The Reverse of Perfection (Bad Decisions Book 2) (5 page)

“It’s a tad over the top, I’ll admit. But the larger limos all have these built-in features.”

“There are only two of us. Why do we need a car this big? It’s too fricking much.” Just embarrassing.

He didn’t get off on the rock-star lifestyle. Dylan enjoyed performing. Recording. Everything about making music. The press tours, the free clothes—ridiculous, since he could afford them way more easily than normal people—the kowtowing in clubs, all made him feel idiotic. He got to do what he loved for a living. That was enough. All the hero worship should be aimed at the people who truly deserved it, like first responders. Or gelato makers.

Ariel tucked her hair behind her ears. She was all kinds of sexy when she went into stern teacher mode…which made it twice as hard for him to concentrate on her lectures. “It’s all about image, Dylan. We’ve got to seize every opportunity to maximize PR impact. After today, you’ll be touring on the buses with Riptide. They’re comfortable, but not really photo-op worthy. This is your first show with them. The first big meeting with the band.”

“So we’re supposed to shake hands in front of the paps, like we’re signing a treaty?”

“Yes. Minus the suits and ties and flags. You’ve got to make a splash.”

“A splash with a rugged, dangerous vibe,” he corrected her, running his hand down the day and a half of stubble covering his jaw and chin.

Dylan knew to call it that because Ariel had shoved the words down his throat about a hundred times over the past two days. While he tried on clothes. While he ran through the entire Riptide catalog. On the plane ride to Denver. And now on the drive up to Boulder. Unfortunately, she hadn’t followed any of those instances with shoving her tongue into his mouth again. Not even once.

It was like Ariel was two different women. The passionate one who appreciated his music and melted at his touch…and the locked-down, one-note, career-focused woman. Guess the part of him that desperately wanted to revive his career should be thrilled he had someone so driven in his corner. But Dylan was far more interested in the side of her that
got
his song—and almost got horizontal with him on the floor of her office.

A sharp nod sent brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Exactly. Glad to know you’ve been paying attention. This is when we reintroduce you to the world. Dylan Royce 2.0. The guy men want to be and women want to do.”

“Let’s test that theory.” He glanced out the window at the matching sandy brick buildings topped with red tile roofs. They must be on the edge of the University of Colorado campus. A long time ago, Dylan had dreamed of going to school here. Of enrolling in its top-notch music program and learning all the reasons certain tonalities worked and others didn’t. Indulging in an entire semester of composition. Instead, he downloaded biographies of the greats—Chopin, Rachmaninoff, McCartney, Timberlake—and soaked up whatever brilliance he could from their life stories.

Dylan slid closer on the black leather banquette. He put an arm across her shoulders and dragged his fingers slowly across her scalp and through her silky hair. “Do
you
want to do me, Ariel?”

A pretty flush spread over her cheeks. Yup, that other Ariel, the one Dylan actually connected with, was still in there, beneath the prim layers of a high-necked white shirt, some collar thing that looked like polished shards of coral that must double as hickey protection and a pale pink jacket.

“The makeover worked,” she said, not meeting his gaze. Instead, her eyes skittered from the brand new ragged holes across the knees of his jeans to his skin-tight black tee and then back down to where he’d set his other hand right at the edge of her skirt.

“How well? Shouldn’t we put it to the test?” Dylan traced a circle on her smooth thigh. Just on the top of it. Just to let her feel his touch. He didn’t risk giving in to temptation and sliding his hand up any higher. No, he wanted to make Ariel reach for him, pull him closer. She had to be the one to toss aside her professionalism and give in to the need he knew damn well they both felt.

“There hasn’t been time to put together a focus group. You’ll have to trust that I know what I’m doing.” But her voice quivered a little.

Dylan bent to whisper in her ear. “I’m focusing just on you, Ariel. You’re the only one who matters. Right here, right now.” Then he flicked his tongue along the outer rim of her ear. Bit down on the fleshy part of her lobe, careful to not pinch against her diamond studs. Circled his finger lower, around her knee to end with a light scrape along the back of it.

