Page 82 of Dirty Like Dylan
So at least he realized I had a say in this.
“We’d ask you to stick around a while. Say a couple of months? And be exclusive. Exclusive with us. If you’re into that.” He sipped his beer. “Through the end of the year, anyway. Until we go on tour.”
“Tour?”
“I’m going on tour with Dirty. Ash is coming, too.”
“Oh…” A heavy feeling settled low in my stomach as I listened to him speak.
“The Penny Pushers are opening up for us on the first leg of the tour…”
“Cool.”
“… so at that point, we’ll be on the road. And you’ll be off the hook.” He smiled a little, studying me.
I smiled back, tentatively.
But what the actual fucking hell?
What if I didn’t want to be “off the hook”? Didn’t I get any say in that at all? Like: But what if it turns out I really, really like you?
What if you really, really like me?
What if I want you to stick around… and you don’t?
I told myself it was natural to have these questions. To feel put off by what he’d said. It was weird shit to say.
Sure, I’d had a conversation something like this many times in the past, with men I’d met on my travels—other travelers. I’d never been invited into an “exclusive” threesome before, but I’d definitely negotiated the terms of a relationship up front. And it had never really fazed me. It had relieved me of the burden of worrying about getting rid of the guy after I’d had a little fun and wanted to move on.
Or, more specifically, him getting rid of me.
It rather tidily avoided the whole falling-in-love-and-ending-up-with-a-broken-heart thing.
So why did it irk me so much that this man was forecasting the end of our relationship before it had even begun? That he had it all planned out; that he’d laid it out for me, in his super-chill way, over cocktails?
Suddenly, it was like I saw all those other conversations for something other than what they’d felt like at the time. At the time, they’d seemed mature and honest and in the best interest of both parties. Now, they just seemed cheap and sad.
I felt cheap and sad.
Like the kind of girl a guy only got together with because he knew he was going to get to leave her afterward.
“Wow,” I found myself saying, as I sucked back my wine. Neither of us had touched the food yet. “And how does one respond to such an offer?”
“I’d love to hear it,” he said.
“Well. Let me take a stab at it.” I finished the wine and set my glass on the table between us, gathering my thoughts. My pussy was still throbbing, but my heart had started pounding with a definite slam of angry adrenalin, and my head was fucking reeling in fifty different directions at once—not one of them good. “It sounds… interesting, Dylan. Like where do I sign up, right? But maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw the offers around.”
He raised an eyebrow at me as he reached for the bottle of wine to refill my glass.
“I mean, don’t you need character references first?” I went on. “Because frankly, I don’t know that Liv would give me a great one. I may have to dig pretty deep on that. Pretty sure I can find someone to vouch for me that I’m not a psycho, but I wouldn’t put money on it. Oh, and speaking of money, I have none, so you may want to keep your gold-digger radar on high alert. Just in case. I mean, I would, if I were you. I once stole a stuffed kitten from a store. I was seven and I really, really wanted it, but I knew it was wrong. Still did it anyway.” I picked up the glass he’d refilled for me and went on. “I also tend to make a lot of sarcastic or self-deprecating jokes when I’m nervous. I’ve been told it’s cute at first, then it gets annoying. I have a fairly large chip on my shoulder, and I can be pretty dismissive of people. At least, my sister would say so, but who’s listening to her, right?” I laughed at my own dumb joke, which didn’t seem to land.
“Amber—”
“And anyway, unless you’ve been wasted the entire time I’ve known you so far, you must’ve noticed my prickly personality by now. I hold grudges like a motherfucker, and I don’t really do relationships, exclusive or otherwise. Or maybe they just don’t do me. I can’t remember the last time I actually snuggled with someone. I don’t snuggle. I don’t spoon or cuddle. I only fork.” I laughed. I wasn’t drunk, exactly, and it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was bitter and loaded with sarcasm. “Let’s see. I also have this idea about myself that despite all my faults I’m a pretty good person who deserves good things. And this dream that I’m actually going to make something of myself one day, that what I do on this Earth actually matters. That the work I do is going to matter. That I’m going to make a good living doing what I love. You know, kind of like you do.”
I slid out of the booth and stood, gulping my wine. That overly-generous check was festering in my pocket now, making me feel desperately uncomfortable in Laura’s clothes.
“So, how did I do? Am I hired?” I set my empty wine glass on the table and looked straight in his green-gold eyes. “In case no one’s told you this lately, you’re a pig, Dylan Cope, and so is your best friend or your boyfriend or whatever the hell he is. Find another girl to scratch your kinky itch. I’m not ‘his’ and I’m not going to be yours.”