Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4) Read online

“But you shoot people in their environment,” Dylan said. “That must mean inside their homes sometimes.”

  “Sure…” she said.

  “So you could take photos of my house.”

  What the fuck? What the hell did he need professional photos of his house for?

  Short answer: he didn’t. He just wanted to keep this girl around.

  Badly.

  “Well. Yes. I guess so. I mean…” She glanced around. “I have a tripod, and a wide lens. That’s probably all I’d need…” She trailed off.

  “Cool. It should take a few days, right? Then after that, we can see.”

  A few days?

  And see what?

  “You can stay at Ash’s house. He’s not using it anyway.” He looked at me, deadpan. “Right?”

  I drank my beer and said nothing. What could I say? The more I protested, the more he was gonna think I wanted her.

  I made a noncommittal grunt and kept eating.

  Amber looked from me to Dylan, clearly uncertain.

  “Well. Um. How much does this gig pay?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your day rate?”

  “Well, I—”

  “How much does that guy charge?” Dylan turned to me. “You know, that friend of Summer’s. The photographer you guys hired on that Penny Pushers shoot last year.”

  “We hired him,” I said, glaring at him a little, “because we had pro BMX guys doing tricks with us and he works with those guys a lot. I think he charges like three grand a day for his commercial stuff—”

  “So three grand it is.”

  Amber’s mouth, which was open, snapped shut. She pressed her lips together.

  “Sound good?” Dylan was already heading to the fridge for another bottle of Prosecco.

  Yeah. It sounded good. I was gonna go out on a limb and guess that a three-grand day rate was more than she’d expected.

  “Okay,” she said, still looking a little bewildered.

  “Unless you think the rate should be higher,” he said.

  “Um. No. That rate is fair.”

  “Great. Then we can celebrate your new job.” Dylan ripped off the foil and cracked open the bottle, topping up her glass with fresh bubbly.

  “Well… okay then.” She glanced at me, quickly, then lifted her glass, touching it to Dylan’s. “Thank you. I look forward to working with you.”

  Jesus. Did she really think that’s all this was? A job offer?

  How fucking naive was this girl?

  Dylan looked at me, his wine glass still out, but I turned away, swiping up some dishes and heading for the sink.

  “Oh!” Amber exclaimed. “I wasn’t finished with that—”

  “Sorry,” I said, dumping her half-eaten dinner in the sink along with mine. “Thought you were done.” Then I stalked out like a prick, my skin practically crawling with irritation.

  No doubt about it: I was allergic to the girl.

  Dylan just chuckled in my wake. I rarely failed to entertain the guy. Usually the more surly I got, the more hilarious he found me.

  The best friends were like that. Loved you, no matter what an asshole you were.

  “I should probably stop drinking,” I heard Amber say, just as she probably took another sip. I could already hear Dylan fixing her another plate. “You know, I’ll want to get started early. Like sunrise-early, so I can get the early morning light.”

  “I’ll be up,” Dylan said, as if he’d ever been up at the ass-crack of dawn—unless he was still up from the night before.

  I paused on my way out to the garage. I could see them through the cutout in the kitchen wall. Her, sitting up on her bar stool, back straight, cheeks flushed. And him, coy as a fucking rattlesnake, pretending not to notice how fucking pretty she was.

  “I’ll maybe start downstairs,” she said, her keen green eyes gazing around. “Those big windows onto the back yard should let in gorgeous morning light…”

  “I’ll leave the door open,” he said, casually. “You can let yourself in if I’m in the shower. I’ll try to remember not to take a morning swim.”

  “Oh.” Cute, batting eyelashes. “Why?”

  “Because…” Killer, coy grin. “I like to swim naked.”

  “Oh!” She giggled, the Prosecco hitting her the way it was meant to, and Dylan sipped his wine. He tucked his hair behind his ear in that smooth way he did that made chicks cream.

  I ground my fucking teeth and slammed out to the garage.

  There was no possible way on Earth those two weren’t fucking tonight.

