The Reverse of Perfection (Bad Decisions Book 2)

by Christi Barth

  Nothing more. “I did. Really, I did,” she assured him, feeling like an idiot. “This was a backslide on my part. I think. Because you’re right. I grew up on the sidelines of rock ’n’ roll. Spent my teenage years dazzled by rockers. When I started dating, that’s who I went for. And every single one of them disappointed me. None of them could stick. None of them could resist temptation. Heck, none of them even bothered to try.”

  “Resisting is easy. Because other women don’t tempt me—or even interest me—in the least. I see your drive to succeed, and it’s the same as mine. I see your passion to make it on your own, and it’s the same thing I’m doing by going solo. You understand me, you get me, because we’re so similar.”

  “I guess so.” Everything he said made sense. It certainly explained the way things clicked between them so easily. They were on the same wavelength.

  “Except for the trust-issues thing. That’s totally you.” He pounded a thumb into his chest with a smug grin. “I’m way more together than that.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I want to live out this fantasy on the catwalks with you. Nobody else. If you don’t want to, then we’ll go back down and do whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want?” Because the choice was super obvious.

  “Sure?”

  “I want to apologize for jumping to conclusions. For judging you by crappy standards. I want to give you the fantasy, Dylan.”

  “Great.”

  Ariel pulled her sleeveless red sweater over her head. Folded it a few times, then put it under her knees as protection from the catwalk. “Take off your jacket. And your shirt.”

  It took him no time at all to strip. Dylan leaned back against the railing. It gave her slight vertigo to look at him doing it—or maybe it was just panic at the thought of him falling—but he did look amazingly sexy with the metal piping behind all those muscles. Ariel unzipped his jeans, but only dropped them to his knees. She needed him to stay in place. To not just take control—which he was so darned good at—and plow into her. No, she wanted this to be a selfless act of apology. A no orgasm for Ariel zone. She didn’t deserve one.

  “Wait, I want to take a picture.”

  “No way.” Disbelief harshened his words.

  Ariel pulled her phone from her shorts pocket. “Yes way. You didn’t get the formal posed shot from a sorority winter formal. Or the mortarboard-tossed-in-the-air picture. I’m darn well going to take a picture of you having your one and only true college experience.”

  He cupped himself with one hand, flexed his other arm and popped his pecs. “There. Do I look enough like a bad-boy rock star?”

  Wow. The shadows chiseled him with even deeper cuts of muscle and sinew. The backlight made the broadness of his shoulders more prominent. Dylan looked more like a sex god than a rock star. Golden skin, mussed hair that looked like he’d just been between the sheets, wide lower lip curled into a come bite me now pout. Quickly, Ariel snapped off several shots.

  “You blow me away. Actually, that’s what’s going to happen right now. I’m going to blow you.”

  She knelt at his feet and raked her nails lightly down his chest. His abs rippled in reaction, like water flowing over stone. God, it was hot. Then she traced slow circles down the dark gold line of hair that started at his belly button. Down she went, still keeping up the featherlight circles even after the skin beneath her fingertips became velvet over steel. His penis bobbed twice, and the third time, Ariel extended her tongue. Just enough to flick over the tip. On a moan, his hips surged forward, but she leaned way back onto her heels.

  “Nope. Just relax. Let me do all the work. Let me do you.”

  With a nod, Dylan tightened his grip on the metal railing, as if it was the only thing holding him back from ravishing her. Ariel slowly rolled forward, lashing him with taut, tiny licks over the crown. At the same time, she cupped his balls with firm pressure, hoping the dichotomy would drive him crazy. From his immediate change from soundless to ragged breathing, she’d say it worked.

  So then she switched it up, carefully grazing her nails along the hairy, soft sacks that felt so firm, as if they were about to burst beneath her ministrations. And she licked him like an ice cream cone—long, slow, from bottom to top.

  “Feels. So. Good,” Dylan ground out between gritted teeth. “Wanna touch you.”

  It seemed that he understood her need to give him this, so she wouldn’t stand in the way of upping his enjoyment. “Okay.”

