She frowned a little, like that was a ridiculous thing to do. “Why?”
I leaned in close to her face and said, “Because I’m an asshole, Amber Malone.”
She said nothing. She just held my gaze, undaunted, with her pretty green eyes. They were a pale, almost mint-green, unlike Dylan’s, which were more of a hazel-gold green.
Then her gaze dropped—to my mouth. And I realized I was licking my bottom lip, like a man who was fucking starving. Which I was.
Why the fuck hadn’t I gotten laid lately, again?
Her eyes widened when she glimpsed my tongue piercing.
I shut my mouth and turned away. “I don’t think Dylan would like it if this photo got out,” I said, not looking her in the eye. “Which means it’s not getting out.”
“Of course not. I can delete it. This is the only copy, Ashley,” she assured me, gently. “I haven’t had a chance to back it up yet.”
Ashley. She fucking called me Ashley. It made my nipples fucking hard when cute chicks called me Ashley.
My dick was getting there, too.
“Not necessary,” I managed to growl. My throat was getting tight and the words came out all rough and a little too quiet. I slid the camera toward her and met her gaze. “Enjoy it,” I told her.
Then I walked out.
Chapter Ten
Amber
My eyes fell to the display on the back of the camera. To the photo of Ashley and Dylan.
To that private, almost tender moment between two people I hardly knew; a moment that now felt even more intimate.
I fuck guys even when I say I won’t anymore.
Oh, God. I totally felt like a voyeur, as Ashley’s words replayed in my head, again and again.
Enjoy it.
Yeah; he definitely thought I was a voyeur.
And what about Dylan? Ashley had been very specific, that Dylan wouldn’t like the photo getting out.
Had I just been fired?
I didn’t even know.
I blew out a breath and got to work uploading yesterday’s images from the memory cards to the cloud, by way of my laptop. Ashley had laid them on the island, which had seemed like a good sign, at first.
Now, maybe not so much.
While I waited for the images to transfer, I thought about just getting the hell out of here. I had two more days on this shoot at best. I’d probably be finished mid-day tomorrow. I could maybe stretch it out to a full day, but I didn’t want to abuse Dylan’s kindness any more than I already had.
Shit. It was official; I was fucking terrible with people.
Especially hot men.
Because even when Ashley stood here and explained to me what an asshole he was, and that he liked to fuck men, I was still attracted to him.
Something was definitely wrong with me.
Or else my pussy had just been out of the game too long; long enough to get totally confused. Clearly, Ashley did not want me.
Dylan did not want me.
I told myself if I even let myself masturbate thinking about the two of them again, this was going to get messy. For me.
It was already getting messy.
As much as I would’ve loved to just disappear right now, though, I could not get around the fact that I owed them an apology, whether they fired me or not.
So I put on my big girl panties and headed over to Dylan’s house.
When I arrived, the guys were gone. A woman let me in, but at least this one wasn’t a living incarnation of a Barbie doll. She was middle-aged and friendly and said she was the part-time housekeeper. She seemed to have expected me.
She offered me a tea—more loose-leaf Ashley had obviously bought yesterday, for me—and told me she would keep out of my way. She even said if I needed her to tidy anything up for my photos, to just let her know.
So maybe I wasn’t fired?
I wondered, had Ashley even told Dylan about my newly-discovered voyeur status?
I worked alone all morning. I was upstairs in Dylan’s bedroom when I heard the drums thudding through the basement. I hadn’t even heard him come home.
In the early afternoon, when I came downstairs, I saw him out by the pool, through the windows. He was on his phone, and he looked so fucking gorgeous laid out on his lounge chair. He wasn’t naked this time, just shirtless, which was probably a good thing since the housekeeper was in the kitchen. But those fucking abs. A girl could suck some serious vodka off those abs.
Well, a guy could.
I was tempted, so fucking tempted to take his picture, but the last thing I was gonna do was pull another embarrassing mistake like I’d already made.
The house smelled like fabulous cooking, and the housekeeper lady fed me lunch as she cooked food to stock up Dylan’s freezer.
In the late afternoon, Dylan came to check out what I was doing, just like he had yesterday. Like he was genuinely interested. He didn’t say a thing about the photo of the kiss.
So I decided not to rock the boat by bringing it up.
Chicken shit move, I knew.
“So, hey,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe as I shot his master bathroom with my wide angle. “I was wondering… if you want to come to a party tonight.”
I looked up at him, my heart thudding. He was in my shot, but I wasn’t about to ask him to leave. He hardly made the room look worse.
And as for my heart thudding? I knew he was gay. But somehow it just hadn’t made him any less attractive to me.
Because apparently my lady parts were slow like that.
“It’s just a small cocktail party,” he added. There was a slight, crooked smile on his face, maybe because my eyes had gone wide. “No big deal.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, despite the fact that I knew I should say no. I didn’t actually want to say no. Historically, I hadn’t always wanted what was best for me. Way too much like my mom that way.
“But you’ll have to leave the camera behind.”
I nodded, taking this in. “Right,” I said, like it was no big deal, when in reality going anywhere without my camera was, for me, something like going naked.
