Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) (3 page)

Her eyes widen with glee. “So why can’t you still have an affair with him?”

“Because he’s famous. There’s no way we could keep that quiet. It’s been risky as it is. One picture in a tabloid would bring the whole thing tumbling down and end with me getting sued for everything I’m worth.”

“If it’s so precarious, then why did you get involved with him in the first place?”

Fate? Maybe I’m a subconscious masochist. Because something in his eyes drew me in and made me feel alive and the things he did to my body confirmed it. Because he’s even more amazing than everyone thinks he is and he let me see that side of him.

“I couldn’t stay away,” I admit finally. “I kept wanting more.”

“That’s bad,” Alex says.

It’s awful. Because I’m pretty sure I love him. Not that it matters. “It’s worse than that. He was there tonight—last night—when Blaine made his speech.” I haven’t slept yet, so it still feels like tonight.

“Aw, Rach.”

“It was over before it even had a chance to start.” Tears well up in my eyes again. “He hates me now.” Picturing his face feels like a fresh gut-punch.

“No one could hate you, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I don’t think anyone’s ever been so disappointed in me before. Not even my dad has ever made me feel so small.”

Alex tucks my hair behind my ear. “Maybe if you talk to him—”

“I tried. But what can I say? I can’t tell him. I shouldn’t have told you. I just couldn’t keep hiding everything from everyone any longer.”

“Give him some time. He’ll cool down. He’s probably just in shock. He’ll come around.” She sounds so certain I can almost believe her.

Not really.

“Maybe.” I doubt it. Because even if he forgives me, we still have no future.

Now that I’ve purged everything to her, sleep weighs me down with a dark warmth, pulling at my limbs, demanding I give in. Beside me, Alex’s eyes drift shut.

I’d love it if Dylan would listen. If I knew what to say. What I could say. Some things you can never make better, not even with all the words in the world and I have a legal injunction against many of them. Even if I could find the words, what’s next? Actions speak louder than any syllables spoken, and I belong to another man.

Even if Dylan was okay with that—which I can’t imagine he is—I’ll have a child at the end of this. And even if he was okay with
that
, it’s five years. A lot can happen in five years, and Dylan is incredibly appealing with an insatiable sex drive. He doesn’t seem like the type to wait.

Or forgive. And that’s the worst part of all. No, the worst part of all is the fact I need to forget all about Dylan St. John and move on with my responsibilities.

I can’t think of it as “my life” yet.

When it comes down to it, although I’m in love with Dylan, the feeling isn’t mutual. I can’t throw away my future, the one I have planned and sacrificed unendingly for, on the off chance he might come around.

Exhaustion overcomes me, and I fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Three long weeks pass in a blur of practices, performances, and regret. That last look in Dylan’s eyes haunts my dreams, while longing for him haunts my days. It’s like I’m a junkie whose drug of choice has been suddenly taken away. The gnawing pit of sadness in my stomach grows until I can’t bear it for one moment longer. My purse hits the floor as soon as I walk in the door from practice, and I head to my desk in the living room to power up my laptop, impatiently drumming my fingers while it boots up.

I need to see Dylan.

I need closure.

I need to talk to him, but there is literally nothing to say, even if he was willing. All that’s left is “goodbye.”

I should stop this right now and focus on the future—my future. My boring, respectable, Dylan-free future. But maybe I want that last moment. Maybe I need it. Maybe “goodbye” is what will finally set me free.

Yeah, maybe I’m lying to myself, but I’ll do anything if it’ll help me move on without this pit in my heart.

Stomping to the kitchen to burn off some energy and grab a glass of water doesn’t help rationality rear its head, so I go back to my desk and hard, wooden chair. Giving into the compulsion to cyberstalk him, I quickly discover the band’s put the next leg of the tour on hold to extend studio time, meaning he’s still in LA recording. He was supposed to be in Europe or Asia right now, wasn’t he?

I swallow back excitement. Fate has thrown me a life raft. All I have to do is grab it. If he’s in LA, I can fly there and talk to him. I have tomorrow off and don’t have to play until the evening on the day after. It would be a ridiculously simple thing to fly out and…

How the hell would I find him? I don’t even know where he lives. He said he’d recently bought a mansion in the Hills but… That’s it! I type his name and “new home.” An article about him pops up, unfortunately without the address or much more than a small paragraph of details about his new mansion in the Hills and how he bought it for a cool twelve-point-nine million. There is a picture, and I drag that into a google image search.

