Page 40 of Dirty Like Dylan

Ashley had walked through the kitchen and set the groceries on the island as I babbled.

“Good,” was all he said. Then, just as I hustled my bag onto my shoulder and beelined for the front door, thinking I’d made a clean getaway, he added, “You can just leave the memory cards on the counter.”

I froze in my tracks.

“Excuse me?” I asked, like I totally hadn’t heard him.

Then I started to panic.

The first memory card I’d filled with images, this morning—the one with the photo of the kiss on it—was in my bag, not in the camera. No chance in hell I could quickly erase it without him seeing. Especially since, when I turned around, I found him leaning on the kitchen island, arms crossed, staring me down.

“We’ll review the images,” he said, “and as long as we approve of what we see, you’ll continue to be employed.”

Jesus. He really took Dylan’s privacy seriously.

Although to be fair, he did just find me ogling the man. Naked.

My thoughts pinwheeled, trying to think my way out of this, but I really had no choice. I had to hand the cards over, if I wanted to keep this job. If I wanted to get paid three thousand dollars for my work today, and I really, really did.

If I tried to hold that first card back, they’d know a bunch of images were missing from this morning. All the images I’d taken of the basement.

If I handed the card over, I might get fired for my voyeurism. But maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t look that closely and would miss that one image.

And now I was just starting to look like a guilty freak, because Ashley was holding his hand out for the cards.

Seriously… why did this guy hate me so much?

I dug through my bag and gave him the three memory cards I’d filled with images today. I’d worked hard and taken hundreds of shots. My goal was to give Dylan about a half-dozen epic shots of each room of his house. But now, who knew if I’d even get that far.

Shit.

I handed over my backup camera, too, so they could use it to view the images. Then I got the hell out of there before Ashley could pop in the first card and discover the offending image.

The one where he was kissing Dylan.

The one they didn’t even know I’d taken.

Oh, God.

Why the hell did I have to take that photo?

Because you’re a photographer, I told myself, stubbornly. It was a moment. It was beautiful. And you did what you do.

I shouldn’t have to apologize for that, right? They probably didn’t apologize after playing a rock concert. Hey guys, thanks for coming out, but I’m really sorry I rocked out like that. I’ll never do it again, I promise.

Right.

More likely, if anyone ever questioned what they did, they responded with a prompt—and in Dylan’s case, probably very polite and charming—Fuck you.

Yet all I could think, as I hurried into Ashley’s house stripped of my images from the day, was: Thank God I didn’t photograph him naked. Then maybe I’d be fired and sued. I was on Dylan’s property, after all, and he’d told me to stay away while he swam.

And as of this morning, I knew why. He wasn’t flirting with me.

He was gay.

And he had no interest in me whatsoever.

Which explained literally everything.

---