Chapter 6

 

Gemma

 

“That dress is amazing, Gemma,” Frankie says, as I give a twirl to show off the silk dress Dylan bought me. “And you look amazing in it. I’d be jealous if I wasn’t planning on borrowing it soon.”

I walk towards where Frankie is lying down on my bed and grab a chocolate from the box she’s opened. “Be my guest. You’ll just have to hope Dylan doesn’t rip it off me first, though.”

Her jaw drops. “He bought you that? Damn that man has good taste.”

“He bought me a few things.”

“Girl, you really lucked out with him. He’s totally sweeping you off your feet.”

“We’re just friends,” I say as I sit down in front of my mirror and start putting on make-up, though I can see Frankie still shaking her head in the reflection.

“Right. Just friends.”

I shrug. “I guess I’m not sure what it is. I mean, we’re trying to keep it professional but it’s so hard. And he’s so different than Robb. Not the fact that he’s buying me things, but that he really cares about what I say and what I think. Can you believe I stayed with Robb for two years?” I say, as I get to work with the foundation. “I didn’t realize how much he messed me up until I saw him today. But Dylan took care of it.”

“Well, I hope it works out. You’ve earned it. But you should be careful, too,” Frankie says, grabbing my tablet from the bedside table.

“Careful?”

“If something seems too good to be true, it usually is – and this sounds way too good. I know I was pushing you about this before, and I still want you to have fun with him, but things have moved really fast and I just don’t want you getting hurt. His reputation—”

“Don’t worry, I’m well aware of Dylan’s faults,” I say, cutting her off. “Did I tell you that he turned up at my father’s place when we were having a barbecue?”

I wait for Frankie to respond, and when she doesn’t I pull the mascara stick away to look at her. She’s staring at the tablet with a dropped jaw.

“What is it?” I ask, spinning around in my seat.

She holds the tablet up to reveal a picture of me and Dylan carrying designer bags. A paparazzi shot from earlier today.

“Looks like you just became a star yourself,” Frankie grins.

“Uh…” I say, spinning back to continue with my make-up in the mirror. “I guess that’s why 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 flash me a smile. I almost feel like thanking him for it.

“What movie?”

“The new Lars Von Trier one,” he smiles again, with a knowing pleasure in his eyes.

“I love Lars Von Trier!” I squeal. Almost clapping my hands at how much of a nice surprise it is. “How did you know? I never told you that.”

“You didn’t,” Dylan says, his Irish accent getting a little playful, “your dad did.”

“When did you speak with my dad?”

“I called him earlier. I had a few Lakers tickets that I can’t use. Thought he might be interested.”

I laugh at the weirdness of hearing that Dylan Marlowe is now close enough with my dad to offer him free Lakers tickets.

“And you spoke about where to take me?”

“No. We spoke about how the Warriors might go all the way this year, and somehow your taste in movies came up in the conversation.”

“Naturally,” I smile.

Dylan throws another insinuating smile in my direction and I feel all the blood in my body urge me to throw myself on him. Luckily, before my lack of self-control causes us to get into a car accident, we pull up on Sunset Boulevard, outside Soho House.

I let Dylan take my arm gently and help me out of the car, before locking it with his and leading me into the members-only club. There are a few people already there, and almost every single one of them a famous face. Producers, actors, and directors that all seem at ease in each other’s company. I immediately feel out of my depth, and with the way people are checking me out in this dress, virtually naked. Dylan takes me to the bar.

“Relax,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “We’re just watching a movie.”

I try to smile but it comes out as a jagged line.

“This is way too A-list for me.”

“Actually I was planning to take you to McDonalds and then a three-dollar double-feature, but the way you look tonight, it’s either here or the Riviera.”

I laugh and take the drink that the bartender puts in front of me.

“I could say the same about you in that suit.”

Dylan’s eyes roll down my body and back up again slowly, so intently that I feel a chill follow them.

“I wasn’t talking about the dress.”

I try to speak but my mouth goes completely dry. Suddenly the space between us feels like acres. I need him to put his hands on me. I need to press myself up against the unyielding hardness of his body. I want to taste his cock, feel his stubble across my face, beg him to bite my nipples and pull my hair.

Before I can do any of those things, a group of people surround us at the bar.

“Hey Dylan! Good to see you!” says an actress who’s way smaller than she seems on screen, but even more astonishingly beautiful.

“Heard about your new project with Chris West. Looking forward to it,” a young British actor adds.

