by Mimi Strong
Now Dylan and I silently stare at each other. As the shock of seeing him subsides, I start to notice details. We haven’t seen each other in twelve days, since he left me in the hotel room in Italy.
By the look of his beard, he hasn’t shaved since then. And by the look of the dark circles under his eyes, he hasn’t slept very much either. He’s still handsome, my gorgeous wild wolf, but he looks broken.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“What do you think?” His voice cracks, as broken as he looks.
I have to clench my jaw to keep from breaking down right here in Chet’s office.
Chet is still tapping away on his keyboard. He pauses and says, “I can’t find anything in my files about this girl. Why would you think I had anything to do with this?”
I look to Dylan, for him to chime in and tell his side of the story. His mouth doesn’t move. He slowly swivels the chair to face Chet and avoids meeting my eyes.
I clench my jaw again. This is happening right now. And I’ll get through it. I’ve been in stressful situations before, and I know I need to stay calm and keep moving forward.
I feel like grabbing the fancy awards and trophies off Chet’s open shelves and smashing them on the floor, but I can’t do that. I slowly walk over to the other guest chair, a few feet away from Dylan, and take a seat.
Chet frowns at his computer screen and clicks some more.
I turn to Dylan and calmly say, “You look like hell.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Slowly, he turns to face me. His brown eyes are deep and smoky today, with only a trace of his usual fire.
His voice still cracked and broken, he says, “Since when do you wear glasses?”
I reach up and adjust the fake glasses that were part of my disguise. The wig is back in my car, but I forgot to take the glasses off.
“These are silly,” I say. “And they’re not real.”
I start to take them off, but he reaches over and gently takes my hand. “Don’t,” he says. “You look cute in glasses.”
He holds my hand loosely, his thumb against my palm. After twelve days without speaking, being in the same room with him doesn’t seem real. Is this really his hand on mine?
I look into his eyes. How can I tell him all the things I’m feeling right now? How I’m so sorry? It wasn’t my fault that he saw the men’s clothes in my hotel room and jumped to the wrong conclusion. But it was my fault I didn’t try harder to calm him down. He was angry, and then I was angry, too. I yelled at him for working too hard, which I didn’t really mean. I said it only because a part of me wanted to hurt him.
Then he left me, alone in Italy. I spent entire days curled up on the bed with the curtains closed and the world shut out. The housekeepers at the hotel would come in and start cleaning, not realizing I was there, motionless.
Every time someone came into the room, I dreamed it was Dylan, then woke up to my nightmare.
Now we’re in the same room together. He’s here. He’s really here, but he’s still so far away.
I try to move my lips, but the words won’t come out.
He still has my hand in his, so I squeeze his hand.
His eyes flicker with light. He squeezes my hand right back.
I take a deep breath and turn my hand to tighten our grip, to tighten our hold on each other.
Our arms are both outstretched now, between the two chairs.
“Jess, I need to apologize,” he says.
I glance over at Chet, then back to Dylan. “Not now,” I whisper.
“This can’t wait,” he says. “I don’t know what’s happening right now, or anything about the future, but I know what I did in Italy was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I keep clenching my jaw, but I’m not sure how long I can hold back the tears. I know he’s apologizing for Italy, but I don’t feel any better. He says he isn’t sure about the future. Our future.
He gives my hand one more squeeze, then lets it go.
My arm stays stretched out for a moment, reaching for him. He’s already moved on, though, and he’s talking to Chet like I’m not even here.
“I should have known that blonde was up to no good,” Dylan says to Chet. “I swear she knew about my gigs before I did. It was like she was the one booking them. I’d show up with my guitar, and she’d already be there, waiting for me.”
He turns and gives me an apologetic look. I can read something in his eyes. Guilt. He noticed something was up with Ryanna, but he didn’t have security kick her out. He was enjoying the attention.
I tear my eyes away from Dylan’s. I don’t want to know about whatever stupid thoughts he had about that girl. Knowing that he was interested in her… it’s worse than the stories in the press. At least those I could write off as outright lies.
Chet waves his hands at me. “Jess?”
I look up at Chet’s face. “What?”
“I’ve been talking to you for the last minute. Did you hear anything I said?”
“No, sorry.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “It’s been a crazy day. I just got back from a visit with Ryanna Lambert.” I let out a crazy-sounding, high-pitched giggle. “We had lunch. We split a sandwich.”
Chet and Dylan are both quiet, waiting for me to continue my story.
“I tracked down her address and went to her apartment,” I tell them. “She was in our records from a job she did a while back. I wore a stupid-looking wig and pretended I was from the PR department.” Even as I explain what I just did a few hours ago, I’m shocked at what I did. “Ryanna said she was hired by Morris to do this ‘bad boy’ publicity for Dylan. She said it was mostly arranged through email, by a guy called John.”
“That can’t be us,” Chet says. He’s scowling now. “Why would we do something so illogical? Dylan’s sales have tapered off, but they were steady. Now he’s a joke. He’s not cool anymore, and sales have been tanking since yesterday.” He pauses and frowns even deeper. “Sorry, man.”
