Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 8

  “So she knows all my dirty laundry,” along with a particular truth, that even these two don’t know. “All the better to build a relationship.”

  “A fake relationship,” Gene points out.

  “Who knows?” I say with a daring grin and a shrug.

  “You haven’t proposed this idea to her yet, have you?” David asks in a panic.

  “No,” I assure him.

  He visibly relaxes, though still with the crease in his brow.

  “Is this because she’s black?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Gene snaps.

  “Good grief, no,” David says.

  “Well that’s good to know,” I say in a dry tone.

  “As long as there are no…mishaps,” David adds, giving me a pointed look.

  “You mean like me leaking a sex tape of us?”

  The look on his face as he blanches is worth it.

  “Good grief, Dylan,” Gene says. “The whole point of this is to—”

  “I know what the point of this is,” I say, shooting him a hard look. I lean in toward both of them. “Let’s get one thing clear, despite what the shareholders are apparently clamoring for, I’m still the owner and captain of this ship, not to mention the public face of it. While I value your input, that means I still get a say in how this goes down.”

  “That said,” I continue, “I do respect both of you enough to give you some reassurance.”

  Bullet points. Quick and easy. Actually, quick and dirty—it’s what I’m best at.

  “One, she has yet to violate any NDA, in a situation where many a lesser person would have taken the huge payday.”

  “Two, she was already partially involved in this as the photographer. I’m just giving her a promotion, so to speak.”

  “Three, she’s attractive, intelligent, more than capable of handling herself, at least from what I saw at the party.”

  “Four, and most importantly…I fucking like her.”

  “Does she like you?” Gene asks, completely unconvinced.

  I recall how she looked at me in the elevator the night of the party before she thought I was the scum of the earth. Then, I fast forward to the waiting room, before all hell broke loose. There was a definite moment there. It was in the eyes. My own eyes have always been one of my best features, all the more so since I didn’t inherit them from my wreck of a mother, whose own were more of a dull hazel color. These eyes have landed me between many a pair of thighs long before my millions ever did.

  The way Vanessa stared into them assures me there’s definitely something there to work with.

  “You leave that to me,” I say with a smile.

  “Okay then,” David says, ready to move into action. “I’ll get our team started on vetting her and—”

  “No vetting. We’re leaving this one alone.”

  “Mr. Sexton, I strongly suggest—”

  “Don’t you want to find out if she’s married, or an ex-convict, or worse?” Gene says, looking at me with incredulity.

  “I doubt any of those are true in her case. But surprises, learning new things about a person are reality, that’s what a relationship is,” I say, echoing Vanessa’s own words.

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil. But let’s not forget, this is not a traditional relationship. This is the fate of a billion-dollar company.”

  “Hands. Off.” I look at both of them long enough to drive the point home.

  Vanessa Paige is all mine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Vanessa

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a husband hidden away in Serbia, or Madagascar, or Antarctica, would you?”

  I recognized the number as soon as it appeared on my phone. Curiosity got the best of me. I thought maybe it was Dylan personally asking me to do a new shoot with a replacement for Zora.

  It takes me only a second to figure out where he’s going with this.

  “I’m not even going to ask why you’re posing that question to me, because the answer is a firm no.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re fun, sexy, smart, you’ve even got that tiny hint of wholesome appeal going on. You’re perfect.”

  “What happened to me being hired for my integrity? That doesn’t really mesh with a fake relationship.”

  “Well, our relationship wouldn’t be a lie if we were actually in one,” he says, and I can practically see the teasing grin on his face.

  “Are you even capable of one?”

  He laughs. “You’d be surprised at how easy it is for me to adapt.”

  “As romantic as that sounds, I’m still going to have to pass.”

  “If you’re worried about getting paid, you’ll still get your hundred grand for the photoshoot that didn’t happen.”

  I laugh. “Oh yeah, I’m definitely still getting paid for the shoot. This is your screw up, not mine.”

  “How’d you like a bigger payday?”

  “It isn’t about the money.” Actually, the money would be helpful. Still, the price I’d have to pay—basically becoming fodder for public consumption—isn’t worth it.

  “There’s a first. In my experience, everyone can be bought.”

  “Maybe you’re just hanging around with the wrong people,” I offer. “On that note, let me ask you something. Have you given any thought to my idea of just being yourself? Letting the real Dylan Sexton come out to play? Go through the usual rigamarole of boy meets girl, fall in love, have the standard highs and lows that all couples go through? As cynical as it sounds, I think you’d be surprised at how marketable that is. Who knows? You might even like it.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end, long enough to make me wonder if I’ve offended him.

  “Do you think I could buy you a drink?”

  I laugh, though my stomach does a superb summersault. “I didn’t mean with me, Dylan.”

  “Not a date. I’m thinking of an even better proposition, one I think you of all people would find more palatable.”

  “So far, nothing you’ve said sounds more palatable to me, starting with the word ‘proposition.’”

  He chuckles on the other end. “Okay, how about idea, offer…chance of a lifetime?”

  I laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re being honest or just egotistical.”

