “Well, I’ll help you get organized with some of the business stuff on this trip.” Because it was her job. Period.

  He spun around from the window. “You’re coming along? I figured you’d just show up at every gig. Send me officious emails in between.”

  That’d certainly be easier. Less tempting. But it left too many variables to chance. Being a publicist was far from a nine-to-five job. Especially in this Internet era. When things went well—or turned on a dime into crap—the reaction had to be immediate. And correct. Dylan hadn’t even started sloughing off the boy-bander and turning into a real rock star.

  A man.

  A man whom women—not girls—would worship.

  Covet.

  Desire.

  Just like Ariel did.

  Crap.

  She couldn’t leave Dylan alone until he wore his new persona as easily as his tan. “Consider me your shadow. This is a hands-on operation.”

  “Hands on what?” he asked with a suggestive leer. Just suggestive enough to be comical rather than insulting. Guess he did know what lines to cross and when.

  “Very funny.” Ariel smoothed her suddenly clammy palms down her wide-legged navy pants and stepped over to the clothing rack. “The first thing I’ll do with my hands is toss your current wardrobe.”

  “Hey, I don’t like it either, remember? I’m more than happy to burn my closet to the ground.”

  Ariel made a mental note to make sure someone from PKCL swung by Dylan’s house once he joined Riptide and did literally empty the closets. They couldn’t take any chances with the paparazzi snapping him one day in a pair of pants ten years out of fashion.

  She flipped through the shirts, looking for just the right one that would suit her purposes but pique his interest, as well. A happy client followed the rules much better than a sulky one. “The key isn’t just to toss it all. The key is to only wear what we choose to support your new image. To make you less perfect. More dangerous.”

  “I can dress myself.”

  Aha. There was that surly tone she’d expected from the moment she’d been ordered to take Dylan under her wing. Although she certainly didn’t blame him. Being told what to wear onstage was one thing. A costume. Being told what to wear every hour of every day on the off chance you were spotted and snapped had to chafe.

  “When was the last time you did?” she teased in challenge.

  His eyes flicked back to the window. Up to the ceiling. And then over to her with a sheepish grin tacked on below. “About seven years ago. I’m guessing it’s like riding a bike, though.”

  “And when was the last time you did that?”

  “About seven years ago,” he admitted. “I’ve been using planes and limos more than ten-speeds.”

  Ariel stopped speed-flicking through hangers to gape at him. “You really didn’t ride a bike after joining 4X4?”

  “Nope.”

  It made her sad. A teenage boy needed freedom. Needed that semblance, no matter how small, of control. Instead, he’d been smothered and shaped into someone else’s vision. Ariel wondered if she’d really have to coach him into playing a bad boy, or if Dylan was ready to burst out from years of confinement all by himself.

  No pity. No sympathy. Not now when he was too close to ignore. Just a determined chipping away at her to-do list of turning him from boy to man. “I’d offer to take you out for a ride on the Venice boardwalk right now, but we’ve got w
ork to do.”

  Dylan circled the desk to join her at the rack. Poked at a jacket covered in metal studs at the elbows and shoulders. “Yeah. Picking out shirts. Big whoop.”

  “The shirts won’t take all day. You’ve got a ton of prep work. There are only two days before you join Riptide at their next gig.”

  “No prep required,” he declared with a wink.

  Uh oh. Cocky much? Well, she’d been looking for a reason not to be tempted. “You have to take this seriously, Dylan. This is an enormous opportunity. Don’t slack off.”

  Curving his palm around her bare upper arm, he said, “I’m telling you, I’m ready. I know the entire Riptide catalog inside and out. I love their new stuff. Use it for warm-ups every day.”

  “Are you sure?” Leo had assured her—and the seven people above her—that he was capable of taking over the suddenly empty microphone and keyboard. Ariel had just assumed he was a quick study. That it’d be like hard-core karaoke, with him relying on the teleprompter, even after studying up for two days. “Filling in for Jake isn’t like being a substitute teacher. You have to do more than just stand there onstage.”