  Whatever.

  Even if Dylan asked me—fucking begged me—to join in, I wasn’t doing it. On motherfucking principle alone, that girl was not touching my dick.

  I didn’t care how long it’d been since I’d been laid—too long—or how cute she was, or how fucking amazing it might feel to sandwich her, naked, between Dylan’s body and mine.

  Dylan could just go ahead and fuck her himself.

  Tomorrow, I’d just have to find some way to get her fired—again.

  “I know you’ve been hurt…” Dylan said into the darkness.

  It was late. Pitch-black outside, and all the lights were off.

  Amber had stumbled back to my place a while ago, after polishing off that second bottle of Prosecco with Dylan and flirting with him like a horny schoolgirl on her first spring break, while he pretended not to notice. I still had no clue why he hadn’t ended up balls-deep in her. But here he was, with me.

  The two of us were laid out on the couches in his living room. We were watching Shameless on Netflix, but I could feel him looking at me.

  I glanced over; he was shirtless, sprawled out on the leather, his reddish hair all lit up in the glow of the TV screen. He looked all motherfucking beautiful, and accessible to me in a way that he really wasn’t. But if I let my mind wander a little, I could almost imagine…

  That this was how life could be.

  Dylan. Me.

  Perfection.

  Until he kept talking.

  “Losing Elle…” he went on, and I fucking sighed. Here the fuck we go again. “Losing Summer. You’ve had other relationships that maybe didn’t work out how you wanted them to. Your mom fucking left you. I get it.” He counted off my relationship failures with annoying sympathy. “So this is what you do. You shut yourself down. You harden yourself. You make jokes, and when those don’t work anymore, you get mean.”

  “Uh-huh,” I grumbled and took a pull of my beer.

  “You gonna tell me I’m wrong about that?”

  “Nope. You’re right. And I already know all this shit about myself, Oprah.”

  “So then you know that you’re being an asshole to Amber because you feel threatened.”

  Yup.

  “Because you’re afraid you might actually like her,” he went on, “and therefore she might actually hurt you.”

  Um, no. That would be where you’re wrong.

  “I told you,” I said. “I’m not falling in love again. I was very clear about that shit.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m fucking serious. I start talking shit about going the distance with someone, picking out matching tattoos or whatever, you call Jude. You tell him to bring a gun. The two of you take me out back and you bury me in a fucking deep grave.” Felt calming, actually, laying it out like that. I figured that Jude, Dirty’s head of security, was the one person I knew who could be seriously counted on to bury a body if it came down to it.

  Maybe I’d have to let Jude know the plan myself, though. Dylan was probably just gonna pussy out if he ever actually had to put a bullet in my head.

  Even if it was a mercy kill.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Casual sex. No strings, right?”

  “No strings.”

  “You think Susanna comes without strings?”

  “I’m not fucking Susanna.”

  “Then you didn’t invite her here for a three-way?”

  “I invited her here for y
ou.” True. Whether or not it was gonna turn into a three-way was up for discussion.

  “Hmmm.” He took a swig of his beer and turned down the volume on the show so I couldn’t even hear William H. Macy’s drunken rant.

  “Turn it the fuck up,” I grumbled.

  Instead, my best friend sat up, swung his legs off his couch and leaned forward on his knees, hitting me dead in the eyes with a rare ultra-serious expression. “Since Elle ditched your ass,” he asked me, straight-up, “how many people have you had sex with?”

  I rolled my eyes and drank some more beer. “A man can have a mourning period.”

  “She’s not dead. She’s alive and happy, and knocked up with Seth’s baby.”

  “I’m aware.”

  He sighed and raised the volume back up. Barely.

  But he just couldn’t let it go.

  “If sex is what you want, why aren’t you having any?”

  “Whip it out right now,” I said, not looking at him. “I’m good to go.”

  Dylan ignored the invitation, like he always did. “Here’s a better question. How come any woman who even gets close to feeling like a fit, you push her away?”

  I grunted. “A fit for who?”