“Yes,” she whispered back, splaying a hand across his ribs. “Yes, I want you, damn it.”

That was enough for him. Dylan grabbed her legs and lifted them across his lap. He curved his fingers around the nape of her neck to tilt her head up to his. Angle perfect, he noticed that her lips were already parted in anticipation. Oh, yeah. His girl,
his
Ariel, was back.

Dylan took her very obvious cue and dove into the wet heat of her mouth. The urgency of her response, the way her tongue fiercely twined with his, proved that the last two days, going cold turkey without any more kisses, had been hard on Ariel, too. So screw whatever made good business sense. Screw what was right or wrong. Smart or stupid.

Kissing Ariel wasn’t just living out some long-held fantasy. His curiosity had been satisfied on that score back in Leo’s office. But that brief lip-lock had unlocked something much bigger, much hotter, between them. Something that now needed to be ridden out all the way to the end.

He skimmed his hand up her leg, avoiding the place between her legs where Dylan would bet she was just craving to be touched, and cupped her breast. It fit in the palm of his hand perfectly. When he squeezed, she moaned. Ariel’s low, syrupy moan was its own special kind of music to his ears. Something he already wanted to write a song around.

Dylan brushed his thumb over the taut nipple. He opened his eyes to watch Ariel arch into his hand. She slid her own hand up to grab tight to his biceps to hold him there. And through it all, their tongues kept grappling, tasting, testing to see what made the other twitch and gasp. She hooked her foot behind his knee. Just that small change in position moved her thigh against his rock-hard dick. Her eyes flew open.

“It’s all yours,” he promised. “All for you, whenever you want it.”

Ariel’s legs parted at his words. Taking it as an invitation, his hand dove down to her knee. Traced a slow, steady line up the inside of her thigh until he felt the satin of her panties. God, he wanted to rip them off with his teeth. Dylan shifted one knee onto the floor of the limo. It put her beneath him. He tugged at her skirt. It was tight—which he already knew from staring at it all morning, trying to catch more of a glimpse of her amazing legs—so Ariel sort of shimmied to help. That rubbed the curve of her ass against the backs of his fingers. Yeah, he needed to bite that, too.

When the engine noise cut out and they suddenly lurched to a stop, Ariel rolled against him, which pushed Dylan the rest of the way off of the seat. He still had enough presence of mind to keep going, lurching to the other side so he could jam the locks shut before the driver tried to open their door.

“Want me to ask him to circle the block a few times?” Dylan offered. He reached down to readjust his uncomfortably hard dick in his jeans. Next time they got together—and there
would
be a next time, he’d make damned sure of it—Dylan needed it to be at a time and place with no interruptions. No other people. Because he was about to lose his mind with how badly he wanted to take her.

Hair mussed, lips reddened, skirt up past her crotch and shirt twisted, Ariel still snapped right back into professional mode. “No. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Dylan scratched the back of his neck. “I’m okay with being late.”

She peered at him intently. “Something
is
wrong, isn’t it? Not just the excess of this car. What is it?”

Telling her would completely erase the sexed-up glow in her cheeks. It might even bring back that initial sneer she’d given when she looked at him like just a kid. Even though they were only one stinking year apart in age. Dylan shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.” Ariel slid her feet back into shoes painted with green and pink watercolor flowers. “Half my job is to fix things, you know. Chances are good I can fix whatever this is.”

Fine. He’d take a chance that
his
Ariel was the one really listening. “I’m a little, uh, nervous.” Dylan tossed his head back, forgetting for a second that his long hair was gone. “To meet the guys. They’re my freaking idols, and now they’re letting me into their music, into their band. I don’t want to let them down.”

“You won’t,” she said, her voice steady with conviction.

It helped. “I know that. I know I’ll rock the house. I just don’t want
them
to worry about if I can do it.”

Ariel half stood, yanking her outfit back into position. “You have to promise never to repeat this.”

“Okay.”

