“No. I need you to connect with just a few women. I mean really connect. Choose two or three that you stare at, keep going back to, for the whole show. Others will notice. They’ll wonder how those women caught your eye. They’ll try to get your attention away from them.”
“Hang on. You want me to make ninety-nine percent of the women in the audience jealous?”
She cinched the tie at the waist of her red wrap top… as an excuse not to look him in the eye. “Exactly.”
Dylan chuffed out a laugh. “That’s a little messed up.”
“That’s show business. Just be sure to pick a few girls before you even get into the first song.”
“Done.” His head snapped up and down in punctuation.
Ugh. Rock stars could be so darn cocky. “Dylan, you haven’t scoped out the crowd yet,” Ariel scolded. “Don’t blow this off. Even if it sounds silly to you, I promise it’ll make a difference.”
“Hey, I told you I’d follow all your instructions on this image reboot. I’m in your hands.”
“Then go on.” She twitched the edge of the black curtain away from the wall. “Pick them out right now, before the lights go down.”
A reverse twitch of his wrist fluttered the curtain back into place. “I told you, I’m done. I’m going to sing to you.”
This time her heart skipped enough beats that Ariel had to remind herself to drag in a breath. “Dylan, you can’t use me.”
“Sure I can.” One of those long fingers stroked her cheek as tenderly as it stroked the piano keys. “I’d be singing to you anyway, babe. Now I’ve got your official permission. All the other women out there can eat their hearts out. You’re my focus. During the gig, after and for this whole tour.”
No matter how difficult it was to turn away from his touch, Ariel did. Because Dylan’s long-term success depended on it. “One of the main points of putting you on this tour is to convince the world that you’re sexy and available. To make all those screaming fans think they at least have a shot at ending up in your dressing room. I can’t stress this enough—you cannot be a one-woman man.”
“I can be. As long as nobody else notices.”
This time when he reached for her, she swatted him away. “More than a dozen girls swarmed you after the sound check. Why won’t you just choose some of them?”
“Girls is right. Interchangeable girls. I want a woman. One woman.” He slid his hands through her hair to anchor at the base of her skull. Then those glacier-blue eyes blazed down at her. “I want you, Ariel. Not matter who I look at, know that you’re who I’m singing to tonight. Just you.”
In a much weaker voice, she said again, “You can’t want only me.”
“Wrong again.” Dylan swatted her on the butt. “Hurry up and go find a spot. According to my very wise publicist, I need to know where I’m focusing.”
“You’re focusing on the wrong woman,” she warned.
“Nope. I’ve never been more right.”
Cam clapped Dylan on the shoulder as they walked backstage with applause and cheers still filling the hall. “You rocked tonight, D.”
Holy shit. As one of Riptide’s biggest fans, he’d watched all their interviews. Knew all sorts of trivia. Knew that the sentence Cam had just uttered was his traditional post-concert compliment to the missing Jake McQuinn. It was huge that he felt good enough about the gig, about Dylan’s performance, to honor him with the ritual.
He had to play it cool, though. Not be a sycophantic jackass and make it obvious that he’d watched all their film. So instead of offering up Jake’s Right back at ya, Dylan said, “I just tried to keep up. You guys rocked the house down.”
“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?” Cam shared a shit-eating grin with him. Then he whipped the red bandanna off the forehead of their drummer to complete the post-show routine. “Your sticks were slick, Jones.”
“Simple math. My sticks being slick equals women’s panties soaking through. It helps me home in on which lucky ladies will get my big stick later tonight.”
Cam slapped him on the back of the head with the bandanna. “You know the drill. At least half an hour of face time at the meet and greet before you slide into a closet and your first willing victim.”
“And you know the rest of the drill. The faster you keep my drink refilled, the longer I’ll stay.” He tucked his sticks in his back pocket and kicked his black cowboy boot against the fire door. “I’ll start with a beer, to slow-roll it. You get me for two beers, then two whiskeys. After that, I’m sticking my dick in the next thing that walks by.”
