“Where do you think he slept last night?” Ashley replied lazily.
Which was when it dawned on me, way too slowly, that we weren’t in Ashley’s bedroom. Ashley’s bedroom was dark. Dylan’s was bright. White walls with lots of windows and a skylight…
I looked up, and the sun streaming in through the skylight above the bed made me wince.
I felt the bed shift, but in a way that Ashley, on my right side, could not possibly have made it shift, and my head reeled with sudden vertigo. With some effort, I looked to my left.
Dylan was sprawled next to me on his stomach, naked—not a sheet in sight. All I could do was stare at the curves of his broad back and that perfect, muscular ass.
Holy fucking hell, I wanted to bite that ass.
But I did not remember ending up in bed with Dylan last night.
I slept with both of them? In one bed?
“Hey,” Dylan said. When I glanced up, his green eyes were watching me, that crooked, sexy smile on his face. “How you feeling?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Yeah? You drank a lot of bubbly last night.”
Really?
“And beer,” Ashley said.
Great. Cocktails and wine and beer. Awesome combo.
“I’m fine. I never get hangovers.”
I didn’t. Unless, of course, if you considered waking up with I splitting headache and two hot, naked, and possibly gay men in bed with you a hangover.
“I really didn’t drink that much,” I added, trying to save face, but they knew the truth.
Or at least, Ashley sure did.
The truth was, at some point, way late in the night, I’d tried to get some.
From him.
I couldn’t even remember why, exactly, it happened. Just that I was alone in Zane’s kitchen with Ashley and Zane, sometime after getting tossed in the pool. My wet dress was gone, and I was wearing a T-shirt and rolled-up sweats that belonged to Zane. The three of us were smoking a joint. We were laughing at some story Zane was telling about the time Ashley’s boat broke down on them, and they had a bunch of raw meat for a barbecue that went bad in the heat and they got all sunburnt while they floated around waiting for Dylan to come rescue them, and Zane had “downgraded” the boat’s Falcon status, dubbing it the Silver Sparrow instead because Ashley refused to “put it out of its misery” and sink it, as per Zane’s suggestion—He’s overly sentimental, this one, Zane had said—and I was laughing too hard, and the booze had started to make gravity disagree with me. I’d leaned into Ashley without even thinking about it. Because, well… all the booze. And then something strange happened.
Ashley put his arm around me.
He’d held me up and went right on talking with Zane as if it was no big deal that I was pressed up against him—just the way a boyfriend would. And I got a warm, fuzzy feeling.
Well, a horny feeling.
Then Zane had magically disappeared. And as soon as I’d registered that Ashley and I were alone, I put my hand on him. Flat against his stomach. I could feel his tight abs through his shirt. Or Zane’s shirt, which he’d also changed into.
Then I’d looked up, and he was looking down at me, his blue eyes dark and intent. I slid my hand downward… and his hand caught mine. He’d stopped me, just before my fingers could venture south of his waistband.
He’d stopped me from groping him.
Even though I could’ve sworn the look in his eyes was pure sex… he’d rejected me.
After that, it was a blur. Mostly because I’d just wanted the whole night to be done with so I could forget about it. I’d drank some more. I’d avoided Dylan and Ashley, until Dylan collected us and drove us home in his boat. Dylan hadn’t drank a drop.
Which meant he was stone-cold sober when he peeled Zane’s clothes off me and tucked me into bed. I didn’t remember him getting into the bed with me, but I definitely remembered the undressing part.
Which was all kinds of weird. At least, it was for me.
I couldn’t remember a guy ever turning me down for sex before. Not when my hand was an inch from his dick. And not when I was standing right in front of him, drunk and naked.
In that type of scenario, I was much more accustomed to a guy just diving into bed with me, and me with him, because what did it matter when I intended to hit the road the next day and never see him again?
But now here I was. Stuck.
Right between the two of them.
And neither one of them had touched me.
Wow. I’d just achieved a new level of rejection.
