I shrug. “Hey, doesn’t bother me. I really don’t care what anybody thinks about me.”
Dylan’s gaze locks with mine. “I know. That’s something I really find…mesmerizing about you. I just want you to know that I would do anything to protect you. Anything.”
A caveman speech if I’ve ever heard one.
So why does it turn me on so much?
Thank God. The elevator’s here.
We ride it in silence to my floor.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” Dylan says as he gets out with me.
I slide my keycard in the lock and hold the door partway open as I turn to look at Dylan.
He looks back at me. “I’m very patient.”
I laugh nervously. “I guess you’d better be to put up with me.”
“What’s in your heart?” He reaches over and lightly touches the front of my shirt with his index finger.
As the shivers go up and down my spine, I swallow hard. “Nobody’s home there,” I say, only pretending to be joking. “Hasn’t been for a while now.” Maybe forever.
“You need a home?” he says.
Oh, you have no idea.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say, hoping to sound casual.
“I want to kiss you, Jasalie,” he says next.
My stomach does a cartwheel. “Um…” I swallow hard. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“How come?” He leans his hand on the doorframe above my head and puts his head closer to mine.
I step back so that I’m almost completely in the room now.
“It could get complicated,” I say in a husky voice. “Besides, you’re not my type.”
“But you’re not mine, either,” he says. “I thought we’d already been over all of that. I still want to kiss you.”
I take a deep breath and look down. “I don’t think so.”
Maybe if I don’t look at his lips again, I’ll be able to restrain myself from jumping him.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s cool.”
I look up and smile at him. “You’re practically irresistible. You know that right?”
He shrugs. “I don’t seem to be scoring too highly with you. Am I right?”
“No. You’re scoring. At least in my head.”
He laughs. “Likewise.”
I reach out and give him a little shove. “Go to bed, Mr. Wild. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He leans down and gives me the briefest of pecks on the lips. Light. Feathery. Erotic. It’s all I can do not to swoon right there in front of him and beg him to take me against the wall.
“I’ll see you,” he says.
And he’s gone. I tiptoe out from my door a few steps to watch him walk toward the elevators. He doesn’t look back once.
I exhale loudly and step back inside my room. Jesus, he’s good.
I check my bank account, and sure enough, twelve thousand five hundred dollars is sitting there.
I’m halfway to saving my mother’s home. And maybe to healing my own heart at the same time.
But I can’t possibly sleep now. After that lip brushing with Dylan, my thighs are clenching with need. And I know getting myself off isn’t going to be enough.
Dylan Wild has me craving him. Turning him away tonight took a herculean effort on my part.
I toss and turn in bed, and finally I throw back the sheets in frustration. I need to do something to calm down.
So I pull out my clay, and I sit down on the floor and sculpt. I work for hours, making one figure and then smashing it to make another. I stop only because I’m so exhausted I can hardly keep my eyes open.
I’m smiling as I finally crawl into bed and turn out the light. Because I had fun. My first art teacher, way back in junior high school, the only teacher I ever really liked, used to say the joy of sculpting is supposed to be in the creating, not in the finished product.
I used to believe her. But I’d lost that perspective recently. Sculpting stopped being a haven for me and became more of a burden. Being rejected by art galleries and not knowing what to do about that sucked. And with each passing rejection, I began to feel that there was no more passion running through my veins. It scared me, and I worried that, like most people, I had lost that light in my soul everyone is born with.
Tonight, my light burned bright again. And I’m grateful.
CHAPTER TEN
I jump out of bed late the next morning with Dylan on the brain. I have no work until tonight’s event, and there are a lot of hours between now and then.
I pick up my phone and pull up his number. Without giving myself time to overthink, I call him. I just want to thank him for holding up his end of the bargain and let him know the money successfully transferred. Right. Sure. That’s all I want.
He doesn’t pick up. And I don’t leave a message. Just as well—I don’t know what the heck to say to someone I barely know but can’t get out of my head.
I smile at the adorable pictures Rosita texted of Bessie on top of my fridge and Balaster crouching underneath my bed and type her back a thank you. Then I take a quick shower and blow-dry my hair before throwing on my most comfortable pair of jeans and a turquoise sweater.
I’m scrolling through my phone as I walk through the lobby when—
“Oompf.” My head hits a wall.
Of muscled chest.
Dazed, I look up.
My hand is pressed against Dylan Wild’s chest. He steadies me by putting his hand on my arm, and his eyes twinkle in amusement. “I tried to step around you, but you actually shifted at the same time, and we collided. Are you okay?”
I laugh. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just walking without watching where I’m going.”
He’s carrying a workout bag, and his hair’s damp like he just showered. His jeans and Cougars sweatshirt complete his casual look, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.
Because Dylan Wild is even hotter when he isn’t dressed up. Shit. I want to climb him all of a sudden—just wrap my legs around his waist and ride him into oblivion.
His face breaks into a smile. “Did you try to call me?”
“Yes. I wanted to thank you for wiring the money over. It got there safely.”
