Page 17 of Dirty Like Dylan
“Holy FUCK,” he growled. He stopped short—and some innate spidey-sense told me I’d scared the shit out of him. The hairs standing up all over my body quickly declassified him from rapist-murderer to hapless homeowner.
Holy fuck was right.
It was Ashley Player.
I’d already swiped the damp towel from the floor and was scrambling to cover myself with it.
“Oh. It’s you,” he said, sounding weirdly disappointed.
Fucking seriously?
Did he just see me naked?
Too shocked for my brain to function property, I fired back, “Oh, it’s you,” with as much distaste as possible.
“Uh, yeah,” he said as his gaze scraped over me. “This is my house.”
“Where the hell are the Johnsons?”
“Huh?”
“Those nice people on the fridge!”
“That’s my aunt Ginny and my uncle Joe. And my cousin.” He was looking at me like I was a crazy person, but he was also staring at all my embarrassing nakedness like he didn’t give one fuck that it was rude. My bare arms, my legs; everywhere there was skin, he was looking.
Like he didn’t already see enough?
“They don’t live here?”
“If they did, that would make it okay for you to break in and take a bubble bath?”
“I didn’t break in,” I said between clenched teeth. “I used the spare key.” My face was heating up, and I knew I was turning red. There weren’t any fucking bubbles in the bath, but it hardly warranted pointing out. “Liv sent me.”
“Liv sent you?”
“Yes! There must’ve been some misunderstanding. She thought you—the homeowner—wasn’t here right now.”
“Well, I’m here right now.”
“I see that.” I was clutching the towel to myself, still feeling grossly naked even though all my private goods were covered. It was the way he just stood there, staring at me, like he could still see everything. “Um, if you can give me a minute, I’ll just get my stuff and clear out.”
“There’s no ferry ’til tomorrow,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What?!”
“Two ferries every day. Eight and six. You must’ve come on the six o’clock. Next ferry is at eight in the morning.”
Holy fuck again.
I was gonna fucking murder Liv.
“Um, okay.” No big deal. I could sleep anywhere, right? I’d slept outside, in way worse weather than this. “Well… do you mind if I just take the porch? If you have an extra blanket that would be great, but I can make do on the little wicker couch thing out there—”
“Just stay,” he grunted, looking annoyed. “Use the guest room.” He swiped a couple of things off the edge of the sink—razor, maybe, and some other guy-grooming stuff. “I’ll sleep next door.” He spared me another glance. Or rather, scowl. “Come over if you need food. I don’t stock the kitchen.” Then he stalked out. Seconds later, I heard a door slam.
Shit.
I peeked out into the bedroom; I didn’t see him and I couldn’t hear him in the house. Then I got dressed, quick, and took a look around.