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

Leo scratched his head. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t look dead set against it, either. “I’ll have to run it by a slew of other people.”

“Do it.”

“Will you sit in with Riptide?”

Playing it cool was probably the way to go. Especially since Dylan wanted to hold out to make them accept his songs. But the chance to play with Riptide was too great to use as a negotiating tool.

“Let’s see—play music I love onstage with my idols? Yeah, I think I can get on board with that.” It was sure way better than getting hair extensions or whatever crazy makeover Leo had in mind to attract horny women.

“Good. I knew you’d be sensible about this. I’ve heard you play their music for years, every time we did a sound check in a venue. I think you know their songs better than they do.”

Leo pushed and annoyed the crap out of Dylan. Every now and again, though, he showed that he did pay attention to his clients and not just the bottom line. Dylan always went to Riptide as his comfort music. Bad day, sick, fight with the other guys in the band—no matter what, escaping into Riptide’s sound soothed him and revved him up at the same time.

“But how will you convince the band to let me be Jake’s sub? They don’t know me. Yeah, 4X4 did a Times Square thing on New Year’s Eve a few years ago with them, but we didn’t even share a dressing room. They don’t know that I have the chops.”

“I vouched for you. So don’t make me regret it, okay?”

“To who?”

“We’ve got an in with Riptide. After the debacle of that last piece of shit they put out, they changed PR firms. Now they’re with PKCL, same as you. One of the publicists on staff has a personal connection to the band. She’ll stick to you like glue for the next month. You do whatever she tells you.” Leo stabbed out a warning finger. “No arguments, no attitude. You may not like all her suggestions. Hell, I’m betting that you’ll hate most of them. Just remember—she wants the same thing you do.”

“What’s that?”

“To make you a megastar again. You’re fading, D, and this woman’s going to make you outshine every other star in the biz.”

“Who’s going to make this happen?”

“I am.” A petite woman strode through the doorway on mile-high heels, all sass and class. Dark brown hair framed a face with elfin features. She had eyes that vacillated between gray and green.

Dylan knew this because he’d searched online over and over again to try to clarify that question. Ever since he’d run into her at that New Year’s Eve party four years ago. He remembered everything about her from that night. The silver sequined dress she wore. How she drank Manhattans and always fished the cherry out before taking a sip. And how her big brother, the lead singer of Riptide, had hauled her off the dance floor when she started grinding against some lucky man.

Back then he’d been under twenty-one and known he didn’t have a shot with her without another birthday under his belt. Now, though, things were different. Now, he could make the move he’d imagined more than once in his bunk on the tour bus. He’d wanted a date? Fate couldn’t do better than dropping his dream girl in his lap.

“Ariel Watson,” he breathed as he lunged to his feet. Shit. Not a smooth move. So instead of finishing the lunge to shake her hand, he nodded. “Nice to see you again.”

“We’ve met before?”

“Not met so much as shared the same room.”

Her right eyebrow—just the one—shot upward. “And I don’t remember you at all. That just shows how much I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

Hell. All that staring at pictures of Ariel, and Dylan had never noticed the giant-ass chip on her shoulder. It wouldn’t stop him, though. What woman could turn down a genuine rock star?

CHAPTER TWO

Ariel knew she had to establish dominance in their power equation right away. Rock stars were used to being fawned over. Surrounded by people who not only always said,
Can I get you a drink
, but took it to the next level of,
Please, take mine, it’d be an honor
.

Such a load of crap. Her own brother was one of the biggest rock stars in the country. She’d shared a bathroom with Cam for more than ten years. He never remembered to cap the toothpaste, so it was dry and crusty when she went to use it. Okay, now that he was all grown-up, he probably remembered to do it. But the point was that rockers were people—no better, and very often quite a bit worse, than everyone else. The only thing special about them was the music.

She’d start by teaching him a lesson. “Dylan, why do you think I don’t remember you?”

“Probably because you were hammered.” As Ariel clenched her back teeth together, he continued, “It was New Year’s Eve a few years back. Everyone was hammered.”

Look at that. He’d offered her a way to save face. She’d marched in here expecting a spoiled, goody-goody kid, from Leo’s description. Instead, Dylan Royce evidently already knew how to turn on the charm and be a gentleman. Maybe this wasn’t a lost cause after all.

Of course, his looks helped the cause quite a bit, too. Even in her Fendi snakeskin T-strap heels, she had to tilt her head back to look at him. Dylan easily topped six feet. Sun-streaked—or carefully highlighted—strands of sand and caramel mixed together in a messy shag that skimmed his shoulders. That’d have to go. Eyes paler blue than her oldest and most faded pair of jeans. Eyes that were hooked onto hers like a lifeline. Eyes that…what was she doing? Getting sucked into his eyes like a groupie? Ariel clenched her hand into a fist, her long red nails digging into her palm to break the spell.

That slip made her attack him more harshly than originally intended. With a disparaging head-to-toe wave of her left hand, she asked, “Were you dressed like this?”

He looked down and shrugged. “Probably.”

“Then even if I’d been stone-cold sober, I wouldn’t remember you. You look like a child wearing his older brother’s clothes.” At least, from the neck down. From the neck up, he looked, well, yummy. Sharp cheekbones, albeit hiding behind the hair. Firm lips that…there she went again. For crying out loud, what was it about Dylan Royce that tugged at her so much? Was it just because he hadn’t stopped intensely staring at her since she’d walked into the room?

Dylan plucked at his baggy pants. “Yeah, I’m not wild about them, either.”

“Then, for goodness sake, why are you wearing them?”

