Dylan (Wild Men)

by Melissa Belle

  “So, Dylan.” Mike smirks as he begins the interview a few minutes later. “You’ve been in the league for six years and finally reached the pinnacle at age twenty-eight. What’s it like to be the hottest guy on the planet right now?”

  I roll my eyes. Mike has a large body but a face like a skinny hawk. I’m sitting in a tiny space on the floor as far away from the interview area as possible. That’s where Tim told me to sit; he said I’d be more comfortable out of the way. Dylan actually can’t see me after all. He’d have to crane his neck in an uncomfortable manner in order to catch a glimpse of my left foot. Chances are, it’s not really worth it. But from my angle, I can see him and Mike.

  “I don’t really pay attention to that stuff,” Dylan says. “You know, I just like to play football.”

  “How does it feel having everyone love you?” Mike asks.

  “They love you when you win,” Dylan says matter-of-factly. “When you don’t win, they don’t. I had a lot of years in the league without winning. So I’m enjoying this now, believe me, but I’m not naïve to it, either. I know that popularity is a fleeting thing. That’s why I focus on football.”

  Mike nods briefly like he didn’t actually hear or truly understand one word of what Dylan just said. I myself found his answer fascinating. Sports are so strange, how somebody always has to lose. I had a hard enough time with one art teacher’s criticisms, and I can’t imagine an entire region of the country pressuring you to succeed for them. In sports, you aren’t okay unless you win, and a lot of times, luck plays too big of a role.

  “But come on, you must do something besides football,” Mike says. “Right? Something else interest you?”

  “Well, I’m really busy with football so much of the year,” Dylan says. “Right now, I have a little time off, which is great. But the season takes up most of your time, plus all the training. You can’t do much else.”

  “Hmmm,” Mike says. “Do your girlfriends get bored of you only talking about football?”

  Mike works for one of those new “trendy” magazines geared toward health fanatics but not necessarily athletes. He surely was not an athlete himself, or he’d be more interested in Dylan’s answers. And he’s clearly a jealous asshole.

  “Nope,” Dylan says lightly.

  I don’t understand why Dylan’s not saying anything in his defense. I want to scream out that Dylan doesn’t only talk about football, that he’s smart and well-rounded and a good listener. But he’s letting this guy believe the stereotypes.

  “Wow.” Mike exhales loudly. “I don’t know how a chick could handle that. Do you think you get away with more than the rest of us subnormal males do? You know with your playboy looks and all?”

  Dylan sounds calm when he responds. “Anytime you have success, it helps with your popularity. But I treat all women with respect.”

  “Right.” Mike starts to laugh, and his fat ass nearly slides off the chair. His pants are way too tight, and I can see his wedgie from here as one butt cheek completely comes off his seat and dangles for a moment in mid-air.

  “So you’re popular with the ladies. Not that we didn’t know that.”

  The sarcastic tone in his voice is so rude I’m seething. I clench my hands into tight fists and try to stay calm.

  “Let’s see, what else can I ask you?” Mike scans his notes. “Okay, I see here you’re originally from rural Montana.”

  “Yep.” Dylan grins.

  “Little slow there, I bet?” Mike smirks.

  “Little. Depends on what you call slow. I loved growing up there.”

  “You must have struggled coming to Los Angeles from small town Montana,” Mike says. “Maybe you felt out of your league?”

  “I did at first. But my cousin and I moved out there together, which helped a lot. And I’m a flexible guy. I adjusted pretty quickly.”

  “Just avoided the culture stuff right?” Mike guffaws. “You know, museums, historical stuff, anything non-sports related?”

  Jesus. If I could just take my fist and shove it into Mike’s freaking face…

  I glance over at Tim. He looks like he’s not even listening. He’s playing a game on his cell phone and has an ear piece in his right ear.

  “Actually, no,” Dylan says. “I love art.”

  I exhale in relief when he defends himself.

  “I thought you just liked football,” Mike says. “That’s what you said at the beginning.”

