Beautiful Beast by Aubrey Irons (28)

Sweat pours down my back as I come to a stuttering stop in the driveway. I wince, holding my arms over my head and sucking in air as the muscles clench and seize in my legs.

I’m out of running shape.

Also, LA is hot as hell. I glance up at the blazing sun, shielding my eyes and trying to catch my breath before I trot up the driveway to Andi’s house. I stretch my hamstrings on the front porch of the Silverlake neighborhood house, listening to the driving guitar sounds and muffled sound of a drum kit coming from the - not quite - soundproof basement.

Andi’s a friend from the music scene I met out here who sings lead and plays guitar for this incredible band called the Slow Swell. She’s also been gracious enough to give me a spare bedroom to crash in since I’ve moved back.

That was two weeks ago.

It took me all of one night at the Beachcomber Motel back in South Neck to realize I was done. I’d hit the end of whatever the hell it was that was still keeping me in that place.

So I left - same as the time before, nine years previous.

I spent a few days in Austin first with my dad. And for a minute, that felt like the place to be - like home. Being back in Texas felt like coming back to my roots, especially seeing Mac and Abby. I put on a brave face, and I put up my best armor, and it wasn’t until my dad busted me looking at apartment rentals online that he finally shook his head and called me on my bullshit.

After that, it was back to LA, and to whatever was left for me here.

Bastian called about half a million times at first. With a slightly wincing pain inside, I think about how I would have given him such shit for that a few weeks before.

Now it’s just painful.

Eventually, he stopped calling.

Fuck him.

I’ve emailed Jack about a dozen times since I’ve gotten back, but so far, there’s been no reply. This is the part where if I knew who he really was, I’d be Facebook stalking the shit out of him to see if he’s met someone.

He probably has.

That probably shouldn’t sting so much.

Thankfully, most of the people and bands from my old circuit here had space for opening spots pretty much immediately, so it’s been a little bit of a whirlwind two weeks of getting back into the scene, playing a zillion shows all over town, and getting back into the groove, which helps. I’ve even got a solo show coming up in a week, at an awesome venue that usually packs in a great crowd. It’s no sit-down at Luminous Records, but whatever. You’ve gotta start somewhere. I have to start somewhere, after being wrecked by Bastian.

Again.

Andi and her band are still practicing downstairs for their gig tomorrow night, so I leave them be and shower. I slip into my usual uniform - jean shorts and a tank top - and I’m about to start getting my act together to get some practice time in myself when there’s a knock at Andi’s front door.

I wait for her to get it - it’s not like anyone’s looking for me here. But when I realize she’s definitely not hearing it with the band blasting away downstairs, I set my guitar down and skip to the door to get it myself.

“Hey, sorry, Andi’s—”

I freeze.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I blink, my jaw on the floor as I look up into the dark-lashed, crystal blue eyes of none other than Dylan Forbes.

He chuckles.

“Sorry, I’ve been using that line on fucking everyone over the last few weeks. It’s not old yet.”

“You’re—” I shake my head. “You’re awake.”

“Back from the dead.” He shrugs and glances past me. “Mind if I come in?”

It occurs to me that even if I really don’t know him that well, aside from in passing back in high school, Dylan might just be the nicest one of the princes. The others would have just shouldered their way in.

Hell, Bastian would have broken the door down.

I move aside as he fills the doorway and steps inside.

God, why are they all so big. It’s like the four tallest, most broad-shouldered boys in South Neck all decided to be best friends.

“I’m- I’m just staying here for a little while.”

I frown, wondering why the hell I feel like I have to validate me being here to Dylan. Maybe it’s because he’s one of the princes of South Neck, which also means his apartment back in New York is probably twice the size of this entire ranch-style house.

“I like this place,” he nods, glancing around at the vintage 70’s furniture, the instruments strewn around the living room, and the framed rock posters tastefully arranged collage-style on the walls.

“You want anything to drink?”

He shakes his head, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he turns and lets his eyes settle on me.

“You talked to him yet?”

“Who, Bastian?”

He nods, and I scowl. “Uh, no.”

Dylan nods again, sucking his teeth as he glances over the framed posters. He turns and takes a seat on the worn tobacco-brown leather couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“He’s not returning my calls.”

“You know I hate to be the one to tell you this, but knocking on his front door would have been a lot easier than mine.”

Dylan grins.

“Why didn’t we ever hang out back in high school, Bell?”

“Because you and your friends were sadistic assholes who delighted in lording your power over everyone around you and reveling in your own privilege?”

His brows go up like he’s amused.

“You write that one down ahead of time, or just come up with it?”

“The muse struck me.”

He chuckles, bringing a hand up and raking his fingers over the stubble on his chiseled jaw.

“Sadistic?”

I give a half smile. “Fine, I’ll take that one back.”

“Shit, you barely even gave me the time of day after I asked you out.”

“You mean the ridiculous flowers and the plagiarized Shakespeare poem?”

He grins when suddenly something hits me.

“That have anything to do with the bet?”

His grin turns sour, his hand coming up to scratch his chin again. “There a right answer here?”

“Maybe you should go.” Anger clouds my face as I turn away from him.

