Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

“So we’ve talked about your past, what about your future, Dylan. The latest scandals for Sexton Enterprise have incurred more press than usual. Are the Barbarians at the gate?”

  I laugh, feeling my tension release now that we’re back in familiar territory—scandal might as well be my middle name. Or rather that of the old Dylan Sexton.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Sexton Enterprises will always represent a certain lifestyle, a certain brand. And, to repeat a tired phrase, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. That said, the man that’s the face of the company is turning over a new leaf. This is just the start of it.”

  “Oh? What else do we have to look forward to?”

  My eyes slide to Vanessa, and I subtly raise one eyebrow. “I think I may have met the one woman who can help change me. Vanessa Paige.”

  I hear a click of the camera just before she lowers it. I maintain my focus on her. Though I sense her discomfort at having been made a part of this, my gaze manages to hold hers.

  Even in my periphery, I sense Kevin perking up, recognizing a tasty morsel to bite into when he sees it. His head swivels to Vanessa, and she instantly goes back into professional photographer mode, once again hiding behind the camera.

  “Is this what I think it is?” he asks.

  Vanessa pulls the camera away again.

  “It’s…” her gaze comes back to me. “It’s your story, Dylan.”

  “And I’m giving him what I hope is the happily ever after.”

  That gorgeous skin goes about two shades darker, and I see her itching to bring that camera back up as a barrier between us. Instead, she swallows and stands up straighter, turning her attention to Kevin.

  “Don’t print that.”

  “Print that,” I insist.

  Kevin looks back and forth between us, absolutely eating this up.

  “No,” she says, slightly less insistent now.

  “Why not? And before you continue protesting that this is my story, you’re right. It is. And you’re a part of that story Vanessa. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Do you really want to pretend that the last week didn’t mean anything?”

  She stares at me, her face filled with conflicting emotions. “No, I just…it’s too soon.”

  “In my experience, those who don’t strike while the iron is hot lose out. This is me striking.”

  Now, she’s quiet.

  I turn my attention back to Kevin. “Print it. Tell the world that…” My gaze slides back to Vanessa, and I grin. “I may have finally found the woman to cure me of my wicked ways.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Vanessa

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  I turn my gaze from the window to look at the man sitting across the aisle of the small jet.

  “I wasn’t mad, I just—I guess it just shows how different we are. Not necessarily in a bad way, just…in a way that I have to start getting used to.”

  “I can live with that.”

  I smile in appreciation. “As for my family though. They are pretty laid back.”

  “If you’re worried about me showing up in my swim trunks with a bikini duo chaperoning me, I can calm those fears for you.”

  “I’m not worried about that. In fact, I think it may be more of a culture shock for you than them.”

  “You think I can’t handle a little Leave it to Beaver?”

  I smile and lean back in my seat to study him. “I think you can handle almost anything, Dylan.”

  The two airline attendants inform us that we’re about to takeoff and ask if we’d like anything before we reach cruising altitude. We both pass, and I sit back to watch the ground fall away below us.

  This is the second time I’ve flown in a private jet and frankly, a girl could get used to this. It doesn’t even matter that the money I used to buy the ticket home and back again before I met Dylan has gone to waste.

  My mind rewinds back to the interview Dylan gave earlier this week. I have no idea if Kevin Hoff is going to print that back and forth between Dylan and me at the end of his interview. Like I told Dylan, I wasn’t angry about it, just a little uneasy.

  The trip to Isla Escapar was mostly a private affair. Save for the staff, we might as well have been Adam and Eve alone in paradise. Now, I feel much more exposed, even though the article doesn’t run for another couple weeks.

  I can’t help but think about what my sister went through. It’s not just her, a lot of the “fashionistas” I work with feel comfortable enough with me to share all their insecurities and constant anxiety at being public figures. There are even sites online specifically dedicated to talking shit about them, often to an almost sadistic degree, and the bigger they are, the better a target they make. Basically, it’s people with nothing going for themselves who get their kicks tearing other people apart. It’s as if they don’t realize that there is an actual human being behind the image. Instead they think of them as some amorphous celebrity with no emotions or feelings or vulnerabilities. Based on what I’ve seen, fame does nothing but put a target on your back.

  I’m sure the man sitting across from me would be the first to attest to that fact.

  But I still have a few weeks of blessed anonymity. I’ll deal with the fallout once the article is published. For now, I’m just excited to be going home.

  * * *

  I told my parents that I was bringing someone, but not who that someone is. I didn’t want them to make a huge fuss in preparation. Now that we’ve landed, I’m rethinking that idea.

  I have told my sister, of course. She’s the one who drove out to pick us up, even though I told her Dylan could easily arrange for a car service. She put that notion firmly out of my mind, all but threatening to never speak to me again if I didn’t let her be the first to greet us.

  We’ve landed at a smaller section of Portland International Airport, and once we make our way through the terminal, I see her face, now breaking out into a broad smile.

  I’m both humble enough and self-aware enough to know that I’m not ugly. I get my fair share of attention, especially when I decide to dress up a bit and throw on some makeup. But Shayla is in a class all her own. Every one of my features that hints at any black model du jour, comes blazing to life in her, outshining all of them. Especially when she smiles…something that was rare during the worst period of our lives.