“I’m gonna go for a shower,” Dylan said, sitting up and stretching out his naked body. I looked away. “You want anything first? Juice? Coffee?”
“I’m fine,” I repeated. Apparently I’d killed a few too many brain cells last night and could no longer speak in complex sentences.
“There’s some water for you, on the table.” He indicated the bedside table where a glass of water sat.
“Uh-huh. Thanks,” I mumbled. Every time he spoke, my head throbbed.
I watched him smirk, then stand up, naked, right in front of me. I only saw his backside as he headed for the en suite bathroom. But that ass…
If he really was gay, I was gonna cry.
I glanced over at Ashley, wondering if he’d caught me staring. And instead, I caught him staring.
“You want eggs?” he asked me in his rough, sexy morning voice, and his blue eyes met mine. “Omelet or something? Toast?” He sat up, sliding his legs over the far side of the bed, turning his back to me.
“Toast,” I croaked. “Please and thanks.”
He yanked on his black briefs and a T-shirt so fast I barely saw anything, and headed down to the kitchen without another glance in my direction. But I’d definitely seen the way he’d just looked at Dylan, watching him disappear into the bathroom, bare-assed.
A straight dude did not check out his dude friend’s naked ass, even given the opportunity, when a woman was in the room.
And I’d seen that kiss; my camera didn’t lie.
Katie and Maggie were wrong. They had to be.
Maybe Ashley and Dylan were in the gay rock star closet? I wouldn’t exactly be surprised. Coming out when you were famous couldn’t be any easier than doing it when you weren’t. I’d been through the whole coming out thing, vicariously, with my sister. She’d be the first person to tell you that it was liberating as fuck, in some ways, but it was far from fun.
There just had to be something going on here. My female pride insisted upon it.
They were either gay, or I’d become repulsive since the last time I looked in a mirror.
To be honest, I kind of felt repulsive.
I pounded back the glass of water. Then I dragged myself up, peeling my cocktail dress off the chair where someone had laid it last night, along with my lingerie. I headed down the hall to a bathroom, and examined my naked self in the mirror, critically.
Nope. Definitely hadn’t become repulsive overnight.
Okay, so I was no supermodel. But I was definitely cute enough for two horny single guys—if they were straight, or even bi—to at least try to get up my skirt.
When I headed down to the kitchen a few minutes later, Ashley was there, alone, making scrambled eggs. He’d laid out tea and toast for me on the island, alongside jars of jam and honey.
“I’m heading into the city today,” he said, not looking at me. “Have some things to do.”
“Okay,” I said. It hadn’t escaped my notice that he’d been measurably nicer to me since sometime at the party last night. If I’d been more sober, I might’ve been able to pinpoint why. As it was, I was clueless.
Maybe his time of the month had passed?
I buttered my toast and carefully spread some jam on, not looking at him. He was standing at the stove, his back to me anyway.
“You’ll be alone with Dylan,” he said.
“Okay.”
“He’ll probably play his drums, work o
ut, swim. Make some phone calls. You know the routine by now.”
“Uh-huh.” I knew the routine. The naked routine.
If Dylan was swimming, his clothes were coming off. And I was gonna get hand cramps masturbating to the afterburn—the image of him that was gonna get permanently imprinted on my eyeballs from all the staring.
Ashley turned around. I tried not to look down at his briefs, at the bulge of his dick. Which meant I looked into his eyes instead. They didn’t look as cold as usual, or as filled with contempt.
But I really couldn’t say what he was thinking when he said, “You should take some photos of him today. It should be gorgeous out.”
Chapter Twelve
Dylan
Late in the afternoon, I stepped out onto the back deck. Amber was there, photographing the deck and the view, by the stairs that led down to the ground level. I paused. She saw me and nodded, as if to say, Go about your business. So I did.
I did exactly what I would’ve done if she wasn’t there. I ignored the camera. I stripped down. I didn’t even look at her to see what she thought of that, if her jaw was on the floor. Then I slid into the pool and started swimming.
