Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4) Page 7

  Liv’s fucking sister is in my house, I’d announced, after slamming the door behind me and heading downstairs to find him in the gym.

  She’s here already? he’d replied casually, from where he stood swinging a giant kettlebell.

  Say what? I’d stopped dead in my tracks, staring at him.

  I told Liv to send her over.

  Why the fuck would you do that? I’d demanded, as if I didn’t know.

  He’d set the kettlebell down and took a slow drink of water, and looked at me like I had no reason to be irritated. You never use your place anyway. You always just end up crashing here.

  I couldn’t argue with that. But it was at that moment that I realized how bad this was shaping up to be.

  And it was getting worse.

  As I stood here, drinking my beer, I watched Dylan walk Susanna out to her car, stuff her inside, and send her on her way. Punctuality was suddenly important to him; he seemed pretty motherfucking bent on getting her onto that six o’clock ferry.

  Amber, on the other hand, was parked in his living room.

  Dylan had invited her to stay for dinner.

  Though she’d tried, half-assedly, to turn down the invitation at first, she’d of course accepted, right in front of Susanna, which was at least part of the reason she’d accepted. Because when Dylan asked Amber to stay, he sure as shit didn’t ask Susanna. Susanna didn’t like that. Amber liked that Susanna didn’t like that. She probably also liked that I didn’t like it.

  She probably also liked Dylan.

  Why the fuck wouldn’t she?

  Then Dylan walked Susanna out, acting like he was oblivious to the whole dynamic. Either way, the message was clear to all.

  Amber had snagged Dylan’s interest. Susanna was on the next ferry.

  At least, it was clear to all besides Amber. The girl didn’t seem to have the first clue what she was really doing here, besides getting a free meal.

  Dylan strolled back to the house as Susanna’s car disappeared down the road, her HONEY license plate vanishing in an angry cloud of dust. He gave me a crooked, annoying smirk and patted my ribs as he strolled on past me to collect Amber from the living room.

  I followed them, grudgingly, into the kitchen, barely able to resist rolling my eyes when he opened the fridge and asked her smoothly, “What can I get you to drink? I’ve got Prosecco.” As if he ever drank anything besides beer and hard liquor.

  “I don’t know,” Amber said lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.” I noticed her voice was a lot lighter when she spoke to him that it had been with me.

  “Italian white wine,” Dylan informed her, pulling a bottle from the fridge. “Bubbly. Kind of sweet. Perfect for you.”

  Now I did roll my eyes. At least my back was turned when I did it. I didn’t wanna see it if he actually winked at her.

  “Sounds good,” Amber said softly, and I could just imagine the Aw, shucks blush blooming on her cheeks.

  I started carving the roast I’d pulled out of the oven a few minutes ago, laying the meat out on a serving plate, as Dylan poured them two glasses of Prosecco. He knew better than to offer me that shit.

  “Ash always stocks it in the fridge, for my mom and my sisters,” Dylan explained. “They love this stuff.”

  “Well… that’s thoughtful of him,” Amber said, kind of fake-polite, like she was really forcing it.

  “Yeah. That’s Ash.”

  I couldn’t even tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

  I ignored them, scooping the roasted vegetables and sweet potatoes onto dinner plates for the three of us and laying the plates out on the island. If Dylan pulled a fancy tablecloth out of his ass and started clearing the dust off the dining room table, I was gonna have to say something. But he just pulled out a barstool at the island for Amber—right next to mine. She slipped off her sweater and sat down, and once she was seated, he slid onto a stool across from her.

  I laid the platter of meat in the middle of the island, stabbed it with a serving fork, got myself another beer for backup, and sat down to unceremoniously start eating. I didn’t wait for either of them, digging right in and tuning out their bullshit flirtatious small talk. Luckily, the roast was pretty good. I wasn’t exactly a professional chef; Dylan couldn’t cook to save his life, yet he ate like a Hoover, so I usually made sure he got fed. I didn’t even mind being his fucking house bitch after everything the guy had done for me.

  Least I could do was cook him a few meals and throw some pussy his way.

