No, I can’t have his number. I’d call him and he’s far too tempting, the type of guy who doesn’t help with goals, the type of guy who distracts. I’ve worked too hard to let that happen. This way, he’ll always be the perfect memory of the time I went a little wild before knuckling down. A memory that will put a sparkle in my eye when I’m eighty that makes the grandkids wonder what I’m thinking about.
I hope.
I flip through the inflight magazine, focusing on nothing as memories of him drift in and out of my head. We’re midway through the flight before I finally sigh and decide to put Dylan behind me once and for all.
Well, maybe not one and for all.
I plug earphones into my phone and take advantage of the airline’s Wi-Fi to search for a song. Dylan never told me the title, but I know the band’s name is Fallen Angels. I want to hear it again—hear the soundtrack that is Dylan—so badly I’ll listen to their whole album.
Or both their albums, I see as I load up the band’s website. I skim the front page, looking for the buy links. They’re a newer band. Hugely successdful. Their first album went gold then double platinum. Currently they’re on a world tour with a few stops in America to support their new album..
They played in Chicago the night before last, which seems oddly coincidental and I wonder if that’s why Dylan was in town. Half a second later, I know it was why he was in town.
My fingers freeze their scrolling, and my heart pounds loudly in my ears. In the middle of the page, I find a picture of the band—five tattooed, rocker guys.
Dylan is the frontman.
Holy shit.
In a slow motion slideshow, memories flash through my mind.
The guy fistbumping Dylan at the bar.
Dylan asking if Alex was the fan when I told him she was the one who really bought him the drink.
The way he evaded my pressing when I said he had a great voice when he sang in my apartment.
The looks he got when we went to Millennium Park—it wasn’t because people were judging him for his appearance.
His acceptance of my lack of interest in personal details about him—he was probably relieved I wasn’t prying like everyone else.
The big shades he wore that are now on my head.
How the operator of Tilt looked the other way when Dylan broke the rules by standing behind me and then took me to the stairwell.
The reason he had to leave—he was performing.
I thought he was just a regular guy who was struggling, or ashamed of what he did for a living.
Dylan St. John could probably pay my entire graduating class’s student debts without breaking a sweat. He could rent out Tilt and have an orgy with the trail of supermodels he’s been linked with—if these pictures in the website’s gallery haven’t been photoshopped.
Well, why would they have been? He’s a star. He’s not my memory. He’s not just my anything.
The scruffy man who made me cracker sandwiches and tied me up and fucked me in front of my window was on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine last month. And I refused to give him my phone number or email address. Most women would have given anything for his contact information.
While I don’t have his contact info either, I know entirely too much—When Dylan St. John’s not touring, he lives in Los Angeles.
I close the browser, mind reeling.
LA’s so far away, but it’s real. Now he’s too real.
All the warmth is sucked from the memories, confusion swirling through, muddying the waters. He was supposed to be a part of my past, that hot, nameless guy from a wicked weekend. I was supposed to be able to go on and leave our time together as a happy memory, moving on with my plans and serious career with no regrets. He was supposed to be forgettable.
Now he’s just an entertainment magazine, a celebrity news show, an Internet search away. Now that I know who he is and how easy he is to stalk, how will I ever be able to forget him?
And shit, where I’m headed? I really need to be able to forget him.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Badass in My Bed (Badass #1) Page 8
