Page 72 of Dirty Like Dylan
Except I hadn’t just been getting off on Dylan.
“I’m kind of stuck here,” I admitted. “But, yes. I’m going to the city to see my sister.” I ad-libbed that last part; until just now, I hadn’t committed myself to where I was going. But Liv’s place was the only place I really could go.
Ashley was staring at me and he wasn’t smiling. He was searching my face. His blue eyes lingered on my lips, then skipped back up to my eyes. “So you want a ride or what? I’ve got a shitty, uncomfortable boat that might break down on us, or a comfortable-as-fuck boat. Take your pick.”
“I’ll take the ferry,” I said.
“And she’s stubborn to boot,” he mused, half under his breath.
“Like a mule.”
He sat there for an incredibly long minute, watching me as I pretended to be fascinated with the seagull nosing around on the deck of a nearby yacht. I felt him get to his feet while I was taking photos of it.
He stood there, maybe waiting for me to look up.
I didn’t.
Then he walked away without another word.
* * *
I wasn’t sure what I was doing, exactly, except what I always did.
Looking forward.
Moving on.
There was always something else, somewhere else, someone else out there, just beyond the horizon, anyway, to distract you from whatever you’d left behind.
Admittedly, self-reflection was not my strongest suit.
I’d discovered that once, while trying to self-reflect.
* * *
Kind of hard to move on when you still had over two hours to kill before a ferry pulled up to the dock to collect you, and in the meantime, a pimped-out speedboat with a couple of gorgeous rock stars motored up with a cold drink and a warm seat for you.
* * *
“You didn’t,” my sister said, as soon as Dylan and Ashley had dropped me off at her house—and I’d filled her in, briefly, on the sexual hurricane of last night. The one where my sex parts had unexpectedly collided with Ashley Player’s.
Several times.
“Yup. I really did.”
Liv was still holding the front door of her house open while I kicked off my shoes; I’d basically gotten the dirty details out before I crossed the threshold.
“Son-of-a...” Liv looked out the door and up the street, as if she could still see Dylan’s SUV departing and will it to burst into flame, but the guys were long gone. She slammed the door. “So let me get this straight—”
“No pun intended,” I muttered.
“You’re telling me you fucked Ashley Player. Willingly.” She headed into the house without waiting for my answer, and I followed.
“As opposed to what?” I could hear Lady Gaga’s “Lovegame” thumping from downstairs, loud, which meant Laura was working out; Liv wouldn’t be caught dead willingly blaring a dance song about cock.
“As opposed to you,” Liv said, “making up some shit about being wasted-drunk and suffering a momentary lapse of, I don’t know, eyesight? Sense of direction? Sanity? And me pretending to believe you.” I followed her into the kitchen, letting her rant. “Just tell me you were totally fucking lost and/or blackout drunk, or something, when you ended up naked with him. I want to believe you, Amber.”
“Nope,” I said. “Not drunk. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so lost that I accidentally ended up on top of a penis.”