Dylan followed him onto the sidewalk. Jones cracked him up. The guy lacked any filter at all between his brain and his mouth. “Even if it’s the buffalo that’s the CU mascot?”
“It can’t be worse than the lady in Portugal who’d never shaved anything. Remember her, Cam?”
“I remember you claimed to have nightmares about screwing a yeti for months afterwards.”
Dylan paused at the corner. “Well, have fun.”
“Come on, then.” With an impatient jerk of his head, Jones said, “Didn’t you hear me say I’m thirsty?”
No doubt watching Jones drink and chase women would be an education all by itself. But Dylan didn’t feel right about borrowing any more of their spotlight. “I’m just a substitute. A temp. I’m not a real Riptide member. Nobody will want to hang with me. Or if they do, they might be 4X4 fans, which we definitely don’t want.”
Jones whipped out his sticks and drummed a complicated beat on Dylan’s arm. “Shut the fuck up. You’re one of us.”
“Jones is right. You more than proved yourself tonight.”
Hearing those words from his idol just about exploded Dylan’s head. He didn’t need a Grammy or an AMA for his nonexistent mantel. Cam’s approval meant more than any trophy ever could. “Thanks.”
“We’re not splitting the royalties on our album sales, but we’re damned sure splitting the glory with you.” Cam hustled him across the street. “Plus, Ariel will skin me alive if I don’t get you there.”
His excitement dimmed a little. “So this is all her plan?”
“Yes and no. Jones and me, we want you next to us. Otherwise we wouldn’t bother listening to Ariel’s suggestions.”
“Suggestions?” Jones hooted. “Your sister’s a goddamned commandant with the orders.”
Cam shot him a dirty look. But he didn’t disagree. “Look, you know we’re financing this tour ourselves. Doing it all by the seat of our pants to get momentum and excitement going for this new sound.”
“The crowd ate it up like a freaking ice cream sundae.” Momentum wasn’t even a question.
“Damn right they did. Here’s the thing—we screwed up with the last album. Triangulation.”
“You screwed up,” Jones added pointedly.
“Jesus, it’s like you’re channeling Jake,” Cam complained. “I thought I’d be free of the guilt trips while he’s on hiatus.”
“Just keeping it real. Don’t want the kid’s idol worship to get your head too big.”
Shit. Dylan must’ve done something dorky and unprofessional that gave away how much of a fan he was. “How’d you know?”
Jones stopped on the curb. He raised one hand and ticked off points on it with his drumstick. “You jumped in with only two days’ notice. And didn’t miss a single modulation, downbeat or cutoff. You know our music every bit as well as we do. We know it that well because we’re obsessed. Which must mean that you are, too.”
“A little.” It didn’t suck that his hard work had been noticed. But if these guys were truly accepting him as one of their own, Dylan had to shut the door on his fan geekery. That meant being honest, about the good and the bad. Because you had to trust the people who shared your stage. He risked taking a shot. “Not as much with Triangulation.”
“You don’t have to sub in for Jake on everything.” Cam flicked him the finger and a self-deprecating grin. “Trust me, I never forget that I fucked us over with
that album. The worst decision I ever made was to screw that woman from the label who thought she could tell us how to write music.”
“She did tell us.” Jones shook his head. “We just shouldn’t have listened.”
“Let that be a lesson to you, D. Never have sex with someone who might have ulterior motives.”
“Got it.” Life advice from Cam Watson. No chance he’d ever forget that!
Only a block later, they swept into the lobby of the Hotel Boulderado. As soon as Dylan crossed the threshold of the big brick historic building, he couldn’t help but look up at the elaborate yellow and black stained-glass ceiling. It was times like these that he remembered that he’d started out in a trailer park. That his family once ate ramen for a week straight until the next food stamps came.