  “I know. I’m more like a Broadway understudy. Ready to seamlessly take over the part at a moment’s notice.” His other hand cupped her biceps, too. Voice low and steady, he looked her square in the eyes and asserted, “I’ve been prepping for this my whole life.”

  Guess they’d see. Ariel believed him, though. The way his eyes shone, his voice filled with energy when he talked about her brother’s band, showed him to be a true fan. That passion was hard to fake. And it was pretty darn near impossible for her to resist. She dragged her gaze away. “You can prove it at the first concert in Boulder. For now, how about you prove to me that you’re willing to get on board with this image makeover?”

  Wordlessly, he let go. Toed off his sneakers. Shrugged out of his black blazer. Let it fall to the floor in a heap, like the garbage they both viewed it as. Unbuttoned the gray herringbone vest and dropped it, too. Grabbed the collar of his loose black tee and pulled it over his head in one yank.

  “This is what I’ve got.” With a sweep of his hand from the golden hair dusting well-formed pecs down his washboard abs, he presented his body to her. Shoulders back. Unashamed. Unconcerned with her entire office on the other side of the unlocked door. Looking at his torso, Ariel also had a hard time being concerned with anyone or anything on the other side of the door.

  Then Dylan unzipped his pants and stepped out of them before she even had a chance to tell him to stop. A trail of thicker, burnished-gold hair arrowed down into the waistband of his boxers. Boxers with an extremely discernible bulge. He wasn’t a boy at all. Dylan Royce was all man. “Think you can work with this, Ariel? Do you know what you want to do to me?”

  “Yes.” The word just popped out. There was no denying it, after all. Not with the way her mouth had gone dry, her breath quickened and her heart went into a full-out sprint. “I know exactly what I want to do to you.”

  He cocked his head. Realization washed across his face. Realization that all his pushing and flirting had worked. “That makes two of us.”

  Ariel’s gaze whipped over to the closed door. Habit. Ingrained caution. Whatever, it was a last-second bobble. It didn’t stop her from stepping toward Dylan. But he noticed. Probably figured out that Ariel making the move would be difficult. So he met her halfway. And she honestly couldn’t say who reached out first. She just knew that she was in his arms.

  Arms that crushed her, in the best possible way. Bare arms that rubbed along her own bare skin with tugging and friction and heat. So much heat. Heat that seared through her thin yellow cotton top, along the strip of exposed skin between its hem and her wide-legged linen pants, under his big palm where it kneaded at her butt.

  His touch wasn’t enough. Each tug of his teeth, each swirl of his tongue drove her into a frenzy. Ariel frantically ran her hands along his ribs, up across the width of his traps. She hooked one leg around his calf, pressing their centers together harder.

  On a groan, Dylan clamped both hands on her butt and lifted, still taking nips and bites along her neck that sent shivers racing down her spine. Ariel arched to allow him better access. She scissored her legs around his waist. Rocked, just a little. They both groaned.

  He was practically naked, his muscled limbs wrapped all around her. It was so hot. Every time his teeth bit down, immediately his tongue tickled away the zing…which created its own special set of flutters between her legs. Ariel let her head drop back.

  “I need to taste those nipples,” Dylan whispered in her ear. “I need to find out if they’re the same pretty pink as your lips.”

  Was it hearing dirty talk in her office, or was it Dylan doing it, or both? Whatever the answer, Ariel burned. Became wet at his words. He tried to tug her top down with his teeth, but it was too tight.

  “The wall,” she urged. “Brace me against the wall.”

  He started moving while she sucked his earlobe into her mouth, making him moan. Two steps later, they ran smack into the end of the clothes rack. It tipped, clattered to the ground loudly. Dylan lost his footing, twisting to land on the clothes to take the brunt of the fall himself.

  Their legs tangled together. Her right foot caught in what must be a pants cuff. Need still burned, white hot, centered where Dylan notched big and wide between her splayed legs. But laughter chased at the edges of the desire.

  Someone knocked on her door. “You okay in there?”