  Good food. Hot chicks. Rock ’n’ roll.

  What the fuck else did we need?

  All I really wanted in life was pretty fucking simple: me and Dylan Cope against the world. Touring. Partying. Casual hookups.

  Mind-blowing sex.

  And to never, ever fall for anyone again.

  I was not fucking falling in love. I’d made that incredibly clear to him.

  But there was no way in hell Dylan wasn’t falling for this fucking girl with her flowery dress and her earnest eyes and the monumental chip on her hippie shoulder. She even smelled like flowers. Flowers and fucking gumdrops or something; I could smell it right over the roast and beer.

  She smelled like fucking dessert.

  I didn’t even want to look at her pretty face. I’d managed to check out her ass, though. Unfortunately, it was as cute as the rest of her. I’d seen the rest, already, in my bathroom last night. Not for long, but long enough to get an eyeful of her firm tits, her hard pink nipples, and her toned legs. She was kinda bent over, so I didn’t get a chance to see her pussy, but I definitely saw her legs.

  I was just glad they weren’t showing now; Dylan could get really fucking stupid at the sight of a nice pair of bare legs.

  I glanced over at her.

  She glanced back at me and narrowed her eyes.

  Yup. I’d called it, from moment one.

  Trouble.

  Sure, Dylan attracted every sparkly Susanna wherever he went. They were dripping off him backstage, panting in heat whenever he strolled into a party, and he’d never exactly complained about it. We’d both enjoyed our share of Susannas, and we’d often enjoyed them together.

  But I knew the kind of girl Dylan Cope really liked. The kind that made him lose his fucking shit.

  The kind that rendered him blind-drunk infatuated, hallucinating rainbows and shooting stars and forgetting where he left his keys. And it wasn’t the kind that just drove off in the silver BMW.

  I knew what he wanted.

  I knew what he needed.

  And Amber Malone was it. It couldn’t have been any clearer to me if she’d had Property of Dylan Cope tattooed on her forehead.

  I watched her, eating her dinner, like the enemy had fucking landed in my backyard. Eating her roast veggies and potatoes as she listened with rapt attention to Dylan, who was telling her all about the workshop we’d just built in the garage—like she gave a shit.

  There was no roast on her plate.

  Christ, was she a vegetarian? If Dylan went veggie over this girl, I was gonna lose it.

  I stared at her. Did he seriously think he was gonna hook her up with me?

  I’d wondered, when he kept looking at her at the Underlayer shoot, at the side of the stage… and when he’d watched her in his dressing room while she photographed him, all sweaty and practically naked…

  And I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking.

  That he wanted her—for both of us.

  He thought the fact that she was rubbing me wrong meant that she was rubbing me right.

  Knowing Dylan, he was probably even gonna be all altruistic about it, on account of my recent sexual drought, and let me have her first.

  It’d really be no sweat off the back of his annoyingly patient self.

  I’d seen Dylan Cope in action when he actually wanted a girl, and he could be crafty as fuck about it. All nonchalant, with his laid-back, couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude. Strolling around with his six-pack out, fl
ashing easy smiles, all the while his brain was working overtime on every-which-fucking-way he was gonna get her into his bed.

  The man could be patient as fuck.

  And even though I knew all of this, I’d seriously underestimated the level of trouble this was gonna turn out to be.

  The trouble she was gonna be.

  “So Liv said you do travel photography?” he was saying, when I actually tuned back into their conversation. “Is that like landscapes and tourism stuff?”

  “Um. When did Liv say that?”

  “After you got fired,” I cut in bluntly.

  She glanced at me, but then her light-green eyes returned to Dylan and stayed there. “Well, most people think I’m a travel photographer, because I travel so much and work as I go. And my sister knows better, but she usually shorthands to ‘travel photographer.’ And that’s okay. But actually, I specialize in environmental portraiture.”

  “What is that?” I asked flatly. “Like ducks covered in oil spill?”

