Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 4

  Vanessa

  “So, I know you aren’t allowed to tell me the details, but…oh my God, what was it like?”

  I’m having lunch with my best friend, Simone Bennett. We’re at Vipiano near Union Square, carbing it up. She’s six months pregnant and has this craving for pasta with extra parmesan cheese…and a crap ton of sugar poured on top. Gross.

  But I do have to admit, pregnancy agrees with her. She’s positively glowing. I’m not sure if it’s the wonders of pregnancy or the excitement of pumping me for information that has brought about the shine.

  “Like you said, I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Okay fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. Then she snaps them back to me with a conspiratorial smile on her lips. “But you can at least tell me what he was like.”

  “Who?” I ask teasingly.

  “Don’t ‘who’ me,” she replies, flicking her hand my way. “Dylan Sexton. Please tell me you at least caught a glimpse of him during the party.”

  And how.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Archer and all but…Dylan Sexton?” She wriggles her shoulders with scandalous delight. “Dude could seriously get it.”

  “And what would your beloved husband have to say about this?” I ask.

  She straightens her shoulders and gives me a lofty look. “We’re allowed our fantasies. He gets Paula Patton and…well, Dylan Sexton would definitely make the cut as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Is that so?” I ask with a laugh. “I didn’t realize you were into the bad boy thing. I always figured you as more of a preppy, Ralph Lauren type of girl.”

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t?” she volleys right back at me.

  I dig into my pasta instead of answering. Which doesn’t fool her at all.

  “Ohhhh, that yummy, huh?” she says, poking me in the arm as she laughs.

  I wrinkle my nose at her. “Not even remotely.”

  Mostly…

  “So hey, what about that Go-Go-Girl thing?” Simone says, shifting gears as she straightens up in her seat with renewed interest. “It’s all over the internet. I mean, it kind of looks bad for her show, no? I wonder if she knew she was even being photographed.”

  I think about what Dylan did to poor Ginny Lawson, and the fury comes rushing back. Any interest I may have had in him was ruined the moment he confessed.

  That poor girl.

  “They don’t release the photos unless the people in them give explicit permission. Obviously, it was leaked by someone.”

  “Yeah,” Simone says, pausing to consider that. “So, you don’t think she was involved herself?”

  “If you were the star of Can Do Town, would you have allowed it?” I point out.

  “Hmm,” she says, before shrugging. “I guess not. Obviously, I don’t suspect you, but I wonder who leaked them.”

  God, how I wish I could tell her about what happened! I wish I could tell anyone about it. The backstabbing, underhanded, outright vile thing Dylan did.

  And to what purpose?

  It isn’t as though he needs the money. Was it just to get that extra bit of scandal for the Sexton Spring Fling? Is notoriety that important to him?

  “Someone who wants money or maybe just publicity,” I say, hoping that’s ambiguous enough not to violate my NDA. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past those vultures at Sexton Enterprises.

  Time to change the topic.

  “So give me the latest on this bun baking in your oven,” I tease. “I know you’re dying to tell me what’s new.”

  She purses her lips at me. Simone is a fashion blogger, which is how we first met. Unlike many of my clients, her compassion and sincerity far overshadow her love for attention. I felt it during our first photoshoot, and we’ve been friends ever since.

  The fact that she adopted her deceased sister’s nephew, treating him like her own son, only proves that truth. Managing to get her sister’s brother-in-law—who used to give new meaning to the term “asshole”—to grow a heart and do the same only further proves how amazing she is.

  “It’s the size of a grapefruit!” she announces, rubbing her belly as only a proud mother-to-be can.

  I laugh and stare down at the baby bump, picturing it as a large citrus fruit. “So, all is well?”

  “Perfect,” she says, smiling with that amazing glow of hers. There’s a reason why she’s such a successful fashion blogger.

  “So how’s Archer taking all of this?”

