Page 87 of Wicked Angel
“Excuse me,” Elle said apologetically; she was getting pulled away by her assistant. “We’ll talk later, okay?” She gave Angeline a sharp look that probably didn’t bode too well for me.
Did Angeline tell her sister she was working for me yet?
I had no idea.
I studied Angeline as she studied my photo, shifting closer to her once Elle was gone. “See,” she mused, “now that’s the Johnny O we need more of.”
I glanced at the photo again. “Too bad there’s no more. That band was a temporary gig.”
“So?” She assessed me with her pretty, suddenly sharp blue-gray eyes. “You’re still that man. We could definitely use some good photo ops, and someone like Amber behind the lens. Maybe she’d even photograph you again.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s my ex-wife.”
“Oh. Right.” She frowned, like that was just another strike against me that she’d have to contend with; my failed marriage to a beloved member of the Dirty family. “I totally forgot you were married.”
“Most people do. It was a long time ago, and it only lasted sixteen days. But that photo was taken when we were dating, before we got married.”
Angeline looked up at it again. “It’s an incredible photo.”
“She’s talented,” I admitted. The other photos on the wall said as much. There was one of Zane from Dirty’s last tour that was epic. Onstage, he was gleaming with sweat, shirtless, loose jeans around his hips and blond hair falling over his eyes, laughing as he lifted his microphone into the air. I’d seen it on a magazine cover, and later, all over the place. Posters, mugs, phone cases. I couldn’t get away from it.
“She is,” Angeline agreed. “She’s taken some pretty incredible photos of my sister.” She eyed me. “Maybe we could ask her if she’d photograph you, as part of your whole rebirth thing.”
“I think she’s probably got better things to do.”
Angeline looked annoyed with me, yet again. “Just because she photographs Dirty all the time doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of her camera. You’ve got to get that out of your head. You’re just as worthy a musician as my sister and her bandmates. You’ve worked just as hard. I know you have.”
“It’s not that I’m not worthy,” I told her. “It’s just probably not on Amber’s bucket list to do a photo shoot with her ex-husband.”
“Why not?” she pressed.
Seriously? Could we not just leave it at that?
“Because maybe she hates him.”
“Maybe she doesn’t.”
“Maybe not. But either way, I’m not sure her husband would be too keen on the idea.”
“Who, Dylan?” Angeline immediately turned to gaze across the room at Dirty’s drummer. I saw him now; hard to miss in any crowd, between his height and the wavy auburn hair. Angeline knew exactly where he was standing, and those wide eyes of hers told me all too much. “Dylan would never… He’s such a sweetheart,” she gushed.
I studied her, and the wide-open admiration on her face.Jesus Christ.She had a thing for Dylan Cope.
It was brutally obvious.
A hot, sickening surge of… something… flared in my gut. The fist was back, squeezing, hard and tight.
“Let me guess. You had a crush on him.”
Angeline squinted at me. “It’s not a ‘crush’ if it lasts for, like, ten years.”
“Is that a rule?”
“Yes.”