“A few years ago, Cam was asked to participate in the Kennedy Center Honors. Not all of Riptide, just Cam. Sting got the award that year, and they wanted Cam to sing one of his songs in tribute. It was a huge honor. And it scared him to death when he learned he’d also get to attend a reception at the White House beforehand with the president and Sting.” Ariel crouched lower, leaned forward. “He went to the bathroom six times before performing that night. Couldn’t stop nervous peeing.”

Dylan hooted with laughter. “He’d kill you if he knew you told that story.”

“I never have, until right now.” She unlocked the doors. Gathered her purse and laptop bag. “The point is, my brother’s just a guy. A guy who really likes music, the same as you. That’s all that matters. It’s enough of a foundation, anyway, for you to use with all of them.”

“Thanks.” It was incredibly generous of Ariel to share something that private with him. Her thoughtfulness steadied him almost as much as the story.

Dylan shrugged into his new, butter-soft black leather jacket. Yeah, it was the middle of August and a coat was the last thing he actually needed. But as much as the idea of it made him roll his eyes, he did want this whole image makeover to work. If wearing different clothes bridged the gap so that he could get his music to resonate with fans again, it was worth it. He’d wear a freaking parka in Phoenix, if necessary.

She tapped him on the shoulder. Parked her front teeth on her bottom lip. “That little anecdote stays between us, right?”

“Hmmm…” He stroked his chin as the door opened. “For the right bribe.” Dylan grabbed his duffel bag and bounded onto the sidewalk. And was completely blindsided by a screaming group of teenagers barely held back by a pair of velvet ropes.

There had to be at least fifty of them clustered below the old-school marquee on the blue wall that spelled out Riptide. Shit. Some of the girls wore 4X4 shirts. Some waved 4X4
CDs in the air. Lots of them just screamed and reached out to touch him. The kicker was that not a single one of them looked old enough to drive. Dylan hadn’t left his boy-band status behind at all. He’d just dragged it into his new life.

The paparazzi snapped away, catching all of it. Dylan rushed across the red and white diamond-patterned cement. Yeah, he was always grateful for fans. But not these—not today. So he hunched into his jacket and aimed straight for the glass doors. Thankfully, one opened for him. Dylan barreled through. “Thanks for the save.”

“Why the fuck did you need it?”

At the harsh question, Dylan turned. Looked at the man still holding the door for Ariel and realized it was her brother. With…God help him…the same spiky haircut that Dylan now had, just a few shades darker. Talk about piling onto an already shitty first impression.

Self-conscious, Dylan ran a hand over his hair. And blasted his humiliation at the obvious target. “Jesus, Ariel, you said you saw Cam in concert a week ago. You knew his exact look for this tour. And you told the stylist to copy it onto me?”

Cam gave him a longer look with one eyebrow raised. Then he pulled his sister into a bear hug and tickled her ribs while she was trapped in his arms. “Ari, that’s embarrassing. Insulting, actually, to both of us.”

When he released her, Ariel squared her shoulders. “The look works for Dylan, too.”

“It worked for me first. Fuck, we’re not a matching-bow-tie a capella group, Ari. We’re a rock band. And I thought I was your priority.”

“Not this time. Dylan comes first for the next few weeks. You guys have your own publicist at PKCL. Plus, you’re not in emergency mode like Dylan is.”

Dylan cleared his throat. Because he was pissed. Something very bad had just gone down, and he intended to make it clear that that could never happen again. “About that. You said we were just doing a photo op for the paps. Nobody mentioned a fricking screaming rope line of the completely wrong audience. The whole point of today was to
escape
teenyboppers. Escape my old reputation. How am I supposed to shake it when there’s gonna be fresh pictures of girls in braces pawing at me?”

“On the bright side, this is a twenty-one-and-up club.” Jones, the group’s drummer, came forward to fist-bump Dylan in greeting. Rail thin and tatted up on every exposed inch of skin, he wore a concert tee from four tours ago with the sleeves rolled up. And a condom tucked into the rolled sleeve. “They can’t get into the show.”