Dirty Like Brody: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2) Read online

  But I knew he was real.

  I had his pin, and I had his picture. In the seventh grade class photo in the school yearbook he was standing right next to my brother, staring down the lens of the camera like he was ready to take on the world… and make it eat shit.

  His name was Brody Mason.

  He was the love of my life.

  If only I’d figured that out a lot sooner than I did.

  Chapter One

  Jessa

  I was late. For my brother’s wedding.

  And because I was late, the universe seemed to be conspiring to make me even more late. All three legs of my flight had been delayed. The last was the airline’s fault, the second, the fault of the weather, but the first… well, that was all me, so it was kind of a domino effect.

  Once I’d finally touched down in Vancouver—thirteen hours late—it seemed to take an unusually long time for my bags to come down the carousel, and by the time I’d gathered my things, piled them onto a baggage cart and steered my way to the exit doors, I’d been traveling for over twenty-four hours. More than enough time to ponder how pissed off my brother was going to be.

  I was weary and uncomfortably hot, sweating in my leather boots and faux fur jacket. I’d worn a thin T-shirt layered over a tank top and knit leggings with the jacket and boots, not sure what to expect with the weather. Vancouver was having a weirdly cold winter but the snow and ice was now gone, replaced with a faint, drizzling rain. The air that greeted me was cool and fresh but not cold as I walked through the sliding glass doors. And everything felt… familiar.

  Much more familiar than I thought it would.

  I took a breath and tipped my face up to the cloud-bruised sky. I glimpsed the peaks of snow-dusted mountains in the distance. And I felt an overwhelming sense of… joy.

  Aside from the fact that I didn’t actually want to be here, that I was carrying the burden of a gut-gnawing sense of dread—the kind that came with knowing you were about to come face-to-face with things you’d never really figured out how to face—it felt good to be home.

  Home.

  I grinned as the wisps of rain hit my face…

  Then I saw him.

  Him.

  Several feet to my left, there was a cue for the taxis, which I’d planned to get myself into. I’d get my ass to the ferry where I’d meet my old friend, Roni, my “date” for the wedding. On the ferry over to Vancouver Island, she and I would catch up and I’d generally get my shit together for what promised to be the most difficult weekend of my life. In the winding, four-and-a-half hour drive across the island, I’d run through the various tidbits of conversation I’d prepared in my head to get me through this; inconsequential, impersonal stuff like the latest celeb gossip, fashion trends from the front lines, and if I was really desperate, the weather. Canadians were always game to discuss the weather; it was kind of a way of life. Of course, I’d throw in a few decent jokes, too.

  My old friends were always good for a laugh.

  At the end of the road, maybe Roni would flirt with the boat guy and he’d let us grab a super-quick drink (or two) at the last bar we could find before heading out. On the private boat to the very posh and very remote resort up the coast where the wedding was taking place, I’d give myself the little pep talk I’d also worked out, in preparation for coming face-to-face with the man I’d painstakingly avoided for the last six-and-a-half years.

  Basically, my entire adult life.

  Along the way, Roni would provide distraction, entertainment and comic relief, as she always did. And when I saw him, him, she’d be by my side, drawing attention and generally providing a loud and lovely buffer.

  And everything would work out just fine, right? Because no way seeing him could possibly go as badly as I feared it might.

  Right.

  That was the plan.

  Instead, I was alone. I’d taken all of two steps into my hometown. I was weary and jet-lagged. I’d had not one drink. And my little pep talk? Completely out the window.

  Because a dozen feet to my right, he was standing at the curb in the rain, staring at me… and my world fell apart.

  “Brody,” I breathed.

  Then I more or less went into shock. Because he was right there. In jeans and a black leather jacket, his dark eyebrows furled as he stared me down, rain droplets dripping from his soft brown hair and his full lips… the smoldering, overcast sky casting shadows in his eyes… looking just like he used to look, only… better.

  “You’re late,” he said, his voice flat. He took a few steps toward me, then stopped, his gaze flicking down to my breasts. “Is that my shirt?”

  I glanced down.

  It was an old Led Zeppelin tour T-shirt. It said United States of America 1977 and had a rockin’ angel on it, a naked dude with outstretched wings. It wasn’t the kind of T-shirt you paid too much money for in some hipster boutique because it looked old and distressed. It was old. It was large on me to begin with and was now so stretched out I tied it above one hip to make it fit. The neck fell off one shoulder. It was worn to hell and had a few holes.

  And yes, it was his.

  I’d picked it up off his bedroom floor one sketchy morning when I was eighteen, and never gave it back. He’d never asked for it back. And even if he wanted it back after I’d worn the hell out of it, I wasn’t giving it back.

  It was a piece of him. The only piece I had.

  “No,” I lied, pulling my jacket shut. Butterflies skittered in my stomach as he reached past me, scooping my bags off the cart.

  “Had a shirt just like that. Disappeared around the time you did.”

  His blue eyes met mine and I felt the almost-electric jolt all the way down my spine. I felt it between my legs.

  Holy hell.

  I still felt it.