When I was done, I hauled myself out and stood for a minute, enjoying the feeling as the cool air chilled my skin. Then I wrapped a towel loosely around my hips. The heaters were on, chasing off the October chill, and I settled back onto a lounge chair.
All the while I could feel her there, taking photos. I could hear the familiar, barely-audible click of the shutter… and it was turning me on.
It was getting me hard.
Fuck.
I was so fucking predictable.
Or at least, my dick was.
Amber was off to my right side, and I tried to ignore her as I made a couple of calls. Brody. Jesse. We were meeting at the old church where Dirty rehearsed in a few days, to start rehearsing the newest songs for the album, massaging the material Seth and Elle had written into the mix. We were still trying to figure out which songs were making it onto the album before we hit the studio in a few weeks.
All the while, I kept hearing the soft click of Amber’s shutter and wondering if she was taking photos of me.
Finally, I looked over at her. She was sitting at the top of the stairs next to her camera, which was on a tripod. The lens seemed to be looking off, toward the water, but I couldn’t tell if I was in her shot.
Our eyes met.
My cock was way up. I shifted, trying to bunch the towel up a bit on my lap, to hide it. I really didn’t mind if Amber saw my cock, hard or not. Just didn’t want to be rude or anything. Wasn’t sure if the towel did much good, though. Maybe just made it more obvious?
“It’s really gorgeous today,” she said, awkwardly. “I think it’s supposed to rain…” She glanced up at the mottled sky. “Makes for amazing lighting though. The clouds, diffusing the sun like that…”
“What are you gonna do with the photos?” I asked her.
She looked at me. “I’ll back them up, then I can put them all on a drive for you, if you like. I’ll retouch the best ones for you, though. There should be a few dozen.”
“Not the photos of the house,” I said, holding her gaze. “The other ones.”
I was taking a gamble, maybe, accusing her of taking other ones, but after catching her snapping a photo of Ash kissing me—or appearing to—and never saying a thing about it, I wouldn’t doubt she’d taken more.
“I told you,” she said, breaking eye contact. “I’m not a paparazzo.”
“No?”
“No. And I’m not a groupie, either.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
She looked at me again, and her eyebrows drew together. “Ashley thought I was, when he first met me.”
I laughed. “Yeah. Well, Ash thinks that about any girl who gets anywhere near me until she proves otherwise.”
“He has a hard time trusting people,” she said, getting to her feet. “I get that. I can relate.”
“Yeah? You have trouble with that?”
“Trusting people? Yes.” She unscrewed the plate that fastened the camera to the tripod and carried the camera over, setting it on the low table between us. I liked the way she handled it, like it was precious to her, even though it was scuffed all to hell. “People in general…” she said. “Men.” She glanced at me. “Maybe rock stars especially, if I’m being honest.”
“Why?”
She sat down on the lounge chair across from me with a small sigh. She didn’t lounge, though. She just sat there with her knees pressed together, looking at me. She was wearing jeans today and an oversized sweater, her wavy hair loose around her face. I noticed she kept her eyes carefully locked on my face, even though I was half-naked. She was really trying to keep this whole thing professional.
It was kinda cute.
“Let’s just say you aren’t the first I’ve ever met,” she said.
“First what?” Ashley strolled out the door from the kitchen, plates in hand and a grocery bag full of supplies in the other. He had what looked like marinated steaks on the plates, with veggies on skewers. He never shared the menu with me ahead of time, and I never asked; I’d eat whatever he cooked.
“Nothing,” Amber said, turning away a bit, pretending to be absorbed in the view.
“Rock stars,” I said. “Amber was just about to tell me about the other rock stars she’s met.”
Ash raised an eyebrow as he fired up the barbecue, and I watched her squirm. Didn’t intend to out her like this, but no point keeping secrets.
Of course, I already knew about one rock star she’d met. I’d had Jude do a little intel for me. Nothing too deep, just the basics.
I hadn’t shared that intel with Ash yet, though. Wanted to ask her about it first.