  His hand shot off the rail and straight down her shirt with the unerring aim of a missile. He kneaded her breast, which kicked off more flutters between her legs than Ariel thought she deserved. Kneeling higher, she rounded her mouth and took him fully inside, twirling her tongue around his shaft.

  “God, this is hot. Not gonna last.”

  The thought filled her with gratification that she’d done that for him. And more than a little sense of female power, too. It was fun to turn the tables and prove that she could be his equal partner in the bedroom.

  “It’s your fantasy, Dylan. You can come anytime.” Ariel sucked even harder. At the same time, she reached up with one hand to tease at his nipple with her thumb. It dragged an even louder groan from him. Suddenly, he hunched over. Threaded his fingers through her hair to hold her in place and worked his hips in a fast shudder against her lips. Ariel kept her eyes locked on his face the whole time. So she got to see the moment his pleasure exploded, rolling his eyes back in his head and opening his mouth in a loud, rough howl.

  “Is someone up there?” A high-pitched female voice drifted up to them. Ariel clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Dylan’s eyes shot back open. Frantically, he stuffed himself back into his pants with a grimace.

  “Should I—”

  “I’ll take care of it. I’m the one trying to get a bad reputation, not you. Stay put until the coast is clear.” He jogged over a few feet, then leaned out and waved. “Hey, I’ll be right down.”

  “Omigod, is that…are you…” The two girls talked over each other, giggles erupting before either one finished a sentence.

  Ariel handed Dylan his leather jacket. No time for the shirt. He hooked one arm into a sleeve, then ran to the ladder. Like she’d seen firemen do in movies, he put his feet and hands on the outside of the ladder and just slid all the way down. By the time he landed on the stage, the girls were waiting for him. Ariel tiptoed back a few steps, out of any possible sight line for them.

  “Ladies,” he said, tipping his head and flashing that smile that melted both hearts and panties.

  “You’re Dylan Royce.”

  “Yep.”

  They clutched each other’s arms at his affirmation. “What are you doing in Ardrey?”

  He made a big deal of looking over each shoulder, as if checking for other occupants of the empty auditorium. “You girls go here?”

  “Yeah. We’re back early for training as resident assistants.”

  “Well, have you ever heard the story about doing it on the catwalk?”

  That brought on another round of titters. “Sure. But it’s just a rumor.”

  “No kidding,” he said in a sour tone. “I was up there checking it out as a possibility for after our show. But it’s too uncomfortable. I like my ladies to feel good…everywhere.” He threw an arm around both of their shoulders. “Don’t suppose you’d want to escort me down to the Skydome? Maybe I could introduce you to the rest of Riptide?”

  “You’re the only one we care about.”

  “I know the feeling,” he said with a meaningful glance up in Ariel’s general direction as they walked out the auditorium doors.

  She knew he’d said that for her. She knew that she had absolutely nothing to worry about, that she totally trusted Dylan and that he’d still been thoughtful enough to reassure her even as he took the danger away so she could come down. It was probably the most romantic—albeit unconventional—gesture she’d ever received.

  CHAPTER NINEr />
  Cam cleared his throat. “It’s been brought to my attention that I unfairly jumped down your throat when I found out about you and Ariel.”

  “Hey.” Kylie dug an elbow into his side as they all filed out of the elevator. “I want the credit. Tell him this was my idea. Tell him that I said you acted like a supercilious ass.”

  “Supercilious? Nah, without your fancy degree from Northwestern, I just can’t pull that word off.”

  Kylie almost skipped along white carpet with black filigree designs to get in front of Dylan. “I’m just saying, I’m the one who pointed out Cam acted poorly. So, to finish his apology, he’s giving you the room we were going to take. The awesome Provocateur Suite, to be exact.”

  There was still a chip on Cam’s shoulder as wide as the Mohave Desert about Dylan and Ariel being together. Aside from that, he’d dropped his attitude about Dylan and moved on from his pissiness about not knowing what would go down with Jake. Cam was being as cool as Dylan had always imagined. He was sheer genius on the stage. Full of great tips as Dylan worked on his new songs. Their argument—which he really didn’t fault him for, due to the whole baby sister sore spot—was in the past. There was no need for another apology.

