Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 11

  “How did you come up with Sexton?”

  “It was from a book. I thought it sounded cool and amusing at the same time. Sex? Ton? A ton of sex?” I laugh at how idiotic that boy was. “Back then, I had no idea what it would turn into. I just knew it fit my personality.”

  Vanessa smirks at me.

  “I knew better than to blow it all, especially in a place like New York. I knew somewhere in the back of my mind, I had to save it for something big. So, I did. Even when I was fighting underground and hustling and begging people for a couch or even a floor to sleep on, working at restaurants washing dishes, I left it alone. One day my break would come, and I’d need that money to make it. Sure enough, it did.

  “I was working construction at some remodel or renovation; one of those brownstones in Brooklyn. Back then, I was clueless enough about real estate to assume it was owned by someone like Trump or the Vanderbilts, someone with more money than they knew what to do with. Turns out, the owner was a regular guy. He was cool enough to tell me how he got into it, starting with one small apartment where he rented a room out to someone to cover half the rent. From there, he bought another with more rooms to rent out. He just kept leveling up, until he was at the point to own a million-dollar brownstone to renovate and sell at a nice profit.

  “Lucky for me, I had enough saved up, plus that stolen money, to buy a tiny place, covering most of the cost with that. That’s where the story about the sneaker business came from. It…in a way laundered that money, so I had something to give to the public as to how my real estate business started.

  “With my construction background, I was able to fix it up and rent it out. Then I worked twice as hard as he had, learning all I could. There’s that saying about luck being when opportunity meets hard work? That was me. Don’t get me wrong, there were downfalls, but I was enough of a quick learner to have more ups than downs. By the time I was twenty-two, I was a millionaire, at least on paper. The next year it was up to three million. Multi-unit buildings, commercial property, whatever I could make a profit from. It was like growing money on trees. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy, but it was such a simple formula. Buy, upgrade, sell at a profit. Rinse and repeat.

  “From there, I branched out into different things, clothing, restaurants, bars, always taking huge risks. It’s easy when you have nothing other than your own wits to rely on, with nothing comfortable to fall back on. When there’s no safety harness holding you in place, you can jump as high as you want, so why not go for the moon?”

  “Gene was the one to eventually get in touch with me. He’d heard enough about me to find me interesting. He was the one to suggest incorporating instead of juggling multiple little enterprises with the name Sexton attached to them. Hence the eventual name, Sexton Enterprises. He’s the one who turned this into what it is, so I have to give him credit for that. He’s a master at what he does, even if we do clash occasionally. From there, you can learn what you need from the archives of the Wall Street Journal or Fortune magazine.”

  “I’ve already done my homework on that, but man…what a backstory,” Vanessa says, staring at me in awe. “You should have thought about doing some kind of biopic long before now. What you did back in Detroit? It wasn’t…the greatest, but it isn’t completely terrible. By now, you’re probably untouchable enough for whomever you stole from to decide to cut his losses and forget about it, no?”

  I get serious all of a sudden before replying. “The thing is…my friend and I never saw Smokey again. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened to him. His death, however it happened, that’s at least partially, if not mostly on us.”

  Vanessa surprises me by reaching across the table. “Stop that. If you work your mind hard enough eventually you can twist it to be completely your fault. Which it isn’t! What happened to him happened because whoever made him disappear did it, not you. He worked in a profession that doesn’t lead to a long life, and he knew the risks. Instead, you should think about the lives you may have saved or helped by interfering the way you did. Think about all the kids who didn’t have to watch their mothers or fathers drop out of the picture yet another night.”

  I stare at Vanessa, realizing why I chose her of all people to tell my story to. From day one, she’s shown how much integrity and empathy she has, more than almost anyone I’ve ever known. I squeeze the hand she’s placed on mine.

  “Thank you for trusting me with the truth, Dylan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Vanessa

  Dylan’s story certainly rounds out the man I had placed into a square box. It also makes me realize how sheltered my own life has been.

  “So what about you, Vanessa?” he says, cutting up his meat with a smile.

  I jab a fork into a stray piece of fish that’s fallen from its taco and smile. “My story could be titled Watching Paint Dry as far as anything exciting goes, especially compared to yours. In fact, being right here with the Dylan Sexton would probably be the height of the plot.”

  “Or the climax?” he offers with a grin, lightening the mood even more.

  I laugh and shake my head, looking around once again, wanting to pinch myself.

  “But really, I do want to know about you. Nothing about Vanessa Paige could be boring as far as I’m concerned.”

  Once again, that strange feeling hits me. It’s not a horrible sensation and, much to my surprise, it isn’t even brought about by the fact that the man sitting across from me is basically a superstar.

  It’s that he’s so much more human than I thought but still sexy as hell.

  It’s the idea that this could actually lead to something.

  Which is ridiculous.

