Page 76 of Dirty Like Seth
I did not yet know if Iwould.
Frankly, I was scared. I was scared of looking into the eyes of a man who seemed to understand me so well, and who had the courage to say so, in front of the world… no matter how it might come back to hurthim.
* * *
The next day,midway through the afternoon, my drummer showed up at my house. On aboat.
He pulled up to the dock at my neighbor’s place, which I knew because she called me all in a fluster to tell me. After working his charms and getting her permission to moor there, he came on up to seeme.
“Good timing,” I told him as I let him in. “Just got back from a meeting with mypublicist.”
“Cool.” Dylan swept me up into a hug with his long, strong drummer’s arms. I nestled into the warmth of his T-shirt, his solid chest, and I felt… a little better. Like things were going to beokay.
Maybe.
Since we were teenagers and played in our first band together—just before Brody recruited the two of us to join Zane and Jesse’s band, and we formed Dirty—Dylan had been one of my very best friends. I was closer to him than anyone else in the band. EvenJesse.
When he released me, he looked me over and I felt weirdly exposed, like he could see everything I’d been thinking these past few days. Like he could tell I’d been lusting after SethBrothers.
He narrowed his eyes at me a little. “You don’t look like someone who just got back fromHawaii.”
“To be honest, I don’t feel likeone.”
He trailed me through the house as we headed out to the back deck. The back of the house looked west, over the waters of Howe Sound, the blue-gray humps of Gambier and Bowen Island in the distance—which was the main reason I’d bought this place. I could never get tired of that view. Gazing out at the water had a settling, resetting affect on me, at once inspiring and therapeutic… much like musicdid.
Dylan had brought beers and stashed them in the fridge, bringing two bottles outside for us. He popped them open and handed one to me as we sank into a couple of my lounge chairs. He’d stripped off his shirt and kicked off his shoes along the way, and now wore nothing but his shorts. They were jean shorts; ragged, faded cut-offs that ended halfway down his muscular thighs, splattered with paint and streaked withsawdust.
I smirked. “What’s with the never nudes?” It was a term we’d appropriated from the TV showArrested Development, where one of the characters wore cut-offs at all times because he had a fear of beingnude.
“Huh?” He followed my gaze to his cut-offs. “Oh. Been working on the cabin withAsh.”
“Uh-huh.” I happened to know that the “cabin” was a veritable mansion on one of the Gulf Islands, just off the coast. Dylan had bought it recently. “Renovating?”
“Converting half of the garage into a man-cave forAsh.”
Well, that explained the paint and sawdust. “Je-sus,” I joked, “are you two gonna get married, orwhat?”
“Maybe.” He swigged his beer and looked at me. “You cut him loose,huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “He wasn’t mine to cut,Dylan.”
“Right.”
“He still overthere?”
“Yeah.” Dylan looked out over the water in the general direction of his “cabin,” though the island couldn’t be seen from here. It was close, but too far south. “He’s drowning his sorrows in hardlabor.”
God. I did not want to think about Ash’s sorrows. But at the same time, I cared. I didn’t want him experiencing any sorrow whatsoever overme.
I knew I’d have to talk to him about it. Soon. I’d been the one who insisted we were only friends. Which meant a friend was what I’d have to be. Though part of me thought he was being a little ridiculous, making more out of this than there everwas.
I didn’t say all that to Dylan. Dylan had a special relationship with Ash, like a brother bond that went even deeper than what he had with Jesse and Zane. He’d be protective of Ash, and I had no idea what Ash had told him about “us.”
I really didn’t want to get into it with him,either.
I just watched him for a minute, stretched out on my lounge chair. His ruddy, slightly tanned skin. For a redhead, he tanned decently. His hair was dark auburn, but glinted all kinds of copper and red and gold in the sun. It flopped over his forehead in waves and curled around his ears. He had a straight nose and high, fashion-model cheekbones, a slight divot in his chin, and an underwear model’s body—literally.
When we’d met, Dylan Cope had been a cute but gawky teenager, all flailing limbs, wailing on his drum kit. Somewhere over the years he’d grown into a total stud of a man. Women melted into puddles of giggling gush in his wake. And even I didn’t mind occasionally checking himout.