I step back, trying to appear casual. I’m finding it’s much harder to stay cool when you start to care about the guy. It’s also harder to focus. I’m so busy staring at Dylan and lusting over him that I can hardly carry on a logical conversation.
“I’m glad. I was working out,” he says. “I hoped you might call, not to thank me but to say hi.” His mouth turns up on one side.
I swallow. “You hoped right.”
“Sorry I missed you. What are you up to?”
“Just getting a bagel or something for breakfast.” I glance at my watch. “Okay, a late breakfast.”
“Let’s go.” He takes my arm and leads me out of the hotel.
Dylan blocks my face from the camera greeting us when we step outside, but in this case, I know he’s just trying to protect me rather than help himself. This cameraman is with a reputable magazine; Dylan told me about him last night. So I duck underneath his arm and let the paparazzo take his shots. I don’t speak or answer any of his inane questions like, “Do you have a black belt in the martial arts?”
Dylan hustles me away, and he insists on driving this time, so I have no idea where he’s taking me. We end up getting caught in traffic downtown.
“Lot of people out today,” Dylan says.
“There are people everywhere,” I say wearily. “You can’t escape them.”
“Sounds like you want to.”
“Who wouldn’t want to when you live in Los Angeles?” I say.
As we pull up in front of an art museum, I look over at him. “What’s this?”
“You like art, and I usually don’t have time or friends to do this sort of thing with. I love art museums. And they have a cafeteria here. Is this not okay?”
“It’s…perfect, actually.” That’s the p
roblem. Dylan never fails to surprise me, only in good ways. I could fall for him by the end of the hour if I let myself.
He takes my hand as we leave the car and walk through the parking lot. Mine starts to sweat almost immediately, and I pull it away.
He grabs it back. “You turn me on, too,” he says, winking at me.
I sigh and march onward.
“So,” Dylan says as we take seats across from each other at the café. “What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“The museum.”
I smile at him. It’s a relief to be here, actually. It’s a relief to have something to talk about other than us.
“I like it,” I say. “A lot of the paintings are incredible.”
“Do you go to museums a lot in L.A.?”
“Not so much. I tend to get nauseous at them. All that creativity stuffed into one place overwhelms me. But I’ve been wanting to come to this museum, so I’m glad you thought of it.”
When his cell phone rings, I jump.
“Sorry,” he says to me. “Hold on a sec.”
I start in on my croissant. I’m starving.
“Tim, calm down. It’s just one crappy tabloid…”
Oh, no. This phone call is because of me and my inability to let Dylan handle his own shit.
“‘That woman’ has a name remember? It’s Jasalie. So start using it, Tim.”
Remember? When did Dylan mention me to this guy? I widen my eyes, but Dylan gestures an “It’s okay” with his hand.
I want to disappear into the ground of the museum right about now.
“No, she’s not a black belt. She’s just very good at protecting herself. Calm down, please.”
I block out what he says next and try to focus on the paintings lining the walls of the café.
“Fuck.” Dylan gets off the phone and tosses it in frustration onto his lap. “I have to do a photo shoot and interview this afternoon. My agent just flew into town, and he set it up without confirming with me.”
I inhale. “What about the other part of your conversation? The tabloid and ‘that woman’ part?”
He grimaces. “It’s no big deal. They’re running a loop of our exchange with the paparazzi last night on Hollywood Now! Just the part of you taking that asshole out.”
“Oh, my gosh.” My stomach goes into knots.
“Don’t worry.” Dylan waves his hand in the air like none of this matters. “Tim’s already making sure the video is exclusive so no other network can air it. I mean the photos will be in some online media outlets and possibly a magazine or two.”
My head is fully in my hands now.
“Jasalie, I’m sorry. This is the price of going out with me. You may have signed up for a few awkward photos together, but being crowded against a wall late at night by a group of strange men wasn’t a part of our deal. I usually see the paparazzi before they see me, like at the restaurant, and I should have been prepared for it last night. It’s my fault.”
I whip my head up to look into his face. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes look so…sad.
“Dylan, you seriously think I blame you for this?” I say softly. “Besides, who cares if I’m on a few magazine covers? Bill’s such a fame whore that he’ll undoubtedly think the whole thing’s great press for the company. You’re the only one this really affects. You asked me to be your date in Tucson to help your charity, and my behavior last night proves you can’t trust me. You have to worry about your reputation. You know, the Dylan Wild brand.”
Dylan’s eyes get so dark I can hardly make out the gold highlights. “Jasalie, I don’t give a damn about my brand. I care about my charity, yes. My brand, no.”
I give him a look. “Come on, Dylan. Be truthful. You care a little bit. You have to. I would, too, if I were you.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I really just care about playing football. All this crap—it starts to take over your life. It happens slowly, and before you know it—”
He trails off, but I complete his unfinished thought. “Before you know it, you forget that all that other stuff doesn’t really matter?”
“It can consume you,” he says in nearly a whisper. “Until you feel like you’re no longer a real person. It’s very isolating.”
