Laura started rummaging through her closet somewhere behind me. “How about this?” In the mirror I saw her over my shoulder, holding up a slutty-looking black minidress. “Or this?” She held up an even sluttier-looking pink minidress—with sequins.
“Um. Those aren’t… me.” Logical, I wanted to say. Those aren’t logical things to put on one’s body.
“If you’re going to date a rock star,” she said, “you might as well have some fun with it. Liv has taken me to parties, Amber. I’ve seen the girls these guys date, and sweetie—”
“And I’m sure those girls would have fun in those dresses. But I would feel like an idiot. As for dating a rock star, I don’t even know if this is a date.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, digging through her closet again. “So why are you putting on lip gloss? I mean, if not to give him a visual of what your wet lips would look like wrapped around his penis?”
I pressed my lips together, blending the gloss, my face heating at the thought—that that was what Dylan might think.
The thought was accompanied by the memory of Ashley’s cock in my mouth, just last night… and again, in the middle of the night, in his bed. Just before he’d fucked me again.
Christ… I can still taste him.
And now I was going to dinner with his best friend.
“You think I want to look like a slob next to him at some restaurant?” I muttered. “He’s famous. What if there’s paparazzi?”
Laura laughed. “Then you can talk shop with them—camera lenses and shutter flashes or whatever.”
“Right.” I took a final perusal of my face in the mirror and turned to face her. Or at least, face the flurry of clothing she was tossing from the closet to the bed. There was a hell of a lot of shiny, ruffly stuff. “Do you have anything that looks like something I would actually wear, if I wasn’t trying to be you?”
Laura popped out of the closet holding up a ruffled skirt and a pair of skinny jeans. “How about these, Miss Predictable?”
I frowned at the offerings.
Laura lowered the clothes with a sigh. “If you won’t let me dress you, at least take this.” She presented me with a small clutch that had been lying on the bed. It was cute, a blush-pink faux fur with a silver clasp. Then she held up a couple of condoms meaningfully and tucked them inside.
I raised an eyebrow. “And why do you have condoms?”
“They’re yours,” she said. “From the last time you stayed here.”
“Oh.”
“I checked. They haven’t expired yet. And this should get you home from anywhere in the city, if you have to bail.” She held up two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, then slipped those into the purse.
“Laura. I’m not destitute,” I told her. Though really, my bank account was a little, well, empty. And I’d promised myself I’d only use my credit card for dire emergencies, until I was traveling again.
“That’s your hard-earned travel money,” she said, tucking the clutch into my hand. “This is sister-in-law money. Just take it. It makes me feel better to know you’re safe.”
“Fine.” I hugged her, grateful for the love if not the condoms. Then I sighed. “I’ll take the jeans. If you’ve got a cute sweater to go with them.” Admittedly, I was a little tired of my limited wardrobe. Living out of a backpack could get wearisome, even for me.
That perked her right up. “You know I do.” But as I reached for the jeans, she snatched them back and added, “And now that we know you’re safe… I’ll get the slutty ones.”
Forty-five minutes later, I was ensconced in a giant wraparound booth in a posh restaurant downtown with Dylan Cope, wearing a cute pink sweater and Laura’s sluttiest jeans. There was candlelight flickering and the clank of dishes and the din of dozens of other voices in conversation, and a piano where someone was playing Billy Joel’s “She’s Always a Woman.” It was cozy and classy.
But I couldn’t see any of the people or the piano. Our booth was tall and tucked back in a dark private corner under the curving staircase to the upper level. Which meant all I could see was Dylan Cope, with his crazy-handsome face and his wavy auburn hair.
He was wearing a fitted green sweater that he must’ve known made his eyes look fucking amazing, to say nothing of his biceps. And his forearms… His sleeves were casually pushed up and I could barely stand to look at the exposed skin there, the lines of the muscles and veins… or not look. I didn’t know if it was the drumming or the weightlifting or just plain fantastic genetics, but something had given this man the sexiest forearms I’d ever seen.
