by Mimi Strong
But I want to believe. My heart flutters. Dylan’s in love. With me. Sigh.
Nick turns his back to me and speaks in a soft tone, so I can’t hear him.
The roses Dylan had delivered yesterday sit between me and Nick. Looking at the beautiful roses makes my chest hurt. Does he love me? Dinner tonight can’t come soon enough.
When Nick finally hangs up the phone, he noisily tears a sheet of paper off a notepad. He pushes the paper toward me across the table surface.
I open the folded note warily. The dollar amount written on the paper is more money than my annual salary. I examine the decimal point carefully. This is a lot of zeros.
“I’m getting a raise?” I ask.
“Not exactly. If you break Dylan’s heart so he can write a smash hit song, you’ll get that as a bonus.”
I crumple the paper and chuck the ball at Nick’s face. He doesn’t even blink as it ricochets off his cheek.
“Dylan’s worth more than that to me,” I say.
“If you say so.” Nick blinks three times, then opens a cardboard box and starts taking out items to be archived.
Over the next few hours, we work.
He tries to be friendly, asking me about my hometown and life in general. I give only one-word answers.
He doesn’t bring up Dylan again, but something tells me he’s not letting the issue go.
I don’t care how much they offer me.
I want to be with Dylan, no matter what.
Chapter 3
I step out of the lobby of Morris Music at 5:25.
My attention is caught by a black car, squealing its tires crossing a lane. The car squeals to a stop in the taxi pick-up zone.
“The guy knows how to make an entrance,” I mutter under my breath.
Dylan Wolf, looking like a star as always, jumps out of the driver’s side. He comes around to open my door, taking me in with his devilish brown eyes.
“You look good enough to eat,” he says. “Did you wear that all day?”
“Maybe.” I flutter my eyelashes and run my hands over the sapphire blue wrap dress I’m wearing.
He leans forward and sniffs my shoulder, which is odd, but I don’t mind. Laughing, I ask what he’s doing.
“New fabric,” he says knowingly. “Were you shopping on your lunch break?”
My mouth drops open, and I stammer out, “Uhh, no!”
He chuckles and holds my door open as I slide into the leather seat.
Damn him for being so perceptive and figuring out my secret. I did go shopping on my lunch break. My clothes from home aren’t cute enough for dates, and the new pink clothes Morris Music paid for are too pink.
He gets in the driver’s side and eases into traffic slowly. He grins over at me, as if to say, how’s my driving?
I tilt my head over and sniff the shoulder of my dress. He catches me doing this and laughs.
“The fabric doesn’t smell,” he says. “I was just messing with your head. You forgot to cut the tag off, and it’s hanging from your left elbow.”
I curse the tag and yank it off the dress, my cheeks flushing.
He changes lanes, signaling and driving safely. Now that I’m in the car, he’s being careful. He might even be going slower than everyone around us, but I’m not going to complain. The first time I was in his car, I was sure the ride would end with us getting T-boned.
He’s still grinning, like he’s proud of himself for getting me flustered about my dress being new.
“You’re such a tease,” I say. “You’ll do anything to get a reaction from people, won’t you?”
He keeps his attention on the road. “The way I see it, we all have the same number of hours in a day. Every human on this planet. There aren’t enough hours to waste on being bored.”
I let out a sharp laugh, “Hah! You wouldn’t last five minutes at my job in the archives.”
“And how long were you there today?”
“Eight horrible hours.”
“Poor baby.” He pouts his lips out, making fun of me, and reaches over to pat my leg. “I’ll put in a good word for you on Friday. I’m coming in for a meeting.”
I suck in my breath. “Is this the BIG meeting?”
“They’re acting like it’s just to hear the new songs. But Q says they’ll make the offer.”
“It’s all happening so fast.” My heart sinks as I imagine the worst happening, and them not offering him a deal.
“And then, after I sign my contract, I’ll take care of you. I’ll tell them they’re wasting one of their top resources. The smartest, cutest employee shouldn’t be in the basement. What floor have you got your eye on? Ninth floor?”
“God, no!”
Dylan doesn’t know, but the ninth floor is where Stephanie works, pimping out girls as Eye Candy.
“What’s wrong with the ninth floor?” he asks.
“The eighth floor would be perfect. That’s marketing.”
“Marketing it is.” His hand is still on my leg, slowly moving up my thigh. He pushes the sapphire blue fabric of my skirt up, so his palm is on my bare skin. His touch is making me lose my place in my thoughts.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says.
“What?”
Does he mean I shouldn’t enjoy his hand on my leg? Because I’m enjoying it. All afternoon, the soft fabric of my dress has been whispering around my thighs. I’ve imagined Dylan’s hands slipping under this dress about a thousand times, and now it’s happening.
“Don’t get too comfortable on the eighth floor,” he says. “Because you’ll have to take some time off.”
Still looking at the road, he leans over toward my side. He slips his fingers between my thighs and pushes further up between my legs.
My voice trembling, I say, “Time off for what? Vacation?”