  Clapping him on the shoulder, Dylan said, “Hey, that’s generous, but you don’t have to give up your room.”

  “We’re not sleeping on the bus,” Cam replied with an amused smirk. “The Hard Rock Hotel has room for all of us. Comping all of us, actually. A sweet deal Tony set up in exchange for a VIP party after the gig. You and Jones will share that suite. Kylie and I will be not at all close to roughing it in the Stones Suite.” He ran a hand down her bright red curtain of hair. “You’ll like it better anyway, beautiful. The four-poster bed’s got curtains.”

  “Ooh.”

  Jones rat-a-tatted a riff on Dylan’s back. It was so cool how the guy’s hands never stopped beating out a rhythm, no matter where they were. “You know he’s not doing this out of the pure goodness of his heart. Cam just doesn’t want to be anywhere within earshot of you boinking his sister.”

  Clearing his throat loudly again, Cam said, “I thought we agreed not to discuss intergroup sexual dynamics?”

  “Is that a fancy term Kylie gave you to make you feel better about Big D here drilling your baby sis?” Jones laughed so hard he paused to lean on the wall to catch his breath.

  Blatantly ignoring him, Cam pulled out his key card and stopped at the first door. “The Provocateur’s bigger, so we’ll meet in your suite in an hour. Go over the set list, run down the meet-and-greet agenda, and Kylie will fill us in on the VIP photo op procedure for the after party.”

  “An hour, huh? You’re young. I’ll bet you could go through two, maybe three condoms in an hour, D.”

  Cam slammed the door in Jones’ face before he even finished the sentence.

  Sighing, Dylan asked, “Why do you have to keep poking at him about our relationship, Jones? You know it bothers him.”

  “Two reasons. First of all, it’s fucking fun.”

  “For you.”

  “Yep. And second of all, the more he focuses on being annoyed at his little sis having”—Jones put his noise in the air as they continued down the long hall and affected a snooty accent—“premarital relations with a consenting bandmate—”

  “Stop it.” Ariel giggled as she swatted at him. “You’re turning a very hot fling into a dry and contractual-sounding exchange of bodily fluids.”

  “What’s the rest of the second reason?”

  The smile dropped off Jones’ face with an almost audible thud. “It distracts Cam from dwelling on the situation with Jake.”

  Shit. Talk about a slap of cold, hard reality. Dylan skewered Jones with a piercing stare, trying to see how much the other man might be hiding. “You really don’t know if he’s coming back?”

  “Are you asking out of genuine concern for a fellow musician? Or because you want his job?” Jones kept his hard-drinking, hard-fucking game face on pretty much every minute they weren’t performing. It was equal parts fascinating and bizarre the few times the façade slipped to reveal the shrewd man at his core.

  Arms spread wide, Dylan said, “I haven’t exactly hidden that I’m one of the biggest Riptide fans around. Of course I care about Jake. Of course I want him to come back to Riptide.”

  “And….” Jones walked backward, eyes pinned to Dylan.

  And he’d be a complete idiot to say anything more. Especially since he wasn’t entirely sure of the answer. Not in the week he’d been considering the possibility. Definitely not since he’d gotten the email that had had him on edge the last hour of the drive. “That’s all you get. For now.”

  “Playing it cool, huh?”

  “I learned from the master, Jones.”

  Ariel let them into the enormous suite. The walls were the same screaming red as Jones’ drum kit. Black velvet furniture set off a white marble bar. Plasma screens popped off every wall, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a private plunge pool. Dylan didn’t need all the perks of a famous lifestyle, but he sure as hell planned to enjoy this ultimate rock ’n’ roll room. With his ultimate woman.

  Jones grabbed an ice bucket full of longnecks from the bar and veered straight out to the balcony overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. Ariel hefted the second ice bucket, the one holding a champagne bottle. Taking the hint, Dylan grabbed two flutes and followed her down a hallway.

