Revenge #5

by Knight, JJ

  The beautiful house in front of us isn’t exactly Dylan’s.

  He put in an offer today, but the sellers haven’t agreed to a price yet.

  The house is perfect, though.

  I can feel in every part of me that this house will be his.

  The house is big, but not pretentious. I don’t know how it looks during the day, but at night it looks downright sexy.

  The exterior is lit by lights in the landscaping, but the windows are dark.

  The sellers are overseas now, and the house is vacant. Dylan’s real estate agent gave him a copy of the keys. I’m sure it’s completely against the rules, but this is a multi-million-dollar house. I’m sure that at this level, people do plenty of things that are against the rules.

  He unlocks the front door and points out some of the structural details.

  “Sexy,” I keep saying, cooing with admiration.

  As we tour around, he talks about the beams and structure of the home. Looking at him, I see another layer of Dylan. This is the other part of his past, his construction knowledge.

  If I squint, I can see him in a hard hat, talking to carpenters or investors.

  He leads me through the great room.

  “That wall needs a bar,” he says.

  “Yes,” I murmur in agreement.

  As he waves his hand, I can almost see the place full of fabulous people.

  He leads me into the kitchen. It looks like a restaurant kitchen, with industrial fridges and an enormous gas stove. I take a minute to open some cupboards and gasp at all the space.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “You’ve seen how I live. I keep all my food in one cupboard, smaller than this. And my supply is constantly raided by Amanda and Riley.”

  He chuckles. “I can’t wait to see them go nuts in here. I don’t know if it will be the same, not eating around that card table you guys have crammed into your kitchen, but I think we’ll have some good parties.”

  I look across the kitchen, and I actually see it. I can see Riley with a half-dozen bubbling pots all over the gas stove. I can see Amanda pouring tequila shots.

  “This is a party house,” he says, waving to the back yard beyond the glass doors.

  I look out at the patio, softly lit by landscaping lights. Again, I can see other people. Music industry people and famous musicians and actors.

  Dylan’s sweet to talk about entertaining my friends. But I know he’s getting this house so he can party like a rock star.

  “What do you think?” he asks. “How would you describe this house?”

  “Sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll.”

  He winces. “I’m not into drugs.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “How about swimming?”

  Dylan pushes open the doors to the patio. He steps out into the night air. I follow him.

  He doesn’t stop walking. He strips his clothes off on his way to the pool. The underwear comes off last. He doesn’t even look back at me. Without a word, he dives into the pool.

  I follow him, and start undressing.

  I glance around as I slip out of my clothes.

  It must be two o’clock in the morning by now. Dylan got to my place after midnight, then we drove here.

  This house is a distance from my neighborhood, plus Dylan got lost a few times getting us here. The roads are winding and unpredictable in this neighborhood.

  The air smells better here. The landscaping is lush and beautiful. It’s quiet. Paradise.

  Dylan steps out of the pool. He whoops happily and jumps in again from the diving board.

  I’m down to my underwear. I look around again, feeling exposed. There are other houses nearby, but their lights are off. A tall fence runs along either side of the yard. The neighbors up the hill are far enough away that we should have privacy, unless one of them has a telescope or camera with a zoom lens.

  “Come on in,” Dylan calls.

  “I’m going to wear my underwear.”

  “You didn’t bring a change of clothes,” Dylan says. “You’d better take everything off, or it’ll be a soggy ride home.”

  I glance over my shoulder at his new house.

  If you’re going to party with a rock star, you have to keep up.

  I slip off my underwear.

  “Wait,” Dylan says, just as I dip one toe into the pool.

  I cross my arms over my bare chest. “Now what?”

  “Nothing.” He grins and treads water. “Just enjoying the sight of my angel on the edge of a cliff, about to fly.”

  With a shiver, I recognize what he’s saying. Those words are lyrics from one of his new songs. All his new work is about me.

  I look at my pile of clothes on the tiles next to the pool.