  “Um, no,” she said, throwing me another cool glare. “It’s photographing people in their environment. Like, if it’s a farmer tilling the land in North Dakota,” she explained to Dylan, pretty much ignoring me, “or a pottery maker in Peru, or a bunch of protestors at a march in Paris, I just try to keep as uninvolved as possible.”

  “So it’s like journalistic stuff?” he asked.

  “Sometimes. The end use really varies. It just depends where I can find a buyer for the images. But, you know, it’s not like I’m photographing the Kardashians, so my images aren’t always in demand…”

  She took a sip of wine, then licked her lip. I tracked Dylan’s eyes tracking her tongue as she did it, and my dick fucking swelled.

  Christ.

  “One editor I worked with called me ‘paparazzi for the non-famous,’” she went on, “but I don’t think that’s fair. I don’t shoot people without telling them, then make money selling their images. There’s very little connection between me and the subject, but that’s just so I have as little influence on what’s happening in the photo as possible. I always introduce myself after I get the shot, if not before, and let them know what I’m planning to do with it. But I mostly sell to small online magazines.”

  “That pay well?” I asked, looking to curb her babbling. The girl getting all passionate about her work was hardly gonna kill Dylan’s interest in her.

  “No,” she said, this time not even looking me in the eye. “Not really. But anyway. As I was saying, I’m far from paparazzi and it’s not always journalism, either. I’m totally babbling, I know.”

  “No worries,” Dylan said. “Babble all you want.”

  “It’s my passion,” she said, picking at her potatoes. “I have a hard time shutting up about it. And, um, you seemed interested.”

  “We are,” Dylan answered for both of us.

  Fucking annoying thing was, he really was.

  “The thing is, as you kind of found out, what I don’t love is people posing for me,” she said. “Being hyperaware that I’m photographing them at the moment I make the photograph. Those are my least favorite types of shoots. Like the stuff Liv does. I really shouldn’t have taken that job. It was just supposed to be behind-the-scenes, candid stuff, which is fine, but… I should’ve known. It wasn’t the right job for me.” She cocked her head a little, her green eyes locking with his, all passionate earnestness and dick-hardening charm. “Plus, I was in kind of a bad mood. I’m sorry I was so… rude. I didn’t mean to be rude at your shoot.”

  Dylan just dismissed that with a shake of his head. “I get it. You would’ve done it differently, if it was your shoot.”

  “Yeah, well. I would’ve just filmed you in your environment. But I get that’s not the vision they had for their underwear…” She trailed off.

  “He’s a drummer,” I said. “The stage and the drum kit are his environment.”

  “I disagree,” she said, sparing me another cool glare. Amazing, how her mood could shift temperature by several hundred degrees in the span of a nanosecond as she looked between us.

  “How so?” Dylan asked.

  “They didn’t hire you because you’re a drummer,” she told him. “They hired you because you’re a ‘rock god.’” She shrugged, and one of the skinny straps of her dress fell off her shoulder. She didn’t even seem to notice, and I stuffed down my groan with a forkful of roast as Dylan’s gaze skimmed her tanned, slightly freckled shoulder… and her lacy pink bra strap. “I just would’ve tried to film you in an environment that expressed that. And preferably a real one, not some sound stage.”

  “Like a mountaintop cliff… or a bedroom?” he said, remembering what she’d said at the shoot.

  “Right.” Amber took a sip of her wine, and she was definitely fucking blushing. “I’d set you loose in one of those spaces and see what I could capture organically. And it would probably be the photos in-between the posed ones, when you weren’t even aware I was still shooting, that would be the best ones.”

  Well, fuck.

  Dylan was done. Hook, line, sinker. Fillet him and serve him up on a platter.

  Not only was the girl hitting every hot button he had with her bright-eyed sincerity, but she was a fucking photographer, and talking about taking photos of him? Total dirty talk.

  The guy had always been an exhibitionist.

  Shit.

  This was all happening way too fucking fast…

  I watched them talking and flirting, and it all started to kinda blur together. I couldn’t even hear what they were saying anymore. But I could see it all happening in front of me in weirdly slow yet too-fast motion…

  Too. Fucking. Fast.