There was wine in my glass, and Dylan had already ordered food for us. He seemed to know the restaurant’s most delicious offerings, even taking into account my vegetarianism. I’d never eaten here before, so I didn’t mind his recommendations. He also poured my wine instead of letting the waitress do it.
It sure as hell felt like a date, so far.
“So,” he said, as soon as the waitress had departed with our order, “I wanted to pay you for your work.” Then he produced a check from his pocket and slid it across the table toward me.
“Oh. Thank you.” I glanced at it. It was a personal check, signed by him. And the amount had one more digit on it than I’d been expecting for three days’ work. “This is too much,” I told him.
“I threw some extra on there. Figured it might take you an extra day or two to go through all those images you took, do that retouching you mentioned.”
Wow. Generous and thoughtful. “That’s really covered by the generous day rate, Dylan.”
He just shrugged that off.
“Thank you,” I repeated, and tucked the check away.
“You’re welcome.” His gaze drifted over my face, and I sipped my wine, feeling conspicuous of the makeup I’d worn, however subtle. Was it occurring to him that I’d never worn makeup in his presence before? Did men notice things like that? “And now that we’ve gotten that out of the way… you’re coming back with me tonight, right?”
“I’m…” I swallowed kind of hard, almost choking on my wine. “That’s direct. Can I try the food first?”
Dylan laughed his easy laugh. “I just wondered if the fact that you took your travel backpack with you to Liv’s meant we’d lost you.”
We?
“I don’t know. I’m finished photographing your house. I don’t want to outstay my welcome.” I could feel my cheeks heating up, thanks to the heady rush of my first couple of generous sips of wine and the embarrassment: the real reason I’d fled the island.
Because I’d screwed Ashley and couldn’t deal with it.
Why did I think I needed to wear blush again?
“You are welcome,” Dylan said, his green eyes looking extra-golden in the candlelight as they held mine, “at my place. And at Ash’s.”
“Dylan,” I began, awkwardly, “that’s really generous, but—”
“I can take you back on the boat tonight,” he said casually, ignoring my protests. “We can pick up your things from Liv’s.”
I stared at him, just trying to process his words.
Okay. What the hell was going on here? The work was done. He could easily brush me off now.
Honestly, this was usually where they brushed me off. You know, like right when I started to really hope that they wouldn’t.
Unless, of course… he actually did like me?
Fuck me.
Why was I so terrible at this? Like for fuck’s sake, already. I seriously wanted to blurt out, So do you like dick or pussy or what???
But I managed to bite my tongue on that.
“Can I think about it?” I asked.
“Of course.”
I stared at him. Everything about him said relaxed, from the casual way he leaned on his elbows on the table, to the lazy way he sipped his beer. But the look in his eyes was sharp, interested, and laser-locked on me. Actually, he was giving me sex eyes. Just like he did at Zane’s party.
Only this time, as up-close and sober as I
was… I was sure of it.
Dylan Cope was not gay.
No chance. Not the way he was looking at me right now.
Like he intended to drink his beer, eat his dinner… and then make me his dessert.
And my vagina was fucking thrilled about it. The eye-sex he was giving me sent warm tinglies racing below, and my womb did that same happy-freak-out thing it did the very first time he’d looked at me.
While the rest of me just got uncomfortable.
“Whatever you decide,” he said, his gaze tracing my face, in no particular hurry, and landing on my lips. “Either way, you need to eat, right?”
“Right.”
“Hope I’m not being too pushy.”
“Um. No. I wouldn’t describe you as a pushy man. It’s actually… very leopard-like of you.” Was that what was happening here?
Was Dylan Cope prowling on me?
That seemed to trip him up. “What?”
“Leopards. They’re all, um…” I swallowed, struggling to remember what Liv had said about a leopard on the hunt, but it was hard with his green-gold eyes locked on mine. “They’re all, you know, camouflaged. And then… they attack.”