  Luckily, the desk would obscure them from view if the door opened. But not for long. The danger amped up her desire one more level. Ariel felt leather beneath her palms as she pushed up from his chest to look at him.

  Dylan didn’t need a makeover at all. There was a sexual beast in him, coiled and ready to explode. When she revealed it to the world, women would come running for him. Her job would be done. And then? They’d be done. Not that anything should’ve started between them. This was nothing more than a bad decision on her part.

  “Everything’s perfect,” Ariel answered in her most neutral, most professional tone. Rolling off, she grabbed the first tee that came to hand. To Dylan, she said, “You proved your point. Let’s get you dressed.”

  Though, the first thing on her to-do list was to get rid of those boxers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dylan flipped his water bottle in the air. Bad idea. Even though the stretch Hummer could probably hold twenty people, it didn’t have much ceiling height. The bottle hit the green track lighting. Dylan lunged from his seat to grab it before it ricocheted into Ariel’s face. The pretty face with the smooth skin and adorable dimples bracketing a wide smile. The face he now knew intimately. Knew about the flecks of gray in her eyes, how the curve of her neck smelled like sugar cookies.

  Her moss-colored eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s this car.” He waved a hand at the curved seats running the length of the Hummer’s sides, built-in bar with two bottles of champagne on ice and overhead lights sparkling in a rhythmic wave of purple, green and red. “It feels like it should be filled with drunk, skanky bachelorettes.”

  “It’s a tad over the top, I’ll admit. But the larger limos all have these built-in features.”

  “There are only two of us. Why do we need a car this big? It’s too fricking much.” Just embarrassing.

  He didn’t get off on the rock-star lifestyle. Dylan enjoyed performing. Recording. Everything about making music. The press tours, the free clothes—ridiculous, since he could afford them way more easily than normal people—the kowtowing in clubs, all made him feel idiotic. He got to do what he loved for a living. That was enough. All the hero worship should be aimed at the people who truly deserved it, like first responders. Or gelato makers.

  Ariel tucked her hair behind her ears. She was all kinds of sexy when she went into stern teacher mode…which made it twice as hard for him to concentrate on her lectures. “It’s all about image, Dylan. We’ve go
t to seize every opportunity to maximize PR impact. After today, you’ll be touring on the buses with Riptide. They’re comfortable, but not really photo-op worthy. This is your first show with them. The first big meeting with the band.”

  “So we’re supposed to shake hands in front of the paps, like we’re signing a treaty?”

  “Yes. Minus the suits and ties and flags. You’ve got to make a splash.”

  “A splash with a rugged, dangerous vibe,” he corrected her, running his hand down the day and a half of stubble covering his jaw and chin.

  Dylan knew to call it that because Ariel had shoved the words down his throat about a hundred times over the past two days. While he tried on clothes. While he ran through the entire Riptide catalog. On the plane ride to Denver. And now on the drive up to Boulder. Unfortunately, she hadn’t followed any of those instances with shoving her tongue into his mouth again. Not even once.

  It was like Ariel was two different women. The passionate one who appreciated his music and melted at his touch…and the locked-down, one-note, career-focused woman. Guess the part of him that desperately wanted to revive his career should be thrilled he had someone so driven in his corner. But Dylan was far more interested in the side of her that got his song—and almost got horizontal with him on the floor of her office.

  A sharp nod sent brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Exactly. Glad to know you’ve been paying attention. This is when we reintroduce you to the world. Dylan Royce 2.0. The guy men want to be and women want to do.”

  “Let’s test that theory.” He glanced out the window at the matching sandy brick buildings topped with red tile roofs. They must be on the edge of the University of Colorado campus. A long time ago, Dylan had dreamed of going to school here. Of enrolling in its top-notch music program and learning all the reasons certain tonalities worked and others didn’t. Indulging in an entire semester of composition. Instead, he downloaded biographies of the greats—Chopin, Rachmaninoff, McCartney, Timberlake—and soaked up whatever brilliance he could from their life stories.