Page 93 of Wicked Angel
“Ugh. He’s not.” Shayla actually didn’t fight me on this, which was rare. “He’s cockblocked my dates before. Don’t tempt him.”
Angeline gaped at me. “You have no right to stalk me. I’m a grown woman and I’m not your baby sister.”
“And yet, I’ll do it. Easiest way to ensure it never happens is to promise me, right now, that you’ll never go near Dean Slater or his dirty disease dick.”
“Ew,” Shayla said.
Angeline made a disgusted face. “Fine. I promise. You just ruined it, anyway.”
“I will never not hear ‘dirty disease dick’ when I look at him now,” Shayla agreed sadly.
I smiled. For the first time tonight, I actually full-on smiled. “Let’s go.”
“Fuck that,” my sister said.
“It’s time to go,” I growled at my publicist. “We have business to discuss.”
Angeline scowled at me, like,We do?
Shayla sighed. “Then I’ll see you guys later.” And with that, my sister gave Angeline a kiss on the cheek, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and bolted into the crowd before me or Lamar could corral her into the car.
“Well.” I smiled at Angeline. “Guess it’s just you and me for the ride home.” I was actually semi-enjoying my night right now.
Maybe because Angeline looked so annoyed with me, yet so turned off by Dean Slater at the same time.
* * *
In the limo, I fell quiet. But predictably, Angeline wouldn’t shut up.
She kept going over every conversation of the night, dissecting every interaction between me and another human, how well she thought it all went. Because all she could see was the positive spin, how successfully we were going to rebuild my broken relationship with the rest of the human race, one conversation at a time.
She was weirdly over the fucking moon about the whole event. You would’ve thought I’d just played Wembley Stadium to a sold out crowd or something.
Then I realized why she was buzzing—when she started going on about Dylan again. “Isn’t he the best?” she gushed. “Suggesting you call Andy Cooper about joining your band? He’s so nice. Amber’s so lucky.”
Yeah. That was why Angeline liked him. Sure.
Because he was nice.
Had nothing to do with the fact that besides owning the hottest new nightclub in town he was a ripped underwear model in his spare time, a successful, six-foot-plus drummer, and she’d probably wanted to climb that for years.
“Guess you missed your chance,” I muttered.
“Huh?”
“He’s married. Unless you go in for married guys.”
Her jaw dropped. “Of course not.”
“You do, if you’re crushing on Dylan Cope.” First Dylan, then Dean Slater… How many rock stars did this woman want in her bed, anyway?
“I just like him,” she said, sounding wounded. “There’s no law against that. I like his wife, too.” She withdrew into the corner of the seat, finally shutting up. “He’s one of my sister’s best friends,” she added after a moment. “So don’t make it into something it’s not. I’m not trying to bang him.”
“No?” I met her eyes. “Who are you trying to bang?”
She blinked at me. “What does that mean? Just because I was considering going over to talk to Dean…”
“Right. Just to talk.” I pulled out my phone and started scrolling.