If he didn’t want me bringing the camera, I knew there was a reason.
Because his famous friends were going to be at this party?
Because he was planning to let Ashley kiss him some more?
“Um. How fancy is this party?” I ventured, in case it was the former.
Dylan’s eyes dropped to my billowy blouse and ratty cutoffs, his gaze skimming down my bare legs as the smile curled his perfect mouth. “As fancy as you get.”
As it turned out, Dylan Cope’s idea of “no big deal” was a house party—at a multi-million-dollar house—where his entire band was in attendance, at least half the guests were famous and most of them were filthy rich.
When he’d picked me up at the front door of Ashley’s house, I’d almost fainted from the sudden loss of blood in my head. He was wearing a natty black suit, very Don Draper, but sans necktie, and his hair was smoothed down, the cowlicky waves at the front doing their own adorable thing.
So. Fucking. Cute.
If a six-and-a-half-feet-tall underwear model with abs of steel and beard stubble could be called adorable or cute… Dylan Cope fit the bill.
He’d walked me down through the trees, to a private dock on the edge of his property where two boats were moored. The big one was white, an enclosed luxury speedboat, slick and pimped-out. The boat’s name, DIRTY DEED, was emblazoned on the back.
The boat on the other side of the dock was a small, older speedboat with a sparkly silver finish and snap-on cover, and where its name, FALCON, was emblazoned on the back, someone had graffiti’d beneath it: Silver Sparrow.
I’d met Ashley’s eyes after reading it; he was crouched down at the edge of the dock beside the silver boat, smoking a joint. He was dressed in a silky, charcoal-gray vest over a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his trademark tight black jeans, his black hair slicked back, and I p
robably would’ve wanted to eat him with a spoon…
If I didn’t know what a gay asshole he was.
“Is that your boat?” I’d asked him, feeling uncomfortable as he looked me over, kinda scowling at my dress. Dylan had hopped into the big boat to start getting it ready for us, leaving me there, all awkward. “The Falcon?”
Ashley had looked irritated, but what else was new? “Zane re-christened it.”
I’d glanced at the graffiti again and asked no more questions. Zane, I knew, was Dylan’s lead singer. Seemed like one of those inside jokes between guys that I wouldn’t really get. Or didn’t want to know.
Dylan had then collected me from the dock and helped me into his boat, and I’d caught Ashley giving his suit what I could only describe as an irritable once-over. I tried to ignore him, settling into a seat near the driver’s seat, where Dylan placed me. He had the heat going and it was really comfy. There was a small bar, and I was kinda hoping he’d offer me a drink. With the attitude Ashley was putting off, I could’ve used one.
Ashley had followed us onto the boat, and he cranked up some music; surround-sound and loud. I recognized the song as it kicked in, one of those funny Andy Samberg songs, from Saturday Night Live or something. “I’m On a Boat.”
I’d glanced at Dylan. He didn’t look amused, and shot a look at Ashley.
Then I’d glanced at Ashley, who’d made himself comfy in the back, lounging on one of the cushioned bench seats. He returned Dylan’s look, completely deadpan, eyes narrowing slightly as he took a drag of his joint.
There was definitely some kind of weird, silent, dude stand-off going on between them that I couldn’t quite figure out…
It was almost as if Ashley thought Dylan was trying to impress me.
Then Dylan had shut off the song, turned on some AC/DC, and off we went.
Dylan had buzzed us across the water to the city, and by the time we hit dry land again his auburn waves were everywhere; the wind blew them all over the place while he tied up the boat. I felt giddy from the ride and the fresh night air. As I waited on the dock, I held my jacket over my head to try to salvage my hairdo; I’d done a side part and smoothed the thick waves down a bit in keeping with the retro feel of my dress. Dylan had seemed to appreciate my efforts.
Ashley, other than that first scowly perusal, had barely looked at me.
We’d moored in Coal Harbor—so quiet at night, with downtown all lit up above us, North Vancouver and the dark presence of the mountains across the water. We’d walked up a few blocks and climbed into an SUV Dylan owned, parked in the underground lot of a condo tower where Ashley, apparently, had a place. The cold steel-and-glass building on the edge of the financial district did not feel like Ashley, but I didn’t mention it. I already felt conspicuous enough, just like I had in the boat, sitting there in the copilot seat—while Ashley sat in the back, drilling annoyed holes in the back of my skull.
Apparently, I was wondering if you want to come to a party actually meant I was wondering if you want to come to a party with me and my angry boyfriend.
If I’d needed any further evidence that this was not a date, there it was.
I felt even more awkward after we’d driven over the Lions Gate bridge to West Vancouver and up the mountainside, and I stepped into the beautiful house with the two of them. My heart was drumming in my chest. I wasn’t even sure if I was more nervous about being with Dylan or not being with Dylan, but he seemed to sense my discomfort. He put his hand on the small of my back, introducing me to the homeowner the moment we walked in.
Zane Traynor, lead singer of Dirty.
The first thing I noticed: he was dead sexy.
The second thing I noticed: he was staring at me.
Like staring.
