by Mimi Strong
“The girls will live next door,” he says. “And I want you to live with me.”
“I basically already live with you.”
“Yes, but it’s not official.”
I turn away and shrug. “I don’t know.”
He gets down on one knee.
“Stop goofing around.” I roll my eyes.
“Marry me,” he says. “Wear your blue shoes, under your dress. It’s good luck.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Stop it. You’re going to make Amanda pee herself if she comes in here and sees you like this.”
“Worth it.” He stays down on his knee.
I can hear the girls arguing over who gets to use the giant tub first.
“Congratulations on your investment,” I say to Dylan.
I look around at the walls of the dining room. It’s got funky wallpaper that’s partly foiled, to look like mirrors. In the tiny squares, I can see a reflection of Dylan, kneeling before me. He pulls something out of his pocket.
My heart jumps up into my throat.
OMG. This is happening.
I turn my head and look down at him.
He’s holding up a ring that sparkles just as bright as the chandelier above us.
“You’re not joking around,” I whisper.
“I already got your grandmother’s blessing,” he says.
“What? How? You haven’t met her.”
“A couple weeks ago. Remember I asked you for her number so I could make the travel arrangements? We had a really good chat. I love her already.”
My knees feel shaky. I can’t believe this is happening. I didn’t think my life could get any more perfect. Now I’m looking at the most incredible ring I’ve ever seen.
Dylan cocks his head to the side, still looking up at me. His brown eyes are completely open to me. I can see all his feelings. I can see our future.
He takes my hand in his.
“Jessica Rivera, I love you more than music. I love music, too, but without you, there is no music. Will you marry me?”
I can’t answer him. I can’t speak.
He tips his head further to the side. “Do I need to get the guitar?” he asks.
“No.”
He pulls his head back. “No?”
“No, as in no guitar needed. Yes to getting married.”
He holds his hand over his chest and lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
Suddenly, I realize we’re not alone. Riley and Amanda are standing in the doorway behind me, with their mouths wide open.
Dylan slides the engagement ring onto my finger.
He gets to his feet and kisses me. I’m so numb, I can’t even feel my lips.
He pulls away and says gently, “Go ahead.”
“Go ahead?”
“Show your friends your new ring before their heads explode.”
I turn around, and I am engulfed in a screaming hug.
* * *
I stand in the bathroom, washing off my makeup.
Riley and Amanda have gone home. They’ll move into the house next door as soon as we can book movers. It’s weird to imagine that in a few weeks, whenever they go home, it will be right next door.
I look down at the ring on my finger. It’s definitely real, which means I’m not imagining this.
Over dinner, he told us he bought the ring when he was in New York for his first interviews. He wanted to propose to me then, but it was so soon. Also, there were so many news stories about his wife popping up. He wanted to let that story settle down.
The story of his ex-wife did settle down, and then it blew up again in August. The bigger his summer anthem hit got, the more people were interested in his dark past.
Some journalists went looking for information, and found hard evidence Dylan’s wife was having an affair with her student. They also discovered she had something going on with a mechanic. He was the same mechanic who did maintenance work on her brakes before her accident.
I hardly ever see stories about her anymore, mostly because I don’t go looking.
A few people have noticed that I bear a resemblance to her. But the press isn’t that interested in me. I don’t give them much to talk about. I’m with Dylan because I want to be with him, not because I want to be photographed on red carpets.
What I really love the most is a quiet night at home, just like this.
Dylan is already in bed, but he’s still playing the guitar. Of course. He’s flat on his back with the guitar on his stomach, and he’s reprising his song from earlier, about my makeup.
I switch off the bathroom light and walk over to the bed. I gently take the guitar from his hands and set it in the corner.
“What are you wearing?” he asks.
I dim the lights until the room is nearly dark.
I strike a pose near the foot of the bed.
“You’re not the only one with surprises tonight, Mr. Wolf.”
I slip off the silky robe and let it fall to the floor.
My arms get goosebumps as he looks over me. I’m wearing a ruby red slip dress, made of smooth satin and lace. He licks his lips, speechless for a moment.
I turn from side to side, then climb onto the bed. I move toward him like a jungle cat.
“That red really catches my attention,” he says.
I crawl up until I’m hovering over him.
“Is that what you’re looking at? My red dress?”
He reaches up and runs his hands along my sides. He tugs the dress up and tilts his head. He nods with approval. The panties match the dress.
“I like everything,” he says. “Especially with your new ring.”
I check my hand, suddenly worried. “Should I take it off? Do you take rings off when you’re sleeping?”
“Who said anything about sleeping?”
He moves quickly, grabbing me and rolling me onto my back. Both of us are giggling and getting caught in the covers. After a moment of wrestling, we’re free of the covers.
He’s on top of me, kissing me and murmuring sweet things.
I wrap my arms around him, my eyes focused on a spot over his right shoulder. My ring is so sparkly, even in this dim light.
He starts breathing heavily, feeling my breasts through the fabric of the dress.
“Mmm. I want you naked, but I want you like this, too,” he says.
