“Good luck getting details out of Ash,” I told her. “He’ll never admit he was actually dating Elle. Or that he screwed two of the members of a certain death metal band in the porta potty at a festival. But I’ll tell you.”
Ash glared at me.
“How do you even fit three people in a porta potty?” Amber asked, wide-eyed.
“Not at the same time,” Ash clarified, giving me another death look.
“And why in a porta potty?” Amber asked. “Didn’t you have, like, a rock star trailer or something?”
“There was some jealousy and smoke-in-mirrors involved,” I explained. “It ended in an ugly brawl in the mud with a lot of toilet paper—”
“How do you want your steak?” Ash interrupted. “’Cause if you keep talking, you’re gonna be fishing it out of the ocean.”
Amber grinned and bit back a laugh. She met my eyes and I shrugged, grinning back. “You know how I like it,” I answered Ash. Then I asked her, “You want wine or beer?”
“Oh, God.” Amber looked a little green at the idea. “Neither.”
“Anyway,” Ash cut in, “so I’ve been with a few rock stars. It’s not like I’m a groupie or something.”
Amber shot him a look. “Neither am I,” she said firmly. “For the record, other than Johnny O, who I was unfortunately in love with, I’ve never been with a rock star.”
“Good to know,” he said cooly.
“And how do I know you’re not some photographer groupie?” she pushed back.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I am.”
Amber blinked at him. Then she smiled a little, awkwardly, like she wasn’t sure she should. “Why?” She glanced from him to me. “Have you ever dated, or screwed, a photographer?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Roslyn Pike,” Ash said.
Amber stared at him. Her mouth fell open in wordless question.
“She shoots for Rolling Stone and GQ—”
“I know who Roslyn Pike is,” she said, clearly in awe. “And to hell with Rolling Stone. She shoots for National Geographic. How long were you with her?”
“Few months,” he said, which would’ve been the same answer no matter what girlfriend from his past she’d asked him about, other than Summer.
“Did she ever photograph you?”
“Yup,” he said.
Amber seemed to be processing that. If I had to put money on it, I’d say she was jealous.
“Ash dated Ros years ago,” I put in, and winked at her. “Don’t worry. He likes you for more than your talent with a camera.”
“Next to Roslyn Pike, I’m not sure I have any,” Amber said. But she was staring at Ash. Probably wondering why he hadn’t made a move on her if he liked her so much.
Like last night, in bed.
If I were her, that’s what I’d be wondering.
I was still wondering myself.
“So…” he said, as he carefully laid Amber’s food out on a plate for her. Her eyes widened when she saw the spread: a giant grilled portobello mushroom cap that stood in for a steak, a veggie skewer and a roast potato. “Johnny O, huh?”
Amber cringed, blushed, and took the plate Ash handed her. She set it on the table between us, then sighed and cracked open the Prosecco. “Yeah.”
“How did you two meet?” I asked. That, I hadn’t bothered to dig into. Figured she’d tell me herself, if she wanted to.
“I met him at a party Liv invited me to. Actually, it was at Jesse’s place. I just didn’t really know who Jesse was at the time. Actually…” She took a generous gulp of the wine she’d just poured herself, shivered as it went down, then peered at Ash. “I met you there, too.”
Ash stared at her, maybe trying to remember that party.
“Was I there?” I asked her.
“No. Think I would remember the auburn-haired giant.”
“What was I doing?” Ash asked. “Who was I there with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did I hit on you?”
“Um… no.” Amber held the wine bottle up, offering me some, and when I nodded, she poured me a glass. “I was kinda busy.” She handed the glass to me.
“With Johnny?” I ventured.
“He kinda sought me out and cornered me…”
“No doubt.” We toasted silently, clinking our glasses together, and I watched as the blush crept over her cheeks.
“Funny how life goes,” Ash mused. He stood looking down at Amber, arms crossed. “You meet me and Johnny O at a party… you end up dating Johnny instead of me.”