We both look at Dylan for a response. He looks stung by the news that his sales are plummeting.
“I’m a joke,” Dylan says.
Chet leans forward on his desk and shakes his head. “We can do damage control once we know what’s happening. Your personal publicist always has great ideas. The new album doesn’t have to get put on ice.”
“On ice?” Dylan finally moves, leaning forward in his chair. He looks like he’s ready to smash something.
Chet holds his hands out. “It’s nothing personal. Just accounting.” He looks genuinely sorry. “I’ll do what I can.”
My mind is racing to sort out details. “Chet, I don’t want to put you on the spot again, because you’ve been a good boss and friend. But do you swear you had nothing to do with this? You and your uncle didn’t do this to break Dylan’s heart and make him write better songs?”
Chet laughs bitterly. “Of course not. His songs can’t possibly get better, because they’re already perfect. We wanted Dylan to be a mega-star. His image was perfect for that. Now all my plans are shot.” He sighs and rubs his temples. “That’s why I’m back in here today instead of taking a couple days off to recover from jet lag. And that’s why I asked Dylan to come in, to figure out the best strategy.”
I turn to Dylan and give him a hurt look. “You didn’t come here to see me?”
He looks down, away from me. “We can talk later.”
“Later? When? You won’t return my calls.”
He looks up, his eyebrows high with surprise. “Me? You’re the one who blocked my number and won’t return my calls.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that? I actually do love you, Dylan. Even though you’ve been acting like an idiot.”
“I’m the idiot?”
“Yes. You stormed out of my hotel room because of dirty laundry. Who does that?”
Chet interrupts us. “Guys? Excuse me for being Captain Obvious here, but do you think maybe your phones got hacked?”
D
ylan growls, “Why would someone hack a phone?”
“It happens,” Chet says. “Let’s just say… I know a thing or two about corporate espionage, thanks to my uncle. We used to have our house swept for listening devices once a month.”
I pull my phone out of my purse and set it on Chet’s desk like it’s evidence. Dylan does the same with his phone.
The three of us look around at each other.
“I guess I’m getting a new phone,” I say.
Dylan looks like he wants to smash them both. This actually makes me feel better—seeing him angry at the phones, not me. We can always get new phones.
“Hang on,” Chet says. “Don’t do anything to those hacked phones just yet.” He taps away on his computer, then sends something to print. He hands me the sheet of paper, warm from the printer. “Take the phones here.”
I look at the printout. It’s a map, for a residence that’s up the coast, a few hours outside of the city.
Dylan grabs the paper from my hand. “I’ll go,” he says gruffly.
I grab the paper back from him. “Not without me, you won’t.”
Dylan and I walk out of Chet’s office together.
The tenth floor is full of people, and they’re all watching us.
I instinctively reach out to hold Dylan’s hand, then stop myself. He doesn’t seem like he wants to hold my hand, or even acknowledge my existence. He’s so angry right now, it’s spilling over to everything.
We step into the elevator together and the doors close.
Blue Shoes - Part 3
Chapter One
I thought it would be easier to talk to Dylan in the elevator, now that nobody else is around and staring, but it’s not. There’s a tension in the air, and a force field all around him.
The phones are both in my purse, and I’m still holding the map. I have no idea what’s happening with our relationship, but I will find out about my hacked phone. That’s a start.
Dylan leans over, looks down at the map and says, “It’s a long drive. I really can go on my own, without you.”
I hold my chin up high. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Who said I wanted to get rid of you?”
“What am I supposed to think? You haven’t exactly been nice to me.”
He turns away and stares up at the floor numbers above the elevator doors. “Jess, up until a few minutes ago, I thought this was all you. I have text messages from your phone, telling me you hate me and it’s over.”
“How could you believe that?”
He doesn’t look at me. I can see the muscles in his cheek ripple as he clenches his jaw.
“Because you should hate me,” he says. “I know I do.”
The elevator dings and the doors open on the parking floor.
He hates himself? But why? I don’t even know how to ask him something like that. And even if I did, I’d be afraid to hear the answer.
He leads me over to his car. He must have gone to the house since I was there, because the bright blue Maserati GranTurismo is parked here, taking up three spots.
I stop walking and my jaw drops open. “Three spots, Dylan? Really? You park your car across three spots?”
He chuckles. “I have to maintain my bad boy image.”
For a moment, our relationship feels almost normal. I’ve missed this—me teasing him about his car and driving habits. I stare at his handsome face as he glances around the underground parking level, always on the lookout for paparazzi.
I’ve missed him so much, and the idea that he was broken-hearted… that he believed those messages were from me… it brings tears to my eyes. I was angry, but I never wanted to destroy him. I just wanted us to be closer and more honest.
Now I have a million things I want to say, but it’s all too much, so I say nothing. We have a long drive ahead of us. We walk toward the car together, not holding hands, but close enough that we could. I blink away the tears quickly, before he can see them.
He walks me to the passenger side and opens the door for me.
