Page 129 of Dirty Like Dylan

“Connor, this is Johnny,” I told Con, like Con was more important—and like he didn’t already know who Johnny was.

“Connor,” Con said, extending a hand. Johnny shook briefly, sizing Con up, then dismissed him just as quick.

“So, you were telling me how you’ve been,” he said to me. “Still traveling the world? Been back to Miami lately?” He took a sip of his drink and kind of smirked at me.

Clever. He was referring to a particularly intense night of lovemaking that we’d enjoyed in the early days of our relationship—before I found out what a lying slut he was.

“No,” I said flatly. “Always found that place pretty obnoxious.” I pretended to be trying to recall some distant, unimportant memory. “Were we there together?”

He smirked again, appearing undaunted—until Con cut in. “Maybe we’ll go there soon, babe.” He put his hand on my waist and pulled me closer.

“Oh! That would be amazing.” I put my hand lightly on his neck and laid the batting eyelashes on pretty thick.

And so it went.

Every time Johnny tried to talk to me, Con cut in. I flirted—with Con. Johnny got increasingly pissed off that he could barely get a word in. I was pretty sure it had little to do with me. If I hadn’t parked myself on Con’s lap right in front of him, he might’ve already tired of talking to me. But Johnny O’Reilly did not like being one-upped, by any man. Least of all some big, handsome biker dude with a white-toothed smile that rivaled his own for blinding brightness.

He got pretty agro about it, actually, his jaw hardening and his focus shifting from me to Con, completely. “The fuck is your problem?” he suddenly snapped, about the fourth time Con cut him off.

“No problem,” Con said cooly.

“I’m talking to Amber.”

“Not anymore.”

At that, Johnny set his drink down, lifted the girl off his lap and set her aside.

Then Con set me aside.

Uh-oh.

Johnny stood up. Con stood up. They were about the same height, but Johnny was easily fifty pounds lighter and I’d never actually seen him in a fight. Con, however, very possibly had a weapon on him, and his fists looked like anvils as they clenched at his sides.

“How about you back the fuck away from my table,” Johnny suggested, as I scrambled to my feet. Then that beefy dude who’d given me the bubbly suddenly loomed, giving Con some serious stinkeye. Johnny’s muscle, obviously.

Great.

I grabbed Con’s arm and tried to pull him away, but it was about as effective as a gnat landing on a bull. I didn’t even think he felt me. He and Johnny were trading expletives, only some of which I heard over the music and my rising panic.

Then Johnny’s security guy shoved at Con, kind of knocking him into me. I stumbled back. Con shoved back, pushing the guy away from me. Johnny tried to grab me. I was pretty sure he was trying to yank me out of the way, but I pulled away from him—total instinct. I bumped up against Ashley, who’d suddenly appeared. He intervened, stepping between me and Johnny. I couldn’t even hear what was said as I got bounced around. Everyone was kind of shoving around us now.

And then, out of nowhere, Dylan clocked Johnny.

I didn’t even see Dylan coming. He was just suddenly there, and his fist was cutting through the air, and… damn.

Johnny went down, hard, smashing into the table. Girls screamed and fluttered everywhere like birds taking flight, and the last thing I saw was a pile of bouncers descending on the scene before Ashley pulled me into his chest and took me away.

* * *

Back at Dylan’s house in Santa Monica, I tended to the damage on his face. He had a bruise over his left eyebrow, with a nasty-looking but shallow scrape, probably from a ring. Apparently, Johnny’s bodyguard had managed to get one in before Con and the bouncers stopped him.

The house felt empty around us. It had just gone up for sale; Dylan said he wasn’t keeping it, that the house on Isabella Island was his permanent home now and he didn’t need two. Which meant that this house had been pretty much cleared of his personal belongings and staged to sell.

I peeked in the freezer in hopes of finding a bag of frozen peas or some ice to put on his bruise, but the best I could find was a half-full bag of freezer-burnt strawberries, probably left behind from some party where margaritas were to be had.

I wrapped the bag of strawberries in a dish towel and sat myself on Dylan’s lap. He was sitting at the dining room table looking kinda tired and wired at the same time. Probably the adrenaline dump from getting in a fist fight less than an hour ago.

Ashley lay on the couch in the adjoining living room, his feet up on the arm, smoking a joint. He watched as I carefully cleaned Dylan’s wound with a damp tissue. Dylan winced a little as I dabbed at the raw scrape; I wanted to make sure there was no dirt in it, but it looked okay.

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