  She’s still a fashion hound, wearing a billowy white blouse with a black tulle skirt that has gold foil flowers patterned on it, both paired with patent leather heels.

  “So, this is the famous—or should I say infamous—Dylan Sexton,” she says, completely ignoring her own sister in favor of the man next to me.

  Dylan grins in that way that most men do when they see Shayla. “And you must be the sister. I can definitely see the resemblance.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was smitten based on the coy smile she gives him.

  “It’s good to see you after so long, Shayla,” I say, inserting myself back into the picture and giving her a pointed stare.

  She laughs and comes in to hug me. “Mmm, it’s good to see you too.”

  We get our stuff into the car and I ride up front with her. “So, can we make a stop at—?”

  “You don’t even have to say it, I’m already there,” she says with a laugh.

  I twist around to face Dylan, reading the curiosity on his face. “Voodoo Doughnut. It’s this place that has crazy doughnuts with all kinds of flavors and toppings.”

  “Sounds sinful.” He says with a grin.

  I roll my eyes. “Trust me, you’ll be impressed.”

  When we get there, rather than try to find a place to park she lets us out to pop in and get some doughnuts.

  “Get me one of the bacon maple bars,” she shouts.

  “Anything for Jim?”

  She sighs. “Okay, he’d kill me if I didn’t get him a Memphis Mafia, even though he’s on a diet.”

  “It’s a special occasion,” I
say with a laugh as I close the door and drag Dylan inside.

  “Memphis Mafia?” He says with a bewildered smile.

  “You’ll see. Talk about sinful. It’s this concoction of banana, chocolate, peanut butter, and more.”

  Inside, my eyes dance at the row of familiar treats. This is always my go-to when I make it back home. Already I’m salivating over the sugar rush. Even though I’d love to just go ahead and order a dozen of everything, I settle for the “Dirt,” a doughnut covered in crumbled Oreo cookies, and Dylan goes for the one covered in Captain Crunch cereal.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask him, once we’re back in the car, taking our first bites.

  “It’s…something,” he says after swallowing. He then takes a bigger bite.

  Shayla and I laugh.

  “So, you got the lens?” she asks as she continues driving us to the hotel we’re staying at. Usually, I stay with my parents, sleeping in my old room, but felt it would be weird with Dylan being here.

  “I did.”

  “Ouch,” she winces. “Do you need me to chip in?”

  “No, it’s fine.” I turn to face Dylan. “I had a pretty decent paycheck recently.”

  She catches my gaze and smirks. “I hope it isn’t based on what I think it is.”

  I smack her arm and laugh. “It was strictly professional. Mostly.”

  She laughs. “Oh this is going to be too fun tonight. I can’t believe you haven’t told them about Dylan.”

  “Neither of us is making a big deal about it. Dylan is just…the man I’m seeing.” I catch his eye in the back seat and he winks at me, making me feel slightly giddy.

  “Uh-huh,” Shayla taunts.

  “Uh-huh is right.”

  “Well, I for one am looking forward to this.”

  “Should I be preparing for a walk down the gauntlet?” Dylan asks in back, I turn to find him smirking with amusement without an ounce of concern written on his face.

  “My parents are fine. They certainly aren’t going to make a big to-do over this. If anything, it will be anti-climactic.”

  “Hmm,” Shayla says in an ominous tone.

  “Stop,” I protest.

  She laughs and raises her eyes to Dylan in the back seat. “Vanessa’s right, they’re cool. Prepare to be bored stiff tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Dylan

  “I think you should have told them about me.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” Vanessa replies.

  I want to tell her that it isn’t me I’m concerned about. She’s been practically bouncing on the balls of her feet since we left the hotel room. As we exit the taxi that’s dropped us off, she takes my hand and squeezes it.

  We’re on a tree-lined street that’s so cozy it’s ridiculous. The homes are all in that style that looks slightly artsy and slightly traditional, I know there’s a name for it, but I can’t put my finger on it. Already, I’m getting a feel of how she grew up, which is a complete contrast to my own upbringing.

  At the door, she shoots me a bright smile before ringing the doorbell. It’s opened by Shayla, who greets us with bright-eyed excitement. She’s wearing a bright magenta dress with long puffy sleeves and matching strappy heels.

  “Welcome! Come in!” she says, holding the door wider for us.

  I grin at her, following Vanessa inside. I can see exactly what she meant about her sister. She’s attractive in a way that was meant for the camera. It’s a shame that it got cut short long ago. I could easily see her walking the runway at New York Fashion Week or working as an actress.

  The inside of the house has that homey-lived in feel. I scan the photos lining the wall of the open area we’ve just entered, lingering over the ones of two small girls, younger versions of Vanessa and Shayla. Even in these, it’s obvious which one lived for the camera, with her flamboyant clothes and dazzling smile, and which one was simply going through the motions, offering a reluctant smile.