  She laughs. “I can’t tell who’s more excited. Once upon a time, I had to drag him kicking and screaming just to make it home for dinner. And redecorating that depressing bachelor pad of his? You’d have thought I was sending him to the gulag or something. Now, he can’t get enough of being involved.”

  She brightens up at some sudden thought.

  “Oh, and I finally convinced him to find out what the gender is,” she says, even more proudly.

  “Really?” I say, feeling giddy. Both of us have been dying to find out. Still, Simone has been deferring to the wishes of her former curmudgeon of a husband who didn’t want to jinx anything and has been holding out.

  She nods with excitement. “I mean, really, does the man not know who he married? Does he honestly think I’m going to go into this not having exactly the right wardrobe picked out for my child? You’d think someone who was such a control freak would want to know the gender!”

  “Well, if anyone could manage to convince him, you can,” I say with a laugh.

  “And how’s my favorite nephew?” I ask, getting more serious.

  Stuart—the nephew of both Simone and Archer—has been through so many life changes I can’t help but feel my heart swell for him, especially since he only just turned seven.

  Simone’s face softens into that wonderfully nostalgic and sentimental smile that touches it whenever she thinks of him. “He’s even more excited than we are. He can’t wait to play big brother. He even helped us pick out names.”

  “Which are?”

  “Pippa, if it’s a girl, Harry, if it’s a boy.” She wrinkles her nose, but not without a smile. “I think he’s had too much influence from those years in England.”

  “Hmm…well, you can’t fault the name Harry. He is fine as hell.”

  We both laugh.

  “I like the name Poppy,” she says, then gives me a conspiratorial smile. “I told him it was a sort of combination of the two. I’m counting on you to play along. You know how much he likes you.”

  “Aye, aye,” I say with a salute. I actually like the name Poppy. “Here’s hoping it’s a girl.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is,” she says with a secret smile as she rubs her belly. Knowing Simone and her ability to make the universe align with her plans, I’m sure she’s right.

  “But…back to you miss photographer to the stars. I want the four-one-one on all things Dylan Sexton. Did he look as hot in person as he does in all those crazy commercials? I heard he left the party to have a threesome with two of the models hired for the event.”

  I let her rattle off the current running gossip as far as the internet is concerned. I’ll answer what I can—basically a rehash of all the dirt that’s already out there.

  In the meantime, my mind wanders back to that horrible meeting at Sexton headquarters here in New York, mostly the climactic way it ended. I knew right away that the attorneys, who were so quick to dogpile on yours truly, had no idea Dylan would make such an announcement.

  My mind fast-forwards to our discussion in the elevator. Dylan was completely unapologetic about what he’d done. So much so that I haven’t been able to shake the idea that maybe there is more to this than I’m seeing.

  Either that, or the man is really as despicable as I first assumed.

  Chapter Eight

  Dylan

  Go-Girl is Go-Gone!

  Although no official statement has been made by Lion Studios, unnamed sources have confirmed that talks are underway to quietly replace Ginny Lawson,
who plays Go-Girl on the hit kid's TV show, Can Do Town, with a new female lead actress.

  Rumors to this effect immediately began spreading when photos of Lawson, topless and engaging in very adult behavior with Pete Marx of the band Nuclear Joy, were leaked online. Not long after the incident…

  I look up from the computer to glance at Gene sitting in the chair on the other side of my desk.

  He stares back at me like a parent who isn’t mad, just disappointed.

  For some reason, my idiot brain finds it amusing, and I cough out a laugh. This is met with Gene’s trademark response of closed eyes and aggrieved sigh.

  “Oh come on, Gene. We figured this was probably coming. A week from now, some Senator will be caught with his fingers in the cookie jar—or maybe just in a mistress named Cookie—and the pearl-clutchers of the world will have forgotten all about this.”

  I close the laptop and lean back in my chair to give him an easy smile. It’s no wonder the man has an endless supply of TUMS on hand, he takes everything too damn seriously.