“A little variety is fun. Leave it on.”
He smoothes down the dress, admiring my body through the fabric.
“Sure,” he says, grinning. “But not the panties.”
He’s already naked. He presses his hardness against my inner hip, like he has to give me a reason.
“The panties stay on,” I whisper.
“You’re driving me crazy.” He groans and presses harder against me. “Let’s take them off. Just for a minute. A few minutes.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
I don’t say anything.
He sighs and leans forward to kiss me. “Whatever my fiancee wants,” he murmurs.
His hand goes between my legs.
I press my head back into the pillow so I can watch his face. These are special panties that only look like regular panties from the front. There’s no middle.
His eyebrows go up, and then he smiles. His fingers explore me further, and now I’m smiling.
He kisses me again. I tilt my hips, moving underneath him. He shifts his body down, and then up. He nudges inside, filling me.
I catch another glimpse of my sparkling ring before I close my eyes. He buries himself in me, and I hold on tight.
In my head, I hear our song. It hasn’t been written yet, but I know one day he’ll write the song that describes all of this.
Everything we’ve been through together.
What we have is music, because music makes you feel, and I’ve never felt more than when I’m with Dylan.
Sometimes the feelings are scary and overwhelming. It’s just like music, which can tear away your d
efenses and leave you raw.
But then music can also make you feel whole. Music can cradle you with comfort. You want the good feeling to last, so when the song is finished, you hit pause on your play list, so you can keep feeling your perfect song echo, without being swept away by anything else.
Dylan holds me tight, and we make love to each other all night.
Our first song ends like this.
Blue Shoes - Part 1
Chapter One
People are staring at us, the young couple in the bright blue Maserati GranTurismo. Even in a city like Los Angeles, this car is a head turner.
We round a corner and drive slowly down a street dotted with restaurant patios. All eyes are on us. A teenaged girl points at us and elbows her friends.
She screams, “Dylan Wolf!”
Her friends all scream. The pack of them start to chase after the car.
I turn to catch Dylan’s reaction. He keeps looking straight ahead, smirking. His dark hair is wildly tousled, and I can see through the side of his dark sunglasses that his brown eyes are full of mischief. He lets the girls get close, then hits the accelerator.
The car’s engine climbs from a purr to a roar. Its powerful rumble quakes through my body.
I close my eyes and squeal. I sound just like the girls chasing after us. Dylan laughs at me, his voice gritty and sexy.
We speed for a block then slow down. I barely catch my breath. He guns it again. The car shoots down an empty side street like a bullet. Gravity means nothing to a Maserati.
“I think you lost them,” I say. My heart is pounding from the race car speed, and I’m jumpy with adrenaline.
He takes one hand off the steering wheel and rests it on my leg. His palm is hot, and his touch grounds me, as always. I feel calm again.
His voice thick and raspy, he asks, “Jess, are you telling me to slow down?”
I bite my lower lip. “Never slow down on my account.”
This is exactly what he wants to hear. I can see his whole face light up, even with his eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
He makes two more speedy turns. Now we’re back on the street where we saw the girls.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
Of course I mind. But I’m not going to tell him what I really think.
I reach for my oversized purse and pull out the glossy photos I always carry. “Do what you gotta do.” I give him a sweet smile to let him know I support him completely.
“Five minutes,” he says.
“Five minutes,” I repeat.
He pulls the car over to the side of the street. He takes the pre-signed prints from me and steps out to greet his adoring fans. I stay in my seat with my big sunglasses on.
I can feel their eyes on me. The girls pose for photos with Dylan and scream when he hugs them, but when they’re not looking at him, they’re looking at me. I’m the non-famous, non-musician Jessica Lynn Rivera. My only claim to fame is being the fiancée of singer Dylan Wolf.
They can tell I’m not much different from them. I have dark brown hair and brown eyes. I’m five foot seven, and twenty-three. I look like a million girls in L.A. I should be able to disappear easily into a crowd, but lately the paparazzi have been after me.
It must be this diamond ring on my finger. The press knows we’ve been engaged for a year, and they sense something’s about to happen.
I hear more squealing as even more girls rush to surround Dylan. He’s getting mobbed by them, like a victim in a zombie movie. I chuckle to myself, imagining the fans as zombies.
If only. At least zombies are honest and just try to eat your brains. These crazy girls are always trying to give Dylan their phone numbers, or get him to come to parties with them.
I take a deep breath and tell myself I’m okay. The fans are the ones who buy his music and go to his concerts. They’re the reason I’m in a Maserati, imported from Italy. They paid for our house. And they’re mostly harmless.
I catch a glimpse of a tall blonde kissing him on the cheek.
He quickly pushes her away. “Easy now,” he says. “My fiancée is in the car. Behave yourselves or she’ll drive off without me.”
I laugh to myself.
The five minutes he asked for pass by. Then ten minutes. More people have gathered around him on the sidewalk. They ask him to sing for them. He just laughs and asks them questions, engaging his fans. They’re eager to answer, fighting each other for a chance to talk to the Dylan Wolf.