  The publicity alone would be a complete nonstarter. Especially as far as my family is concerned. That thought brings me right back down to Earth.

  “Okay, but be forewarned, my family makes Leave it to Beaver seem like Pulp Fiction.”

  That gets a laugh out of Dylan, but he nods, encouraging me on.

  “My dad is a podiatrist. My mom is a middle school principal. As such, I didn’t really need for anything. All very slightly above middle class in Portland, Oregon. We’d take a road trip once a year, someplace in the western part of America. Then a big trip to someplace else like New York or Disneyworld or, one year, it was Paris.”

  I shrug before continuing. “I went to Reed College, then after graduation, I packed my things and moved to New York. I started as an executive assistant—basically a glorified gofer—all while taking photos in my spare time. Then I caught a few lucky breaks, and my name got out there enough to eke out a profession.”

  I laugh before picking up my drink. “In other words, Snoozefest, the movie.”

  Dylan leans back in his chair to study me as I take a sip of my drink, finishing off the last of it.

  “Nah, for someone like me, that would have been a Disney movie.”

  When I set the empty glass down, I watch him signal to someone behind me, and our waiter appears a moment later.

  “Would you like another?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t.”

  “You definitely should,” Dylan says with a grin. “When in paradise…”

  I laugh and nod. It was delicious. “Okay, sure.”

  “So, parents, Portland, school,” Dylan says, rehashing the tidbits from my far less interesting pedigree. “Any brothers? Sisters?”

  I feel my body go tense, slipping into the same defensive mode I always do when it comes to my older sister. Even after all these years, I still have this instinctively protective response.

  Dylan is surprisingly perceptive.

  “Is that no-go territory?”

  I laugh softly and shake my head. “It’s not that, it’s just—”

  I’m interrupted by the waiter bringing my second drink back. After thanking him and waiting for him to leave, I continue, circling the sugar on the rim of my glass with my finger and dipping it in my mouth before I do.

 
“I guess since you’ve been so frank and honest, I can trust you with this. It’s not really even a secret. Anyone who lived in our neighborhood or was into fashion blogging in the early days knows about her.” Even I hear the bitter tone in my voice.

  Dylan’s gaze darkens as he senses the gravity of where I’m going with my story—or rather that of my sister’s.

  “You know how people realize they have this gift to give to the world? Well, that was Shayla. Fashion and…just making the world more a beautiful place.” I laugh. “That’s how she put it. It sounds trite or like some stupid platitude, but she honestly believed it. Granted, Portland at the time was just coming out of that grunge phase, which I’m not sure it’s ever really grown out of. So she definitely brightened things up. But she was never stuck-up or conceited about it, you know? She honestly thought she was encouraging people to…I don’t know, be their own peacock in a world of pigeons.”

  I smile as I remember lying on her bed watching her change out of one outfit into another, the floor covered in pink tulle skirts and sequined tops and a hundred other bits of fluff.

  “But there are always people out there who want to stamp out your light.” I pause. “I don’t think cyberbullying really even had a name in those days. That doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. When you put yourself out there, you expect a bit of trash talk…which I’m sure you know,” I say, giving Dylan a knowing look.

  He smirks back and nods his head once in agreement.

  “Most of it, she took in stride. I don’t know how she did it. But then there are those people who are just…relentless. When one thing doesn’t work, they try and try again until they finally manage to hit the hammer on the head just right, enough to cause a crack in the dam.”

  I pick up my drink and take a long sip, looking off to the side as I feel the resentment set in. “All it took was one nasty rumor about stealing someone’s boyfriend. That’s how easy it is for the tide to turn. They didn’t even have to state a name, just hit all the right buzzwords. Boyfriend. Cheating. Stealing. Slut. Whore. Bitch. And those weren’t even the most outright vile things said.

  “It trickled into real life. Kids at school. Our friends in the neighborhood. Literally, the only people she had left in her life supporting her were our parents and me.”

  “As you can imagine, that wasn’t easy for someone who hadn’t even graduated high school yet. And so it…eventually took its toll on her.”

  I sip my drink again, taking a long swallow as I eye Dylan over the rim. I can see in his somber gaze that he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  At the very least, I’m grateful that it saves me from having to say it out loud. Something about that seems like it would cross a line I shouldn’t.

  I won’t tell him about how I was the one to figure it out after realizing she’d been in the bathroom far too long. I won’t tell him I was the one to bang on the door without any response. I won’t tell him about running to my father so that he could bust down the door. I certainly won’t tell him about finding her in the tub, wearing her favorite Stella McCartney jumpsuit and covered in blood still oozing from her wrists. Thankfully she hadn’t cut deeply enough.

  “I saw what it did to her, and I never ever want to go through that. Besides, I don’t think I have nearly as much light to give as she did,” I say, finishing the retelling of that segment of my life with a long sip of my drink.