  “We do have an hour.” Her fingers danced up his plain white tee. “What do you want to do?”

  God, he hated the word that was about to come out of his mouth. “Talk.”

  “No, seriously.” This time her hand ventured down to the button of his jeans.

  Why did life have to intrude on such a kick-ass fantasy come true? “I am serious. I want to use you as a sounding board. Something’s come up. An offer.”

  He could practically see Ariel switching into business mode. She tucked the bucket into the crook of her arm and opened the door to a bedroom. “That sounds promising.” Then she stood stock-still just inside the floor-to-ceiling red room. The only color came from the seriously enormous white bed. “Wow. I’m pretty sure that’s the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. It looks like they glued together at least three queen mattresses.”

  “Huh. I guess pillow mints are so last year,” Dylan teased, setting the glasses next to the tray of ropes, whips and handcuffs on the nightstand.

  Ariel pointed at the matched set of overstuffed red club chairs against the window. “Don’t go near the bed. I won’t be able to control myself. Sit down, pretend we’re in an office and speak to me of this offer.”

  He sat…after dragging his gaze away from the porn playing above the headboard. “For a reality show. They want to follow me on my next tour.”

  Pursing her lips, she said, “You don’t have a next tour. Yet.”

  Yeah, Dylan knew she’d connect the dots fast. “Exactly. Leo thinks this offer could help the label decide to throw a lot of effort behind my next album. If I make it contingent upon using my songs and not the ones they’re trying to force on me, it could be good.”

  “It could be really good,” Ariel corrected, leaning over the poufy armrest. It gave him one hell of a view down the pale blue lace vee of her shirt. “A television show brings instant visibility to millions of people. Word of mouth, advertising tie-ins, your music being played in every single episode and in every commercial for it. It’d be a huge opportunity. A huge payday.”

  “That’s what I thought.” But he’d wanted her take on it to be sure he hadn’t just fallen for the snazzed-up sales pitch Leo had sent.

  “From a PR standpoint, it’s the goose that lays golden eggs every single week. Because we can craft each episode, your image and message.”

  “What? You mean to tell me reality shows aren’t totally spontaneous and unplanned?”

  “Very funny. Do you believe in the Easter Bunny, too?”

  Actually, he’d never been superstitious. He’d re
lentlessly mocked the guy in 4X4 who wouldn’t go out the door in the morning without checking his horoscope. But Dylan was starting to believe in fate. Because there was no other explanation for sitting in a tricked-out suite high above the glitz of the Strip in a sexed-up room across from the woman of his dreams who’d turned out to be so much savvier, into his music and passionate than he’d even hoped.

  “So you think it’d be a smart move?”

  Ariel waved her hand back and forth in the air. “I think it’s a smart option to consider. It could open a lot of doors. On the other hand, reality television has tanked some people. It’s super intrusive. You’d have to want it. To be committed to it. Committed to people following you around and never letting you have a moment alone.”

  Yeah. It took them seventeen minutes—he’d timed it—for them to get from the front door up to the suite. They’d been stopped to sign autographs seven times and taken four pictures. “I do that now.”

  “It feels like it now,” she corrected him. “But you’ve got privacy when you’re on the bus and here in the room. If you do this show, those moments of peace and quiet disappear.”

  The concept seemed simple enough. The reality, though, could be harder than it sounded. Even knowing a set end date might not give him the patience to hold it together that long. Or maybe he could. Maybe he’d do anything to get the music he was creating on this tour, music that was new and different and fucking resonated with him like never before, out into the world.

  But now they were at the main thing he’d wanted to discuss with Ariel. “That’s not even my biggest concern.”

  “I’m almost scared to ask.”

  Dylan pushed out of the chair. Braced his palms on the windows, locked his elbows and pulled in a deep breath. “What if I can’t do it? Succeed at this solo thing, I mean? If I crash and burn a second time, I’m done. That’s it. And failing in front of millions of viewers would dig me six feet under even faster.”