And yes, I’d definitely come to think of them as my men.
Objectively, if I took my knee-jerk jealousy out of the equation, nothing was actually going on. Dylan and Ashley gave out hugs and cheek kisses where expected, but they weren’t exactly frolicking in a hot tub with anyone in front of me.
By the time we finished doing the rounds at Dylan’s club and headed out to another one to do it all over again, I was kind of getting used to it. Mostly because either Dylan or Ashley would always hold my hand in-between the hugs and cheek kisses, and if they couldn’t, Con would be by my side, so I was never left alone.
In the next club, the guys seemed to know some of the staff, and we were whisked off to a VIP area where we settled into a booth. A few people hung around, friends of Dylan’s and Ashley’s, and our table was loaded with drinks. I’d been pacing myself so far with the booze; it was still kinda early and I didn’t want to be wasted by midnight, what with all the free liquor flowing. But I decided to let myself go a little when Ashley handed a gorgeous martini my way. It was just the way I liked them—extra olives—so I dove in while the guys goofed around and laughed and got caught up with their friends.
There wasn’t exactly a lack of stuff to keep me entertained here. The cocktail waitresses were little more than naked and the place was packed, the dance floor already off the hook, the whole place grinding to Dua Lipa’s “Blow Your Mind.”
Actually… upon closer inspection, the sexy waitresses were all incredibly tall and… broad-shouldered.
Because they were men.
Or more specifically… drag queens?
I glanced over at the two men I’d come with. Ashley met my gaze and lifted his pierced eyebrow, maybe trying to read the look on my face. Dylan winked at me.
I shook my head and sipped my martini, kinda giggling to myself.
Who are these guys?
I was still trying to process everything as the details came into focus… but that was definitely a dude dancing over there in the raised cage—in a sparkly miniskirt and platform heels. And damn, could he/she dance.
I was still watching him dance when a woman strode over to our table, with purpose. The way the crowd parted for her, I half-expected her to be carrying a tray of drinks, but she wasn’t.
She also wasn’t half-naked. She wore a tucked-in blouse and pencil skirt, and would’ve looked too classy for this place if not for the heavy makeup.
I looked, incredibly carefully, as Ashley rose to greet her… but I was pretty sure she was a woman. No male could get curves like that, no matter how many drugs he took or surgeries he underwent.
After she’d gotten—and given—her cheek kiss, then leaned in to exchange one with Dylan, her heavily-lashed eyes landed on me.
“Amber, this is Kitty,” Dylan said, sliding over to sit closer to me. “Kitty, this is Amber.”
I stared at her. She was curvy as hell, with long, dark hair. And a lot older than I might’ve expected. She looked close to forty.
She was literally nothing like me, other than the fact that we were both female. But this had to be their previous “arrangement”—the woman Dylan and Ashley had a three-way commitment with, briefly, last year. How many women were named Kitty?
“Hi,” I said, offering my hand. “Nice to meet you.” It was. I was fucking intrigued.
“Likewise.” She shook my hand and smirked a bit as Ashley slid in close on my other side. I was wedged in-between him and Dylan, and Kitty didn’t miss it. She raised her chin, eying my half-empty glass. “What can I get you, Amber?”
“You work here?”
“This is my club,” she said, placing a hand on her cocked hip. Everything about her, like this club in general, screamed sex.
“Oh. Um, another martini would be great.”
“How about you two?” That small smirk played on her lips as she looked the guys over.
“We’re good,” Ashley said.
Kitty nodded. “Be right back.” Then she walked away, hips swaying in her tight skirt.
I looked at Ashley. Then Dylan.
“Um, you guys could’ve given me a heads up.” I aimed that mainly at Dylan, who now had a history of blindsiding me. Then I gave Ashley a pointed look, because he knew Dylan had a history of blindsiding me. He could’ve filled me in, at least.
“Didn’t know she’d be here,” Ashley said.
“It’s her bar,” I replied, doubtful. “And please tell me she’s a woman, or I may need a lot more than two martinis to get my head around this.”