Dylan didn’t take any of his fame for granted. And with the crappy sales of his first solo album, he was viciously aware that it could all disappear within a year. Then who would pay the mortgage on the house he’d bought his mom? Or his little brother’s college tuition? He performed out of love. He’d sing on open-mic night in a dive bar for tips, if necessary, just to keep doing it. But he was a rock star out of necessity. His fame had catapulted his family out of near homelessness. Dylan intended to keep them there.
Ariel bounded up to them. In her leather pants, boots and skin-tight top, she blended in with all the other Riptide fans. Dylan had still picked her out with no problem and aimed his focus straight at her. “Amazing show, guys,” she said. “Seriously. I loved it—and so did everyone around me.”
Cam hooked an arm around her neck and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Thanks, Ari. It means a lot coming from you, since I know you’d never hesitate to tell me if I sucked.”
“It’s what I live for,” she teased. “So you guys will be stationed along the mezzanine on the second floor. It overlooks the lobby, so you’ll be easily spotted by fans while they wait for access.” She pulled away from Cam and pointed halfway up the wooden stairs to a red velvet curved sofa that looked like it’d been there since saloon and mining days. “There’s a waiter, Miguel, at that landing ready to take your orders for drinks. We won’t let anyone up the stairs until you’re settled. I’ve also got burgers and fries that’ll be in the porch room in an hour. That should give enough time to get through most of the meet and greet. You can duck out to chow down and then get back to your fans.”
“You’re an angel.” Jones gave her a big, wet kiss on the cheek.
Red velvet ropes were drawn across the stairs right behind them. “Go on and order from Miguel. I just need to borrow Dylan for a minute.”
“You can have me for way longer than a minute.” Dylan reached out an arm, but she danced up the stairs out of his reach.
Once they were in the second-floor porch room with its red and gold flowered carpet and long meeting table, Ariel closed the door behind them. “Did you have fun tonight?”
He couldn’t hold back any longer. Not with this much adrenaline buzzing through his system. Dylan picked her up by her tiny waist and twirled her in circles. “Ariel, it was amazing. Better than when 4X4 played Madison Square Garden.” He set her down, but kept her in a loose embrace. That was restraint. Because Dylan really wanted to toss her onto that white tablecloth and have sex with her straight through until it was time for their next concert. “It feels like I graduated, like I’m in the major leagues now.”
Laughing, she shook her head. “Dylan, you were in a group that went platinum with every album. You’ve performed for the president and for two British princes. You did the ball drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I can’t believe I have to break it to you, but you’ve been in the big time for a while now.”
She’d totally missed his point. “If you go by sales, groupies, all that fame stuff, sure.” He chucked the description over his shoulder with the back of his hand. “But musically, tonight was a whole other level. Like the difference between playing random notes and playing a chord. We were in sync. With each other. With the crowd. I’m pumped. I’m flying.” Dylan picked her up again and spun another circle.
“I can see that.”
“Are you sure I have to do this meet and greet? ’Cause it seems a shame to waste this awesome performance buzz on strangers.” He slid his hands lower until he held Ariel just by her fine, tight ass. “I could shove a chair under the doorknob. We’ve got an hour until the food arrives, right? You’d be amazed at how much ground we can cover in an hour.” Dylan nibbled on her neck. In the spot that—last time—had made her squeal.
This time, it made her squeal, all right. In the wrong way. More of a yelp, actually, as she shimmied out of his embrace and backed up all the way to the door. “You have maybe three minutes before the meet and greet starts, Dylan. Not an hour.”
He didn’t give up that easily. Almost insulting that she thought he might. “Hey, you want it fast and dirty, I can deliver that, too. Three minutes can get you there just as well as thirty.”
“Dylan. Listen to me. You’re still working. Still ‘on,’”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“every bit as much as if you still held a microphone and stood beneath those stage lights. This is all part of the job.”
Crap. She was still in super-publicist mode. It didn’t make her impervious to his flirting, but it sure didn’t make things easy. “I know the job. I’m just trying to have a little fun at the same time. Right now, I feel great. I want to share that feeling with you.”