  “I was flirting with her for you, you know.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I was watching the show, kind of, but I could still feel him watching me. “Just admit it. You like her.”

  “Who?” I looked at him, deadpan. “Susanna?”

  He sighed and got up, stretching out his spectacular six-foot-five bod. “Christ, you’re stubborn.” He tossed the remote at me. “Get outta my house already. You go make an attempt to get laid, she might actually take you up on it. You know, if you stop scowling at her all the time.”

  I scowled and turned back to the show.

  “C’mon, I’ll let you have her.” He strolled past me, scratching his ass, shoving down his sweats a bit as he did. “Assuming you remember how…”

  “I remember.” I watched him stroll on over to the stairs. His sweats now sat way-low on his sculpted, muscular butt, showing off a bit of crack. “You’re such a fucking liar, you know that?”

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Huh?”

  “You’re not gonna let me have her.”

  Dylan shrugged, then gave me one of his easy but sly-as-fuck smiles as he disappeared upstairs. I was pretty fucking sure I heard him say, “Probably not.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan

  Just after dawn, I strolled down from my bedroom in my underwear, a little groggy, stretching. I was not used to getting up this early, but Ash was up, cooking breakfast; the house smelled of bacon and coffee. Lately, he’d made it his business to be up before me and cook for me, no matter what time it was.

  As usual, the dude was probably drowning his sorrows in labor. Ever since his breakup with Elle, he’d been buried in one project or another.

  First, it was some unnecessary modifications to his ’68 Camaro. Then it was building the workshop in my garage.

  Now he’d appointed himself my housewife.

  Not that I was really complaining.

  The morning light poured in through the east-facing windows as I wandered into the kitchen, seeking caffeine. Ash was wearing that ridiculous frilly apron Elle had given him as a joke. The fact that he was probably trying to keep the bacon grease off his clothes aside, I could’ve sworn he actually liked the thing.

  “Morning.”

  “Yo.”

  “Amber here?”

  “Downstairs,” he muttered.

  I glanced through the cutout in the kitchen wall, toward the steps that led downstairs. I couldn’t hear anything, but the walk-out basement was pretty much one room. Probably wouldn’t take her long to shoot it.

  When I turned back to Ash, he was fussing over the sunny-side-up eggs in the skillet. Trying to look busy, avoid my questions. Like especially the one he knew for sure I was gonna ask.

  I sighed, feeling exhausted already. All this bullshit of his was gonna start getting me down.

  I poured us both a coffee. His black, mine with a splash of cream. I slid his mug over to him and he grunted a thanks.

  I leaned against the counter and sipped my coffee, letting the caffeine do its thing, just trying to let Ash’s bullshit slide.

  It was getting harder to do by the day, though.

  I didn’t need or want any more bullshit. Any more complications. I was a simple dude. Really, there should be no problems in my life. No more fucking drama. No worries.

  Dirty now had Seth Brothers, our original rhythm guitarist, back in the fold. Elle, our bassist, and Jesse, our lead guitarist, had both moved on, were happily in love—with Seth and Katie, respectively—since their own drama-inducing breakup last year. Which meant my band was finally whole again and we were moving forward, finally finishing up the songs for the new album. The documentary TV series we’d filmed about the process of searching for a rhythm guitarist, directed by Liv, would start airing before the end of the year, and the rough cuts that had been coming in, rapid-fire, for the band to view, were looking great.

  Besides that, I’d just wrapped on the Underlayer of the Gods campaign for this year, and they’d contracted me for next season, again. I definitely didn’t mind being a rock god. I’d keep that title as long as they’d let me. Gave me something to make Zane, my cocky-ass lead singer, jealous—even though he’d never admit to it.

  To top it all off, I just got my best friend back. My wingman. Ash had finally gotten back in the saddle after losing Elle.

  In theory.

  At a glance, everything was as it should be.

  But where was the fucking fun?

  All I’d wanted this year was this. My life, back to normal. Me and Ash hanging out.

