The Reverse of Perfection (Bad Decisions Book 2) (13 page)

Ariel let them into the enormous suite. The walls were the same screaming red as Jones’ drum kit. Black velvet furniture set off a white marble bar. Plasma screens popped off every wall, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a private plunge pool. Dylan didn’t
need
all the perks of a famous lifestyle, but he sure as hell planned to enjoy this ultimate rock ’n’ roll room. With his ultimate woman.

Jones grabbed an ice bucket full of longnecks from the bar and veered straight out to the balcony overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. Ariel hefted the second ice bucket, the one holding a champagne bottle. Taking the hint, Dylan grabbed two flutes and followed her down a hallway.

“We do have an hour.” Her fingers danced up his plain white tee. “What do you want to do?”

God, he hated the word that was about to come out of his mouth. “Talk.”

“No, seriously.” This time her hand ventured down to the button of his jeans.

Why did life have to intrude on such a kick-ass fantasy come true? “I am serious. I want to use you as a sounding board. Something’s come up. An offer.”

He could practically see Ariel switching into business mode. She tucked the bucket into the crook of her arm and opened the door to a bedroom. “That sounds promising.” Then she stood stock-still just inside the floor-to-ceiling red room. The only color came from the seriously enormous white bed. “Wow. I’m pretty sure that’s the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. It looks like they glued together at least three queen mattresses.”

“Huh. I guess pillow mints are so last year,” Dylan teased, setting the glasses next to the tray of ropes, whips and handcuffs on the nightstand.

Ariel pointed at the matched set of overstuffed red club chairs against the window. “Don’t go near the bed. I won’t be able to control myself. Sit down, pretend we’re in an office and speak to me of this offer.”

He sat…after dragging his gaze away from the porn playing above the headboard. “For a reality show. They want to follow me on my next tour.”

Pursing her lips, she said, “You don’t have a next tour. Yet.”

Yeah, Dylan knew she’d connect the dots fast. “Exactly. Leo thinks this offer could help the label decide to throw a lot of effort behind my next album. If I make it contingent upon using
my
songs and not the ones they’re trying to force on me, it could be good.”

“It could be really good,” Ariel corrected, leaning over the poufy armrest. It gave him one hell of a view down the pale blue lace vee of her shirt. “A television show brings instant visibility to millions of people. Word of mouth, advertising tie-ins, your music being played in every single episode and in every commercial for it. It’d be a huge opportunity. A huge payday.”

“That’s what I thought.” But he’d wanted her take on it to be sure he hadn’t just fallen for the snazzed-up sales pitch Leo had sent.

“From a PR standpoint, it’s the goose that lays golden eggs every single week. Because we can craft each episode, your image and message.”

“What? You mean to tell me reality shows aren’t totally spontaneous and unplanned?”

“Very funny. Do you believe in the Easter Bunny, too?”

Actually, he’d never been superstitious. He’d relentlessly mocked the guy in 4X4
who wouldn’t go out the door in the morning without checking his horoscope. But Dylan was starting to believe in fate. Because there was no other explanation for sitting in a tricked-out suite high above the glitz of the Strip in a sexed-up room across from the woman of his dreams who’d turned out to be so much savvier, into his music and passionate than he’d even hoped.

“So you think it’d be a smart move?”

Ariel waved her hand back and forth in the air. “I think it’s a smart option to consider. It could open a lot of doors. On the other hand, reality television has tanked some people. It’s super intrusive. You’d have to want it. To be committed to it. Committed to people following you around and never letting you have a moment alone.”

Yeah. It took them seventeen minutes—he’d timed it—for them to get from the front door up to the suite. They’d been stopped to sign autographs seven times and taken four pictures. “I do that now.”

“It
feels
like it now,” she corrected him. “But you’ve got privacy when you’re on the bus and here in the room. If you do this show, those moments of peace and quiet disappear.”