  I spent the first part of my life knowing what real problems in life were. Problems that make a drop in share price or bad press or lower than expected dividends seem like a fucking trip to Disneyworld. Problems that were literally a matter of life and death.

  This is nothing.

  Gene opens his eyes and sighs again.

  “Dylan, despite our different outlook on things, you and I have always been friendly and candid with one another. I often eventually come around to trusting your vision on things, going against my own better judgment, because in the majority of cases, you are right.”

  I tent my fingers in front of me and wait for him to drop whatever bomb he’s currently lighting a match to.

  “But the board doesn’t know you like I do. Our in-house counsel doesn’t know you like I do. Most importantly, our shareholders don’t know you like I do. As president of this company, you have a duty, a legal duty, a fiduciary duty to both the corporation and the shareholders. These antics of yours, they’re just too damn risky half the time.”

  Now, I’m much more focused on him. The shareholders are often dangled in front of me as a warning, like a referee throwing out a yellow card in soccer. One more misstep and you’re out of the game. Usually, it hasn’t ever warranted Gene making a deliberate trip to my office to hold a private meeting, more to the point, a cancel-all-your-immediate-plans meeting.

  I feel my leg bounce with impatience. I cross the other leg so that the ankle is resting on it, which does nothing to temper the quick, anxious movement. “Gene, you mentioned being candid, so just tell me what’s going on.”

  He stares at me for a moment before nodding, mostly to himself. “There has been talk of holding a special board meeting to…to remove you as president.”

  This has me shooting straight out of my seat. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

  He just stares back at me with an impassive gaze as though he fully expected this reaction.

  It only pisses me off even more. I begin pacing back and forth in front of the window that faces Brooklyn from across the East River.

  “I made this damn company, built it on a hope and a damn prayer. That’s my name on the corporate letterhead, on every single product we produce!” I pound my chest with both hands as though emphasizing this. “This company would be nothing—nothing—without me and my fucking face and my fucking name and my fucking antics that has everyone’s panties in a bunch!”

  I stop pacing and practically fall onto the large onyx desk, slamming both palms down as I lean in to face him. I can feel how hard my jaw is, how my teeth gnash together, like a dog ready to attack.

  “Where were all those damn officers and lawyers with their fancy suits and fancy bonuses and fancy ivy league degrees when I was hustling my ass off trying to make my first buck? When I had every door slammed in my face. When I couldn’t even panhandle my way into putting a roof over my head and food in my stomach?

  “Where were they when my first ‘antic’ landed us the kind of publicity most corporations pay millions for? It isn’t them that Ideal Gentlemen magazine is drooling all over themselves to get a tell-all interview with. It isn’t them that Lion Studios wants to create a biopic movie about.”

  I lean in even closer, glaring hard at him. To his credit, Gene remains perfectly calm, letting me rant.

  “It isn’t their damn name that made this company.”

  “Are you done?” Gene asks while I continue to glare down at him.

  I want to say more, do more. I can feel my fists begin to clench; the same fists that used to hand-deliver the kind of respect I get today just by entering a room.

  But Gene isn’t my target.

  No, it’s that same nemesis that I encountered with every move to a new foster family, every “no” I encountered early on, every bit of bad luck that anyone who’s been down and out is practically joined to at the hip.

  Fate.

  For the past several years, that fickle entity has been good to me, letting me coast after years of scraping by. Now it’s back to make up for lost time.

  I exhale a sharp breath and settle down in my chair again.

  “I assume there’s a reason you’re telling me this now, beforehand?” I say, letting my rational brain step in now that my primal brain has worn itself out.

  “You have to clean up your image. It’s as simple as that.”

  Now that I’m more relaxed and I can allow myself a laugh. “What, do they want me to start going to Bible study or something? Because I can guarantee you that will make the share price drop faster than a eunuchs libido after getting the snip.”

  “As usual, you have such a colorful way of explaining things, Dylan.”