I glance over at the keys in the ignition. I could drive off without him.
He ditched me once, and it wasn’t in a neighborhood as nice as this. My heart shattered that night. Him walking out on me is something that can never happen again.
Every day, though, I live with the fear that it will happen. That’s why I don’t tell him when I’m upset, or start fights.
Dylan’s emotions run deep and powerful.
They’re a blessing and a curse.
His passionate, soulful songs touch people’s hearts. The public adores him. But they don’t know his dark side like I do.
When Dylan feels betrayed, he’s a wild animal. He channels his last name: Wolf.
So, as much as I’d like to climb over to the driver’s seat and rev the engine, I won’t. There are things we can joke around about, and things we can’t.
I pull out my phone and check messages. Today is Saturday, and everything’s set up for shopping this afternoon. After I catch up on some work, I’ll meet my best friends at a bridal boutique.
My mouth curls up in a devious grin. The girls think I’m buying a bridal gown that’s just for publicity photos. They don’t know I’m buying the real gown, and that the wedding is secretly happening in six weeks.
I feel bad lying to them, but these are the things you have to do when you’re marrying a celebrity. I need my private life to stay private. I won’t let the paparazzi ruin our wedding. I won’t let anyone ruin our wedding.
Dylan finally opens the driver’s side door and slides in.
“That was a long five minutes,” I comment.
His face twitches in irritation. “Life is slow in the fast lane.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair to tousle it back up again.
“Were they touching your hair?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He lifts his sunglasses and winks at me, his dark brown eyes dazzling. “There’s enough of me to go around.”
“Gross.” I let out a laugh-snort.
His eyes get darker.
“Just kidding,” I say quickly.
He starts the engine and pulls out into traffic, squealing the tires.
After a moment, he says, “Are you sure you need to work? You could blow everything off and hit the beach with me.” He glances over at the hem line of my skirt, falling mid-way along my thighs. “Let’s work on your tan.”
I tug my skirt down. I can still feel his eyes on my skin, making me warm. My cheeks are flushing. He has such a powerful effect on my body, turning me on with just a glance. I hate it, but I love it. All he has to do is say the word, and I’m giving myself to him.
“Never mind my tan,” I say.
“You’re worried about burning. We’ll get some suntan lotion and I’ll rub it all over you.” He turns and looks at my bare legs again. “All over.” His attention feels good, like he’s touching me. Undressing me. Kissing me. Spreading my thighs. Pushing his way into me. Kissing me everywhere.
I bite my lower lip to keep from speaking my desires. I want him to pull the Maserati into a secluded parking lot. I want him to yank my skirt up, rip off my underwear, and make me cry out his name, over and over. I want the world to disappear, so it’s only us.
My phone buzzes with incoming messages. I snap out of the fantasy.
“Work?” he asks.
“Of course.” I sigh. “You can blow off anything. You’re the rock star. I’ll get fired. So, unless you want me tagging along everywhere you go, like some lovesick fangirl, you’d better take me to Morri
s Music. I’m already running late.”
“Morris.” He nods, just like a chauffeur. “We’re headed the wrong way. You know what that means.”
I look around for something to grab onto. There’s a hand-hold near my head. I grip it tightly.
Dylan hits the gas and roars through traffic. He changes lanes and pulls ahead of the pack. He gives me a watch-this eyebrow raise, and then he hits the gas.
We rip through the streets of L.A., disobeying the laws of gravity.
The Maserati is sexy, scary, powerful.
Just like Dylan Wolf.
All I can do is try to hang on for the ride.
In six weeks, we’ll be married.
Unless… No. I can’t even think about the unless.
Chapter Two
Three hours later, I’m still craving Dylan’s touch when I get a phone call at my desk. It’s security, telling me I have a male visitor.
I turn away from my computer and glance over at the calendar on my office wall. It’s Saturday, so I’m just catching up on some work while it’s quiet. I had one meeting, but the rest of my day is unscheduled.
“Is it Dylan?” I ask.
“Uh, I dunno.” The security guard on the phone must be a new guy. He’s clueless.
I ask him, “Is my visitor tall, with brown hair?” I imagine Dylan’s gorgeous face as I twirl the phone cord in one hand.
“Uh, yeah,” grunts the security guard. “He won’t give me his name or show any ID.”
Dylan. When he dropped me off three hours ago, I told him I’d take a taxi to the bridal boutique. Now he’s here. I’m touched by how sweet he is to come and pick me up anyway.
I smile and shake my head. It’s just like Dylan to surprise me like this. He used to sneak into my bedroom using a ladder.
“I authorize you to give him a temporary pass and send him up.”
“But… Miss Rivera… I’m not supposed to…”
“Are you new here? What’s your name?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m Carl?” He says his name like he’s asking a question. Poor guy.
“Listen, Carl. You know I’m up here on the top floor. The executive floor. I’m only twenty-three, and I started here a year ago. You know where I worked for the first month? In the basement. Archives.”