“Because the label’s stylist, my manager and my last PR rep told me to.” Slowly, he edged closer to her. “They’ve provided me clothes for eight straight years. They picked out the boxers that strategically showed when I bent down to grab a microphone off the stage. They picked out socks that would look good when I crossed my legs in TV interviews. Even bought me swim trunks and fucking pajama bottoms in case paparazzi snapped a shot off a balcony.” Dylan stopped so close that the lapels of his ugly blazer brushed her breasts. “And before you judge my lack of independence, isn’t that exactly what you’re about to do to me?”

“Yes.”

His warm breath feathered against her cheek. “So how about we start with a clean slate instead of you looking at me like I’m an epic fuckup?”

Charming…but also able to put her in her place. Ariel didn’t care for that combination. It didn’t bode well for their working relationship. And by that, she meant Dylan doing exactly what she said, when she said it. It was the only way for this whole PR makeover to work. She had to be in charge. Starting now. Starting with getting the heck away from him and his annoyingly hypnotic eyes.

Ariel crossed to the wall of posters. Stopped to give each one a sniff, a crinkle of her nose, a shake of her head. She stopped at the final frame, the one with just him in it. And very pointedly turned her back to it. “I grew up with
real
rockers. Not this vanilla version you present to the world. I’m not sure I believe that you can be turned into a sex idol.”

“Ariel, hang on just one minute,” Leo blustered. “You were assigned to handle Dylan because of your close ties to Riptide. You can’t back out now. You have to make this work.”

No kidding. Not just to save Dylan’s tanking career, but her own. “Leo, would you give us some privacy?”

“Sure. Anything.” He backed out of the room, desperation coming off of him in waves like cheap cologne. Ariel knew the label had sunk millions of dollars into 4X4 over the years and made their money back tenfold, at least. Things with Dylan’s first solo release must be even worse than Leo had admitted to her. Well, fine. Her situation with her company was more tenuous than she’d admitted to Leo. Everyone had secrets. Or a secret agenda.

“How old are you?” she asked, smoothing the front of her electric-blue miniskirt.

“Twenty-three.”

Only a year younger than her. The oversize clothing made him look younger. Ariel crossed her arms over her white corset top. “Tell me something: Are you a virgin, Dylan?”

“What?” He fumbled a few steps back, as if the very words drove him away.

“I listened from the other room. Leo said he needed women to want to fuck you. You’ve got a squeaky-clean reputation. You’ve spent a good chunk of your life surrounded by teenyboppers. Talk about a definite ‘hands-off’ situation. So I have to wonder if you even know what we’re talking about.”

It was risky, but putting Dylan on the defensive might be the only way to find out exactly how much charisma he had. She’d watched videos—
endless
videos—as soon as her boss not so politely told her to fix Dylan or find another job. They’d shown her a guy with enthusiasm who could follow choreography, bop around the stage and blend with his fellow bandmates.

To be honest, 4X4
was interchangeable with three other boy bands that had come up at the same time. All four were now disbanded. And Dylan was the only band member trying to make a go of it as a solo artist. Which kind of gave away the life-span of a boy-bander, didn’t it?

He frowned at her with an equal mix of anger and disbelief. “It’s not enough that you people buy my underwear? Now you want to know if I can handle the equipment that goes in it?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Do you need signed affidavits?” Hands on his hips, he came at her. Slowly. Surprisingly seductively. Leading with his hips, which drew her gaze down to his belt. “Or are you looking more for show-and-tell?”

“It’s a yes or no question, Dylan. Are you a virgin?”

The corner of his mouth curled downward into a sneer. “No. But that doesn’t prove shit. Any nimrod can shoot his wad in thirty seconds. You want to know if I can arouse women? If I can make them want me from across a stage and a mosh pit? If I can raise their temperatures and make them drop their panties?”

Okay. He was off to a pretty good start. It had to be the tractor beam of his blue eyes mixed with the deep hoarseness of his voice. Ariel licked her suddenly dry lips. “That sums it up.”

“If I can prove that to you, you’ll get on board, all the way?”

“Yes.”

From his pocket Dylan produced a hair tie and pulled all that thick streakiness into a stubby tail. That exposed the slashes of his cheekbones, the dark eyebrows and the manly jut of his Adam’s apple. It aged him by about five years, in a good way. In a lip-smacking way. And then he stripped off his blazer.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving a point.” He rolled his sleeves up, exposing tanned, muscled forearms dusted with golden hair. Super manly. Superduper lip-smacking. Dylan advanced on her like a jaguar stalking a helpless gazelle on the savannah.

What did he intend to do? Kiss her? Grope her? Since Ariel had thrown down the gauntlet, did she really have any leg to stand on to tell him no? Not that she wanted to. He looked down at her, which made Ariel all the more aware of their height difference. And brushed past to sit down at the gleaming white, baby grand piano in the corner.

Dylan pushed back the cover. Sat with his head down for a few seconds. Was he figuring out what to sing? Or was this all a bluff and he was scrambling to come up with the next part of the plan? After those moments of stillness, face still pointed at the keys, he began to play. Soft chords. A haunting, hollow sound with a melody that floated on top like foam at the seashore’s edge. A few bars of intro, and then he sang.

I wanted to be free

Wanted everyone to see

Only, simply, just me.

Dylan lifted his head to gaze out the windows at the only somewhat smoggy skyline. His left hand moved into stronger chords, filling the natural break in the lyrics, driving the rhythm into something more robust.

No sharing the spotlight

Being all alone just feels right

Watch me—solo—tear up the night

At the instrumental break, he tossed his head back to look at her. No, he didn’t just look at Ariel—he
connected
with her. Made her feel like he was singing the words straight from his heart into her own. Those blue eyes burned with passion, concentration, intent. It seemed so obvious that Dylan was sharing something intensely personal with her. That he’d
chosen
her, Ariel specifically, to receive his music. To receive this outpouring of musical emotion and keep it safe for him.