“To go on tour with me. Not right away, of course, but as soon as everything’s set up. I’ll be the headline act, and you’ll be my groupie.”
I clench my legs together, stopping his fingers.
“Your groupie? Excuse me?”
Laughing, he yanks his hand away from my thighs and shakes it like I hurt him. The way he laughs makes me wish I had.
“You’ll be the only groupie,” he says. “Just one.”
“Dylan, you’re the one who keeps showing up at my window and serenading me. I think you’re the groupie in this relationship.”
He laughs again.
I don’t think he’s particularly funny at this moment, so I dig into my purse. Like the dress, the purse is a new purchase from this afternoon. I’ve never owned a purse before. I usually keep my wallet in a pocket, or in my ratty old laptop bag. But this dress needed a purse, so I bought one.
“You’ll like this restaurant we’re going to,” Dylan says.
“Cool.” I pull out my phone and scroll through messages.
“Q recommended the restaurant.”
I flip my phone over. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask Dylan about. I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell him how I know.
“How many times have you met Q?” I ask. “What does he look like?”
“I only met him once in person, when he discovered me. After we finished off the pitchers of cheap beer, my memory gets hazy.” He chuckles at the memory. “Oh, I remember one thing. He had really small eyes. Like a mole or something. And he wore thick glasses. He was odd, like one of those genius guys who doesn’t have social skills.”
“That’s it?” I say, keeping my tone light. “With a cool name like that, I expected him to be more like a James Bond villain.”
“That would be cool.” Dylan grins.
I prod myself to ask my question. “I keep thinking about that older couple in the matching hoodies. They were filming you when we first met. Do you think they’re working for him?”
I bite my lower lip and wait for an answer. Dylan doesn’t know that I saw the couple visit his loft.
“Turns out they are working for Q,” he
says, his voice high with surprise at my question. “How’d you know? Never mind, don’t tell me. Super secret stuff.” He laughs again, like all these secrets are part of the fun. “I didn’t know they were at first, but Q sent them over to have me sign some paperwork. Nice couple.”
“What kind of paperwork?”
His voice goes cool. “The kind I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
I fidget with the phone in my hands and grumble under my breath about keeping secrets.
He responds, “Financial paperwork. Don’t ask for more. And don’t tell me you’re the suspicious type. If I happen to talk to a woman, you’re not going to get crazy, are you?”
I turn and squint my eyes at the side of his face. Why would he mention other women? I’ve got a bad feeling now, ruining my mood.
He glances over and gives me his charming smile.
As always, my icy exterior melts under his hot gaze. The man has charisma, that’s for sure. One look in his eyes is like hearing the opening notes to a favorite song. Instantly, he’s got my heart, and my body, under his spell.
“This whole Q thing is just weird,” I say.
“My life has been nothing but weird. At least it makes for good inspiration.”
I tear my eyes off his gorgeous face and return my attention to my phone screen.
The mystery of the older couple is solved. I guess.
There’s a bunch of new messages on my phone. What catches my eye is a message from a blocked number. I open the text and find a photo of Dylan.
He’s at a party or concert, by the look of all the people in the background. He’s being kissed on the cheek by a glamorous woman with cocoa skin, full lips, and miles of eyelashes.
Why would someone send me this? The only other information is a date—last Saturday. That’s the night Dylan went to a gig, then showed up drunk at my house, with glitter on his cheek.
A horrible feeling rolls through me.
Another message comes in while I’m holding the phone.
I click the attachment.
This photo is of Dylan and the same woman. She’s sitting on his lap, holding a martini glass to Dylan’s lips. He seems to be having the time of his life.
We’re at a stop light, so I lean over to hold my screen in front of Dylan’s face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Player, but who’s this?” I ask. “Is this why you were asking me if I’m the jealous type?”
He turns to frown at me. “Where’d you get that?”
“Someone sent it to me. Stop trying to change the subject and tell me who that girl is.”
“No. Tell me who sent you that picture.”
I groan in exasperation. He’s stalling for time, and that pretty much confirms my worst thoughts.
I spit back, “I don’t know who. It came from a blocked number.”
Still driving, he looks over at me steadily. His brown eyes seem to get darker, bottomless. The temper is back.
“Jess, don’t fuck with me. What are you doing with those photos? What’s your angle?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat and tug down the hem of my dress.
He asks me again, the same questions. His tone is accusing. As his volume rises, the words blend together. I glance to my right, thinking about opening the car door and getting out right here at the intersection. I’ve been nothing but sweet to Dylan, and he’s going to talk to me like this? He can go fuck himself.
An angry, barely coherent rant swirls around inside my head, drowning out his words.
Back when I started going to school, not all the kids were nice to me. A few picked on me, just because I was shy. Some of the boys wanted nothing more than to make girls cry. Yelling back at them didn’t do any good, so I started doing all my yelling inside my head.
It’s been a while since I did this, but the anger feels good. It feels like power. You can’t cry when you’re feeling powerful and angry.
Dylan stops asking me about the photos, but I hardly notice the silence over the yelling inside my head.