  That same thing… that thing that should’ve died with all the years and all the miles between us… all the silence… all the time I’d wasted trying like hell to fight it, to deny it, to just plain numb it out. Coiling fast, hot and tight at the base of my spine… in my lungs, at the back of my throat, every cell of my body catching fire… as every nerve, every fiber lit up in protest of every second we’d been apart.

  It was exactly the same. Only… worse.

  It was more.

  That crazy, irresistible pull I’d felt around him back then had only grown stronger.

  His eyes darkened as his pupils dilated… and I knew he felt it, too. Then his gaze dropped to my lips. He breathed in, his nostrils flaring. His jaw clenched.

  Then he turned and walked away. With my bags.

  Oh my God.

  I just stood there, watching him go, the air between us stretching thinner and thinner the farther he got, until I couldn’t breathe. At all.

  I allowed myself two-point-five seconds to freak out. Then I forced some air, shuddering, into my lungs.

  Then I went after him.

  I caught up only when he stopped to toss my things in the back of a black Escalade parked at the curb, hazard lights flashing. I stood there, awkwardly, waiting for him to turn around, every part of me throbbing with the force of my heartbeat; my lungs as I fought to breathe, my brain as I fought to think, my clit.

  My knees were shaking.

  No man had ever made my knees shake before.

  Well, no other man.

  This was not how my body had ever reacted to other men.

  And yes, I was aware that deep, deep down, there was still some part of me—maybe larger than I’d like to admit—that was still that skinny, dorky, lonely girl who’d been bullied on the playground. But making my living as a model over the past decade meant I’d grown a thick skin. Very thick. I’d also learned that no matter how I felt inside, the world did not see me as that skinny, dorky girl; that men, in general, found me beautiful. Way more beautiful than I’d ever felt. I still had a hard time reckoning me with those pictures of model-me in designer lingerie, my long brown hair highlighted with caramel and honey, my eyebrows
perfectly shaped, my cheekbones and chin all somehow grown in to balance what I’d feared would always be an awkward nose, my full lips and long limbs somehow all working together to create an image that was something far and away from that girl inside. Even so, I’d learned how to carry myself with confidence, how to compete, perform, win and even lose with grace. I’d learned how to keep my cool under intense scrutiny, and mercifully, how to handle rejection. Because the world I lived in, even for beautiful girls, was rife with rejection.

  What I’d never learned how to do, apparently, was look Brody Mason in his deep blue eyes and not lose my shit.

  Lucky for me, he barely spared me a glance as he slammed the back of the truck shut. “Get in,” he said, disappearing around the driver’s side.

  I walked up to the passenger side door as he got in the truck. Then I stood there, in the misting rain, still kind of in shock, just trying to get a handle on all the reactions set off by his sudden presence.

  Because how could I still react to him like this? After all this time?

  It was like no time had passed at all.

  Worse; I knew exactly how long it had been, and according to my body, I had six-and-a-half years without him to make up for. Preferably immediately, nakedly, and repeatedly.

  I took a deep breath, fumbled with the door handle and opened the door. “Thank you for the ride,” I managed.

  He didn’t smile. He just swiped a hand through his damp hair and stared me down with those intense blue eyes. I started to register how much older he looked than the last time I’d seen him, though his eyes hadn’t changed. Time had been good to him. Very good.

  Six-and-a-half years.

  It hit me like a kick in the gut, all at once.

  It wasn’t something I’d ever allowed myself to fully process: the agony of missing him, of wishing things had gone differently for us. If I did, I’d probably curl up and die, right on the spot. Because how could I live with it?

  Now that he was here, though, right in front of me… all my carefully constructed walls, the armor I’d built up over the years against my true feelings, against him, cracked open, and everything came surging into the light. Every moment between us. Every breath I’d taken on this Earth since Brody Mason sauntered into my life.

  And it was in those deep blue eyes, that he remembered, too.

  He remembered everything.

  “Get in,” he repeated, and started up the truck.

  I got in.

  As we pulled out into traffic he was silent, and I tried to think of something to say to fill the void. It was the perfect time, really, to tell him. The perfect opportunity to explain why I’d left, all those years ago.

  I could tell him everything. Just come clean, like I’d told myself I should do… could do. Might do, while I was in town for my brother’s wedding.

  Instead, I stared at his handsome profile, afraid to speak. The arch of his brow, his high cheekbone. The strong line of his nose. His square jaw, clean-shaven but slightly shadowed. His stylishly unkempt brown hair. The battered leather of his jacket.

  I hadn’t laid eyes on him in years. Not until my brother’s well-meaning fiancée started texting me photos of her and Jesse, and Brody happened to be in some of them. I should’ve deleted those photos, but I didn’t. Instead, I’d gazed at them a thousand times. And now he was here.

  So close to me.

  I watched his throat move as he swallowed. I watched his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as the wiper blades beat an angry rhythm against the rain.

  I stared at the familiar tattoo on the back of his right hand, a mess of entangled vines that wound around his thumb and wrist and belonged to a small, black rose on his palm. So familiar, like we’d never been apart. How many times had I traced the pattern of those vines with my gaze?

  A million, at least.