I scan the faces of the four people who’ve joined us. Each one of them is a name so big I could probably take their empty glasses and sell them on eBay.

“Thanks,” Dylan says. “Good to see you guys too. This is Gemma.”

“Hello,” I smile, keeping my chin up, trying not to feel intimidated.

“Nice to meet you.”

We greet each other normally, politely, as if these are not internationally renowned stars with so much power they could probably order assassinations, and I’m not just some blonde in a nice dress.

“So what do you do, Gemma?” asks the shockingly good-looking actress.

“I…um…I do accounting in a studio financial department.”

There’s a slight pause after I say it.

“She works for the production company,” Dylan adds. “Keeping tabs on things that run out of control, budgets, time, and now me.”

They laugh in unison.

“Quite a big job,” one of them says, though I’m too dazed and confused to know which.

“An impossible job!” another adds.

“How is she doing?”

Dylan looks at me.

“Surprisingly well.”

“Well if that doesn’t deserve an Oscar, I don’t know what does.”

They laugh again, and I let out a few weak-sounding chuckles. Dylan notices my discomfort and looks around.

“We’re gonna go get some seats, see you guys later.”

“Bye Gemma.”

“Bye. Thank you,” I say, immediately cringing.

Dylan leads me into the screening room, where a few other people are already in place, before breaking out into a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I say.

“You really don’t feel like you belong here, do you?”

“No. Because I don’t.”

We sit down, the seats large and comfortable, though it means Dylan and I are separated by the big round armrests of our armchairs.

“Well, you’re wrong. You’re beautiful without knowing it. Smart without being mean about it. Strong without punishing others with it. And caring without expecting anything in return for it.”

I melt into velvet red seat, overwhelmed by how much I want this man to take me.

“Is that a line from a movie?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“No,” Dylan says, “just the truth.”

Everything goes black, and for a moment I’m not sure if it’s finally happened, if my fragile essence has finally experienced so much of Dylan that it’s extinguished itself; if my heart has finally been overwhelmed by the sexuality, tenderness, and passion I’m feeling.

Then the screen lights up, and I come back to reality.

I press myself down into the seat when the movie starts, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. There’s no chance I’ll be able to concentrate, but maybe I can use this time in the dark to compose myself a little more.

That hope disappears when I feel strong, rough hands reach into my lap with firm gentleness. I look to the side and see Dylan staring at me, his face hard and serious, the determination of his desire written clearly on his face.

I turn back to the screen, and Dylan separates my hands, taking one of them loosely and stroking my palm. It’s the slightest of brushes, the most gentle of strokes, and it teases all my wet, hot impulses to the surface. I try to pull myself back out of the haze of lust, but his fingers keep teasing, tying themselves with mine, not letting me come back from the waves of pleasure that Dylan is conducting inside of me like an orchestra.

Finally I give in, letting myself get lost in the abstract joy that comes from Dylan’s fingertips. I put my other hand on his, and trace the veins over the back of his hand, the tough knuckles, the perfectly proportioned fingers.

Then the lights go up. The screen is dark. I blink in the bright light, wondering if there’s a problem. Dylan’s fingers wrap around my hand as he stands up.

“You okay?” he asks, when he sees how confused I look.

“What happened to the movie?” I say, confused and startled.

Dylan chuckles lightly.

“It’s over. Wasn’t that enough for you?”

“Oh,” I say, smiling with embarrassment. “I didn’t realize.”

Dylan leads me outside, calling his goodbyes out as we go, his hand pushing softly against my back, sliding down my arm as he takes my hand, every touch sending chimes of excitement through me like hammered piano chords.

He drives me back home, a silent promise between us, our desires too obvious, and so precariously balanced that words would only ruin them. He stops the car and kills the engine, not even looking at me as he steps out and walks over to the passenger side, where he opens the door and helps me out.

We walk up the path in front of my building, my heels tapping on the concrete in a slow rhythm, a beat that signifies something big is coming. I shake and tremble with every step, my heart tumbling like a rolled die, my breath fizzing like poured champagne. I can’t bear it anymore, I’ve been holding my breath since I got out of the car, and if I don’t speak, then I’ll never breathe out.

“Doing the gentlemanly thing again?” I say, as I step towards my door.

I look at Dylan, his eyes narrowed with want, the lust in his face so powerful it’s almost threatening, dangerous, frightening.

He grabs my waist in his hand and shoves his body against me, slamming me up against the front door. I let him squeeze me there, almost blown back by the force of his body’s peaking virility.

“I don’t feel like being a gentleman anymore.”