Page 8 of Sweet Chaos
Dylan was quiet for a moment, his car still idling on the side of the street. We were parked on a hill in front of a two-story white stucco house decorated with red and green Christmas lights even though Christmas was two weeks ago. “Are you scared of him?”
“No.”
“Did he ever hurt you? Fuck with you?” His voice was low, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened, the muscles of his forearm flexing.
I knew he was talking about physical harm, not emotional. I shook my head. “It’s nothing like that.”
“But you don’t want to see him,” he concluded. “Why not?”
“How would you like it if you came home and found Sienna waiting for you?” It wasn’t even close to the same thing, so I wasn’t sure why I’d gone there.
“I wouldn’t run scared,” he scoffed.
“Do you still love her?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “We’re not talking about me.”
“I know. But do you?”
“No.”
No. Just one word. No hesitation. It had sounded convincing enough but still, I wondered how it could be true.
About a year ago, I had asked Sienna the same question. She said she didn’t think she’d ever get over loving Dylan, but it was time to move on. And she had. She and Chase were living together in Los Feliz. They hooked up at our cousin Phoebe’s wedding sixteen months ago. My parents loved Chase. He was Dylan’s polar opposite—a Stanford graduate, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, with impeccable manners and preppy good looks, Chase said and did all the right things.
“So, just like that… you’re over her? You loved her though. Or you wouldn’t have kept getting back together.”
He didn’t like it when I turned the questions back on him. Without bothering to comment on my observations, Dylan turned the car around and drove back to my apartment. Ollie was still there, waiting for me. Dylan pulled up so his G-Wagen was nose to nose with the van and the headlights illuminated Ollie as he climbed out of the driver’s seat and slid his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. He looked good. The ends of his blond hair curled up a little, a gray beanie on his head.
“Why did you break up?”
“He cheated on me.” It was true, but that felt like the wrong answer. “I mean, that’s the easy answer but it’s more complicated—”
He cut off the rest of my sentence. “Don’t give him another chance to fuck you over,” he said. “You hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Maybe you should have taken your own advice.”
I shoved my door open and hopped out, sparing one last look at Dylan before I shut the door. Jaw clenched, he was glaring at Ollie. Was he angry? I didn’t have the energy to decipher Dylan’s moods. Besides, to Dylan, I was just his ex-girlfriend’s little sister. Nothing more.
I approached Ollie who was standing next to the van, watching my face like he was searching for a clue on how to handle this situation.
His smile was tentative, mine was genuine. Which was all the reassurance he needed. “Missed you, Smalls.” He pulled me into his arms and I held on tight, remembering how good it used to be before sex ruined everything.
4
Dylan
Money. The root of all evil. That’s what made it so damn sexy.
There were three main players in Costa del Rey. Simon Woods, John Hart, and Cal Whitaker. But John Hart was being pushed out of the picture by Simon Woods. A few months ago, he sold his house. Last I heard, he and his wife were sailing their yacht somewhere in the Caribbean. Bon fucking voyage. Which left Simon Woods as my main competition for The Surf Lodge, an oceanfront hotel circa 1950s.
It had thirty-six rooms, a restaurant and a rooftop bar, all in need of refurbishment. I wanted to restore it and return it to its former glory. Give it a 1950s vintage surf vibe. It was prime SoCal real estate and I wanted it. Badly.
But first, I needed to get Cal Whitaker to sell it to me.
I pulled into the parking lot of the diner where I knew Whitaker ate his breakfast every morning and confirmed that his pickup truck was parked by the door. I beeped the locks as I strode to the door, reminding myself I wasn’t that filthy poor kid anymore with holes in his shoes, sleeping on a shitty sofa. My bank account was healthy, growing every day, and I had the money to buy a piece of the pie. I wanted it so badly I could taste it, but I wasn’t stupid enough to let my hunger show.
I spotted Cal in a back booth, reading a newspaper while he ate his breakfast. Who even read actual newspapers anymore? He had a muddy tan, snow-white hair that brushed the collar of his plaid shirt and a handlebar mustache. He looked like a cowboy in a spaghetti western. I slid into the red vinyl seat across from him, uninvited. He glanced up from his newspaper, his shaggy brows raised in question.