The concept seemed simple enough. The reality, though, could be harder than it sounded. Even knowing a set end date might not give him the patience to hold it together that long. Or maybe he could. Maybe he’d do anything to get the music he was creating on this tour, music that was new and different and fucking resonated with him like never before, out into the world.

But now they were at the main thing he’d wanted to discuss with Ariel. “That’s not even my biggest concern.”

“I’m almost scared to ask.”

Dylan pushed out of the chair. Braced his palms on the windows, locked his elbows and pulled in a deep breath. “What if I can’t do it? Succeed at this solo thing, I mean? If I crash and burn a second time, I’m done. That’s it. And failing in front of millions of viewers would dig me six feet under even faster.”

Laughter bubbled out of her throat. When he didn’t join in or even turn around, she stopped abruptly. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? I listen to you perform every night. Dylan, you’re fantastic.”

A fantastic copycat. “That’s Riptide’s music. I’m just stepping in, like an understudy, to an already perfect show.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “What if
my
music isn’t good enough?”

At least she took his question seriously. Leo had ignored it entirely, too dazzled at the thought of television. Ariel, on the other hand, brought her clasped hands to her lips and stared out the window in thought for a few minutes. Finally, she cocked her head and asked, “Does that matter?”

Not what he’d been expecting. One hell of a letdown of a non-answer. “Of course,” he snapped.

“No, what I mean is, does it have to be
your
music? Or is it enough to just keep performing with a top-level group? Being considered a top-tier musician?”

Ah. Now he saw her point. And it kept everything in the family, so to speak. “If Riptide offers me Jake’s spot? That’s what you’re asking? If—
if
—their new concept takes off, and the labels come begging, and they resume their spot at the top of the charts for the foreseeable future? If all that happens and Jake doesn’t return, I ride their coattails?”

“Not when you put it quite as depressingly as that. But yes. Or something similar. Maybe you form a new group. Who knows? I’m saying that you have to be sure of your priorities. Is it getting to perform every night, no matter what? Is it financial security, again, no matter what, for your family? Are you willing to take a huge risk and, yes, possibly fail spectacularly, but be able to look yourself in the mirror every morning?”

Silence beat its own rhythm in the room. They were great questions. She’d verbalized the whirlpool of thoughts circling his brain into workable bullet points. Dylan scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You’re not going to sit there and wait for an answer right now, are you?”

“Absolutely not. This was a good talk. And the best way to finish a good talk is to let it gel for a while in your subconscious. What you truly want will bubble to the surface sooner rather than later. Right now, the best thing to do is
not
think about it.” Ariel stood. She took a semiracing leap at the bed and rolled across it three times before stopping. Throwing her arms out wide, she said, “I’ve got a good idea of how to distract you.”

God, how had he gotten so lucky? Ariel was so different from all the girls who’d wanted in his pants but never wanted to stick around to talk. Or listen to new song ideas. When they weren’t being snapped by paparazzi or in bed, most of his so-called girlfriends had tuned out on him, or found excuses to leave. Which meant his fame was the only thing that had actually interested them. Ariel liked to work and play with him in equal measure. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

“I can guarantee I won’t be distracted. I’ll be extremely focused,” Dylan promised. He shrugged out of his jacket. Tugged his shirt over his head while he crawled across the big-ass white duvet over to her. Managed to get her shirt onto the floor with one quick roll. Today’s bra was thin, intricate lace. Like seafoam breaking across her breasts. Dylan buried his face between them and growled.

“Holy fucking shit, D.” Jones stormed into the room, slamming the door against the wall with his entrance.

Dylan slid upward to cover Ariel better. “Hey, so not cool to barge in on us. Get out of here. Whatever it is can wait.”

His expression was uncharacteristically sober. “It can’t.”

Grabbing a pillow for wider protection, Ariel angled sideways to lean on an elbow. “What’s wrong, Jones? Is it Jake?”