He had shocking light-blue eyes and a chiseled, gorgeous face, a nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two, and his blond hair was shaved super-short at the sides—blond velvet. The longer part on top had been slicked back, and he wore a black suede vest over a tight T-shirt, with a pocket chain dangling from it. He looked like a prohibition-era gangster—a ridiculously hot one. Fitted dark pants completed the look, but I didn’t dare look down.
He laughed before Dylan could introduce me and said, “Who the hell is this?”
I felt my face turning pink. Luckily it was dark out and the lights inside the entrance were way low.
“This is Amber,” Dylan said.
“She’s Liv’s sister,” Ashley grumbled from somewhere behind me, as if to explain why I was here. Because God forbid I came with him.
“Amber…” Zane said, like my mere existence was somehow incredibly interesting, as he kept staring at me.
Then the guys did a round of back-slapping hugs. And as I soon found out, this wasn’t just a cocktail party. This was Zane’s new house, and this was a housewarming party.
It was also his thirtieth birthday.
No pressure.
We hadn’t even brought a gift.
I immediately felt like an asshole, even though I’d never met the guy before.
“We didn’t bring a gift?” I whispered at Dylan as we headed through to the back of the house, where the party seemed to be.
Dylan chuckled. “Trust me, he doesn’t need anything.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’ll buy him dinner next time he forgets his wallet,” he offered, amusement sparkling in his green-gold eyes. Then he winked at me. For some reason, he was holding my hand, and it was kinda freaking me out. But I clung to it anyway.
The house was huge, modern and sparsely furnished, and all the lights inside were dimmed low. There was no one inside except us, Ashley and Zane and some giant security guy who’d come with Zane to the door, trailing behind us. It looked like Zane hadn’t fully moved in yet, or maybe he just didn’t own a lot of stuff.
But the back yard was where it was at, anyway.
The huge sitting room at the back of the house was an indoor-outdoor space, fully heated and covered, flowing out onto the patio and yard. Music was playing, lounge furniture was clustered all around, fires were burning in a couple of outdoor fireplaces, and in the center of it all was a swimming pool, all lit up from underwater.
The place reeked of money, but it was classy, too.
The actual party was small, maybe twenty-five people. But they all seemed to know one another. You know, just a bunch of super-hot rock stars, their super-hot dates and friends, and some big, intimidating, bodyguard-looking dudes.
And me.
Liv wasn’t even here.
I made a mental note to take a photo with my phone later and text it to her. Maybe when I was nice and drunk, and I’d put my middle finger in it. It had been three days since the Underlayer shoot, and she still hadn’t called me back.
So maybe I’d put my bare ass in it, too.
There was a DJ booth set up in one corner, and a gorgeous female DJ. She had a kind of Bettie Page look going on, with her sleek dark hair and violet corselette-like dress, and she was spinning a way-cool remix of Dinah Washington’s “Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby?” as we headed straight for the bar.
I was definitely glad Dylan had told me to fancy myself up.
The women here were all pretty, but at least they seemed… well, real. Surprisingly, I didn’t glean a pair of obviously surgically-altered boobs in the place. But everyone, other than the security dudes, was definitely dressed to impress.
I didn’t want to give a shit what people thought about how I dressed, but glancing around, I would’ve felt pretty fucking out of place if I hadn’t put on my best dress—the only party dress I dragged around the globe with me in my travel backpack. It was a cute, off-white lace cocktail dress in a simple ’60s style that I’d found in a thrift store in New York, fit me perfectly, and always made me feel fashionable, no matter what year it was.
Behind the bar, there were two women, about my age, chatting and making drinks. One of them was poured into a long red satin dress
with side-swept dark hair, very Rita Hayworth. The other wore a short black cocktail dress, with her dark hair slicked back in a tight knot. Dylan introduced me to them right away: Katie and Maggie. And both of them were so welcoming—Katie hugging me and Maggie handing me a drink—that I made a mental note to remember their names.
A couple of sips into my melon-flavored martini-thing and I was already relaxing and starting to think this might actually be fun.
But then it got weird.
Like when Ashley brought Dylan—our designated driver—a coffee, beer in hand for himself, and absolutely nothing for me, even though my melontini was already getting low.
Or when Ashley kept interrupting and stealing Dylan away, just as he was about to introduce me to someone.
Christ. He wasn’t just protective of Dylan. He was possessive, too.
Did he think I was hot for his man?
Well, I was.
Even more so when I noticed Dylan giving me sex eyes from across the room.
At least, he seemed to be… His green eyes locking on mine, kind of hooded and contemplative, as I stood by the bar, sucking back booze and trying to get drunk while I waited for Ashley to quit hogging him.
What. The. Hell.
I could not figure these guys out.
Maybe I just couldn’t read gay guys?
Or maybe it was crazy-wishful thinking to hope that just because Dylan Cope seemed to be checking me out in my cute dress that he was actually flirting with me. Maybe he just appreciated my fashion sense. Ha. Maybe I was just drunk and should slow down on the melontinis.
I’m crushing on a gay guy…
Well, two gay guys.
If I’d ever had a more dumbass crush in my life, I couldn’t remember it.
Chapter Eleven
Dirty Like Dylan_A Dirty Rockstar Romance Page 12