Page 19 of Dirty Like Dylan

And I was still hangry.

I rolled over and sat up, peering out the window. I couldn’t see any house over the giant fence, just trees. But I could hear the super-loud, cheesy music. It was that old Trooper song that I only ever heard on classic rock radio stations in Canada. “The Boys In the Bright White Sportscar.” I actually didn’t mind hearing it. I’d never admit it to anyone—especially my sister—but it felt kinda nice waking up in my own country. I did it so rarely, after all.

I could also hear a few men shouting, laughing, and the sound of a ball bouncing against the ground and banging against the wooden fence. It sounded like they were shooting hoops.

I rubbed my eyes. Was that Ashley over there? Didn’t he have anything better to do than clown around on a Friday morning? Come to think of it, since when did rock stars get out of bed before noon anyway?

I checked my phone. Okay, maybe not before noon. It was already close to one in the afternoon.

Which was when I realized my alarm hadn’t gone off, and my jet-lag had totally screwed me.

I quickly checked the settings. Yup, I’d definitely set my phone alarm last night—for six p.m., rather than a.m..

Fuck me.

I’d missed the fucking morning ferry.

There were almost five hours to kill until the next one.

I groaned at my idiocy, tossed the stupid plaid blanket and black sheet off, and got dressed. I picked out the most flowery thing in my bag, remembering Ashley’s apparent distaste for the rosebuds on my blouse yesterday. It was a maxi dress, ankle-length and somewhat figure-hugging, with a pretty pattern of pink and red peonies, and spaghetti straps. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, finger-combed my wavy hair, and filled up my water bottle.

I made the bed and erased every trace of myself from the house, like I’d never even been here. Then I slipped on my sandals and my cardigan sweater, picked up my camera and my backpack, and headed out.

I spent the next three hours exploring the small island, very slowly, on foot, taking photos along the way. I found several trails snaking through the trees and followed them all. I glimpsed several houses tucked back in the trees off the winding road that looped around the island, and a couple of cars drove past me, but I didn’t see another person.

The tiny shack of a general store by the marina was closed.

By the time I made it all the way around the loop, my empty stomach was totally pissed at me.

There was no noise coming from next door, but as I approached the fancy iron gate on the only driveway in the vicinity of Ashley’s, just around the bend in the road, there was a car parked inside. A silver BMW with a license plate that read HONEY.

There was also a giant black-and-chrome Harley, parked off to the side, with an anatomically-impossible pinup girl painted on it.

My stomach rumbled.

I sighed.

Grudgingly, I tried the gate. It opened with a little push and I drifted inside. The driveway coiled around the yard and slightly uphill toward the house—and this one was a palace. It had the same darkish stain to the wood, the frames around the windows and doors painted green, but it was probably four times the size of Ashley’s house next door.

I knocked on the door, and groaned inwardly when Ashley answered. I really tried to smile, but it didn’t happen.

He looked me over, his blue eyes scanning my dress, then my face; he definitely looked at my chest before looking me in the eye, but he probably did that to every female. Actually, he looked damned disappointed to see me. Again.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he got there first.

“Starving, huh?” he said, correctly assuming that the threat of starvation was the only reason I’d shown up here. “Thought you were on the morning ferry.”

“Missed it,” I said, feeling like a royal idiot. How many times did I have to fuck up in front of this guy? “I tried the store by the docks, but it was closed.”

“Shuts down in September for the season,” he informed me.

“Right.” Liv really might’ve mentioned that. She might’ve mentioned a lot of things.

However, she hadn’t yet called me back, even though I’d sent her a series of increasingly irritated and bewildered texts.

Without another word, Ashley turned and walked back into the house. He left the door open, which I took to be his warm and fuzzy way of inviting me in.

I stepped inside and set my backpack down, but I kept my camera with me. The familiar weight of it in my hand and the strap wrapped around my wrist grounded me, gave me comfort; had gotten me through many an awkward social situation. Hopefully it would come through for me on this one.