“Well, what can I say.” Amber took another sip of her wine and avoided his eyes. “He kissed me first.”
When Ash looked at me, I smirked.
Amber looked at me, too, then finally glanced at Ash. “And, um, just to clarify. I didn’t just date him. I married him.”
Chapter Thirteen
Amber
Roslyn Pike.
Holy shit.
When I got back to Ashley’s place that evening, I took a quick shower, then threw on my short cotton sundress; cute, comfy, and easily did double-duty as a nightie. I threw on my loose cardigan overtop and pulled out my laptop. The sun was already down, so I clicked on a couple of small lamps and lit a fire in the fireplace, keeping it cozy and cabin-dark.
By now, I was used to Ashley hanging out at Dylan’s all evening, so I sat down at the dining room table and immediately did a Google search for Ashley Player and Roslyn Pike.
The search turned up a few photos of the two of them together. Mostly because Ashley was pretty famous. I was pretty sure no one, other than a photographer like me, would know or care who Roslyn Pike was, even though she was so successful in her field. I’d met her once at an exhibit of her work, and she looked pretty much how I remembered. She had wavy blonde hair and kind eyes, and she’d been really nice to me, down-to-Earth.
Which kind of made me wonder what she’d seen in Ashley Player.
Well, besides the gorgeous face and smoking-hot bod.
The search also turned up a couple of gorgeous, moody, gritty black-and-white photos of Ashley, closeups of his face, taken by Roslyn. I didn’t want to feel jealous, but shit, I kind of was. She was so talented. And apparently Ashley had liked her. At least for a few months, according to him.
Which just made me wonder why he hadn’t been nicer to me.
At least now I knew he didn’t have something against photographers in general, so that was something?
I started uploading the images from today’s shoot; I still had a lot of photos to go through from the previous days and I didn’t want to get way behind. Especially if I was catching a plane out of here soon. The last thing I wanted to be doing while I was overseas was sitting at my computer trying to finish processing photos from this shoot when I could be out taking new photos where I was.
So I got to work, organizing the images into folders, highlighting and rating my selects to narrow down my favorites. I really wasn’t thinking about Roslyn Pike holding Ashley’s hand in those online photos. Or how hot he’d looked, or how cute he was with his hair a little longer. I definitely wasn’t wondering if there were more photos of him out there, where he might look even hotter.
But then the curiosity really got to me…
I did an image search for Ashley Player, then another one for Dylan Cope. Until now, I hadn’t even looked either of them up.
As it turned out, the photos of the two of them online were virtually endless. Official band photos. Red carpet photos. Concert photos.
Photos of Ashley sweating and singing into a mic.
Photos of Dylan playing his drums—in a kilt.
And it felt weird seeing them like this, by way of the internet.
I wasn’t exactly in the habit of researching the men I met, no matter how famous they were. I’d learned, from my earliest brushes with the handsome and the famous, that it was often a bad idea. Put you in a weird place when you knew things about someone they ha
dn’t even told you yet, simply because you’d cyber-stalked them.
And besides that, sometimes you saw shit you didn’t really want to see—like the man you were crushing on on the arms of a whole lot of other women.
Which was a whole lot of what I found when I searched Ashley and Dylan.
There were no photos of either of them getting cosy with men, but that didn’t mean much. Either way, I felt uncomfortable, looking at those photos. So I stopped.
Then I thought of something.
I wasn’t famous, but…
I did a search for myself and my ex-husband. Because what if Dylan and/or Ashley did the same?
What would they find?
I actually had no idea. I’d seen a few photos of the two of us pop up when we were together, but since we’d split, I really hadn’t looked. I didn’t want to. I’d just hoped the whole thing would fade into obscurity in the back pages of the ever-expanding internet. Kind of the way Johnny O’Reilly had faded into obscurity in my heart and mind.
But once things were out there on the web… they just didn’t die.
My search came up with several hits. Most of them repeats of the same five images of us. Just five.
Okay; I could live with five.
