Page 140 of Dirty Like Dylan

Mostly at myself.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Amber

I spent the morning in Dylan’s house, alone, looking through some unsorted photos from my South America trip. The guys had gone into the city, on separate boats, Ashley to do whatever Ashley did when he went into the city—which would likely include getting groceries, to feed the bottomless pit that was Dylan’s stomach—and Dylan to attend a morning meeting with Dirty at a recording studio.

Dirty was going to start recording their new album tomorrow, and Dylan was clearly excited about it.

I was excited that when he got back from his meeting, I was going to have him all to myself; Ashley said he’d be gone for most of the day.

And I was kind of freaking out.

I was planning to drag Dylan to bed as soon as he got home, obviously, which would mean that—other than that fast, frantic limo fuck in L.A.—we’d be having sex alone, just the two of us, for the first time. Which meant I was also kinda nervous.

And I was worried.

I figured I should ask him about what happened last night. Ashley touching him, while the three of us were in bed. I’d seen Ashley put his hand on Dylan’s ass while he was fucking me. Because I had Dylan on top of me at the time, his cock inside me, and I was about to come, it had been kind of exciting. Arousing, if you asked my lady parts.

But in the dim recesses of my rational mind, it was also kind of alarming.

I didn’t know what to do with it. What to think.

But I knew I should ask.

It wasn’t that I felt threatened, exactly. Though maybe that was part of it? But I just really needed to know what it meant. To Dylan.

I was pretty sure I already knew what it meant to Ashley.

Even if you were right there on the bed, watching your buddy fuck a girl, then come with that girl, you didn’t accidentally reach out and put your hand on his bare ass and leave it there.

As for Dylan’s non-reaction, I really couldn’t figure out what that meant.

In a way, maybe I just plain understood Ashley. Clearly, he was hot for Dylan. Well, so was I.

I could hardly fault him for it.

But Dylan? The man was still a bit of an exotic mystery to me.

As I turned it over in my head, my thoughts turned to Johnny and what he’d said to me at the bar in L.A., as we were saying goodbye.

He’d asked me if I was with Dylan Cope.

You really have no right to ask me that, I’d informed him.

I know I don’t, he admitted. Then he’d offered, grudgingly, Dylan’s alright. Which, coming from Johnny, with his huge ego and his eye swelling up from the blow of Dylan’s fist, was pretty high praise.

You like Dylan? I’d asked him, surprised.

You could do worse, he’d said.

Then he made a point of kissing me on the cheek before he left, while throwing Dylan a look that said something like Eat shit and die.

I smiled a little at that memory. Because really, only Dylan Cope could punch a guy in the face and still have his respect moments later. Johnny hadn’t pressed charges against him, and the media hadn’t even attacked. The incident was on the web, thanks to about a million cell phones capturing the chaos of the brief brawl, but Dylan’s involvement in it had been so out of character, no one had seemed to want to dwell on it or make him the bad guy.

So far, I hadn’t met anyone who’d had an unkind word to say about Dylan. I was no longer under any illusion that he was perfect. Ashley had warned me about his stinky feet after concerts; I was pretty fucking sure that confirmed his humanity.

But maybe he was just perfect for me.

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