Page 41 of Dirty Like Dylan

Like how nice he’d been to me. Flirtatious, but not overly cocky about it. Gracious and welcoming, but never making a move on me last night, even when I was all giggly on Prosecco. He’d never asked me, So what’s your story? Or, So, do you have a boyfriend? Or, Hey, wanna go check out the view from my bed? Or any of the other things horny straight guys said (sometimes it felt like I’d heard them all). He was far too polite for that. Respectful.

In other words: sexually disinterested in me.

I looked around Ashley’s house, feeling stupid and helpless. It was such a man cave. It didn’t feel like a gay man lived here—right down to the copies of Maxim and Playboy stashed in the bathroom—but that was probably an ignorant thing to think. Either way, my gaydar was definitely way off. I’d really thought Dylan was giving me sex eyes last night as we drank all that Prosecco.

But what straight dude drinks Prosecco, when beers are to be had?

One who’s looking to get laid with the girl he’s drinking it with—or so I’d thought.

Wrong.

I’d even wondered, as I lay in bed last night, drunk, thinking about the job he’d offered me and the ease with which he’d offered it—along with the generous day rate—if this gig was all a ruse just to keep me around because he thought I was cute. I was so unexpectedly thrilled with the idea, I definitely would’ve gotten off to it, if only I could stay awake long enough. But I’d been so boozy and tired, I hadn’t been that lucky.

Damn, was I ever an idiot.

I dropped my backpack on the guest bed and fucking sighed.

No matter how it felt—between my legs—when Dylan hit me with those knowing green eyes of his, he wasn’t actually into me. He knew I was hot for him; that was all. My ridiculous attempts to flirt with him, however cautiously, were probably just incredibly amusing to him.

Which meant this gig was not gonna be quite as fun as my Prosecco-muddled brain had started to think it might be—but fuck it. I still needed the money.

Had I blown it all with one simple photo?

Probably.

No matter how nice Dylan was, I could only assume that the photo of that kiss was going to go over very badly for me.

Though I had shot it through the cutout in his kitchen wall; maybe it could look like an accident? Like I didn’t mean to catch them in the photo? Of course, other than the hot rock star kissing the other hot rock star, there was nothing in the photo but an out-of-focus wall.

Shiiit.

I went to grab myself a beer from Ashley’s fridge and started drinking.

And pacing.

All I’d been thinking when I took that photo—other than the fact that they both looked so fucking gorgeous in the morning light streaming through the window behind them—was: Really? Him?? I still couldn’t believe Dylan was with that asshole, but clearly, he was.

I could only see them from the waist up, but Dylan was bare-chested. I didn’t know he was only wearing underwear until I walked into the kitchen afterward. And the look on Ashley’s face as he kissed him… I couldn’t see Dylan’s face as well, but Ashley’s eyes were laser-locked on Dylan’s mouth.

So yes, I’d definitely intruded on a private moment.

But the worse problem here was that I didn’t tell them I’d taken the photo right after I took it—and I knew better than that. At least, I really should’ve known better.

This was such amateur crap. I was a professional. These guys were famous, and I’d just abused their privacy.

How could I fuck up like this?

My career as a photographer—albeit a modest one—was the single most important thing in the world to me. And my professional integrity had now completely shit the bed—Dylan Cope’s bed, unfortunately—twice.

Fuck. Me.

And now I was starting to feel sorry for myself.

I was twenty-seven years old. Almost twenty-eight. I knew I’d passed that point, maybe around twenty-five, or twenty-four-and-three-quarters, where it was cute that I traveled the world staying in hostels and 2-star hotels, living out of a backpack. My sister would be first in line to remind me that it was time to get a real job—like her. Get a real life—like her.

Get a real relationship—like her.

But maybe I just wasn’t wired that way.