Page 45 of Dirty Like Dylan

He’d seen me come, too.

But there was a line. There was always a line with men like Dylan.

Straight men.

Of course, there was that one time…

And all it took was one time to really fuck with things.

“You wanna go pick up?” I threw it out there, even though he actually looked pretty exhausted. “You know, Summer’s having that thing. Should be a good crowd…”

It had been a long while since the two of us had hooked up with anyone. While I was with—well, kinda with Elle—I wasn’t with anyone else. Trying to prove something to her. To myself, probably.

But that meant I hadn’t had a three-way with Dylan all fucking year. Not since before I first hooked up with Elle, almost nine months ago. Seemed like it was gonna happen after the Dirty show a few weeks ago, when Seth officially reunited with Dirty—and I found out he’d knocked up Elle. She’d brushed me off long before that, but that night, I knew it was fucking official: she was his. I’d been cut loose. For good.

I’d tried, at the afterparty that night, to hook up, but somehow it just didn’t happen. I was more screwed up over Elle than I’d admit to anyone—even Dylan.

And since then, it still hadn’t happened.

But tonight it could. It really should. Some sweet piece of pussy, taking my cock.

Taking Dylan’s cock, while I watched.

As usual, I was getting hard just entertaining the fucking thought.

Dylan, though, looked disinterested. Bagged from playing drums all day. Practicing material for the new Dirty album; the guy was a fucking perfectionist.

Though maybe that was why Dirty outsold the Penny Pushers fucking ten-to-one.

Not that I was jealous or anything.

“Nah. I’m just gonna go get some sleep,” he said. “Have fun, though. Crash over there if you’re drinking. Don’t drink and boat-drive.” He punched me gently on the shoulder and headed upstairs to bed.

And there was no way he wanted me to follow him there without a woman between us.

I knew that.

I got up. Drank some water and toweled off. And headed, reluctantly, over to my house.

Dylan had had a stone path put in, connecting his yard with mine, and a gate built into the fence, so we could cut through from his back deck to my back door, without having to go all the way up to the road and around.

The guy really was the best fucking friend in existence.

I knew that was true even before he bought the property here—which he’d done mainly because I’d been bitching incessantly about the price tag on the land on the point, with its many acres and mountain bike trails and the killer view. The dude who’d owned it at the time, some rich prick plastic surgeon who’d given Susanna her double E’s, refused to sell me a portion of it. And no way I could afford the entire lot. When Dylan then stepped up and bought it, I knew I’d never be able to match him in the amazing-shit-friends-do-for-you department. He’d officially knocked it out of the park.

At that point, I’d sworn a solemn oath to myself that if he ever needed a kidney, I’d hand mine over on a platter. That was pretty much the only way I’d ever get him back.

It wasn’t like the fucker had even told me he bought the property because of me. But Susanna had eluded to it, and I wasn’t fucking dense. Dylan had never mentioned an interest in owning property on the island, even after I bought my house here—until I started ranting and raving about how badly I wanted all that property on the point.

At least he’d really made it his own since buying it. He loved it now, had fallen in love with it just like I did. How could you not? But he also made room for me, just like he always did. Literally making room for me in his basement so we could jam. Building the workshop in the garage with me, where I could work on my Camaro, when he gave zero shits about cars.

I’d been sleeping at his house most nights, so it was kinda sorta like I even lived there. Kept my food there. I pretty much left some toiletries and clothes at my place just to prove it was still my home.

My condo in the city was even emptier these days.

But I didn’t want to outwear my welcome. Crashing at my own house, or at the condo, a solid one percent of the time, at least made it official that we weren’t actually shacked up together.

When I walked into my kitchen, first thing I noticed was the presence of a woman—some flowers she’d cut from the yard and put in a glass of water on the island. And it bugged me. Sure, I let that horny widow up the road tend the flower boxes in my yard; she had a green thumb and she just kept coming around. But I drew the line at letting her into the house. I didn’t want her getting that comfortable here.

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