  The alcohol is starting to hit me, which makes Dylan’s suddenly intense gaze all the more unsettling.

  “I think you shine brighter than you realize, Vanessa,” he says in a thoughtful voice. “There are different ways to make the world a more beautiful place. Doing the right thing and encouraging that in others is a powerful thing. Being there for someone in need is a powerful thing. Sometimes just a smile or a laugh. There are few enough of those to go around, I know that much. ”

  He makes me sound like some kind of saint. Something which I hardly deserve. I’m just a photographer, staying behind the lens as I document others who are willing to be brave enough to put themselves out there for the world.

  I finish the last of my drink, wincing as it turns out to be a bit more than I can handle at once.

  “Easy girl,” Dylan says with a soft chuckle. “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious.”

  “I’m not self-conscious,” I say, feeling slightly indignant.

  “Oh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow for some reason.

  “Oh,” I retort, wondering where he’s going with this.

  “Care to put that to the test?”

  “How?” I ask with a crooked smile.

  He tilts his head toward the small infinity pool attached to his villa and smirks.

  “Oh, no,” I protest with a laugh.

  “Come on, Vee, it’s already heated. No sense in letting that go to waste.”

  “You had the heat turned on? Gee, Dylan, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had this planned the whole time.”

  “In my experience, it doesn’t hurt to prepare for the best-case scenario.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t do skinny dipping.”

  “Okay, so keep your panties on. Or, if you insist, you can go get your bikini and come back.”

  “Bikini? What makes you think I didn’t pack a prim and proper granny suit for the sake of modesty?”

  “With that body? It would be a waste.”

  A sizzle of delight runs through me, but I still roll my eyes.

  “Come on, you know you want to,” he says, reaching up to unbutton his shirt.

  I laugh and continue to shake my head, no.

  “Bow chicka-wow-wow,” he croons as he peels his shirt off, exposing his bare torso.

  Tempting…

  “Feel free…I’m happy watching from the sidelines.”

  “That so?” He says, raising one eyebrow, then standing up.

  When he kicks out of his shoes and starts going to work on his fly, I widen my eyes in surprise.

  “Wait, you’re serious?”

  “Never,” he says with a grin. “But I am fun.”

  I bite back a laugh as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and shoves them down his legs, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

  As if that swimsuit back during the Spring Fling didn’t do it for me. I swallow hard and watch him, waiting to see just how far he’s planning on going with this.

  “Fair warning, I’m packing some serious heat,” he says. “Best to avert your eyes now, while you still have the chance.”

  “Says every man ever,” I sass with a smirk, noting that he definitely doesn’t need to get fully naked to prove that he’s packing a lot. “Besides, have you forgotten that you’re supposed to be good?”

  He pauses to consider that, then sighs. “Just when I was beginning to appreciate that morality of yours.”

  I laugh, feeling surprisingly disappointed. “You’ll thank me when your handlers don’t spank you for this.”

  “Handlers? Spank? I like the sound of that, but only when applied to you.”

  I laugh again and wave to the pool. “Have fun.”

  “I’ll get you in there one way or another,” he says with a grin before jogging over and jumping in.

  I squeal in laughter when the splash reaches the legs of the table, then stare after him, with a smile. The pool does look tempting, especially overlooking that water under the moonlight.

  All of a sudden, this “strictly professional” trip is looking a little less…strict.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dylan

  “Come on in, the water’s great,” I shout with a grin.

  Vanessa stares down at me with a skeptical smirk.

  “You know, for someone trying to repair his bad boy reputation, you’re still being awfully daring. Anyone could be watching.”

  “From here?” I say, twisting my head out toward the endless open sea behind me. “I hope they have a strong telephoto lens, not that they’d n
eed it with yours truly.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “And the staff?”

  “They know better. The number one rule on Isla Escapar is, what happens on Isla Escapar, stays on Isla Escapar. It’s right there in the employee handbook.”

  She doesn’t look at all convinced.

  “At the very least, you can dip your toes in. I promise not to bite them.”

  She wrinkles her nose at that, then tilts her head to consider it.

  “Okay, but just my legs,” she warns. “Don’t get any ideas about…anything else.”

  “Scouts honor.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you were never a Boy Scout?” she says, lifting one leg to remove her sandal.

  “You got me,” I say with a grin, watching her remove the second shoe.

  Vanessa slowly walks over and settles down on the edge of the pool, deliberately choosing the side furthest away from me. I wade over toward her.

  “I swear to God if you drag me in or something…”

  “Relax. I may be a cad, but I’m not an asshole.”

  She continues to watch with wary eyes.

  “Water feels nice, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s nice.”

  “It’s even better when you’re submerged.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  I stare at her, already picturing her out of that dress. “What’s the most daring thing you’ve done?”

  “What? You mean like skinny dipping?”

  “Sure.”

  “Not everyone is like you, Dylan.”