  “I said I didn’t have time for much else during the season,” Dylan corrects him. “But I do have other interests.”

  “Like a woman?” Mike asks. “Perhaps the one who accompanied you into this room? You’ve been seen with her several times the last couple of days.”

  “This interview isn’t to include questions about my personal life,” Dylan says.

  “No problem.” Mike looks back down at his notes. “So, in terms of your brain, how big would you say it is?”

  “Excuse me?” Dylan asks.

  Then he cranes his neck in my direction. I lean to my left as far as I can, hoping he’ll be able to catch my eye.

  “Come on, man.” Mike gives a loud laugh. “It’s all in fun. Is your brain big enough for you to be able to answer my question?”

  When Dylan still hesitates, I lose the tight control I had over my temper.

  I jump up, march over to Mike, and grab his iPad and recorder out of his hand. “Apologize to him or I delete this whole interview,” I say. “And I’ll smash this recorder thingy on the ground.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dylan breaks into a laugh.

  But Tim snaps to attention and hurries over to grab me by the arm.

  “That’s enough,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  Dylan stands up. “Tim, let her go,” he says in a lethal tone before he turns back to Mike. “This interview’s over, sir. Sorry to cut it short.”

  But I’m not finished. “Do you seriously think he’s dumb as rocks just because he’s a professional athlete?” I say to Mike. “You’re the stupid one.”

  “I think that would be you, sweetheart.” Mike gathers up his stuff and puts it safely away in his bag.

  “What do you mean by that?” I say.

  Dylan shakes his head at Mike. “You just made a big mistake. I might have let the things you said to me slide, but you don’t talk to her that way. Tell your editor to expect a call later.”

  Shit. I messed this whole thing up. My stomach churns as I follow Dylan and Tim out of the room.

  As soon as we get into the hallway, Tim spins on me. “That was really fucking stupid; you know that?” he shouts in my face.

  “Tim!” Dylan steps in between us. “Get yourself under control. It’s not her fault the guy’s a prick!”

  “It’s her fault that she cares,” Tim says. “Dylan, you’ve got trouble on your hands. You know you can’t have crazy things written about you because of a dumb chick.”

  “I’ve got a this-close-to-being-fired agent on my hands is what I have,” Dylan snaps. “I mean it, Tim. Apologize to Jasalie now, and then go cool off.”

  “I’m sorry, Jasalie,” Tim says, his flat expression telling me he doesn’t mean it at all.

  I nod at him and look down.

  Then he sighs. “The thing is you could be good for Dylan’s image. Real good. But if you don’t learn to keep your temper in check…”

  “I apologize,” I say quickly. “I understand my behavior can negatively affect Dylan’s brand. I don’t want to jeopardize his charity or business.”

  “You’re not, Jasalie,” Dylan says quickly. “Don’t blame yourself. Please.”

  Tim looks between Dylan and me. “You know what? You two work together. In fact, I think a quick kiss could sweep what happened last night and today under the carpet…what do you say?”

  “Absolutely not.” Dylan’s eyes are daggers as he directs his angry gaze at Tim. “Jasalie didn’t agree to a public kiss. For Christ’s sake, Tim, this isn’t some reality show.”
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br />   But Tim doesn’t appear to be listening. “I’ll call the media, let them know where you’ll be. It will be a public place, somewhere in the middle of Tucson. All you need to do is kiss each other quickly but on the lips. Okay? Jasalie, what do you say?”

  “Um…” I tap my foot on the floor. “How far away will the cameramen be?”

  “Too far away to speak to you at all,” Tim promises. “They won’t be allowed to approach you. You’ll step out of a car, kiss on the sidewalk, step back into the car, and drive off. It will help cement the idea that your behavior last night was you being protective of Dylan.”

  “That was me being protective of Dylan!” I say. “I wasn’t acting.”

  “People are stupid,” Tim says with a broad-based sweep of his arm as if including the entire world. “They need proof. A kiss…that’s the proof.”

  I throw up my hands. “Sure. One kiss. Why not?”