I slide in carefully, but the car is low to the ground, and my skirt rides up.
Dylan’s eyes lock on my bare legs while his lips curl into a smile. “You look pretty hot for a detective. Is that how you get your information? You charm it out of people?”
I push my fake glasses up the bridge of my nose. “You don’t know the half of it.”
We smile at each other for a moment. Maybe this is how we build a bridge over the chasm of hurt between us. Maybe we just ignore it and flirt with each other, starting over at the beginning.
“I can see you as a detective,” he says. “You’re very determined, when you want something.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He pulls his gaze away from my face and sweeps down my body.
“You’re hard to resist,” he says. “Very charming.”
“You know who’s hard to resist? That girl. Ryanna. She’s even more charming than me. Did you know she, um, kissed me?”
“Sounds like a good story.” His eyes are still on my bare legs.
“I’m not joking. She did kiss me, and… I just wanted to say that I understand. I can see how any person, girl or guy, would be almost powerless to resist her.”
He jerks his head away. “Jess, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
He doesn’t explain. After a pause, he says gruffly, “We’ve got a long drive ahead.”
He shuts the door, not-so-subtly ending the discussion of Ryanna. I sit in the quiet of his car, alone for a moment. What did he mean by don’t?
Don’t bring it up?
Or don’t make excuses for him?
He slides into the driver’s side and starts the engine. He gives me a flirtatious look as he taps the gas to make the motor roar. Thoughts of Ryanna disappear completely. I don’t even care about her anymore.
I’m falling under his spell.
His lips are so beautiful, even if he hasn’t shaved or slept properly in days.
As good as it feels to have him looking at me, there’s no way I’m going to get physical with him before we have anything figured out.
Unless he kisses me.
If he kisses me, I might not be able to stick to the plan.
If he touches me with his beautiful hands, I’ll come undone.
With his lips on my neck, I’ll forget all the things we need to talk about.
Even when he looks at me, I feel myself falling.
All I want to do is climb across the small console between our seats and lose myself in him. All I want to do is kiss him, and have him promise me everything’s going to be all right.
I’ll have to be on guard.
Chapter Two
It’s a beautiful day for a drive up the coast.
In California, it’s always a beautiful day for anything.
I have a ton of questions I want to ask Dylan, about how the album is going, and where he’s been staying, since he hasn’t been at the house.
But now that I’m here with him, I feel shy and awkward.
I feel like we’re on a date, getting to know each other.
Except for the one night together in Italy before things blew up, we’ve been apart for a month. I guess this nervousness might be normal, considering the time that’s passed.
We keep stealing glances over at each other. The sun is streaming in, and the scenery is beautiful. I don’t look forward to dealing with the hacked phones. I wish we could put everything behind us, but a feeling in my gut tells me this is important.
Along with the map and address, Chet gave us the name of his private investigator: Clay Verity.
I like his name. He sounds like someone we can count on.
Dylan turns on the car stereo and asks if I’d like to hear the tracks he’s been laying down. I tell him, “Of course I do. You know I’m your number one fan.”
He smiles, melting some of the force field around himself.
He plays me the songs a
nd talks excitedly about his plans, and guest musicians. Everything sounds great to me. Chet would be crazy to put this album on hold. It’s the perfect mix of familiar and different.
After about two hours, Dylan turns onto a side road, and we drive up to the address on the map.
Since this guy is a technology whiz and a private investigator, I’m expecting a bunker in the woods. The home is actually a modest yellow house with roses blooming in the yard.
My boss has called ahead, so the investigator, Clay Verity, hears the car and comes out to greet us at the front door. He’s a short, stocky man with gray hair and a salt and pepper beard.
When we reach him, he clamps my hand first and gives us a warm smile. His handshake is firm and as friendly as his face, conveying openness and trust. He turns to Dylan and does the same.
“Come in. Come in.” Clay opens the door and waves us inside. “You have no idea how excited my wife is to meet you both. Since I retired, people don’t come over like they used to. She’ll be happy to talk to someone other than me. I think I’m driving her crazy.” He winks at me.
Clay leads us into his living room. There’s a faded red couch and armchair, both comfortable looking in that slightly-worn way. The hardwood floor is covered with a multi-colored rug. A collection of ceramic cats sits on the shelves of a cabinet in the corner, near the TV. Against another wall is a wood desk with a computer. Hanging above it is a picture of a younger Clay Verity posing with some police officers in uniform.
The three of us sit down on the furniture, which is as soft as it looks. I turn and look at the paintings over the sofa—they’re all gorgeous oil paintings of roses, arranged in humble pitchers and simple glass jars.
A woman of about sixty comes through a door on the other side of the room. She has gray hair too, and it curls around her face. She’s carrying a tray of coffee, which smells wonderful. She sets everything on the coffee table and perches on the edge of a chair across from Dylan. As she looks at him, her years melt away and she becomes a teenaged girl.
“It’s really you!” she says. “Dylan Wolf. The rock star.” She gives me a warm grin. “And his beautiful girlfriend.”