“No. It’s Big D here. And I mean big.” Jones twisted his wrist to flash them the screen of his phone. “Because I’m looking at a full-frontal shot of him totally naked. It’s all over the Internet. I know you’re on this whole bad-boy kick. But I thought that was just for show. This is…not how we do things in Riptide. We may be rock ’n’ roll, but we’ve still got standards.”

Holy fucking shit was right. “I didn’t release a naked photo, Jones. Give me some credit. Some asswipe with a telephoto lens must’ve snuck a photo through a hotel room window. Lemme see that.”

Jones tossed him the phone. “Not a paparazzi shot, D. You posed for this one. I dunno how long ago, but one of your exes clearly decided to cash in and share way too much of you for a sweet payday. Do you remember taking this? You know who did it?”

“Whoever it is, we’ll sue their ass,” Dylan vowed. “They won’t keep a cent.” He picked up the phone. And then let it fall from suddenly numb fingers. His whole body went numb. He remembered taking the photo, all right. Hard not to, since it happened just this week. Sick to his stomach, he looked right at Ariel. “Yeah. I know who took it.”

CHAPTER TEN

Ariel watched Dylan pace around the plunge pool on the balcony. It would’ve made more sense to pace the long length of the suite. But he’d said—yelled, actually—that he needed air. Needed space. What he’d left unsaid—he needed to get away from her—was still screamingly obvious.

In a perfect world, she’d get some time and space, too. Time to absorb what had happened. Space to get away from the accusing stares piling up in the room, all aimed at her like klieg lights. Kyoko and Tony had swung by to catch a drink before hitting the town. Well, no need to go anywhere. They’d stumbled into the start of one heck of a show right here. Then Kylie bounced in, wielding her iPad and ready to give them the lowdown on the night. Instead, she’d gotten the lowdown from Jones as to the epic horribleness unfolding.

They’d left Ariel alone long enough to put her shirt back on and call her boss to straighten things out. But now everyone wanted answers. Starting with Cam, who’d just come through the suite’s door like thunder.

“I can explain—” Ariel barely started before Cam cut her off with a slash of his hand across his throat.

“Oh, you’re going to explain.” He turned to Tony. “Get D in here. He deserves to hear all of this. I’m sorry, guys, but I’m pulling rank and shutting the door on this conversation. Just until we get everything straightened out.”

“We’ve got your back when you need us,” Kyoko said with a glare at Ariel that could’ve cut her like a scalpel. It certainly stung as badly.

“We’re losing precious minutes of spinning this thing. Making it go away or embracing it for a wild ride. You’ve gotta give me a direction,” Tony insisted.

“Soon. As soon as we decide. I’ll text you.”

Jones waved him away. “Go ahead and hit the tables, but don’t leave the Hard Rock casino.”

Kylie kissed Cam on the cheek, then swerved over to hug Dylan before leading Tony and Kyoko back out the door with a harsh swish of her hair.

Cam and Jones flanked Dylan. Great. The three of them were united in a single line across from her. Against her. Standing in the middle of the living room felt more like being on the witness stand in a courtroom. But she didn’t blame them one bit.

A vein pulsed at Cam’s temple. He stood, legs spread, in head-to-toe black, and as intimidating as she’d ever seen him. “Is what Jones texted me true? Because I’m finding it damn hard to understand how my sister would pull a stunt like this. My sister, who’s had an inside view of exactly how crappy it is to be followed and spied on by people. To not know who to trust. To rarely be able to let your guard down. My sister would never, could never, forget all of that and betray one of her friends, one of
us
. Right?”

He was so right. “Never. I’d never betray any of you.”

Jones turned to ask, “Dylan, did you let Ariel take your picture? Balls-to-the-wall naked?”

“Yes.” His answer couldn’t have been more clipped if he’d pulled out a pair of scissors. And every vestige of warmth was gone from his face.

“Did you give her permission to release it to the public?”