Page 52 of Dirty Like Dylan

So maybe I’d put my bare ass in it, too.

There was a DJ booth set up in one corner, and a gorgeous female DJ. She had a kind of Bettie Page look going on, with her sleek dark hair and violet corselette-like dress, and she was spinning a way-cool remix of Dinah Washington’s “Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby?” as we headed straight for the bar.

I was definitely glad Dylan had told me to fancy myself up.

The women here were all pretty, but at least they seemed… well, real. Surprisingly, I didn’t glean a pair of obviously surgically-altered boobs in the place. But everyone, other than the security dudes, was definitely dressed to impress.

I didn’t want to give a shit what people thought about how I dressed, but glancing around, I would’ve felt pretty fucking out of place if I hadn’t put on my best dress—the only party dress I dragged around the globe with me in my travel backpack. It was a cute, off-white lace cocktail dress in a simple ’60s style that I’d found in a thrift store in New York, fit me perfectly, and always made me feel fashionable, no matter what year it was.

Behind the bar, there were two women, about my age, chatting and making drinks. One of them was poured into a long red satin dress with side-swept dark hair, very Rita Hayworth. The other wore a short black cocktail dress, with her dark hair slicked back in a tight knot. Dylan introduced me to them right away: Katie and Maggie. And both of them were so welcoming—Katie hugging me and Maggie handing me a drink—that I made a mental note to remember their names.

A couple of sips into my melon-flavored martini-thing and I was already relaxing and starting to think this might actually be fun.

But then it got weird.

Like when Ashley brought Dylan—our designated driver—a coffee, beer in hand for himself, and absolutely nothing for me, even though my melontini was already getting low.

Or when Ashley kept interrupting and stealing Dylan away, just as he was about to introduce me to someone.

Christ. He wasn’t just protective of Dylan. He was possessive, too.

Did he think I was hot for his man?

Well, I was.

Even more so when I noticed Dylan giving me sex eyes from across the room.

At least, he seemed to be… His green eyes locking on mine, kind of hooded and contemplative, as I stood by the bar, sucking back booze and trying to get drunk while I waited for Ashley to quit hogging him.

What. The. Hell.

I could not figure these guys out.

Maybe I just couldn’t read gay guys?

Or maybe it was crazy-wishful thinking to hope that just because Dylan Cope seemed to be checking me out in my cute dress that he was actually flirting with me. Maybe he just appreciated my fashion sense. Ha. Maybe I was just drunk and should slow down on the melontinis.

I’m crushing on a gay guy…

Well, two gay guys.

If I’d ever had a more dumbass crush in my life, I couldn’t remember it.

Chapter Eleven

Amber

After a while, since I was hanging out by the bar anyway, I tried to make myself useful by helping Katie make drinks. I was so totally uncomfortable without my camera as a buffer. That’s all it was. I did not know how to relate to any of these people without a lens between us. I did not know what to say, what to do with my hands… or how not to stare at them all.

Usually, my camera gave me permission to stare. Now, I just felt exposed and gawky.

Weirdly, I’d never felt this way around the famous or the beautiful before I’d gotten my heart smashed by Johnny O’Reilly. But the number he’d done on my somewhat-innocent self had changed that. I now doubted myself, questioned myself, and occasionally just plain felt like a freak in the company of people such as these ones. People who appeared to have their shit all together.

Ridiculous. I knew that.

But I still hadn’t been able to totally shake it off. The consequences of that breakup were, unfortunately, far-reaching.

So I just tried to focus on something other than my socially-awkward self.