Page 58 of Wilder Love
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I loweredthe brim of my Lakers cap, avoiding the eyes on me as I waited for my bag to drop onto the carousel. Next to me, two middle-aged women were talking in stage whispers, snatches of their conversation drifting my way.
“She obviously doesn’t eat. She probably does drugs…”
“They always call it R&R when they really mean rehab.”
“Just like that rock star boyfriend of hers.”
Get a life, people.
I cranked up the volume on my music to drown out their voices, my cell pinging with social media updates. I ignored them the same way I ignored the women who were staring at me. Judging me. I always tell myself it doesn’t matter. They don’t know me. But sometimes it still got to me.
In my periphery, I saw the women’s jaws drop and their eyes widen. Silencing my music, I caught the last few words from my brother’s mouth.
“…so I suggest you take your scrawny asses and bulging eyes over there” —he pointed to the opposite side of the baggage pickup area— “where I can’t see you. And stop talking shit about my sister.”
Having delivered his message, the women scurried away, and Dylan’s gray-blue gaze met mine. He smirked as he erased the distance between us and pulled me into a one-armed hug.
“Got your back, Rem.”
I smiled. “Always.”
I stood back to take him in, looking for changes since the last time I saw him over a year ago. Last April, to be exact. We met in the desert and partied at Coachella. Unfortunately, Sienna was there too, and Dylan got his heart trampled on.Again. Forced to take sides, I chose Dylan. Sienna and I haven’t spoken since.
It was still hard to reconcile this Dylan with the boy he used to be. Now, my twin was a tattooed bad boy in expensive clothes. The cuffs of his tailored black dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink on his arms. Black jeans. Black leather designer high tops. An Omega Speedmaster on his wrist. Hair slicked back, Wayfarers on his head, he looked very LA.
His tattooed fingers rubbed the scar that split his left eyebrow, his eyes darting to the baggage drop. “You bring a lot of bags?”
“One.” I pointed to the black roller bag making its way around, a silver duct-tape X distinguishing it as mine. Classy, as always. You can take a girl out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of the girl. He grabbed it off the carousel and we exited through the glass doors into the summer heat, walking in silence to the short-term parking garage.
The locks beeped on a matte black G-Wagen, and Dylan opened the hatch and stowed my bag inside. “Nice wheels.” I climbed into the passenger seat, inhaling the scent of leather and new car. “I miss the rusty old pickup truck.”
He snorted as he turned the key in the ignition, music blasting from his speakers—
“Daddy Issues” by The Neighbourhood. Hmm. Was he still hung up on Sienna? But then, who was I to judge?
The car was spotlessly clean. Expensive. Dylan had hit the big time when he developed an App while he was still in college. It was called EZ-Math. If you were stuck on an algebra equation or geometry question, the app helped you solve it. He sold it for millions and invested the money in a Tech start-up.
Dylan navigated the LA traffic, the eternal SoCal sunshine beating down on the windshield, and I drummed my fingers on my thigh, trying not to think of everything I had left behind—New York, my career, the new life I’d built—or whatever it was I was headed toward. Had I acted too rashly when I quit modeling? As soon as I’d gotten that call from Dylan back in February, I finished out my contract and didn’t re-sign it. I could always go back to modeling, I rationalized. But it wasn’t what I wanted anymore.
Being a human clothes hanger had earned me millions. It had gotten me out of a bad place and hurled me into a completely different world. When you had money, it was harder for the world to shit on you. But all that glitters is not gold. My self-esteem had taken a beating and my privacy had been invaded, two things I now coveted.
Dylan glanced over at me before returning his eyes to the road. “You back because of Shane?”
Shane. Seven years and I still dreamt about him, yearned for him, craved him. And now I’d come back to find out how the world had treated him. Badly. Unfairly. I wanted to find a way to make it up to him, even though I had no idea how that would be possible.
“I came back to make sure he’s okay. And I came back because I miss you.” I was telling the truth on both counts. Honesty was one of the things I’d been working on over the past seven years. I was a work in progress.
“Those women were right, Rem.” Dylan scowled. “You’re too fucking skinny.”
I laughed. If only he knew how many times I had heard the opposite. I was worth more money and got more work when I was rail-thin with boobs. That was the look that photographers and designers wanted. Ribs and hip bones protruding? Perfect. Five-foot nine and able to fit into a size zero? You’re just the body type we’re looking for.
* * *
Dylan turnedinto the driveway of a two-story Spanish style white stucco house with a terracotta roof tucked into lush foliage and palm trees. The house wasn’t flashy or huge. But not in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined that he’d be able to buy a house like this—prime SoCal real estate.
“This is your house?” I asked stupidly. Of course, it was. He pulled into the garage and cut the engine, plunging us into silence. Three surfboards sat in a rack against the wall, and a few wetsuits hung from hooks but other than that, the garage was empty.
