Page 32 of Dirty Like Dylan

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.