This entire day had been a waste of life. I was basically horizontal the whole time. After a few restless hours in my bed and a shower, I’d ended up camped out on Dylan’s couch again, occasionally dragging my ass to his fridge for sustenance.
Everyone else but Amber had gone back to the city, and Dylan’s cleaning lady had come and gone, so the place was tidy again. He’d even asked her to clean my place, too, which she did, though I’d managed to slip her some cash so he wouldn’t try to put it on his bill.
For most of the day, Dylan and Amber were packing and groping each other upstairs. I probably could’ve offered to help them pack, but that would’ve required remaining vertical, plus watching them grope each other. Wasn’t happening.
At least I’d messaged Summer and verified that no, I didn’t screw her last night, or even attempt to screw her. So there was that.
Felt like an accomplishment.
And there was the classified ad. Staring me in the face every time I checked my phone.
You’d think a rock star wouldn’t have to take out a classified ad to find a woman, but there it was.
Do you think he’s depressed? Amber asked Dylan once, when they were standing in the kitchen watching me, right where I could hear them.
I can hear you, I’d muttered.
He’s not depressed, Dylan said. He’s hungover.
He wasn’t wrong about that. I was epically hungover. Recovering from my breakup party was rolling slowly and painfully along, though that worked out pretty well since I kinda felt the need to suffer just a bit for being such a dumbass.
Really, I only had a few more hours to do this anyway. Had to soak it up while I could. Wouldn’t be the same without Dylan lying over there on the couch across from me.
Not the same at all.
There was a time, maybe six months ago—after I’d kissed him in his kitchen, then he broke my heart—I would’ve thought I’d never be here again, doing this. But here I was, pretty much every day since he’d come home from tour twelve days ago.
Loitering around his house.
Binge-watching TV and letting time pass me by.
“Lost who?” I asked him, distracted. I was busy counting the slats of wood in his vaulted ceiling again, trying not to think about tomorrow.
“Yellow boots,” he said. “You keep talking about her.”
Did I keep talking about her? Didn’t think I was talking at all.
“You really like this girl, huh?”
“I don’t know her,” I said.
Silence. Then: “Well, you like something about her.”
I looked over at him, stretched out on the other couch. Tall and sculpted, like the statue of some god, in the flickering light of the TV… wearing nothing but sweatpants. Dylan Cope looked hot as fuck in sweats, pushed down over his hip bones… a beer dangling from his hand.
My rock-star-drummer-turned-underwear-model best friend was a giant slab of gorgeous.
I still liked looking at him. Even though I probably wasn’t supposed to?
He looked like he probably needed to sleep, actually, but wasn’t doing it because of me. We were both aware that he was leaving tomorrow morning, and even though he was looking forward to the rest of the Dirty tour, he’d be gone a while. A long while. And not gone like a few-hour-flight-away gone. Gone like on the other side of the globe.
I figured I had maybe a few more minutes, at best, before Amber came to collect him.
“You ever feel like you missed your chance with something,” I asked him, “then fate just kinda dangled it in your face again, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it?”
“Nope. I pretty much just take what I want out of life, and forget about the rest.”
“Yeah. You’re a real prince that way.”
He grinned and looked over at me. “So what is it you missed out on?”
“I don’t know. If I knew, maybe I wouldn’t have let it slip by.”
“Huh,” he said, like that was food for thought. “Then maybe you should just go out and find it.”
“Right,” I said. “Because that thought never occurred to me.”
Dylan drank his beer, ignoring my sarcasm. He was used to it by now. “Maybe it never occurred to you that it’s not too late.”
Yeah. That beautiful bastard was always full of wisdom.
I looked up into the shadows of the ceiling again, and I wasn’t even sure why I wanted to tell him about it, after all this time… but then the words just fell out of my mouth.
“She’s the girl from the tattoo.”
I felt him staring at me. “What tattoo?”
I sighed. Here we go. “You know. Danny 4Ever.”
“SHIT.” Dylan sat up and turned off the TV in one blur of movement. Then he was on his feet, looming over me in the dark. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. Not shitting in the slightest.”
“What’s going on?” Amber wandered down the stairs, because as usual, shit timing. She flicked on a lamp.
“Nothing.” I locked eyes with Dylan, willing him to keep his mouth shut. Normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but with Amber it was different. He told her pretty much everything.
And just because I used to fuck her, he seemed to think that meant I wanted her to know everything.
He lasted all of three seconds before blurting, “Ash took out a classified ad to find the girl from his Danny 4Ever tattoo.”
“He did?” She blinked at me. “Wait. Girl?”
I sighed again.
“You know who she is?” Amber prodded.
“I don’t know who she is,” I said, getting up to forage for a beer. This conversation really called for alcohol.
They followed me into the kitchen.
“You’re being cryptic, man,” Dylan said.
Was I?
“It’s pretty simple,” I said, popping open a bottle and taking a sip. I grimaced a bit, but the second sip went down better. Nothing like a little hair of the dog. “I don’t know who she is. I mean, her name is Danny and she’s beautiful. That’s all I know.”