  I lean toward him with a wicked grin. “Everyone says they want a nice guy until they see the bad boy stroll in.”

  I settle back into my chair with more confidence than ever. Now that I’m thinking clearly, I realize how easy this little detour is going to be to get back on track.

  Gene gives a soft chuckle. “You’re right, there’s a fine line here. You can’t be too good, and you can’t be too bad.”

  “I’m just right,” I add with a grin. “Like Goldilocks.”

  “Like Goldilocks,” he concedes with a smile. “Which means no more parties with sex as the running theme. No more wandering off for quickie threesomes. No more ad campaigns with naked models…or a naked Dylan Sexton.”

  I can feel my grin fade with each thing that’s taken off the table. It isn’t so much that I’m going to miss all of that, it’s that I have no idea how high this new bar of morality is going to be set.

  “It also means a girlfriend, and not some flavor-of-the-week type either. A committed relationship—or at least the appearance of one—with a woman who has some semblance of a respectable public image.”

  I feel my face already begin to contort with displeasure.

  Gene raises his hands, palms up. “We’ll let you pick the woman, but she’ll obviously have to be vetted.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He gives me a skeptical look. “You may want to give us a long list.”

  “You don’t trust my taste in women?” I say, letting the absurdity of this request finally hit me. I’m already beginning to feel like I’m on an episode of The Bachelor.

  “Frankly, no,” he says in a dry tone.

  Fair enough.

  “Make it sooner rather than later. In fact, consider this your number one priority.” He leans in with a serious expression on his face. “Don’t treat this like a joke, Dylan. Because it isn’t one.”

  “Loud and clear, Gene. Loud and clear,” I reply wearily.

  If I have to snuggle up and play footsie for the paparazzi with Little Miss Perfect to maintain control of my company, that’s what I’ll do.

  “Hey, at least you don’t have to go to Bible study,” he says with a mild grin. “Yet.”

  Chapter Nine

  Vanessa

  I
press the rewind button and listen to the voice message again.

  “Vanessa, it’s Dylan—Sexton,” as though I wouldn’t know that sinful timbre anywhere. Frankly, I think he gets off saying his own last name.

  “I have a proposition that may make up for…well, you know. This is my number, call me.”

  Just like that. Call me.

  It was left on my phone this morning. The cockiness definitely shines through. Also a bit too much confidence. It’s a voice that’s used to getting what it wants. A voice that could wreak havoc at board meetings. A voice that could make panties drop. A voice that could get women to call back.

  Any woman but this one.

  I have no idea what he’s proposing. Still, I’ve had enough of dealing with Sexton Enterprises and more than enough of dealing with Dylan Sexton himself.

  I’m waiting inside the World Trade Center PATH station for the young woman who has hired me to shoot her today. Another college-graduate-cum-“influencer.” A recent New York transplant, here to see if she can actually make something of her hobby.

  I do enjoy my job shooting fashionistas. There’s an inherent self-confidence tied to the endeavor of fashion blogging or Instagramming that I admire. Often, it’s even without the self-absorbed tendency toward being a prima donna that many might expect in the industry, especially from up and comers. Obviously, I’ve faced my fair share of that nonsense. Still, by and large, they are a fun, professional, stylish, creative bunch who just know what they’re about, or at least what they want the public to think they’re about.

  That said, I wasn’t actually taking on new clients since I’d been hoping to move into my dream job of something more serious, or at least more commercial. I have Dylan Sexton to thank for that no longer being an option. I feel like I’ve taken ten steps back in my career.

  Damn him.

  “Vanessa!”

  I turn at the sound of her voice and see Kaylee Charleston bounding over. She’s blonde, bubbly and full of all the slightly smug elation that can only come from a privileged life of money and good looks. Her small entourage of two are perfect clones of her, though not quite as blonde, not quite as pretty, and not quite as well dressed. I’m sure that’s by design.