But wow. It was so weird looking at those photos. At how young I looked, only four-and-a-half years ago. More baby-faced and so starry-eyed I almost didn’t recognize myself. And did I ever look fucking smitten. I was all aglow holding onto Johnny’s hand as we walked into some party or club. Each of the photos was from a different event, and in every one of them I was smiling.
I’d almost forgotten how happy I’d been with him—for a while.
A very short while.
Fortunately, none of the images I found showed how I’d felt toward the end of our relationship, when I realized I wasn’t quite as special to him as he was to me. It was kind of nicer this way. Who needed a visual reminder of that? I really didn’t need to see my twenty-three-year-old self all crestfallen and heartbroken.
I’d just feel so sorry for that girl.
I allowed myself to really look at Johnny in each of the photos, once. Well, twice. And shit, he was handsome. With his bleached hair and overly-white teeth and deep tan, and those wide, mesmerizing blue eyes with all the lashes. No wonder he’d been able to play me. It wasn’t his money or his burgeoning fame or the music that had gotten me, though I wasn’t gonna lie to myself; those things were nice. It was just him.
He was so confident, so sure of himself, so sure of what he wanted.
And for the brief period of time that what he wanted was me, it was intoxicating. He’d swept me right off my feet. When I looked back, it literally seemed like I hadn’t touched the ground in those memories, like I hadn’t stopped to breathe for the first few months we were together.
But, man… when Johnny O’Reilly did a number on a girl? He went all in.
He’d smashed my heart to pieces.
The worst part was that he didn’t even set out to do it intentionally. That would just make it easier to hate him for being an evil bastard. No, my ex just had other things he wanted out of life, things that were one-hundred-percent at odds with having a wife, and when he went after those things with the same certainty with which he’d gone after me… my heart was just the collateral damage.
If you asked him—if Dylan or Ashley asked him, God forbid—he’d probably just say something infuriating about what a great girl I was, and ask how I was doing. Yeah, he’d definitely do that.
Hell, he’d probably even try to get in my pants again, if he ever had the chance.
Yeah. I really knew how to pick them.
I couldn’t decide whether it was a relief or totally depressing that Google couldn’t even find a single thing about our marriage. It didn’t even warrant a mention on Johnny’s Wikipedia page. He wasn’t as famous back then, so maybe that was it.
Or maybe when you’re only married for sixteen days, no one really knows or cares.
Maybe Johnny preferred it that way. Maybe he’d rather just forget.
Personally, I preferred to remember. Because that seven-month relationship and sixteen-day marriage were the reasons I didn’t do impulsive anymore when it came to relationships.
Sex was one thing.
Relationships were a whole other beast. One that tended to bite me in the ass—over and over again. Unfortunately, my ex-husband wasn’t the only man who’d ever devastated me. Really, I’d been dumped, duped and dated more assholes than any girl should ever have to.
Couldn’t fault me for trying though, right?
I closed the browser and went to find something to drink. I had no interest in more booze; I’d drank enough the last few days. So I poured myself a pineapple juice. I was feeling a little restless, so I threw together a salad for tomorrow. I didn’t think I’d actually seen Ashley eat a vegetable himself, yet he’d filled his fridge with them since I’d arrived. For me.
I could probably thank him, though I didn’t want to set off some kind of allergic reaction; me being nice to him would probably just give him hives.
I smirked at the thought.
When I was done making the salad, I brought my juice over to the dining room table and sat in front of my laptop, looking through the images from today. Wondering idly what the guys were doing next door.
I pulled up the photos I’d taken on Dylan’s back deck, and started flipping through—until I got to the ones with Dylan in them. I paused on one particularly beautiful one. Dylan had just gotten out of the pool and stood looking down, wearing nothing but a towel. Well, he was kinda wearing the towel. He was in the middle of putting it on, maybe, and the fabric just barely covered the bulge of his—
“Nice photo.” I jumped as Ashley appeared out of the goddamn ether behind me. Jesus, the man had a way of sneaking up on a girl.