Amber’s mouth popped open.
Dylan shoved me, making me bounce off the fridge a little. “You are such an asshole.” But he was grinning when he said it. “Can’t believe what a royal dick you are.”
I shrugged and sank some more beer.
My asshole status was hardly breaking news.
Sure, I’d kinda lied to everyone who’d asked me about the tattoo over the last four years—including Dylan. Claimed I had no idea who “Danny” was. Male? Female? Fucking alien? Who knew.
Technically, I really didn’t know who she was.
But I remembered the girl I’d gotten the tattoo for.
I had a lot of tattoos, but this one was pretty notable. It was on my inner thigh, way up under my balls, and had a girly-ass pink flower, with the words Danny 4Ever. All my friends had seen it, unfortunately. So I had to tell them something.
Easiest way to shut them down was to plead ignorance. Or idiocy.
I just really didn’t feel like explaining to everyone, She’s this beautiful girl I made out with when I was stupid-drunk and then I told her we should get married and I got a tattoo of her name, and then she gave me a fake phone number and disappeared.
Bad enough my friends thought the tattoo was funny as shit. That story would’ve killed someone. Zane or Con would’ve literally died laughing.
I couldn’t afford that kind of karma.
“So…” Dylan said, eying me and the beer that was rapidly disappearing down my throat, “the girl with the yellow boots is Danny, of the tattoo?”
“The girl with the yellow boots!” Amber practically shouted. “From last night? Why didn’t you say so?”
“Are you gonna find her?” Dylan pressed. “You know you can try to find her, right?” He stared me down meaningfully, and I knew what he was thinking.
He was thinking about my mom.
How she’d left me when I was thirteen and
I always wanted to find her, but by the time I actually looked for her—largely because he convinced me to—it was too late.
Literally.
She’d died, and I’d missed my chance at that relationship. If I ever had one.
But what was I gonna do? Hire someone to find Danny the Dream Girl for me? That would be a no.
Not like I hadn’t considered it already.
Hiring a private investigator to find my own mother was one thing. People hired investigators to find lost family members all the time, right? Trying to hire one to find some random girl I’d once made out with at a ski resort while I was drunk? Not cool. No legit investigator would take that job anyway.
Probably just call the cops on my ass.
“Yeah, that’s kinda stalker territory,” I said, and went back to the couch.
Dylan and Amber followed. With beer.
“Says who?” Amber said. “You’re not stalking her if you just want to find her to ask her out. If she says no to your face, then you let it go. Not meant to be, right?”
“Well, she’s already given me the slip twice. On purpose. That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no, either,” Amber insisted.
“Gave you the slip how?” Dylan asked.
I tossed him a cold look, daring him to laugh. “Fake phone number.”
He didn’t laugh.
“Maybe she was shy,” Amber said. “Or just getting out of a relationship. Or… I don’t know… intimidated by your… you know.” She made a sweeping gesture to indicate me.
“My what?” I said.
“You know. Your rock star status. And your offensive tattoos. And… this.” She made a little circle with her finger in front of my face.
“What’s wrong with my face?”
“Nothing,” she said. “That’s what I mean.” She looked to Dylan for help. “Are you with me on this?”
“Nope,” Dylan said. “Changed my mind. I don’t like this girl. She hurt Ash.”
I kinda rolled my eyes as I took a slug of beer. “Present company absolved,” I mumbled.
He frowned at me.
“But it kinda feels like destiny, doesn’t it?” Amber pressed, trying like hell to get Dylan on board. “He met her at one of his breakup parties, and he got her name tattooed on his thigh, and now he’s run into her again, out of the blue, and again at a breakup party? Kinda feels like fate.”
“Ash has had a lot of breakup parties,” Dylan informed her.
“Maybe he has. But still. You think it’s just a coincidence?” Amber nudged me. “Maybe the universe is telling you to find her, Ashley.”
“Or maybe,” Dylan said, “her ditching him twice means the universe is telling him to leave her alone.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What do you think?” he asked me.
“I think she’s gorgeous,” I said. “And wants nothing to do with me.”
“I wanted nothing to do with you when I first met you,” Amber said. I met her pale-green eyes, and she smiled softly. “But I was wrong. Maybe she’s wrong, too.”
Chapter Four
Ash
I woke up pretty early the next morning. Not by choice.
These days, if I could help it, I never woke up early.
I was still on Dylan’s couch, which now probably had a permanent imprint of my ass, to find Anthrax’s “Got the Time” slamming in my face and people bustling around me.
Someone had put a speaker right next to the couch and aimed it at my head.
“Rise and shine!” Amber shouted over the incredibly loud music when I started to sit up. “Coffee?”
Dylan jumped on the couch and started playing air drums on my head and shoulders with the remote controls. I swatted at him and he jumped back down.
Fuck, why was he so chipper?
Then it hit me.
They were leaving. Today.
Con was carrying bags out the back door, which was standing open, and Amber’s sister, Liv, was with her in the kitchen. I scraped my hand over my face.
My best friend was leaving.
I held out my other hand and waved it around until Amber put a mug in it.