“One-hundred-percent female,” Ashley assured me with a tiny smirk. “From birth.”
Dylan leaned in close to my ear, his breath on my neck. He put his big hand lightly on my throat, drifted his thumb over my bottom lip and said, “I so wanna fuck you right now.”
“Why?” It fell out of my mouth before I could think about it, and Dylan chuckled, his hand dropping to my thigh.
“Because you’re extra-fucking-cute when you’re jealous,” Ashley said.
“And, you look like you’d enjoy my cock inside you right now,” Dylan added in my ear, giving my thigh a squeeze.
Well, I would.
“Later,” I said, still too fascinated by everything that was going on around me—and a little annoyed that they hadn’t told me we were coming here. To Kitty’s club…
I gazed around. The crowd seemed to be about one-quarter female, one-quarter straight male, and half gay men. And people of all orientations were definitely staring at my men.
Ashley grinned and squeezed my bare knee under the table. His hand slipped up my thigh, under Katie’s cute dress. The dress was short and sexy, and felt oddly demure in this place, for such a small amount of fabric.
Both of them still had a hand on my leg when Kitty returned with my drink. I noticed Dylan’s other arm was now on the back of the seat, behind me, and his thumb was drifting over my shoulder.
I kinda hoped they were marking their territory. I didn’t mind if they wrote their names all over me in magic marker right about now.
Kitty placed the martini in front of me on a cocktail napkin.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Kitty sat right down on Ashley’s other side. “So.” She looked Ashley over with eyes that left no doubt that she’d seen him naked, often, and wanted to again. “Where’ve you been all my life?” Then she looked at me again, so I answered.
“Everywhere?”
“Sounds about right. Where are you from, Amber?”
“Vancouver.”
“Washington? Or north of there?”
“North.”
“Ah. Canadian girl.” Her gaze swept down over my chest, as if there was something remarkable about Canadian boobs that she had to see for herself. “Pretty,” she remarked, almost to herself. “These guys showing you a good time tonight?”
“Very.”
She smiled and leaned into Ashley a bit. “She’s adorable. You bringing her back to my place after?”
Ashley’s eyes met mine. “We’re keeping this one to ourselves.”
Kitty didn’t look happy about it, but she was quick to hide it with a smile. “Typical.” She stood up and aimed her eyes at me. “They like to share, but they don’t like to share, you know?”
I just smiled, unsure of what to say.
“Have a lovely night. Drinks are on the house.” She winked at me, leaned in to kiss Dylan on the cheek, gave Ashley a lingering hungry look, then sashayed away.
“That’s your ex?” I asked in her wake.
“I guess you could say that,” Ashley said.
“How long were you… committed to her?”
“Maybe three months?” Ashley glanced at Dylan, like he wasn’t even sure.
Dylan sipped his beer. He was studying me, and I noticed he hadn’t said much since Kitty showed up. Other than the thing about wanting to fuck me.
I reached under the table and put my hand on his dick. He was hard.
“She seems to h
ave a thing for you, Ashley,” I said, trying not to sound bothered by it.
“She does,” Dylan said.
“You’re wondering why we’re not with her anymore,” Ashley said.
“Something like that.”
I glanced at Dylan; his eyelids lowered as he looked at my mouth, in that way he did when he wanted to kiss me. I squeezed his dick and he shifted his hips, spreading his thighs a bit.
“Can’t stay with someone you don’t love,” he said simply.
When I looked at Ashley again to see what he thought of that, he leaned in and kissed me.
After Kitty’s club, I fucked Dylan in the back of the limo while Ashley went with Con to “get smokes.” Or maybe that was just code for I’ll give you a few minutes to fuck Amber in the back of the limo. But Dylan and I made use of that time. Or, I did.
I pounced on him and rode him like a wild woman. The booze was hitting me, but more than that, it was the high of seeing all those women—and various other people—wanting him, and him wanting me.
I wasn’t even going to pretend to be above it. It was a massive turn on.