  Partying.

  Playing drums with my band.

  And some fantastic sex wouldn’t hurt.

  Meeting someone who could hold my interest for longer than a few hot minutes; that would be the icing on the rock star cake. Someone who could also hold Ash’s interest for longer than a few hot minutes, preferably. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. More like the kind of girl I could share with Ash.

  Someone to help me get him the fuck out of this epic slump he was in.

  I watched him flip the eggs; he swore when the yolks broke. They always broke. My preferred style of eggs—over easy—were the bane of Ash’s culinary existence. I watched him lose his shit and scramble them up in contempt, giving up.

  Jesus, this was a bunch of bullshit.

  Here we were, playing fucking house, with this super-cute chick downstairs, and all Ash could throw her way was attitude. I already knew from talking to her and talking to Liv—and from a little research of my own—that Amber Paige Malone was smart, talented, and single. After feeling her out over dinner and drinks last night, I was also pretty sure she was down to fuck—or would be, if Ash would just stop being such an asshole. But he was still playing it ice-cold.

  Nothing new, right? Lately, we just couldn’t seem to hit our groove with any woman we met.

  At least, Ash couldn’t hit his groove. And I was starting to feel bad hooking up without him. Like I was leaving him behind.

  But what was I gonna do, hold his dick for him and help him put it in?

  Something was off with him. Way the fuck off. He just wasn’t happy, like he couldn’t let himself be happy or something. And that was hard for me. Happy was my normal. All this angsty-broody-miserable bullshit was really gonna start fucking with my mojo.

  For the first time in the six years that Ash and I had been best friends, there was tension, thick in the air between us. I couldn’t remember a time, before this, that we’d ever been at odds. Usually the dude made me laugh my ass off.

  But when was the last time we’d split a gut together?

  Or had a woman in bed between us?

  Too fucking long ago, on both counts.

  I watched as he served up the scram
bled eggs with a sneer, like they’d personally ruined his day—onto two plates.

  “Sleep here last night?” I finally ventured, as if I didn’t know the answer.

  “Fell asleep on the couch.”

  Of course.

  I watched him plate the bacon he’d already cooked up, along with the hash-browns and a handful of strawberries. The dude cooked better meals for me than any woman had ever tried to. “You gonna make up a plate for Amber?”

  He shot me a pissy look. Then, without a word, he grabbed another plate from the cupboard and filled it. But I noticed he didn’t put any bacon on it, which meant he’d been paying attention. Busted.

  “So. Why didn’t you go sleep at your place? You know, with the hot photographer chick?”

  “She’s too granola for me,” he muttered, dropping the plates on the island.

  “Too sweet?” I ventured.

  “Too crunchy.”

  I chuckled under my breath. “Coulda fooled me, man.”

  “Please,” he grumbled, shooting me a glance. “You gonna wear those tighty-whities all fucking day, or you gonna go put some pants on?”

  I ignored that. This was my house. I’d put on pants—or not—when I damn well wanted to. “So you’re telling me that you’re immune to her perky tits and her big green eyes?”

  “She has eyes?” he said, sounding totally disinterested as he tossed cutlery and condiments on the island.

  “Right. ’Cause you never noticed.”

  “I noticed. The freckles. The flowers.” He shook his head a little. “Not my speed.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “You doing this again?”

  “Doing what?” He spared me another glance.

  “I thought after Elle you’d sworn off this shit.”

  “What shit?”

  I’d reached for the coffee pot, and when I turned back to him, I caught his gaze flickering down my body. He was checking me out, like he so often did, but as usual, he pretended like he wasn’t.

  Busted again.

  “Pretending not to like what you like,” I said.

  “Huh?” he muttered, not looking up again.

  I topped up my coffee, put the pot back, and dug deep for the kind of emotional-conversation stamina I’d really never had to find in myself until lately, with Ash. And the tolerance for drama I just didn’t have at this time of the morning. If ever. “You pretended you weren’t all over Elle until it was too late.”