The caffeine helped to get me moving. I even had time to choke back some food and grab a shower before we all climbed into Dylan’s boat and headed over to the mainland.
Dylan’s mom and two of his sisters met us at the airport to kiss him goodbye, Liv came to see Amber off, and it felt like a real goodbye. Even though Dylan and Amber had just been traveling around North America on a four-month leg of Dirty’s Hell & Back world tour, they were now heading overseas for the long haul. They’d be back in three months for a short break, but other than that, they’d be on the road a long damn time.
From their point of view, they’d have everything they needed. Dylan would be doing what he loved best: playing drums with Dirty. And Amber, as Dirty’s tour photographer, would be living her dream of traveling and photographing the world. They had their careers. They had each other.
But I wouldn’t have them.
I gave Amber a ridiculously long hug, and at the end of it, I said the only thing I could really think of. “Take care of him.”
“I promise,” she said, and it felt good. I liked the idea of Dylan being loved, even if I couldn’t be the one to do it. “I love you, Ashley,” she told me, with tears in her mint-green eyes.
I knew she did. In her way. A friendly sort of way.
But her heart was with my best friend.
“Yeah, same here,” I said, because what could I say? I still did. Maybe I wasn’t in love with her, but I’d probably always love her. Once I felt that way about someone, I never really had a change of heart.
My heart just didn’t work that way.
She let me go, and Dylan pulled me in for a hug.
“We’ll miss you,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Won’t be the same without you.”
“I know. Good luck with your shitty opening band.”
He laughed. “Get yourself a band and we’ll tour again. World domination… we’re destined for it. Together.”
Yeah. Maybe.
“I’ll see you in England,” I said. Because I was heading over there in a mere two weeks to play a festival with Dirty.
Why did it feel like I was losing him or something, all over again?
“Yeah.” He slapped me on the back. Then we let go, and Amber took his hand. They started to walk away, slowly, but Dylan was still looking at me. “Love you, man,” he said.
“Yeah.”
I watched him and Amber walk away with Con and some Dirty crew members who’d come to help them. I didn’t see anyone else in the band, but they might’ve been catching different flights. I didn’t walk them to security or anything. I just watched them go.
Amber turned back once and took a photo of us all standing here. I lifted my hand in a little goodbye wave and she pressed her hand to her heart.
Then Dylan put his arm around her and they were gone.
I held it together, somehow. I didn’t cry. Even when Dylan’s mom started sobbing as soon as he was out of sight.
“They’re always your babies, you know?” she said, looking kinda small and lost, and I gave her a hug. I had a special place in my heart for Mama Cope, as I’d always called her.
Dylan Cope had won the lottery family-wise, girlfriend-wise, band-wise… fucking talent-wise; you name it.
Probably could’ve easily hated him if I didn’t love him so damn much.
I walked Mama Cope out to her car, and said goodbye to the various sisters before I lost my ability to keep it together. Even the unshakable Liv was looking a little watery-eyed, and it was gonna do me in.
I headed back to my truck and got the fuck out of there.
I did cry, a bit, after I left the airport. Not like an ugly cry or anything, but there were definitely tears in my eyes and things got blurry for a minute. There was something fucking heartrending about droppin
g off someone you loved to catch a plane… and driving away from the airport without them.
I hadn’t been apart from Dylan like this in years. Not until this tour. Was my fault, too. If I could’ve kept my band together, the Penny Pushers would’ve been on the tour, right now.
Fuck.
I probably should’ve pulled over to get my shit together, but instead I put on some music as I drove. Groove Armada’s “Madder.” Music always helped me process my shit. At the chorus, I turned it up—loud.
Yup, I was that asshole playing music so loud it rattled your windows when I pulled up next to you in traffic.
I headed straight north through the city, into downtown, toward my condo in Coal Harbour. But when I hit Pender Street and should’ve turned left, I turned right.
Right into Chinatown.
And yes, as I drove through the streets, I was scanning the sidewalks for her.
Took me a while, actually, to find the grocery store where I’d seen her buying roses. For one, there were a lot of them and they all looked similar. And two, I was that drunk on Saturday night.
As it turned out, the grocery store was actually on the very edge of Chinatown, in-between a weed dispensary and another grocery store. It was the only store on the block with flowers for sale out front.
I found a parking spot a block away and got out. Plugged the meter and tugged my black ball cap down over my eyes, aware that it was broad daylight. I was alone, and I didn’t really want to be recognized or talk to anyone.
Except maybe her.
I walked by the grocery store, even wandered through. What were the chances of running into her here again? I had no idea.
For all I knew, she lived somewhere else and just happened to be here a couple days ago on business or something, and would never be back. Maybe she was staying at a downtown hotel and took a walk through Chinatown, like tourists do, and bought those roses for, I dunno, her husband?
Maybe she lived right here, in the skeezy apartments above the grocery store.
Unlikely. My luck wasn’t that good, and anyway, she was the last thing from skeezy.
Then, without even thinking about what I was doing, I ended up in the cafe at the end of the block and across the street.
Hot Mess: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #1) Page 5