I fucked him, hard, until I made him come, and holy hell, was that a turn on. Watching him lose it, feeling him lose it, his cock pulsing and his breaths cutting off and his mouth dropping open, his entire big, muscular body tensing beneath me as I fucked him right over the edge. I came when he did, but it wasn’t enough.
By the time Ashley opened the door and pulled me out of there, I was all wound up.
Lucky for me, Ashley took me back into Kitty’s club and down some back hall, into a bathroom. It was maybe a staff bathroom or something, because no one was around and the music was so far away I could barely hear it thumping through the walls. He pressed me up against the wall, wrapped my legs around his waist, and fucked me.
Having sex in a dirty bar bathroom shouldn’t have been a turn on, but right now, it was. I’d just come with Dylan’s cock inside me. He’d barely gotten his pants back on when Ashley had dragged me out of the limo. And I couldn’t get enough. My pussy was still swollen, so sensitive, and I went off fast, shuddering in Ashley’s arms and crying out as he pounded me. Twice.
Then he came with a groan and buried himself in me.
I was glad we were in a bathroom, actually; by now, I really needed to clean up.
I didn’t say a thing about it, but it wasn’t lost on me how much Ashley liked to fuck me right after Dylan did.
I was becoming accustomed to the pattern, even as it frightened me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Amber
Suffice it to say, Dylan Cope and Ashley Player knew how to party.
I’d never barhopped so much in my life. I kinda lost track of the different bars we slipped in and out of over the course of the night. The last bar we hit was the most rock ’n’ roll of the lot; some band the guys knew had just come offstage and Highly Suspect’s “Fuck Me Up” was playing, loud, as we walked in.
We met up there with Pepper, the drummer from Ashley’s band, and I was so excited to finally meet a member of the Penny Pushers. Maybe I felt like it would be a window into getting to know Ashley better or something. Maybe I was just drunk and feeling friendly. But apparently Pepper was an enthusiastic dancer, and the two of us hit the dance floor for a while.
Then Pepper bought me a drink and I got chatting with him by one of the bars. Mostly about the Penny Pushers, because I wanted to know more about Ashley’s band. But then I realized, maybe belatedly—thanks to the alcohol—that Pepper seemed to be flirting with me.
Which was weird, since I’d come here with Ashley and Dylan, and I would’ve thought he realized that. But maybe not?
Either way, it was even weirder because I knew he was married; Ashley had mentioned it. But then he dropped some not-quite-casual comment about his wife not being here. Which was all kinds of gross.
I didn’t get the overt feeling that Ashley’s drummer was trying to fuck me, like now. But I got the sense he was definitely trying to stir up trouble. Why? I couldn’t guess. I’d just met the man. He actually seemed like a nice dude. Funny and kind of hyper-friendly but just way too drunk. He seemed like he was maybe in some My-marriage-is-in-trouble-and-I’m-stumbling-around-looking-for-ways-to-make-it-worse phase… or something. Whatever it was, I definitely didn’t want a part in it.
So I decided to steer clear of him for the rest of the night.
In fact, I managed to steer myself all the way to the other side of the crowded bar, completely losing him, Ashley and Dylan… and running into someone from my past.
“Amber!” Stacy squealed when she saw me and leaned in for an air hug and not-quite-touching cheek kiss, both sides. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, yet she looked exactly the same. Aged more than the four years it had been, maybe, but the same. Still blonde, still flashy, still trashy.
She had a smile pasted on her face but her eyes picked over me like a vulture sniffing out rot. Probably hoping to discover that something horrible had happened to me since we last saw each other.
Finding me intact, the smile got bigger and faker. “How the hell are you?”
“Great. You?” I asked, because it seemed like the quickest way to get this run-in over with. I was instantaneously regretful that I didn’t have my two hot men hanging off of me at the moment, and yet grateful that Dylan and Ashley were nowhere in sight. Stacy the Slut would be on them like white on rice. Or like a groupie on… well, a rock star.