The tires squeal. He cranks the steering wheel hard and turns left across traffic. The car dodges into a dark cave, down a ramp and into below-ground level of parking. We’re going slower now, but the turns are sharp as we go down two more levels. The tires keep squealing.
My breathing is high and shallow. I’m so furious at Dylan for driving recklessly that I can’t even catch my breath, let alone scream at him. This is the last straw. I’m not getting into a vehicle with him again.
He screeches the car into a spot and kills the engine. There are no other vehicles on this level. Just us.
“Fine. Let’s talk,” he says.
Chapter 4
“I’m past wanting to talk,” I say.
I grab for my door handle, but Dylan reaches over and grabs my wrist.
“Wait,” he says.
I wrench my hand from his grasp and slap him across the face in one motion.
He pulls back over to his side of the car, blinking rapidly.
“My bad,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s on me. Don’t apologize. I deserved that slap.”
I spit out terse words. “I wasn’t going to apologize.”
He clears his throat and slowly holds out his hand, palm up. “May I see your phone?”
“No. Tell me who that pretty girl is. The photo is from Saturday night.”
He’s calmer now that we’re in the cool, dark underground parking level. He wiggles his fingers, his hand still outstretched for my phone.
“Jessica, I had a lot to drink that night.” He doesn’t sound angry now, just mildly annoyed. “How am I supposed to tell you who some girl is if you won’t show me? And what’s with you sticking your fucking phone in front of my face while we’re driving?”
“We were at a stoplight.”
He stares into my eyes silently, and then the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Oh, we were at a stoplight. In that case, feel free to stick anything you want in the driver’s face, as long as we’re at a stoplight.”
My own mouth twitches. I let out a nervous gasp of a giggle. I don’t know how things between us got so crazy, but I wonder if I might have overreacted.
I hand over the phone.
“Hmm,” he says as he ponders the photo.
After a few seconds, he slips me a look that says I’m going to be feeling very foolish in a minute. Good. I’d rather be feeling foolish than hear about him being with another girl.
He hands the phone back to me. “Why don’t you google Miss Zerobia. I think that’s her name.”
I punch in the name, taking a wild guess at the spelling. The signal is weak, but search results come up.
She’s a drag queen. Miss Zerobia is a male performer who puts on padding and makeup, transforming into a gorgeous, muscular, tall woman.
There’s a new post from Saturday’s fundraiser, including photos of Dylan posing with other people. There’s a cute blonde MMA fighter, and other local celebrities.
I glance up from my phone and find Dylan staring at me with a smug expression.
“Shut up,” I say to him playfully.
He chuckles. “I didn’t say anything.” His eyes flick down to my lap. “Hey, I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”
“You really got mad fast.”
He sighs. “Being alone in a cabin for the last year hasn’t healed me as much as I thought.”
“Do you have an anger problem?”
“I’m working to make my temper less of a problem and more of a charming quirk.”
“It needs more work.”
“You could help me.”
“I seem to bring out the worst in you.”
He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. He lingers, whispering, “You bring out my passionate side.”
His breath is hot at my ear. The tickle of his lips near my skin makes my whole body hum. My back arches, and I start breathing heavier. Our sides are almost touching, but the center console and shifter separates us at our knees.
>
“I don’t hate your passionate side,” I say.
He growls happily and drags his lips down my cheek to my lips for a tentative kiss. I turn to meet his mouth.
“Making up is the best part about fighting,” he says, his throaty words vibrating on my lips.
“I don’t like fighting with you.” I take his lower lip between mine and suck gently.
He keeps talking, even though I have his lower lip hostage. His words come out muddled, but I still understand him. “You don’t have a choice, Jess. You arouse my emotions. All of them.”
I switch to his upper lip, wetting it with my tongue before sucking it into my mouth. His mouth is open, his breath hot and labored on my chin. My eyes are half-lidded, my head foggy.
I hear him unclick his seatbelt and fold one leg up under himself so he can face me without twisting. I remove my seatbelt and do the same, mirroring him. We’re face to face, the console still between us. I let go of his lip and he seizes me, his hands at the back of my head. He cradles the base of my skull as he kisses me deeply.
Both of us are breathing heavily, making muffled noises halfway between growling and purring. The car interior feels small now, and hot.
His fingertips slide up the back of my head, through my hair. The movement sends bursts of pleasure through my body. His hands move back down and scoop under my earlobes. He squeezes and strokes my earlobes with his fingertips. One hand feels softer than the other. It’s because of the calluses on his fingertips from playing guitar.
The slight rasp of those fingertips on my earlobe excite me. He plays guitar so beautifully. It’s no surprise he makes music with my body. I kiss him back ferociously, until the tick of my teeth on his makes me pull back and apologize.
He gazes at me with amusement, his chocolate brown eyes half-lidded and sexy.
“You bit me,” he whispers.
“You bit me first.”
The top of his lip curls up on one side, reminding me for a moment of his cute Elvis impersonation. He looks like he’s planning something, his gaze moving down my body. His eyes widen and his eyebrows lift when he looks at the gap between my thighs.