“There’ve been a few,” Amber admitted, brushing it off. “You know, I’ve worked with Liv before. Been to a few parties.”
“That all?” I asked.
She looked at me. She held my gaze, and I could see that she was wondering…
I already know, I tried to tell her with my eyes.
But maybe she didn’t want me to know.
Ash was watching her, too, even as he laid the food on the grill… and eventually she cracked under the pressure.
“Okay. I might’ve, you know… had a relationship with a rock star,” she admitted. “In the past. It was brief. Who cares, right?”
But Ash cared. “Who?” He looked at me with a question in his eyes. Someone we know?
“It’s not important,” she said with a shrug, still trying to brush it off.
“If it was Zane—”
“It wasn’t Zane,” she said, cutting Ash off. “It wasn’t anyone in your band,” she assured me, then glanced at him, “or yours.”
“Who was it?” he pressed.
Amber sighed, and I kinda felt sorry for her. “Johnny O’Reilly,” she mumbled, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear her.
Ash heard it. “Johnny O?! Fuck, no.”
Amber’s cheeks were turning pink.
“You serious?” As Ash stared at her, he seemed to be seeing her in a different light as he tried to digest this new information.
“Ash…” I warned him.
“Fuck. You’re shitting me.”
“Nope,” Amber said. Then she frowned at him. “Why, though?”
“I just can’t picture you with Johnny O,” he said, still scrutinizing her.
Amber laughed a humorless laugh. “Neither could he, apparently.”
“No doubt,” Ash said. “Who’d you catch him in bed with?”
She gave him a sharp look. “That’s presumptuous. How do you know I didn’t cheat on him?”
He gave her the same look right back.
She sighed again. “And the answer is: Who didn’t I catch him in bed with?”
“Right,” Ash said, not surprised in the least. He looked over at me. “Johnny O,” he mused under his breath. “You talk to that asshole lat
ely?”
“Nope.”
Ash poked at the food on the grill. It was starting to smell good. I figured I should go put on some clothes now that he was here, but I didn’t want to miss this conversation. Ash actually talking to Amber. Other than at the party last night, when they were both drunk, I’d never seen them really have a conversation.
“So. How much damage did he do?” he asked her.
“Damage?”
“Like how long were you together, how many times did he screw you over, were you in love with him, etcetera?”
Amber cleared her throat. “Um. Seven months. Too many to want to remember. And yes, unfortunately.”
“You still in love with him?” I asked her.
Amber laughed bitterly. “Uh, no. That was like four years ago. And I haven’t even seen him since then. You could say I learned my lesson.”
“What lesson was that?” Ash glanced at me. “Rock stars are untrustworthy assholes?”
“Can’t say you haven’t known a few of those,” I challenged him.
“I dunno,” Ash replied. “You’re trustworthy. You’re not an asshole. Most of the time.”
Amber looked at me. I didn’t even try to say the same about Ash. He was my best friend, yes. But that just meant I knew pretty much his entire sordid history with relationships.
“Um, since we’re grilling me,” Amber said, “how about you guys?” She looked from me to him, carefully. “Ever had a relationship with a rock star?”
“Nope,” I said.
“No,” Ash said.
I actually had to catch myself before I laughed out loud. “Elle?” I prodded.
“We didn’t have a relationship,” Ash said, then disappeared into the kitchen.
“Okay. I can amend that,” Amber called after him. “Ever fuck a rock star?”
I grinned. “Nope.”
Ash returned with a couple of beers, a bottle of Prosecco and two wine glasses. He cracked a beer for himself and put the rest on the table between Amber and me. “What?” he said, when we both stared at him. Then he got busy flipping the food on the grill. “I plead the fifth.”
“We’re in Canada,” Amber said, smirking. “Don’t think that works up here.”
“Good luck getting details out of Ash,” I told her. “He’ll never admit he was actually dating Elle. Or that he screwed two of the members of a certain death metal band in the porta potty at a festival. But I’ll tell you.”
Dirty Like Dylan_A Dirty Rockstar Romance Page 14