  Tim smiles. “I’ll set it up.”

  “Jasalie, no.” Dylan shakes his head firmly. “This wasn’t part of our deal. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Dylan, you know why I’m suggesting this.” Tim turns to leave. “And, Jasalie, no more outbursts in public.” He waves good-bye and walks off.

  Once Tim’s gone, Dylan grips the short strands of his hair with both hands and turns his back to me. “Freaking Tim,” he mutters. I stare at his muscled back moving as he takes three deep breaths. When he turns around to face me again, his eyes are warm. “We’re not doing the kiss. I’m vetoing it. I’ll call Tim later.”

  “But your charity…”

  “Isn’t worth that,” he says firmly. “That’s taking it too far. I won’t change my mind on this.” He steps into my space and with his nose nearly touching mine, says hotly, “Jasalie, I promise you—if I kiss you, it will be because I want to, not because my damn agent thought he could get some good PR mileage out of it.”

  I catch my breath and stare into his dark eyes.

  “Okay.” I nod. “I understand. And you’re right. It’s a slippery slope once you start doing things like that.”

  “It’s a free fall down to having no private life at all is what it is,” Dylan says. His tone is fierce, and his expression tells me there’s no room for argument.

  “Agreed.”

  He lowers his head to make direct eye contact with me. “And backing up to what happened in there”—he gestures to the room we just walked out of—“you don’t need to defend me you know.”

  “I know,” I say awkwardly.

  He takes my arm. “Let’s stop in my room for a minute so we can talk in private.”

  We begin walking down the hall.

  “Obviously you can take care of yourself,” I say quietly. “I just didn’t see you doing it.”

  “I can’t take on every journalist who doesn’t get me, Jasalie. Do you know how many times a week I’d be in a fight?”

  “I just don’t understand. Why would you do interviews with people who are so awful? How is that possibly worth it to you?”

  Dylan sighs and puts his keycard into the slot. “I don’t know,” he says as he lets us into his room. “I guess I don’t really feel I have a lot of control over the whole thing. Tim usually just tells me where and when.”

  “I think you should tell Tim he wouldn’t have so much money if it weren’t for you,” I say. “Plus, it’s what you do on the football field that matters, not what you say in a magazine interview.”

  Dylan flops down on his back onto the bed. “Come here.” He pats the spot next to him.

  I take a seat on the very edge of the bed and wave my arms. “That guy didn’t respect you, period. That’s not right. It doesn’t matter who you are. It’s not okay.”

  “I like how animated you are right now.” Dylan’s eyes sparkle as he imitates my arm movements. “Very hot.”

  I make a face at him. “Ha. Obviously you don’t agree with my point.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not that I don’t agree. I appreciate your point. And I have to admit I was really surprised when you stood up and said something in my defense like that. I didn’t know you cared so much.”

  My face goes hot. “It’s no big deal.”

  “I think it’s a big deal.” Dylan puts his hand on my thigh. “So, does this mean you like me a little bit maybe?”

  He says it in a teasing tone, but his cheeks flush.

  “Maybe a little,” I mumble.

  His eyes light up.

  “But don’t start getting a big head about it,” I warn him. “Because then I won’t like you anymore.”

  “Okay. Got it.” Dylan puts his hands on my waist and pulls me further onto the bed until I’m practically lying on top of him.

  His eyes hook mine. “You’re remarkable,” he says in nearly a whisper. “You blow me away, Jasalie.”

  The heat of his body presses against mine, and I lean my head on his shoulder. His heart’s beating as fast as mine is, but I try to relax into the rhythm of his chest moving in and out as he breathes.

  But when I feel his breathing get shallower and faster, my stomach clenches and my mouth goes dry.

  Dylan reaches over and strokes my hair gently. Then his hand moves to my shoulder. He rubs it before moving to my arm. And then my hip.

  Stop him. Stop him.

  By the time he reaches my leg, I’m biting down on a gasp. I close my eyes and let him touch me.

  His breathing gets louder as he brushes his fingers across my thigh and then over the front of my jeans.

