Bootycall 2 - J. D. Hawkins Page 0,18
celebrities are always complaining.”
Frankie clears her throat with an overblown sense of ceremony, then reads from the gossip article.
“’Is this leggy blonde the reason Dylan Marlowe is back on track? Party animal, trouble-maker, and overall sex god Dylan Marlowe was spotted today treating the new lady in his life to a romantic day out on Rodeo Drive.’”
“Oh please.”
“Despite his reputation for getting a little crazy – both on and off the set – the actor only had eyes for this mystery blonde, as they gazed lovingly at each other throughout an intimate lunch at an upscale restaurant.’”
Frankie laughs.
“Lovingly?” I scoff.
She spins the tablet around to reveal more photographs, one of them showing me and Dylan smiling at each other over lunch.
“That looks pretty loving to me.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not loving. We’re friends. How many times do I have to say it?”
She turns the tablet towards her to take another look, before flicking it back to me.
“Definitely looks loving.”
“It’s not loving.”
Frankie shrugs and pulls the tablet back towards herself again. I spin back around to the mirror.
“That’s loving alright. No doubt.”
I shake my head in defeat.
After a few minutes of focusing on my eyes, I notice Frankie smiling at me in the reflection.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out whether you won’t admit it, or whether you genuinely don’t realize how much you like Dylan.”
“Neither. I know you want this to be some kind of fairytale, but we’re just work colleagues. Who hang out sometimes. And hooked up a few times. But whatever.”
Frankie shoots me a look that looks like she borrowed it from the Spanish Inquisition.
“Ok,” I admit, with a sigh. “It’s complicated.”
She tosses the tablet aside and sits on the edge of the bed closer to me.
“Gemma, you slept with him, went to Vegas with him, had him take you shopping, and now you’re going on a date with him – in that order. It’s not that complicated.”
I drop my hand to the table and look at her.
“It…I don’t know, Frankie. Maybe…maybe I do like him, a little bit. I mean, he’s hot, he’s funny, he’s nice – at least, now he is – and yeah, we…get along. But I’m still bruised over what happened with Robb. And Dylan could relapse at any moment. He’s not perfect.”
“He sure looks it.”
“There’s still something about him that worries me. Remember what I told you when I first met him? About how he seems so full of secrets, and pain, and just…darkness.”
“Yeah. It sounded hot as fuck.”
I let out a little laugh before continuing. “Well, I still get that impression. I still feel like there’s a big part of him that he’s not showing me, or anybody. And look at how quickly he went from being asshole of the year to the kind of guy I’d go on a date with – who’s to say he won’t turn back just as quickly? Or that this isn’t all just an act?”
Frankie shakes her head. “Have you considered that it could just be that he really likes you? Enough to change, enough to stop being an asshole?”
“Or it could be that he got his shit together for the movie, and as soon as it’s done, and the parties and girls and booze start pulling him away again, he’ll just slip right back.”
Frankie frowns thoughtfully.
“I agree with being pragmatic and taking it one day at a time, but do you really believe that, Gemma?”
I look up at the ceiling, chewing it over in my mind, wishing it wasn’t so unclear, wishing that things were painted in big, broad strokes, and not the million tiny ones that it’s easy to get lost in.
“Honestly? No.”
Frankie pulls an eyeshadow out of my hand and replaces it with another, softer shade.
“Then why don’t you stop worrying and just give this a shot?”
“Maybe you’re right.” I nod slowly. “Maybe I will.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, as I try to keep the nerves out of my voice.
Dylan’s sports car rumbles and growls as he holds one hand casually on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift, shifting it expertly and easily. He’s wearing a suit that makes my mouth water. I keep imagining what it would be like to press my face against his soft shirt, what it would be like to tear that blazer off and bite at the neck muscles he keeps showing off every time he turns his head.
“A private screening,” he says, turning to me for a moment so that he can