“Fuck. What are you, a fucking ninja or something?”
He smirked, then glanced at the photo of Dylan and said, “Wow. You are freaky.”
“I’m not—”
“I knew you were kinky. I knew it the moment I saw you.” I watched him saunter over to the fridge and pull out the carton of pineapple juice.
“Um… Excuse me? You barely even noticed me when you first saw me.”
“I knew he’d notice you.”
Oh. What?
He poured himself a juice, then leaned back on the counter and looked from me to the photo of Dylan and back. “Do you want him?” he asked me bluntly.
“I wasn’t stalking him or anything,” I said, avoiding the question. “He knew I was there.”
Ashley said nothing.
I got up, planning to clear out of his dining room, when he said, “Trust me, he wouldn’t mind if you stalked him.”
I stilled, my heart beating weirdly hard, and just tried to keep my voice normal when I asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means Dylan likes being looked at.”
I turned to look at him.
“Why do you think he walks around with his shirt off in October?” he said. “Why do you think he plays drums in a kilt, and models those fucking see-through tighty-whities?” He took a long swig of his juice, his throat working. Then he walked over to me, joining me in the dining room.
“So… what are you trying to say? He’s an exhibitionist or something?” I noticed that he hadn’t actually said that Dylan liked being looked at by women, and in truth, pathetic or not, I was still waiting for some kind of proof that Dylan might actually be into females.
That he might be into me.
“I’m not much for putting labels on people, sweetheart.” He was staring at the photo of Dylan, examining it, and I wondered what the hell he was thinking about it. The guy was a broody, bitchy mystery, impossible to figure out. “Dylan just likes being looked at. He likes being watched. People like what they like.” He looked me over, slowly. “Take me, for example.”
Okay. I’ll bite.
“You?” I asked.
His blue eyes met mine, all serious and smoldering. “I like it all,” he said. Then he took a sip of juice, very nonchalant, even as he totally eye-fucked me to hell and back with his blue, blue eyes.
I swallowed, hard.
“So,” he said, setting his glass on the table. “How about you?”
“Me?” I swallowed again. I was suddenly salivating weirdly much.
“What do you like, Amber Malone?”
When I didn’t answer right away, he glanced at the photo of Dylan again. “You like to be watched? Or… to watch?”
“I…”
He took a couple more steps toward me, getting all in my space. His eyes were kinda hooded and locked onto my mouth when he said, “Admit it… You’re a photographer. You’re probably more of a voyeur than I am.”
“I thought… you don’t like labels…?”
“Or maybe you’re more of an exhibitionist?” He was looking me over, slowly, from head to toe. Then his eyes narrowed. “You and Johnny O got a sex tape floating around out there?”
“Uh, no. Definitely not—”
“Or are you inexperienced?” His hooded gaze lingered on my chest, where my sundress dipped a little between my breasts. I wasn’t wearing a bra, but the cardigan was covering my nipples, which were rapidly hardening. Either way, I felt exposed by that look of his. “Is that what he liked about you…? That combination of sass and innocence…”
“I have no idea what he liked about me.” I really didn’t want to think about it, either. Because whatever Johnny had liked, it wasn’t enough to make him treat me right, and that had just plain hurt my self-esteem. Sad, but true.
Ashley leaned in and whispered in my ear, “That’s what Dylan likes about you.”
Then his hand went up my dress.
He skimmed his fingertips up my thigh, just lightly, and fingered the edge of my panties.
Um…
I shifted, gripping the table behind me for support as all the strength seemed to leave my legs. Ashley’s eyes finished their lazy journey back up my body, then met mine. And as they did, I felt that thrill you only feel when a really hot dude looks into your eyes up close… and you want him to kiss you. It didn’t exactly help that his fingers were now drifting up over my panties. I was trying to remember which ones I’d put on after my shower. Were they sexy? The cute pink ones with the lace? Or the boring gray ones?
Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4) Page 15