  “Seriously,” he says, sounding very serious indeed.

  Something in his voice once again gives me pause. “Okay.”

  * * *

  The place he’s picked is a hip rooftop bar, close enough to midtown to have a spectacular view of both the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, but far enough out of the way to avoid the crazy tourist throng.

  It’s just before happy hour, and the early bird partiers and suits are just getting going. Dylan is in a corner that isn’t officially blocked off, but still isolated enough for me to assume that our privacy was very much arranged. It wouldn’t surprise me if this bar is one of Sexton Enterprise’s various holdings.

  He hasn’t bothered disguising himself, looking sexy as ever a white button-up shirt, the top few buttons undone, matched with black slacks. In fact, he looks like he did for his failed “couples” shoot—the sexy, but very much taken, Mr. Sexton.

  As I walk toward him, I notice more than a few people make surreptitious glances his way, mentally wondering if it is worth it to cross the invisible boundary to snap a selfie with him. The man just exudes confidence and power, the kind that I’m ashamed to admit even have my panties itching to drop.

  But I have to control myself tonight. I still have no idea what Dylan has in mind. If it’s a fake “relationship,” I’m definitely not about that. I can’t tell if it’s the lack of integrity involved…or the idea that it would only be “fake.”

  I steel myself, cutting off those thoughts that threaten to weaken my resolve so that I too exude confidence as I approach. When he greets me with that devilish grin of his, my insides go a little shaky, but I maintain the facade. Oh, the irony.

  My huge, soft afro is loose, pinned back on one side with a
comb. I’m wearing a pair of black pleather leggings and a tan off-the-shoulder top with tan peep-toed wedges. I can only assume it meets with his approval based on the way his eyes practically undress me—something I hate to admit sends a cheap thrill to my lower stomach.

  “So…the chance of a lifetime, huh?” I say, setting my clutch on the table as I take a seat.

  “First, we drink.”

  “Trying to lower my inhibitions?” I ask with a grin.

  “Among other things,” he says, sly eyes dragging down to my leggings.

  “And…now I’m gone,” I say, making a show of grabbing my clutch and standing up.

  “Wait, wait…my bad,” he says, holding one hand up apologetically, but not without a laugh.

  I place one hand on my hip and stare down at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “No more innuendos or come-ons, I swear,” he says, getting serious. He gestures to the seat. “Please.”

  I wait a moment, just to let it sink in that I’m not above simply walking away, then settle back down into the chair.

  “Let’s start with a drink.”

  “Let’s start with why you asked me here today.”

  “Let’s start with a drink,” he repeats, sliding the menu toward me.

  I stare at him, and this time he doesn’t give, simply meeting my level gaze with one that’s just as level. I break first, sighing and taking the menu to peruse the offerings. I settle on something that’s fruity and sparkling served in a flute. I notice a hint of a smirk when Dylan eyes it once it arrives, especially compared to the more sophisticated bourbon on the rocks already in front of him.

  “If you start making fun of me—”

  “Nothing wrong with something froufrou. It’s nice to know there’s at least one sweet side of you.”

  “I can be sweet…with the proper motivation,” I sass.

  “Well, in that case,” he says, lifting his glass my way, “here’s to proper motivation.”

  I hesitate only a moment, trying to find the double entendre there. I decide that’s probably always going to be a given when it comes to Dylan Sexton…and maybe I don’t hate it all that much anyway.

  “To proper motivation,” I say, lifting my glass toward him. “Speaking of which…”

  “Ah yes, the reason for this meeting,” he says, taking a long sip of his drink. “How would you feel about a week-long vacation in paradise?”

  I stare at him a moment, trying to interpret that one.

  “You’re wondering what the catch is,” he says, eyeing me over the rim of the glass he’s just brought to his lips.

  “I’m wondering which of those words is code for sex.”

  He chuckles as he swallows, then sets his glass down to look me dead in the eye. “I get it, you think I want to have sex with you. And you’d be right.”

  I raise one eyebrow over the glass I’ve brought to my own lips. Externally, I maintain the veneer of calm, inside a heatwave has my organs turning to lava.

  “But there’s no subtext here. Sexton Enterprises is opening a resort on a private island we’ve just purchased in the Caribbean. You could be the first to try it out, take a few quality photos, and relax. My treat to you by way of apology.”

  The sip of drink in my mouth remains there, the bubbles dying against my tongue as I mull this over. I swallow and narrow my gaze.

  “I don’t get it. You want me—for all intents and purposes, nothing more than an Instagram photographer—to go to this island of yours to take professional photos? I don’t think I even have the right equipment for that kind of photography, at least not at a commercial level.”

  “Anything you need, I can get, though I want it taken from a casual observer’s point of view.”

  “But it isn’t my even expertise. I don’t photograph scenic views or nature, at least I haven’t in a long time.”

  Dylan just grins. “It isn’t about the resort, or the island, Vanessa. I’ll be there too.”

  I hiccup a laugh and pick up my drink, lifting it his way in salute. “And there’s the other shoe I was waiting to drop,” I say before taking a sip.