  “The secret is just the right amount of sherbet, lime only.” It’s the voice of a man, coming from the kitchen that we’re both being led toward. “You add it to the bowl just before the Sprite so it creates a nice foam on top.”

  “Sounds like someone is learning how to make Fizzy Lime Punch,” Vanessa announces as she enters.

  The two men standing by a punch bowl are a stark contrast to one another. One is obviously her father, a black man in his late fifties, with a salt and pepper mustache and matching head of hair.

  The other is a white man with flaming red hair, who is big in that way of football players who have let themselves go a little. I can only assume this is Shayla’s husband, Jim, mentioned earlier today. He has a full bushy beard, a few shades darker than the orange color on top. A smile of recognition breaks out when he sees me. In his flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, and Timberlands he isn’t at all what I would picture for someone like Vanessa’s sister, who looks and dresses like she belongs on the cover of Vogue. I suppose the saying is true that opposites attract. Maybe that bodes well for Vanessa and me, who could easily put that theory to the test, at least in terms of personality.

  “Well, well, it looks like we’re entertaining guests,” the older man says, scrutinizing me. I’m amused to see him study me hard, as though he’s seen my face before but can’t quite place me.

  “Dad, this is Dylan Sexton,” Vanessa says next to me. She looks at him with amused anticipation as though waiting for the recognition to set in.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Paige. Happy birthday,” I say with a grin as I reach out my hand to shake. Vanessa was positively insistent on no presents.

  “Lamar, I insist,” he says, taking it with an impressive grip. “How is it I know you?”

  Shayla laughs, and Jim manages a small chuckle.

  “I know who this is,” a woman says as she comes forward from where she was hidden at the stove behind the pair of men.

  I brace myself, but the look she gives me is more bewildered than disapproving, as though she wouldn’t have figured someone like me with her daughter.

  Vanessa’s mother is definitely where the looks come from. I remember her saying that she’s a middle school principal. My school principals certainly didn’t look like this woman. She has the same facial features as her daughters, aged only by a certain maturity in her expression rather than wrinkles, which are entirely absent in her face.

  “Dylan, this is my mom, Grace Paige. Mom, this is—”

  “Dylan Sexton. Even in middle school, you have a fan base.”

  I grimace, then plaster a guilty smile on my face. “Nice to meet you?”

  She exhales a silent laugh then purses her lips at me as she takes the hand I offer.

  “Dylan Sexton?” Lamar says. “As in the man with all those crazy ads?”

  “Guilty as charged,” I say. Probably not the best expression to use on this occasion.

  “So this is who you brought to your dad’s birthday?” he says, giving Vanessa a surprised smile.

  She shrugs.

  “I hope this means I’m getting a week’s stay at one of those snazzy hotels or something. Though that may be a bit much for this old man to handle based on what I’ve seen.”

  “You’re not old,” she says, finally coming in to hug him. “But on that note, happy birthday, Dad.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, hugging her back.

  “I’m Jim, Shayla’s husband.” He reaches out a hand and grins at me as though he definitely doesn’t need an introduction.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.

  “So it seems we have a bona fide celebrity in our presence,” Grace says after Vanessa hugs her as well.

  “Tonight, I’m just Vanessa’s boyfriend. Nothing more.”

  “Boyfriend?” her dad says, looking at her with his eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “I…um,” she turns to me, with a hint of exasperation, then turns back to her parents. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. My boyfriend.”<
br />
  “So we’re just supposed to ignore the fact that he owns Sexton Enterprises?” Grace asks, giving her a patronizing smirk.

  “Yes.”

  “Although, I am happy to offer you a week’s stay at any of my hotels,” I say to her father.

  He laughs and that eases any lingering tension.

  “So…I hope that’s tacos I smell,” Vanessa says, moving the conversation on.

  “You know it. This is my birthday, after all,” her father says.

  * * *

  “So, let’s hear it. How did you two meet?” Lamar asks from the head of the table.

  We’re all seated for dinner. On the table before us is probably one of the most impressive taco spreads I’ve ever seen. Every type of filling sits in bowls and platters so that one could possibly make about a hundred different variations. I’ve already had two, a pulled pork with gooseberries and salsa verde and shredded beef with pico de gallo and guacamole.

  For my thirtieth birthday I rented out the Met. I had a crowd filled with A-list celebrities and a catering bill that cost more than the average American home. This definitely surpasses that.

  “How did we meet?” I repeat, leaning back in my seat and turning to Vanessa with a grin. “I suppose I’ll let you do the honors.”

  She laughs and shakes her head as though wondering how to answer that one. Then she shrugs and turns to her dad. “I was hired to photograph one of his parties.”

  “Which party was that?” Shayla asks with over interest from across the table.

  Vanessa glares at her, making her laugh. “It was a party at one of his hotels in New York. We ended up in the same elevator.”

  “Oh?” Shayla interjects, telling me that she probably got an earful of all the details back when Vanessa still had a low opinion of me. I know she couldn’t say much because of the NDA, but I wonder just how much she told Shayla.

  “Oh,” Vanessa replies, still glaring.

  “What’s this ‘oh’ business?” their mother finally asks.