Page 78 of Dirty Like Dylan
She plucked a tube of gloss from the dozens on offer and tossed it at me. “Keep it. I haven’t even opened it yet.”
I cracked it open; a pale, rosy color with a slight sheen. I could handle that.
“And what are you planning to wear?” Laura was hovering as I carefully applied lip gloss; I hadn’t exactly done it in recent memory. I could see her in the mirror, perusing my outfit. My long, peony-printed dress, with my comfy cream-colored cardigan layered overtop. The one Ashley had peeled off of me last night.
“I suppose this isn’t the answer you’re looking for,” I said.
Laura started rummaging through her closet somewhere behind me. “How about this?” In the mirror I saw her over my shoulder, holding up a slutty-looking black minidress. “Or this?” She held up an even sluttier-looking pink minidress—with sequins.
“Um. Those aren’t… me.” Logical, I wanted to say. Those aren’t logical things to put on one’s body.
“If you’re going to date a rock star,” she said, “you might as well have some fun with it. Liv has taken me to parties, Amber. I’ve seen the girls these guys date, and sweetie—”
“And I’m sure those girls would have fun in those dresses. But I would feel like an idiot. As for dating a rock star, I don’t even know if this is a date.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, digging through her closet again. “So why are you putting on lip gloss? I mean, if not to give him a visual of what your wet lips would look like wrapped around his penis?”
I pressed my lips together, blending the gloss, my face heating at the thought—that that was what Dylan might think.
The thought was accompanied by the memory of Ashley’s cock in my mouth, just last night… and again, in the middle of the night, in his bed. Just before he’d fucked me again.
Christ… I can still taste him.
And now I was going to dinner with his best friend.
“You think I want to look like a slob next to him at some restaurant?” I muttered. “He’s famous. What if there’s paparazzi?”
Laura laughed. “Then you can talk shop with them—camera lenses and shutter flashes or whatever.”
“Right.” I took a final perusal of my face in the mirror and turned to face her. Or at least, face the flurry of clothing she was tossing from the closet to the bed. There was a hell of a lot of shiny, ruffly stuff. “Do you have anything that looks like something I would actually wear, if I wasn’t trying to be you?”
Laura popped out of the closet holding up a ruffled skirt and a pair of skinny jeans. “How about these, Miss Predictable?”
I frowned at the offerings.
Laura lowered the clothes with a sigh. “If you won’t let me dress you, at least take this.” She presented me with a small clutch that had been lying on the bed. It was cute, a blush-pink faux fur with a silver clasp. Then she held up a couple of condoms meaningfully and tucked them inside.
I raised an eyebrow. “And why do you have condoms?”
“They’re yours,” she said. “From the last time you stayed here.”
“Oh.”
“I checked. They haven’t expired yet. And this should get you home from anywhere in the city, if you have to bail.” She held up two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, then slipped those into the purse.
“Laura. I’m not destitute,” I told her. Though really, my bank account was a little, well, empty. And I’d promised myself I’d only use my credit card for dire emergencies, until I was traveling again.
“That’s your hard-earned travel money,” she said, tucking the clutch into my hand. “This is sister-in-law money. Just take it. It makes me feel better to know you’re safe.”
“Fine.” I hugged her, grateful for the love if not the condoms. Then I sighed. “I’ll take the jeans. If you’ve got a cute sweater to go with them.” Admittedly, I was a little tired of my limited wardrobe. Living out of a backpack could get wearisome, even for me.
That perked her right up. “You know I do.” But as I reached for the jeans, she snatched them back and added, “And now that we know you’re safe… I’ll get the slutty ones.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I was ensconced in a giant wraparound booth in a posh restaurant downtown with Dylan Cope, wearing a cute pink sweater and Laura’s sluttiest jeans. There was candlelight flickering and the clank of dishes and the din of dozens of other voices in conversation, and a piano where someone was playing Billy Joel’s “She’s Always a Woman.” It was cozy and classy.
But I couldn’t see any of the people or the piano. Our booth was tall and tucked back in a dark private corner under the curving staircase to the upper level. Which meant all I could see was Dylan Cope, with his crazy-handsome face and his wavy auburn hair.