  Yes, I’d expected him to go sniffing around. Checking in with Liv at the shoot, casually inquiring about her sister. And obviously, I knew he’d get Amber Malone on her back. The girl had an attitude, but I’d seen the way she looked at Dylan. She’d play the game, maybe she’d play it cool, but soon enough, she’d be giving it up to him. It really didn’t take much. Dylan didn’t even have to open his mouth to make a woman open her legs; I’d seen it too many times to count.

  I’d never actually been jealous of another dude’s skills with women until I met him.

  But here was the other thing about Dylan Cope: when it came to women, he had some serious ADD. If this was any other girl, all I should’ve had to do was throw him off the scent. Whisk him off to the island and toss some flashy blonde pussy in his face.

  But I’d underestimated that, too.

  I did not expect him to blow Susanna off so easily after I’d invited her out here. After she’d dropped everything to come over on the morning ferry, and busied herself with her other clients on the island for most of the day, waiting on him, until I told her it was a good time to come over. Even when Amber had showed up in my bathroom, naked, I figured Susanna still had a fighting chance. Or at least, I managed to convince myself that her mile-long legs and juicy tits might have the power to eclipse Amber’s natural appeal. Her sun-kissed hair and thrift store clothes. Her perky tits. The earnestness she wore as nakedly as the freckles on her face.

  The girl had fucking freckles.

  They were smattered faintly across the cutest nose in existence. And I wasn’t even gonna get started on the tiny little pink nose piercing.

  She also had a small tattoo inside her left wrist that I’d only just noticed; a few embellished letters or initials or something I couldn’t quite read. Probably some stupid hippie thing. Namaste or some shit.

  Made me wonder if she had any other tattoos on her body, though I kinda doubted it. Probably way too practical for that. Obviously, she took herself way too fucking seriously. She looked all clever and idealistic with her straight shoulders and short, bare fingernails. And when she was pissed, she twisted up her pretty lips and made an adorable little duck face. I’d seen it already, several times.

  Add to that the thick, wavy hair just dusting her shoulders, the color of caramel melting at
sunset, and the mesmerizing, light-green eyes, the little tan lines peeking out that made you want to undress her… She was a full foot shorter than Dylan, and as she gazed up at him now… shit. If she wanted Dylan’s cock down her throat right now, she could have it. If he wasn’t already, the guy was definitely gonna be hard for her in like five more seconds. All she had to do was—

  Laugh.

  I cringed as she fucking laughed at whatever clever shit Dylan had just said, tossing her head back, her light-green eyes sparkling, her canine teeth poking down a little longer than her other teeth… and Dylan fucking sprang wood. I knew he did. No way he couldn’t. The girl had a sexy, infectious laugh and perfectly imperfect teeth, just like the rest of her.

  Dylan’s eyes caught mine as he sipped his wine. He raised one eyebrow a fraction, and I knew what he was thinking.

  He was wondering if I was as hard as he was.

  I totally was, but that was way the fuck beside the point.

  Just because this was happening didn’t mean I had to be involved.

  No idea what I was gonna do to stop it either. I didn’t exactly possess Susanna’s assets, and if those weren’t doing shit-all to diffuse the situation, I was fresh out of ideas. The blood rushing to my cock wasn’t helping.

  Wasn’t exactly my fault, though, that Dylan getting turned on turned me on. I could no more help that than he was gonna be able to help falling for this girl, if she stuck around.

  No way was I losing my wingman over some hippie chick with a perky little face and a bad attitude, though.

  No way was he falling in love with this girl… and leaving me in the dust by the roadside.

  Fuck that.

  “Have you ever done any real estate photography?”

  Wait.

  What?

  I shot him a look across the island, but he ignored me. I attempted to kick his foot, but he slid off his seat and reached to pour Amber another glass of wine. They were already hitting the bottom of the bottle.

  “Um…” Amber looked stricken. Perhaps recalling Susanna and wondering if “real estate photography” included working “Honey” into the deal. She swallowed her mouthful of potato and washed it down with wine. “No.”