  That tattoo, just one of the many things about Brody—the many small details that made him him—that I’d tried to forget over the years. But I hadn’t forgotten. I knew I hadn’t. And despite all my preparation for this moment, I wasn’t prepared at all.

  I wasn’t ready.

  Would I ever really have been ready for this?

  Maybe I was totally kidding myself to think I’d ever be able to face him, those blue eyes staring me down, and come clean.

  Maybe I’d just always be dirty and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I looked out the window. “It’s raining,” I said. Yeah. Brilliant. But since I was a total chickenshit, I was going with it.

  “Seven years,” he said. I looked over at him, but he didn’t look at me. “Seven fucking years, and all the times I’ve tried to talk to you and you shut me out, and now that’s all you’ve got to say? It’s fucking raining? It’s January. It’s Vancouver. Where you were fucking born. So yes, it’s raining, like it always does in January. What the fuck else do you want me to say about it?”

  Okay…

  So much for my Canadians-love-talking-about-the-weather theory.

  I was judging by the number of F-bombs in that little tirade that he was pissed. At me.

  Not that I hadn’t expected him to be a little mad. Among other things.

  But the fact that he obviously was mad just proved that he still cared, right?

  “Six-and-a-half years,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It’s been… six-and-a-half years,” I repeated, my voice fading, “since we… saw each other.”

  He said nothing.

  It’s just because he cares, I told myself. And he probably won’t be the only one who gives you attitude this weekend, so get used to it.

  But I couldn’t get used to it. I had no experience with mature, pissed-off Brody. I’d barely been able to deal with the Brody I used to know. Young, wild, too gorgeous for common sense and angry at the world.

  At all the world… except me.

  We took a turn to the right, continuing back into the airport, and I struggled to get my bearings; it had been years since I’d been here, but this was definitely not the way to the ferry terminal.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To your brother’s wedding.”

  “But… I’m supposed to meet Roni at the ferry.”

  He shot me a look that could only be described as scathing. Come to think of it, it was the first time he’d looked at me since I got in the truck. “And I’m supposed to trust you not to skip out on the dinner tonight, or the wedding tomorrow? You’re already missing the rehearsal.”

  Oh.

  Jesus.

  That’s what this was about?

  He didn’t pick me up at the airport because he wanted to see me?

  I studied his angry profile and it all became so clear.

  No. He didn’t want to see me.

  He’d only come to get me because my brother, the big rock star, had asked him to drive out here in the rain and deal with me. Brody was one of my brother’s best friends, so why not? Worse; Brody managed my brother’s mega-successful rock band, Dirty, so this was probably some sort of business deal. Like somewhere in his contract, my brother had snuck in a clause that it was Brody’s responsibility to deal with all the most tedious bullshit in his life, up to and including escorting his little sister to his wedding so she wouldn’t bail.

  Definitely something my brother would do.

  Well, if they had a contract. In their many years of working together, Brody and the band had never had a written contract between them. Because that’s just the kind of friends they were. A verbal deal, then.

  You deal with Jessa. I’ll owe you one later.

  “It’s really none of your business,” I told him, “if I go to my brother’s wedding or not.” And it wasn’t. Brody wasn’t my manager—much as he’d wanted to be, back when I was writing music with the band… but that was neither here nor there. He wasn’t the boss of me either, any more than my brother was.

  Yeah, try telling either of them that.

  Whatever. This was
ridiculous. Offensive, actually, that they both seemed to think I needed some kind of chaperone for this event. That they were treating me like I was still a fucking teenager.

  Yes, I’d screwed up six-and-a-half years ago—and okay, every day since then—but today was a new day, right?

  “Jesse is my business,” Brody ground out. “Literally. If you skip out on his wedding or any of the other romantic bullshit Katie has planned for the next forty-eight hours, that shit will not fly.”

  We made a sharp turn into the small parking area in front of the Flying Beaver, a little restaurant and bar on the water where the floatplanes docked, and panic started to rise. This whole thing was spinning way, way out of control. Because apparently I was about to be trapped in a very small plane with a very pissed off Brody for the next couple of hours, and he didn’t even want to be here.

  “I told Jesse I’d take the ferry to the island. He was going to have a car meet me—”

  “Yeah, well, you’re late.” He parked us at the curb and cut the engine, popping off his seatbelt.

  “I was at a shoot, Brody. It ran late. I couldn’t just bail in the middle of—”

  “Do not say my name.”

  I blinked at him.

  What?

  “Go ahead and say and do whatever the fuck you’re gonna do,” he said, “but you do not get to say my name.” When I just gaped at him, he turned to me and leaned in, so close I could see the silvery-gray flecks around his pupils, and said in a low voice, “You wanted it, I’m giving it to you. Exactly what you’ve been asking for the last six-and-a-half years with a whole fuckload of silence. Consider me dead to you.”

  I stared at him, speechless. At the lines of repressed rage on his handsome face; the coldness in those dark blue eyes.

  “You’re… you’re angry with me,” I stammered.

  He grunted derisively. “We can’t just go from being strangers to best friends, princess. Doesn’t fucking work that way.”