The other Ariel flickered to life beneath her professional mask. “Oh. Thank you. Seriously. I didn’t mean to dismiss your very, ah, thoughtful offer. I honestly wish that circumstances were different so I could take you up on it.”
Now she’d given him wiggle room. A window of opportunity to jump through. Dylan realized how convenient it was that she’d put her back to the door. Using just his thighs, he bracketed her in place. Shot her an easy smile. “How about later?”
White teeth worried at lips slicked the same color as a serious bottle of Shiraz. “You’re booked all night.”
If Ariel’s name wasn’t on that booking, he didn’t want any part of it. That guilty look on her face promised that her explanation was about to suck. Warily, he took a few steps back to put some space between them. “What exactly do you mean?”
She pulled him over to the door. Opened it a crack and pointed down the hallway to the closed doors of another meeting room. “Your dates are waiting in the Driftwood Room.”
“What the hell does that…dates…plural?” Dylan slammed the door shut with his palm. Yeah, he didn’t like this one bit.
“Raquel, Sofia and Lauren.” Obviously sensing his displeasure, Ariel walked down to the credenza at the opposite end of the room and opened a bottle of water. Even in a pissy mood, he couldn’t help but notice the way her hips swayed so damn enticingly. “I brought them over with me from the venue.”
“Yeah, still no closer to buying a fucking clue.”
Ariel squared her shoulders, as if bracing to give bad news. “We had a raffle at tonight’s show. Sort of a way to celebrate you joining Riptide for the next few weeks.”
“Funny. I don’t remember mention of a celebration. What is it—do they whack a piñata? Or are they the super-creepy types that want a lock of hair? Because that just weirds me out. Don’t ever promise that to anyone.”
“No worries. This is way better,” Ariel assured him. But she also wore the same schmoozy, sales-pitch fake smile that Leo had every time he tried to talk Dylan into something crappy. “The three winners get to party with you. All night. No-holds-barred access. Exclusive photos, all drinks and food comped, anything they want signed…but mostly just time with you.”
Unbelievable. Dylan stalked over to her. Yeah, she’d wised up to his mood fast, backing away until the windowsill stopped her flight. Felt like they were square dancing their way through this conversation. He stopped close enough to see the gray flecks in her eyes. “You fucking pimped me out?”
“N
o! I swear, there was no guarantee made of you sleeping with any or all of them.”
“You pimped me out,” he repeated. The details were just semantics. “How much did I go for?”
“Tickets were fifty dollars.”
“That’s one hell of a steep raffle ticket.” Still didn’t make him feel any better. What Dylan felt like was a zoo animal, ready to be stared at all night long.
“You’re quite a prize.” When she realized her compliment wasn’t hitting its mark with him, Ariel hurriedly continued. “Anyway, we made twelve thousand dollars.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. That’s with zero advertisement. Just a flyer at the goodie table. Kylie could barely keep up with the run on tickets. It proves that women—not girls—want to be with you. It started some major social media buzz. And it paid for gas for the buses to get to the next few stops on the tour.”
Knowing the guys were self-financing the tour, and his paycheck, made him grateful that the money would at least go back to the band’s bottom line. Deep down, he also appreciated that Ariel was doing everything possible—including off-the-wall ideas like a raffle—to fix his image. Her tenacity was exactly what he needed. Professionally. Personally? “I still don’t like it,” he muttered.
“Well, you know what? You gave me no alternative but to take drastic measures.”
Dylan had no idea what the bar was to a publicist for drastic measures. But he was sure he wouldn’t like it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Crossing her arms over her chest—which took away the only fun part of this argument, watching her cleavage shift with every breath—Ariel said, “If you won’t take the initiative to serial-date your way through this tour, I’ll fix it so that you have no choice.”
“You realize that’s the weirdest threat ever, right?”
“Leo told you that you need to cultivate a new image. A bad boy. Someone who goes through women faster than a kid empties his candy bucket on Halloween.”
The Reverse of Perfection (Bad Decisions Book 2) Page 5