I hate myself for ever thinking celebrities have it easier than me, for being so naïve to other people’s struggles and pain.
Not knowing what else to do, I reach for Dylan’s hand across the table. He takes it and holds on.
I try to come up with a light-hearted subject change. “So who are you doing the interview for today?”
“A men’s health magazine.” He turns off his phone and puts it in his pocket. “They’ll probably know very little about how I live my life.”
I don’t know what to say. Doing an interview for your craft sounds so glamorous, and yet I’m learning that I’ve been incredibly naïve to a lot of things regarding Dylan Wild.
“You want to come and watch?” he asks me suddenly.
“What? You mean I can?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Um…okay.” I guess, at the very least, I’ll be able to say I’ve had a bird’s-eye view into the life of a star football player. “Will this be another way to show me off as your date?”
“Only in passing. I don’t want to talk about you in the interview.”
I try to tamp down the twinge of disappointment that runs through me, but Dylan’s watching my eyes. “Jasalie. It’s nothing personal. I never talk about my private life to reporters, and I don’t know this guy at all. I wouldn’t trust him not to twist everything in the article. So the less I tell him, the better.”
The tension leaves my shoulders, and I relax. “I understand. I’ll sit nearby somewhere.”
“Great.” He grins at me. “This way, I can look at you instead of the interviewer. I’m sure he won’t be nearly as gorgeous.”
“Nice try at the flattery, Dylan. Very smooth.”
“Thanks. I’m good, aren’t I?”
“Real good. The best, I’d say.”
We’ve barely stepped foot into the hotel lobby when a balding, heavyset man, wearing dark-rimmed glasses, rushes up to us and grabs Dylan by the arm. “Where have you been? I’ve called your cell about twenty times! We need to get you into the makeup room—you’re due in the blue room in five minutes!”
He turns to me next. “And you’re Dylan’s date. Fabulous to meet you.”
Dylan steps closer to me. “Tim, this is Jasalie Gordon. Jasalie, this is Tim Schaeffer. My agent.”
Tim looks me over like I’m auditioning for a role in Dylan’s life.
I smile and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”
Tim shakes my hand and exhales. “You’ll do. You’ll more than do, just like I thought from those first shots of you two outside the restaurant. What happened last night, however—”
“Won’t happen again,” I assure him. “I was caught off-guard. It was dark and late at night, and the paparazzi got a little too close for my liking.”
“Oh, they’re crazy,” Tim agrees. “Dylan has to prepare you better. He needs to make sure you know what you’re in for when you step out in public with him. It’s not for the faint of heart.”
No, being with Dylan Wild is much more challenging than I’d ever anticipated. In every way possible.
“Relax, Tim.” Dylan starts walking toward the elevators, and Tim and I follow him. “Everything will be fine. Where’s the makeup room?”
“We’ve booked two separate rooms on your floor.” We step into the elevator, and Tim presses the button for the eighteenth floor. “They’ve got the makeup and hair stylists in one, and the interview and photo shoot will take place in the other. I already dropped off your clothes.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dylan says lightly. “What am I wearing?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. His agent dresses him, and they pay for rooms just to take pictures in?
“Why don
’t you just use the room you already have?” I whisper to Dylan. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
The elevator doors open, and we quickly move down the hall.
But Tim apparently has super-good hearing and overhears me. “Oh, no. You can’t do that. It makes no sense.”
“Why not?” I say.
“Because.” Tim stops at room 1820 and opens the door. “Here we are. In you go, Dylan boy. Jaylie, you can stay out here with me.”
“Jasalie is coming with me,” Dylan says firmly as he takes my arm and brings me with him into the room.
“I’ll be waiting for you when you come ou…” Tim’s voice is drowned out as the door closes behind us.
“Hi,” Dylan says to the woman standing inside the room. “I’m Dylan Wild. This is Jasalie Gordon. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, I’m Shayna. Dylan, I’m here to get you ready for your photo shoot. These dark pants will look perfect with this cream button down. And we’ll roll up the sleeves to make it more casual and rugged looking.”
I take a seat in a chair as Shayna begins to work on Dylan’s hair. A football player being made up and primped. This might be the weirdest moment of my life.
We go into the “interview” room next. The photo shoot takes forever. And it feels like a waste of a whole lot of film to me. The photographer must take twenty shots of Dylan from the same exact angle.
“Just like that—perfect, Dylan,” over and over again, and “That looks fantastic, don’t move.”
Of course, Dylan does look gorgeous. The thin fabric of the shirt shows off the outline of his chest muscles. His pants hug his ass in all the right places, and when he strides across the room, I nearly fan my face. I make sure to keep my gaze away from his crotch.
Well, okay, I pretend to keep my gaze away. Really, I look in that area as much as I can without making it obvious. Dylan’s pants don’t just fit him well in the back—their snug style shows off all of him quite nicely. Fine, so I have to use my imagination a bit—the pants aren’t exactly a football uniform. But I’m so wired right now I feel like I’m halfway to orgasm just by watching him pose.
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