  I’m not sure if I can handle the pressure of being Dylan’s inspiration.

  He thinks I’m going to fly, but I’m not sure.

  I feel like I might fall.

  He splashes water to get my attention.

  I look over at him. “Dylan, I’m scared.”

  “I’m right here, Jess. Just listen to my voice, and let it guide you to me. Come to me, my angel. Step into this beautiful pool, and swim to me.”

  I walk in slowly, using the steps. The water is the perfect temperature.

  “There you go,” he says.

  “I can’t believe this pool. I can’t believe I know someone who owns this pool.”

  He starts singing as I wade toward him. “Blue shoes for your blue heart.” His voice is gritty, yet gentle.

  My heart swells, and I’m on the verge of tears. When I first met Dylan on the street busking, I couldn’t have known his voice would lead us here. But now here I am. And here he is.

  I dip my head back to wet my hair, then smooth my wet hands over my face. If I start crying, Dylan won’t see the tears if my face is wet.

  He keeps singing, “Blue shoes to keep you cold at night.”

  He waits for my response. I know these words by heart, from the video, and from memory.

  “My heart isn’t blue,” I say, just like I did when we first met.

  “Are you sure? Have you seen it?”

  He moves toward me in the water. We meet each other at the point where my toes just barely touch the bottom.

  I whisper a new line, “My heart’s not blue anymore.”

  He reaches down in the water to grab my hips. He lifts me up and to him. I wrap my bare legs around his waist. His skin feels hot against mine, which makes the water suddenly seem cool.

  I shiver and wrap my arms around him.

  He kisses my neck and shoulder. “How’s your heart now?” he asks.

  I run my fingers through his wet, glossy black hair. “Beating pretty fast.”

  He hikes me up higher, and presses his ear to my chest. “That’s a good beat,” he says. “Dub, dub, dub, dub. Wanna hear some boring music theory stuff about the human heartbeat?”

  I keep running my fingers through his hair. “Not really, but I love your voice. You can tell me anything.”

  He hikes me up higher and licks my bare breast. Just one lick, and I feel the heat flick on inside me. He tenderly presses my nipple between his lips. I grip him tighter with my legs around his waist.

  He slides me back down his body, and we kiss.

  I love this weightlessness of wrapping myself around him in the water. I love licking the pool water from his neck.

  Below the water, the kissing is having a reaction. He’s hard.

  There’s nothing between us, so he could slip into me so easily, but he holds back. He groans and adjusts so that his length is between us, pressing along my inner hip bone.

  I hold on tight, and he walks us over to the pool’s edge. With my back against the tiled wall, he grinds against me. His eyes are closed with pleasure. We’re connected, skin on skin. He reaches down with one hand, and slips two fingers inside me.

  His eyelids fly open in surprise. “You’re so hot,” he says. “You’re burning
up.”

  I look away, embarrassed. “The pool water is cool. I’m just regular body temperature.”

  He shakes his head and explores me with his fingers. He changes the angle, and it’s like he’s got a hold of me from the inside.

  A new type of sensation rushes through me. My ears feel hot, and my pulse feels strong in my neck.

  He keeps watching my face for a reaction as he works his fingers and thumb. He pushes me into ecstasy.

  I close my eyes and start panting. I want him so bad.

  His mouth closes over mine, and we’re sharing breath. I wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders and tilt my hips.

  “You’re the sexiest thing there ever was,” he groans into my lips.

  I clench my teeth and beg him not to stop what he’s doing with his fingers.

  “Come for me, Jess.” He moves his hand faster, hooks onto that spot, and I start to climax.

  Everything goes dark again, or maybe I’m just looking up at the night sky.

  All I want is Dylan’s touch, and his voice, all the time.

  I cry out in ecstasy.

  “Louder,” he urges as he kisses and sucks on the side of my neck.

  His fingers grind out even more pleasure.