He put his beer down and sat back a fraction. “Do you feel attacked?”
“Well… no. I just meant—”
“I didn’t mind to blindside you, Amber. If this is all news to you… I just thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That Ash and I are both into you.”
“Oh.”
Well, shit.
He smirked a bit. “I thought it was obvious.”
“No. I mean… maybe?” Yeah. I was just plain bad at this. I was so confused I didn’t even know which way was up.
Or which dick might be up. For me.
“You didn’t know?”
“Well… I…” I drifted off. The waitress had reappeared, and laid out our appetizers. Some kind of goat cheese thing stuffed into little lettuce-leaf boats, with balsamic reduction drizzled over them. It looked delicious and I was hungry, but my stomach was all sparkling with nerves—even as my nipples throbbed and my pussy hummed with nervous excitement.
When she was gone, I tried again. “Even if I did, um, know…” I said, trying to find the right way to put it, to not make myself sound like an idiot, or a total slut. Was there a right way? “I probably wouldn’t have thought your interest in me was… um… still valid. You know, after Ashley and I…”
“Valid?” He smirked again, so at least I was amusing him.
“Well, what I mean is…”
Shit. Was I about to send that gorgeous smile careening off his face when I said it out loud? Oh God, am I really gonna ruin this?
And did I have to say this out loud?
Yes, you totally do.
Put your big girl panties on.
“I had sex with Ashley last night.”
Dylan didn’t break eye contact. I knew this because I very purposefully made sure not to break it either. His smile faded a bit, but only because his eyes were darkening in that way a man’s eyes darkened when you said something really sexy to him. “I know,” he said.
I let out a breath. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it bother me?”
“I mean… I don’t know. Usually when a guy takes a girl out for dinner, he’s probably hoping she hasn’t had sex with someone else in the last twenty-four hours?”
“I don’t mind if you have sex with Ash.”
Oh.
Shit.
Wait.
“Do you…?”
Just ask.
“Do I…?” he said.
Yup. I’m totally gonna ask.
“Do you have sex with him?”
“No.” A grin twitched at his mouth. “Unless by ‘with’ you mean in the same bed. With a woman in-between us.”
“Oh. Um… no. I meant your cock, or his, in each other’s—”
“No,” he said. He leaned back in his seat and took a swig of his beer, his eyes sparkling with amusement. When he set the beer down, he added, “But I won’t be having sex with you, either. Unless—”
“Oh.” I choked a little on my wine and dabbed at my mouth with a napkin, as ladylike as I could. My eyes were watering. “What?”
“Ash had you first,” he said simply. “That means you’re his. Unless he wants to share.”
I blinked at him.
His?
Share?
I wanted to be offended by that. All of it. The entire idea that I now belonged to Ashley, like I was his territory or something, his property, just because he’d put his dick in me. That it was up to Ashley if I was allowed to have sex with Dylan. Or if Dylan was allowed to have sex with me?
It was pathetic. It was disgusting, chauvinistic, presumptuous bullshit, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
In theory.
But maybe I was pathetic?
Because in actuality, my body was responding to Dylan’s words in ways that were far from disgusted.
Oh, God… Please let him want to share.
“So,” Dylan went on, before I could recover, “supposing he is open to sharing, and you are, too…” He looked me over, slowly, like he wanted this to sink in.
So at least he realized I had a say in this.
“We’d ask you to stick around a while. Say a couple of months? And be exclusive. Exclusive with us. If you’re into that.” He sipped his beer. “Through the end of the year, anyway. Until we go on tour.”
“Tour?”
“I’m going on tour with Dirty. Ash is coming, too.”
“Oh…” A heavy feeling settled low in my stomach as I listened to him speak.
“The Penny Pushers are opening up for us on the first leg of the tour…”
“Cool.”
“… so at that point, we’ll be on the road. And you’ll be off the hook.” He smiled a little, studying me.
I smiled back, tentatively.
But what the actual fucking hell?
