Page 25 of Dirty Like Dylan

“Sounds good,” Amber said softly, and I could just imagine the Aw, shucks blush blooming on her cheeks.

I started carving the roast I’d pulled out of the oven a few minutes ago, laying the meat out on a serving plate, as Dylan poured them two glasses of Prosecco. He knew better than to offer me that shit.

“Ash always stocks it in the fridge, for my mom and my sisters,” Dylan explained. “They love this stuff.”

“Well… that’s thoughtful of him,” Amber said, kind of fake-polite, like she was really forcing it.

“Yeah. That’s Ash.”

I couldn’t even tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

I ignored them, scooping the roasted vegetables and sweet potatoes onto dinner plates for the three of us and laying the plates out on the island. If Dylan pulled a fancy tablecloth out of his ass and started clearing the dust off the dining room table, I was gonna have to say something. But he just pulled out a barstool at the island for Amber—right next to mine. She slipped off her sweater and sat down, and once she was seated, he slid onto a stool across from her.

I laid the platter of meat in the middle of the island, stabbed it with a serving fork, got myself another beer for backup, and sat down to unceremoniously start eating. I didn’t wait for either of them, digging right in and tuning out their bullshit flirtatious small talk. Luckily, the roast was pretty good. I wasn’t exactly a professional chef; Dylan couldn’t cook to save his life, yet he ate like a Hoover, so I usually made sure he got fed. I didn’t even mind being his fucking house bitch after everything the guy had done for me.

Least I could do was cook him a few meals and throw some pussy his way.

Good food. Hot chicks. Rock ’n’ roll.

What the fuck else did we need?

All I really wanted in life was pretty fucking simple: me and Dylan Cope against the world. Touring. Partying. Casual hookups.

Mind-blowing sex.

And to never, ever fall for anyone again.

I was not fucking falling in love. I’d made that incredibly clear to him.

But there was no way in hell Dylan wasn’t falling for this fucking girl with her flowery dress and her earnest eyes and the monumental chip on her hippie shoulder. She even smelled like flowers. Flowers and fucking gumdrops or something; I could smell it right over the roast and beer.

She smelled like fucking dessert.

I didn’t even want to look at her pretty face. I’d managed to check out her ass, though. Unfortunately, it was as cute as the rest of her. I’d seen the rest, already, in my bathroom last night. Not for long, but long enough to get an eyeful of her firm tits, her hard pink nipples, and her toned legs. She was kinda bent over, so I didn’t get a chance to see her pussy, but I definitely saw her legs.

I was just glad they weren’t showing now; Dylan could get really fucking stupid at the sight of a nice pair of bare legs.

I glanced over at her.

She glanced back at me and narrowed her eyes.

Yup. I’d called it, from moment one.

Trouble.

Sure, Dylan attracted every sparkly Susanna wherever he went. They were dripping off him backstage, panting in heat whenever he strolled into a party, and he’d never exactly complained about it. We’d both enjoyed our share of Susannas, and we’d often enjoyed them together.

But I knew the kind of girl Dylan Cope really liked. The kind that made him lose his fucking shit.

The kind that rendered him blind-drunk infatuated, hallucinating rainbows and shooting stars and forgetting where he left his keys. And it wasn’t the kind that just drove off in the silver BMW.

I knew what he wanted.

I knew what he needed.

And Amber Malone was it. It couldn’t have been any clearer to me if she’d had Property of Dylan Cope tattooed on her forehead.

I watched her, eating her dinner, like the enemy had fucking landed in my backyard. Eating her roast veggies and potatoes as she listened with rapt attention to Dylan, who was telling her all about the workshop we’d just built in the garage—like she gave a shit.

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