  I let out louder cries, which make him go crazy. He’s kissing my neck so hard, and sucking my skin. He’s probably leaving marks, but I don’t care.

  I peak, and then the waves of pleasure start to settle down. Now I can feel some friction from his fingers. They’re not as slippery now, with the pool water washing everything away.

  He senses this at the same time as I do, and gently pulls his fingers away.

  As he looks me in the eyes, he lifts his hand from the water and puts his two fingers in his mouth.

  I reach down for him, for the hardness that’s pressing against my stomach.

  His eyes twinkle, and he pulls away. He splashes back in the water and swims away.

  I stay where I am, watching him.

  He retreats to the other side of the pool.

  “I’ve got other plans,” he says. “Do you want to hear me sing?”

  “Always. Are you going to sing just for me?”

  “I should.” He licks his two fingers again suggestively. “You sure sang for me.”

  I use my hand to splash water his way.

  “You’re so bad!”

  He chuckles, then swims over to the steps and starts walking up out of the pool.

  “Come on,” he says. “Get your clothes back on.”

  I wade over to the steps and walk out, conscious of his eyes on me as I emerge from the water. He stares at my naked body like he’s drinking me in. I’ve never felt so sexy.

  We both stand over our clothes, dripping wet.

  “I should have grabbed some towels,” I say.

  He jokes, “We don’t need no stinkin’ towels.”

  I reach up and twist my hair to wring it out. Dylan strides into the house. I hear a ripping sound, and a clatter.

  In a minute, he comes out with an armful of fabric.

  “I never liked these curtains,” he says.

  “Dylan!”

  He tosses a curtain at me. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  I laugh as I dry myself off. Somehow, I don’t picture Dylan as any sort of beggar.

  I pull on my jeans and ask, “Are we going back to your place? You’re going to sing for me there?”

  “Jess, I’m a rock star.”

  “And?”

  He looks at me like he’s insulted.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You’ll see,” he promises.

  I nod and smile, trying to be cool as I pat dry my hair with a ripped curtain.

  Chapter 7

  Dylan parks the car in the alley. We’re at the club where I first met Marley and Bianca.

  “Don’t drink anything I don’t give you,” Dylan says as we step out of the car.

  “Very funny.” I give him a dirty look, like I’m joking. Except it’s not very funny. I’ve got a bad feeling about walking into this club.

  The last time I was here, I have no memory of leaving. Either I drank too much, or someone spiked my drink.

  I get a chill as I connect the incident to all the other times I’ve gotten hurt or been in danger around Dylan. Until I moved to LA, I never knew so much trouble.

  My life has gotten interesting lately. And interesting isn’t always a good thing.

  Dylan reaches for the backstage door. He opens it a few inches, then closes it again. “You gettin’ tired on me, Jess?”

  “No. Just thinking about things.”

  His dark eyes reach into me, seeking all my secrets.

  “What things?”

  I give him a shy smile as I smooth back my hair. I tied my wet hair back in an elastic I had in my purse, and I fixed my makeup in the car.

  I can’t tell him I’m counting up all the times I’ve been hurt when I’m around him. So I lie.

  “Things… like makeup,” I say. “Should I put on more eyeliner?”

  He winks. “You look perfect. Your cheeks are all cute and rosy from being recently finger-fucked.”

  I gasp and look around. At least we’re alone in the alley.

  Dylan just laughs and opens the door again. Loud music pours out. It’s getting close to four in the morning, but things are still going strong here.

  I follow him in. People turn to look me up and down. All the guys backstage have beards or stubble. The girls look tired and suspicious.

  A tall guy with a lion’s mane of reddish blonde hair greets Dylan with a high five. “You made it!” he says.

  Dylan says something I can’t hear, and they both look over at me. Lion Mane nods knowingly, his lips curling up in a sneer. His eyes rake over me, like he’s peeling my clothes away.

  They talk for a bit. I spot an empty chair near some equipment and go take a seat.