I definitely wasn’t the one who’d come up with her cruel nickname. The first time I heard it, I was horrified. However, when the nickname fit…
“I’m epic,” she said, wobbling a little, at which point I registered how wasted she was. “You know… Johnny’s here.”
I felt my face freeze up in the fake half-smile I was wearing. And hers spread across her face as she realized that no, I did not know that my ex-husband was here.
“Haven’t seen him in a while myself,” she said. Then she leaned in and added, “I think he’s even hotter now than he was… back then.” She dropped her voice like we were sharing a special secret. You know, because we both knew how hot he was back then.
As in, back when she fucked him while he was married to me.
But she probably didn’t think I actually knew about that. Stacy had always seemed to think I was way dumber, and she was way smarter, than was actually the case. I refused to let it bother me, though. Any of it.
Water under the bridge, right?
“Where is he?” I asked sweetly, like I actually cared. All I cared about was not running into him.
“Oh, right over there.” She waved her hand in the direction I was headed, where the crowd buzzed and swirled in a fangirl vortex, the way it had around Dylan and Ashley everywhere we went tonight, and it was pretty clear there was a VIP sitting over there.
Fuck.
I pushed past Stacy, not even bothering with a Nice to see you or a Hope you get herpes. I put my head down and tunneled through the crowd, aiming well around the rock star vortex—when a giant wall of a dude blocked my path. Incongruously, he had a girly-looking glass of pinkish bubbly in his hand.
“From Johnny O,” he said when I looked up. He put the drink in my hand as I just stood here, caught off-guard. “This way.”
Then he threw up a meaty arm and parted the sea of people—and there was Johnny O’Reilly. My ex-husband, seated in a booth with a bunch of people, mostly hot chicks, on either side of him.
When the crowd shifted, he looked up and saw me. And he got the most smarmy, self-satisfied smirk of a look on his gorgeous face—even as his gaze traveled down my body and back up, checking me out.
I drifted toward him, because I wasn’t about to let him see me run away. It was like we were in a tunnel; him at one end and me at the other, and there was nowhere else to go. He stood to greet me as I got close, the smarmy look fading—maybe I’d imagined it?—and his face kinda lighting up a bit. But he was definitely checking me out.
My tiny yellow dress, which had felt so damn demure in Kitty’s club, now had me feeling pretty naked.
“Amber,” he said, in a low, sexy voice, reaching across the table to gently grasp my elbow and pull me in. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as I stood here, not knowing what to say. I really had nothing to say to him at all.
Yet here I was.
“Hi, Johnny,” I managed.
He gestured to the empty chair next to me, across the table from him. I put the drink he’d sent me on the table. I didn’t plan to drink it. I didn’t want a thing from him.
But I sat down, and he did the same.
“How the hell have you been?” he asked me, his gaze crawling all over me.
It was a stupid question. He hadn’t seen me or talked to me in four years. There was no way to answer a question like that succinctly and even approach honesty. No way to fit four years of my life into one simple sentence.
So I went with a one-word answer, not really saying anything at all. “Good. You?”
“Always,” he said, as if that said anything at all. “You look great.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t bother saying a thing about how he looked, obviously. He looked fucking hot, and he knew it. If the half-dozen scantily-clad young chicks with the midriff-baring shirts and big boobs, lined up on either side of him, didn’t already tell him so, the way I was looking at him probably filled him in.
Johnny was Irish-Italian and naturally dark-haired, but he highlighted his hair blond and it looked killer on him, that contrast of dark and light. His eyebrows were dark, his skin deeply tanned, his teeth as white as his T-shirt, and his jewelry gleamed. His eyes were an aquamarine-blue that I’d thought had to be colored contacts the first time I met him. They weren’t. And his body was seriously ripped, but not in any kind of practical way. Ashley was ripped because he worked hard and played hard—in the gym, on a surf board, on his mountain bike. Dylan worked out like crazy but he also got a workout on the drums daily.
As far as I could ever discern, Johnny just lifted weights so he could admire himself while he fucked a girl.
Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4) Page 28