The realty listing for that exact mansion—complete with high quality photos of every room—pops up, sending a guilty thrill through me. The home sold months ago; this listing should be gone by now, but I wouldn’t have found the house if I wasn’t meant to go and talk to him, right? Finding this means something.

My justification is reinforced when I note the mansion’s address, so I jot that down. In another tab, I book the first direct flight I can find from Boston to LA and print directions from the airport to his place. I worry for a moment that I’ll talk myself out of this between here and there, but who am I kidding? I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. I take a deep breath and make the biggest decision of all.

I’m going to tell Dylan everything. He deserves to hear the truth, and that’s the only way I can truly explain. Lawsuit be damned, I will not survive knowing that he thinks I used him. He may not forgive me, but at least he’ll know what I felt—what I feel—was—is—genuine.

I should close the browser and go to bed, but the temptation is too great. Like a riptide, I’m hauled along with the compulsion to know more about Dylan’s house and where he’s been the last few weeks we’ve been apart.

Five bedrooms, six bathrooms… My heart squeezes at the thought of Dylan roaming around his giant house, alone.

I push away the idea that he might not be alone in those spacious rooms or his king-size bed.

Did the furniture come included and is still there, or has he changed it with things better suited to his style? Did he rip out the fancy feature wallpaper in the open-concept living room, or is it still decorating the otherwise beige walls?

I shake my head incredulously.
Beige.
Beige is the opposite of the colors I’d use to describe Dylan or surround him with. Nothing about him is neutral. He needs deep jewel tones, things that scream passion and talent and complement his restless, dominant energy.

His walls should be the stormy blue of waves crashing on the shore.

Or the blackish reds of the beating pulse behind my eyelids when I closed them too tight because he was driving into me over and over.

The deep purple of the marks he put on the pale skin of my neck.

Pulling my skirt up, I shove my hand down my panties, roughly circling my clit the way he did. Everything about him is bigger, louder, more vivid than anyone else. I plunge three fingers of my other hand inside, wishing they were his thick cock thrusting in and out of my wetness. I get myself off in an embarrassingly short amount of time, coming with a huge spasm while picturing him doing it to me in his new bedroom, bending me over the bed like he had in his hotel room that first time.

But that was before he found out I was engaged.

Guilt immediately chases away the warmth of the afterglow. Right now, Dylan still hates me. It’s not going to be a happy reunion.

I turn off my laptop and head to bed.

The black iron gate is imposing and makes my steps falter before I reach the intercom. What if he isn’t home? What if he is but won’t even let me inside? I take the envelope with the four-page handwritten letter out of my purse. If he won’t hear me out, fine, but at least I have it all on the page, purging the truth from my system like lancing a boil. Just writing it all out made me feel a little lighter.

Apologizing doesn’t guarantee forgiveness. It’s up to him if he wants to read it, and even then it may not be enough to change anything. This apology isn’t about me. It’s about him. I know I hurt him, and I need to repair that.

My hand trembles when I reach out and press the intercom. And press it again. I can see the security camera, and I stare straight into it, daring him to look into my eyes and send me away.

“What do you want?”

Even angry, even through the speaker, that rich voice affects me, spiraling across my skin.

“Hello?” He’s impatient before I can even form a single word.

“I needed… I wanted… We should talk.” I’m unable to form smooth sentences, too wound up in the hope he’ll let me in and the fear he won’t. “May I come in?”

Minutes seem to tick by agonizingly slowly. The sun beats down, heating my hair, making sweat prickle as it forms between my shoulder blades.

“Dylan?”

He buzzes me in. I yank the gate open before he can change his mind and stride up the stone walkway to the shade of the house. He knows I’m here, but I still lightly knock on the heavy double doors.

Another minute or so goes by before he appears, blurred behind the frosted, beveled glass window, and opens the door.

I take a step back from his hostile glare.

“What do you want?” He crosses his arms.

“To explain.”

“You already told me. Remember?”

I hold up the envelope. “No. I apologized, but I didn’t explain.”

“I don’t really want to hear it.” But he keeps the door open when he walks away.