  Dylan has yet to even crack a smile, those green eyes just staring at me with disconcerting intensity. “How about this shoe? Yes, it will be you and me alone on the island—with a very attentive staff, naturally—but with one catch.”

  He waits for my prod before continuing. I’m curious enough to wonder what it is, so I indulge him. “Which is?”

  “You get that exclusive interview with Dylan Sexton, the one that everyone from The Wall Street Journal to Spike TV has been dying to snag. The one that will tell you all about my past. The truth. You want the real me? Come to paradise, and you’ll get it, Vanessa.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dylan

  The private plane lands at Jackson County Airport.

  The flight to Michigan was short, not that I would have been able to fall asleep even if it wasn’t.

  I left this state the moment I turned eighteen and never once looked back. Back then—having no idea what a success I’d be—I thought that was the last I’d seen of this personal hell of mine.

  But there’s a loose end that is about to unravel, one I need to clip before that happens.

  This little escape was made with as much anonymity as Dylan Sexton could muster. I’ve used private funds to pay for everything, and only non-corporate assets to get me here. Neither Gene nor David are aware of what I’m up to.

  Even though both the pilot and airplane staff have my name, I’m still in my usual disguise of a baseball cap and sunglasses. I’m renting a car from there, banking on the fact that the agent who gives me my keys would have no earthly idea why I’m here in Michigan.

  If the woman at the counter recognizes me, she doesn’t make a show of it. Granted, I’m no Kim Kardashian, but I’m enough of a celebrity for it to be a concern, especially today.

  With the key in my hand, I walk out to the lot to find my “economy” car. It’s a silver Ford, which brings a smile to my face. The last time I sat behind the wheel of a car, it was a two million dollar Bugatti.

  One hour later, I’m in the parking lot of the Parnall Correctional Facility.

  I stare at the prison, wondering how today is going to go down. Part of me thinks I should have just waited, let the cards fall where they may.

  But I’ve never been one to sit back and let shit happen. Everything I’ve accomplished in life, even long before the name Sexton was just an idea in my head, I’ve earned by taking the bull by the horns.

  That’s enough to get me out of the car.

  The process of getting a face-to-face with Lionel Johnson removes any semblance of anonymity from me. Fortunately, the employees of the Michigan Department of Corrections don’t seem to give enough of a damn to give me more than a lingering look.

  This meeting will no doubt become public fodder soon enough anyway.

  When I’m finally face-to-face with the man I’ve come to see, a look of instant recognition appears on his. The past thirteen years have had an effect on both of us, but my best friend from childhood is still there underneath that beard, skullcap, and way too mature dark brown face.

  There’s a jaded smile touching his mouth as he sits down. “How’s it goin’ McFly?”

  Although there’s nothing humorous or amusing about this meeting, I feel the tug of a smile pull at my lips at my old nickname. I once stole a skateboard and, heavily influenced by the character of the same name from the Back to the Future movies, stupidly hitched a few rides by holding onto the bumpers of cars. That lasted as long as it took me to go flying into a fire hydrant. The permanent reminder of that day etched into my knee is just one of the many scars I have from growing up.

  I feel the one on my chin start to tingle. That’s a story for another trip down memory lane, one I have no intention of taking today of all days.

  “I’m good, Lionel,” I reply. “How’s it goin’ yourself?”

  His mouth curls a bi
t more as he raises his hands, palms up, and looks around. “Can’t complain.”

  I exhale a cynical but silent laugh and shake my head, looking off to the side. When I bring my gaze back to him, I’m surprised to find him still smiling.

  “I guess congratulations are in order,” I began, scrutinizing him as I utter those words.

  “You’ve heard the news, I see.”

  “I have.”

  There’s a silence as we stare at one another. I know what’s on my mind, but I have no idea what’s on Lionel’s. That boy I used to know, the one who was even more quick with a smart-assed remark than I was, seems to have disappeared. This new Lionel is perfectly willing to patiently wait for me to get to the point.

  “So…what are your plans on release?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. I feel my body tense up in response. “Why don’t you come out and ask what you came to ask? You didn’t fly all this way to shoot the shit, Dylan.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling my nerve come back. “What do you plan on saying when you get out?”

  He meets my even look with one of his own. “Nothing more than I’ve said since I’ve been in.”

  I blink in surprise.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” he says with a wry grin.

  I stare hard at him, trying to read past that smile. “Why not?”

  “Thirteen years changes a man, something you’d know if you’d bothered to visit.”

  “You know why I couldn’t visit.”

  “Yeah, man. I get it. You got your fancy life out there in New York. Can’t taint it with the likes of your old homeboy.”

  The guilt hits harder than I thought it would. We both made a promise to get out of Detroit one day. Back then, they were the lofty dreams of schoolboys from humble beginnings.

  What happened that one fateful day, the day that started us each down the path that led to where we are now, turned those dreams into a reality for me. For Lionel, they somehow diverged onto a different road, one that got him entangled with the wrong crowd, and eventually a gun and a ski mask.