  “Let’s do this now,” Lion Mane says to Dylan. He picks up a guitar and puts the strap over his bushy hair.

  Dylan says something that makes the guy smile.

  Lion Mane turns around and walks past me, on the way to the stage. He stands near the curtain until the band playing finishes their song, then he walks out.

  The crowd cheers. It sounds like a lot of people are here tonight—way more than the last time I was here.

  Dylan comes over, grabs my hand, and hauls me off my chair. He drags me over to a pitch-black zone, behind some stage curtains.

  I giggle as he pulls me to him. He kisses my neck, my cheek, and then my lips.

  The Lion Mane guy is on stage now, and I can hear him talking to the crowd.

  He’s saying, “You know temperamental artist types. Dylan Wolf is back there, and he won’t come out until you beg.”

  The crowd roars and makes a bunch of random noises.

  Dylan doesn’t seem very focused on kissing me. He keeps pushing his tongue into my mouth.

  The crowd starts chanting, beyond the curtains.

  They’re yelling, “Dylan! Dylan! Dylan!”

  His body is all tense, like he can’t get enough of me, or maybe of the crowd.

  I pull away from his lips. “I can’t keep you to myself all night. Your adoring fans are waiting for you.”

  “I’d rather be back here with you,” he says. “We shouldn’t have left the pool. I’m trying to pack too much into one day again.”

  I gaze up at him. “You just want everything, don’t you?”

  The crowd is still chanting. “Dylan! Dylan!”

  “Go, play for them,” I tell him.

  He grins. “Just one song,” he says.

  I nod my head. Sure, one song.

  He turns and walks away.

  The crowd chants, “Dylan! Dylan!” Then they explode in applause.

  I duck around the curtain and return to the chair, avoiding eye contact with the people standing around. Some of them are looking at me like they think something more than kissing was going on behind th
e curtain.

  Someone hands me a bottle of beer with the cap still on.

  I look up to see a girl about five years older than me. She’s pretty, and looks familiar, in that pretty-girl way.

  “Thanks.” I take the beer. I use the edge of my shirt to protect my hand as I twist off the cap.

  “I’m with Tex,” she says, pulling a chair up next to mine. “We girls have to stick together, you know?”

  I take a long drink from the bottle. I’ll stick to beer tonight, not that Long Island Iced Tea that got me in trouble last time.

  “Is Tex the guy with the hair?” I ask.

  She laughs, then pauses with her head tilted. She’s listening to Tex and Dylan singing together. It’s not a song I know well, but familiar. It must be one of Tex’s songs.

  Something clicks, and I realize who he is. Tex is pretty big on the local scene.

  “He’s great,” I tell her. “I didn’t recognize him at first, but now I know exactly who he is. Great voice. I didn’t know he was friends with Dylan.” I listen to the song for a bit. “He’s really great.”

  “That’s my guy,” she says. “Million-dollar voice, fifty-cent attitude.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  She gives me a knowing look. “They think they’re gods. People worship them, and it goes to their heads. But he’s not my first one, and he won’t be the last.”

  “Things aren’t good?”

  “The ride up is fun, but the ride back down to earth is shit.”

  I take another long drink from the bottle. I have a feeling I might find out what she means.

  I reach out my hand. “I’m Jess.” We shake hands.

  She has a confident grip. It’s quick and strong, and matches her attitude.

  “Parker,” she says.

  I gasp and do a double-take. “You’re Parker Hayes.” Suddenly, her pretty face comes into sharp focus. Her hair is a natural brown right now, falling in soft waves. I’m used to her videos, where she wears multi-colored wigs.

  I can’t believe I’m chatting backstage with Parker Hayes.

  “In the flesh,” she says.

  “Are you singing tonight? I can’t believe I’m having a beer with Miss Consolation herself. You’re basically my hero. I’m totally fangirling on you, sorry. But your music got me through a lot.”

  She takes a long drink, finishing her beer. “I get that,” she says. “How’d you meet Dylan Wolf?”