Page 50 of Dirty Like Dylan

“Oh. Okay,” I said, despite the fact that I knew I should say no. I didn’t actually want to say no. Historically, I hadn’t always wanted what was best for me. Way too much like my mom that way.

“But you’ll have to leave the camera behind.”

I nodded, taking this in. “Right,” I said, like it was no big deal, when in reality going anywhere without my camera was, for me, something like going naked.

If he didn’t want me bringing the camera, I knew there was a reason.

Because his famous friends were going to be at this party?

Because he was planning to let Ashley kiss him some more?

“Um. How fancy is this party?” I ventured, in case it was the former.

Dylan’s eyes dropped to my billowy blouse and ratty cutoffs, his gaze skimming down my bare legs as the smile curled his perfect mouth. “As fancy as you get.”

* * *

As it turned out, Dylan Cope’s idea of “no big deal” was a house party—at a multi-million-dollar house—where his entire band was in attendance, at least half the guests were famous and most of them were filthy rich.

When he’d picked me up at the front door of Ashley’s house, I’d almost fainted from the sudden loss of blood in my head. He was wearing a natty black suit, very Don Draper, but sans necktie, and his hair was smoothed down, the cowlicky waves at the front doing their own adorable thing.

So. Fucking. Cute.

If a six-and-a-half-feet-tall underwear model with abs of steel and beard stubble could be called adorable or cute… Dylan Cope fit the bill.

He’d walked me down through the trees, to a private dock on the edge of his property where two boats were moored. The big one was white, an enclosed luxury speedboat, slick and pimped-out. The boat’s name, DIRTY DEED, was emblazoned on the back.

The boat on the other side of the dock was a small, older speedboat with a sparkly silver finish and snap-on cover, and where its name, FALCON, was emblazoned on the back, someone had graffiti’d beneath it: Silver Sparrow.

I’d met Ashley’s eyes after reading it; he was crouched down at the edge of the dock beside the silver boat, smoking a joint. He was dressed in a silky, charcoal-gray vest over a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his trademark tight black jeans, his black hair slicked back, and I probably would’ve wanted to eat him with a spoon…

If I didn’t know what a gay asshole he was.

“Is that your boat?” I’d asked him, feeling uncomfortable as he looked me over, kinda scowling at my dress. Dylan had hopped into the big boat to start getting it ready for us, leaving me there, all awkward. “The Falcon?”

Ashley had looked irritated, but what else was new? “Zane re-christened it.”

I’d glanced at the graffiti again and asked no more questions. Zane, I knew, was Dylan’s lead singer. Seemed like one of those inside jokes between guys that I wouldn’t really get. Or didn’t want to know.

Dylan had then collected me from the dock and helped me into his boat, and I’d caught Ashley giving his suit what I could only describe as an irritable once-over. I tried to ignore him, settling into a seat near the driver’s seat, where Dylan placed me. He had the heat going and it was really comfy. There was a small bar, and I was kinda hoping he’d offer me a drink. With the attitude Ashley was putting off, I could’ve used one.

Ashley had followed us onto the boat, and he cranked up some music; surround-sound and loud. I recognized the song as it kicked in, one of those funny Andy Samberg songs, from Saturday Night Live or something. “I’m On a Boat.”

I’d glanced at Dylan. He didn’t look amused, and shot a look at Ashley.

Then I’d glanced at Ashley, who’d made himself comfy in the back, lounging on one of the cushioned bench seats. He returned Dylan’s look, completely deadpan, eyes narrowing slightly as he took a drag of his joint.

There was definitely some kind of weird, silent, dude stand-off going on between them that I couldn’t quite figure out…

It was almost as if Ashley thought Dylan was trying to impress me.

Then Dylan had shut off the song, turned on some AC/DC, and off we went.

Dylan had buzzed us across the water to the city, and by the time we hit dry land again his auburn waves were everywhere; the wind blew them all over the place while he tied up the boat. I felt giddy from the ride and the fresh night air. As I waited on the dock, I held my jacket over my head to try to salvage my hairdo; I’d done a side part and smoothed the thick waves down a bit in keeping with the retro feel of my dress. Dylan had seemed to appreciate my efforts.

Ashley, other than that first scowly perusal, had barely looked at me.

We’d moored in Coal Harbor—so quiet at night, with downtown all lit up above us, North Vancouver and the dark presence of the mountains across the water. We’d walked up a few blocks and climbed into an SUV Dylan owned, parked in the underground lot of a condo tower where Ashley, apparently, had a place. The cold steel-and-glass building on the edge of the financial district did not feel like Ashley, but I didn’t mention it. I already felt conspicuous enough, just like I had in the boat, sitting there in the copilot seat—while Ashley sat in the back, drilling annoyed holes in the back of my skull.