  His thumb runs down the inside of my leg and back up, and a stifled cry escapes my lips. I try so hard to muffle the sound, but it comes out anyway.

  And Dylan hears it.

  “Jasalie.” His voice is so low above my head I barely hear him.

  His hand stills.

  Shit. He’s waiting for me. To tell him what I want.

  When I don’t move, he lifts his hand off my leg and rests it on his chest.

  But I’ve stopped thinking straight.

  The ache between my legs is so intense I’m trembling.

  I grab his hand and return it to my leg, but this time, to the inside of my hip, right next to my jeans zipper.

  Dylan sucks in a breath.

  He shifts onto his side, making sure to keep me tucked in next to him.

  Then he runs his hand over the waistband of my jeans.

  When he slips his finger just inside, his callused pad touches the soft skin of my stomach, and I nearly come apart.

  I clutch his shirt into a tight fist and bury my face in his shoulder. I feel like I’m going to explode.

  His arm wrapped snugly around my back brings me even closer to him, and now he’s undoing the button of my jeans.

  When he slowly releases the zipper, I bite—bite—his shirt. Hard. I may have even gotten a bit of skin.

  I don’t know if he notices. God, I hope he didn’t notice.

  “Sweetheart, you can bite me as hard as you want to.” His voice comes out choppy.

  Oh, shit. Normally I would be embarrassed, but when his hand dips inside my open jeans and over my thin satin underwear, I stop hearing my brain altogether. All I feel is Dylan—his solid chest underneath my head, his manly scent enveloping me—and his fingers slowly making their way between my legs.

  I’m drooling onto his shirt now as his fingers slide over my panties, the wetness underneath so slick he groans.

  He presses one large finger where I need him most.

  I feel like I’ve been on the verge of orgasm since I met him, and that’s probably why I’m writhing around like I’m going to die if I don’t come.

  But I can’t let him inside me.

  And it’s like he knows that. He stays outside my underwear, but he keeps touching me, and I buck my hips so hard I’m sure I’d be on the ground right now if he weren’t holding me tightly against him. His finger keeps up the relentless pressure on the painful throbbing between my legs—first he goes light, then harder, then lig
ht again. Just when I think he’s teasing me, he increases the pressure until my thighs tremble uncontrollably and I let out a loud cry.

  But I can’t get my release. I just can’t fall over the edge.

  I clutch at his shirt with my fists. I grind my teeth into the soft fabric, and I moan and kick my feet. But I’m…stuck.

  “Let go, Jasalie.” Dylan’s rough voice in my ear cuts through all the bullshit. “Stop holding back. Come on, babe.”

  I raise my head to look at him. His gaze is fevered, and his lips part when we lock eyes. He adds a second finger to the mix as he strokes me in a way that should be illegal, and he softly whispers those two words again, “Let go.”

  I come so fast I cry out in surprise and forget to shut my eyes to him. Wave after wave pulses through my core, and just when I think I’m done, a second mini-orgasm hits me.

  Dylan stares at me the entire time I explode, his eyes liquid with desire. When I finish, he leans forward like he’s going to kiss me. Like he’s going to meld his mouth to mine, and I know I’ll never be the same again.

  But then his expression closes down, and he pulls back abruptly.

  And I do, too.

  We stare at each other, neither of us saying a word.

  The loud, insistent ringing of Dylan’s room phone breaks the awkward silence between us.

  I sit up and hurriedly refasten my jeans, and Dylan stands up and answers his phone.

  The interruption has returned my brain to my head, and I stand up. Things are moving far too fast for me to maintain any semblance of control over my emotions.

  And from the way he’s avoiding making eye contact with me, Dylan’s coming to the exact same realization.

  “Um…” I call out awkwardly. “I guess I’ll see you later?”

  He turns back to face me. “Tim, hold on a second.”

  He covers the phone receiver with his hand. “Sorry, I have to take this. Are we good?”

  “Of course.”

  A shadow crosses his face; if I’m not mistaken, it looks like regret.