I shut the door behind me, following his rapidly retreating form through the foyer and into the living room. He sits on the black leather couch, spreading his arms wide, laying them on the backs of the couch. His dark hair’s a little longer, and a stray lock flops down over his eye. I want to brush it back from his face, but I know I can’t. I’ve lost the permission to touch him. His dark blue t-shirt makes his eyes seem darker, but maybe that’s due to anger instead. A shudder runs through me at the memory of the way his body reacted to mine the last time he was mad, in his dressing room and then again later at the hotel…

He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

I hold out the letter. “I wrote it all out here. I understand you might not want to see me, or hear what I have to say, but if you’d read it and see… Maybe, someday, if you want to—”

“Read it to me.”

“What?” My arm drops to my side.

He sits forward, rubbing his palms together, resting his elbows on his knees. “You came all this way. Might as well tell me what it says. Let’s see how convincing you can be.”

I flinch. “This isn’t an act, Dylan. I care about you, and the last thing in the world I wanted was for you to be hurt at the end of this.”

He laughs. “Oh, I’m not hurt. Why should I be? You won’t be the last girl who stepped out on her man to do it with a rock star. I changed my mind. The letter can wait. Follow me. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Stunned at his lightning fast change of heart, I follow, soaking in the sight of him like water into sunbaked earth. His jeans are slung low on his hips and showcase his tight ass as he leads me up a winding staircase.

He turns and catches me staring, smirks knowingly. “Like the view?”

“I’m—”

“Apparently, the marble for this staircase was mined in Italy and brought over here in the seventies.”

“Dylan—” I trip on the top stair, stubbing my toe in my haste to keep up. “Ouch.”

“And in this guest bedroom. There’s an original Warhol. I’ll give you a print of it for your love nest.” He strides down the hall, not bothering to turn around. “Here’s the bathroom with the whirlpool tub I told you about, when I thought you might come here under different circumstances.” His speech comes faster now, not giving me time to reply. “And here’s my bedroom. I bet it looks completely different than the one you’ll share with your
fiancé
—”

“Dylan, stop!”

He turns and leans against the wall. “What?”

“You need to know you meant—you mean—something to me. I hate that I hurt you, even a little bit.”

“Yeah right.”

I swallow hard. “I lo—”

“Shall I show you the pool we were going to swim in, when we talked about our houses, and our lives? Or at least I thought we were, because, you know,
I would have mentioned a fiancé
!” He’s practically shouting, chiseled jaw clenching until the tendons stand out.

“Why did you even let me in if you weren’t going to listen to me?”

“I almost didn’t, but you never know when a groupie’s going to claim pregnancy or rape. My publicist thought it was best that I address you head on since you weren’t going away on your own. At least this way I know there are no hidden cameras or people eavesdropping on your bullshit.”

His words physically hurt like a hot poker stabbing me in the gut. He agreed to talk because he’s scared I’ll do something that would hurt his reputation? What’s with all these men in my life and their images? Father, Dylan… Blaine, who I’m going to be chained to for the next five years. What kills me the most and makes my chest ache with unshed tears, is how little Dylan knows me if he can even insinuate I’d do something so hateful, spiteful, and underhanded.

I shake my head. “I’ve made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“So leave. Nothing’s stopping you, Rachel.” He shrugs a shoulder, the coldness in his eyes chilling me.

“I’m going.” Holding my breath, I spin and hurry back down the stairs on shaky legs. My chest is burning, but so are my eyes, and if I don’t get out in about five seconds, he’s going to see me cry. The letter hits the marble floor with a small slapping sound, and I bend to retrieve it because my words won’t do anything but give him more ammunition in his hatred for me.

I did that to him, which only makes this worse. He
should
hate me. I just wanted a moment of my own before I went from good girl to good wife, and instead I ruined everything.

I grasp the handle and turn it, opening the door a few inches before Dylan’s hand slams it shut.

He’s standing behind me, so close I can feel him breathing, even though he doesn’t touch me. My zing of true fear is tempered by the way his closeness completely distracts me. I want him to mash his body against mine, to let me feel every inch of him.

He slides his other hand out to touch the door, bracketing me in his arms with his chest lightly touching my back, but not pressing me into the door like I suddenly need.

He nuzzles the back of my neck. “I lied. I let you in because I can’t stay away.”

I’d said the same words to him once.

He presses a little closer to me, and I melt.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Rachel. I don’t believe in cheating. I swore I’d never talk to you again for
his
sake, despite hating him for having you. I knew that if we talked, I’d want to see you. And I knew if I saw you, I’d have to have you again.”