What if I didn’t want to be “off the hook”? Didn’t I get any say in that at all? Like: But what if it turns out I really, really like you?
What if you really, really like me?
What if I want you to stick around… and you don’t?
I told myself it was natural to have these questions. To feel put off by what he’d said. It was weird shit to say.
Sure, I’d had a conversation something like this many times in the past, with men I’d met on my travels—other travelers. I’d never been invited into an “exclusive” threesome before, but I’d definitely negotiated the terms of a relationship up front. And it had never really fazed me. It had relieved me of the burden of worrying about getting rid of the guy after I’d had a little fun and wanted to move on.
Or, more specifically, him getting rid of me.
It rather tidily avoided the whole falling-in-love-and-ending-up-with-a-broken-heart thing.
So why did it irk me so much that this man was forecasting the end of our relationship before it had even begun? That he had it all planned out; that he’d laid it out for me, in his super-chill way, over cocktails?
Suddenly, it was like I saw all those other conversations for something other than what they’d felt like at the time. At the time, they’d seemed mature and honest and in the best interest of both parties. Now, they just seemed cheap and sad.
I felt cheap and sad.
Like the kind of girl a guy only got together with because he knew he was going to get to leave her afterward.
“Wow,” I found myself saying, as I sucked back my wine. Neither of us had touched the food yet. “And how does one respond to such an offer?”
“I’d love to hear it,” he said.
“Well. Let me take a stab at it.” I finished the wine and set my glass on the table between us, gathering my thoughts. My pussy was still throbbing, but my heart had started pounding with a definite slam of angry adrenalin, and my head was fucking reeling in fifty
different directions at once—not one of them good. “It sounds… interesting, Dylan. Like where do I sign up, right? But maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw the offers around.”
He raised an eyebrow at me as he reached for the bottle of wine to refill my glass.
“I mean, don’t you need character references first?” I went on. “Because frankly, I don’t know that Liv would give me a great one. I may have to dig pretty deep on that. Pretty sure I can find someone to vouch for me that I’m not a psycho, but I wouldn’t put money on it. Oh, and speaking of money, I have none, so you may want to keep your gold-digger radar on high alert. Just in case. I mean, I would, if I were you. I once stole a stuffed kitten from a store. I was seven and I really, really wanted it, but I knew it was wrong. Still did it anyway.” I picked up the glass he’d refilled for me and went on. “I also tend to make a lot of sarcastic or self-deprecating jokes when I’m nervous. I’ve been told it’s cute at first, then it gets annoying. I have a fairly large chip on my shoulder, and I can be pretty dismissive of people. At least, my sister would say so, but who’s listening to her, right?” I laughed at my own dumb joke, which didn’t seem to land.
“Amber—”
“And anyway, unless you’ve been wasted the entire time I’ve known you so far, you must’ve noticed my prickly personality by now. I hold grudges like a motherfucker, and I don’t really do relationships, exclusive or otherwise. Or maybe they just don’t do me. I can’t remember the last time I actually snuggled with someone. I don’t snuggle. I don’t spoon or cuddle. I only fork.” I laughed. I wasn’t drunk, exactly, and it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was bitter and loaded with sarcasm. “Let’s see. I also have this idea about myself that despite all my faults I’m a pretty good person who deserves good things. And this dream that I’m actually going to make something of myself one day, that what I do on this Earth actually matters. That the work I do is going to matter. That I’m going to make a good living doing what I love. You know, kind of like you do.”
I slid out of the booth and stood, gulping my wine. That overly-generous check was festering in my pocket now, making me feel desperately uncomfortable in Laura’s clothes.
“So, how did I do? Am I hired?” I set my empty wine glass on the table and looked straight in his green-gold eyes. “In case no one’s told you this lately, you’re a pig, Dylan Cope, and so is your best friend or your boyfriend or whatever the hell he is. Find another girl to scratch your kinky itch. I’m not ‘his’ and I’m not going to be yours.”
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