“Ana.”

With Dylan, it’s just my name. With Tyler, it’s just my name. And truthfully, with any other man who’s ever uttered my name out loud, it’s just been that: a name.

Only with Bastian was it ever a spell. A drug, a crippling addiction that I craved more of. A magic word that could bring me to my knees and send a knife through my heart.

“Hang on, I didn’t come here to bring up old shit or be an asshole.”

“So why did you come all the way to LA, Dylan?”

His face turns serious as he stands from the couch. “Because I thought you might be the one that could reach him.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Look, Ana,” his eyes narrow, “something happened that night. His birthday I mean.”

“Yeah, you guys got wasted and crashed a car through a guardrail.”

He gives me a dark look.

“It wasn’t Bastian.”

Something about the seriousness on his face makes me pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, yeah, we had some drinks, but it was like two.”

“There’s a reason the legal limit is one,” I snap.

“You’ve met Bastian, right?” Dylan frowns at me, shaking his head. “He wasn’t drunk, Ana, it was something else. We had one fucking beer at Brent’s house, and then he insisted on toasting the birthday boy with some halfway decent scotch he’d picked up.”

“Dylan,” I shake my head. “I’m not the one to talk to about whatever happened that night, okay? Look, I’m glad you’re awake and alive, and all of that, but I’m done with South Neck, and I’m done with—”

“I think we were drugged, Ana.”

I freeze, blinking.

“What?”

“Something was fucking off in that scotch, I’m telling you.” Dylan’s face is drawn and lined. “Didn’t taste right, and we were wasted the second we finished it. Shit, I barely remember getting to the car.”

His eyes burn fiercely as he looks right into mine.

“Listen to what I’m saying,” he says tightly. “Bastian and I were drugged that night, and I’m one hundred percent sure it was Brent fucking Carmichael who did it.” He gives me a hard look. “The same Brent who’s pulling every single one of Bastian’s strings right now, Ana.”

“Go to the police, Dylan.” I shake my head. “Look if this is real, I’m sorry this happened to you, but I have no interest in helping him.”

Dylan nods. “He’s a bastard, this we agree on.”

I don’t answer.

“He’s obsessed with you, you know,” he says quietly. “Always has been. He’d fucking kill me if he knew I said that so maybe keep that to yourself.”

“Obsession isn’t healthy.”

“Nothing much about that guy is healthy.” Dylan shrugs. “You take Bastian how he is. He’s a little bit broken, he’s a little bit fucked up, and he’s a little bit of an asshole.”

I raise a sharp brow and he grins.

“Okay, a lot of an asshole.”

“And a psychopath.”

Dylan shrugs. “Eh, maybe. Just a tiny one though.”

The door to the basement bangs open suddenly, and Andi comes to a stuttering stop. Her eyes narrow, and before I know it, the electric guitar around her neck is in her hand, brandished like an ax.

“Is this him?” she hisses, advancing on Dylan. “This the asshole?”

“Andi—”

“Friend of the asshole, actually,” Dylan says smoothly, unmoving and only grinning at the pint-sized punk chick with pink and silver hair menacing him with a neon blue guitar.

Andi makes a face at him, though she lowers the instrument. “Guilty by association. Get the fuck out.”

“I like your hair.”

“Out.”

“Now, is that natural?”

Andi rolls her eyes. “Seriously dude?”

“I’m just curious if the color appears anywhere else on you.”

Dylan’s grin curls wickedly. Andi’s brows arch sharply.

“Oh, you’re one of those guys.”

“Inquisitive?”

“Sleazy.”

“I prefer the term charming.”

Andi’s face goes a shade that resembles her hair as her eyes dart over Dylan Forbes’ handsome, arrogantly smirking face.

“You know, I’ve got an idea.” He grins as he pushes his fingers through his hair. “You and me, dinner tonight? Maybe some drinks?”

Andi rolls her eyes. “Maybe no?”

“Maybe I show you the killer view from my penthouse hotel suite while you sit on my face?”

Andi’s eyes dart to me.

“Is he for fucking real?”

I shrug. “Unfortunately, probably.”

She turns her gaze back to Dylan, her eyes narrowing.

“I’ve got a better idea. How about you get the fuck out of my house and get your dick mangled up in a bike chain?”

“Honestly, I’m leaning more toward my idea.”

“Out.”

“Look, we can skip the dinner and drinks part if you want to just skip to the view—”

“Andi I’ve got this,” I say quickly, stepping forward as I see my friend’s hand clench around the neck of her guitar like she’s considering murder.

“Go practice. Dylan’s leaving, I promise.”

She glares at him, her face flushed as she points a finger up at his face.

“I don’t like you.”

“Call me?”

“Fuck off, douchebag.”

The basement door slams shut. Moments later, a particularly raucous song blasts through the floorboards.

“I like her.”

I roll my eyes at Dylan. “You’re going to get me kicked out of my living situation.”

“Nah, give me one date with that—”

“Dylan.”

His smile fades as he turns and sees the serious look on my face. He meets my eyes with an unblinking look.

“Look, Ana, Bastian needs to know about this. He needs to know before—”

“Dylan.”

He stops as my voice cuts through the room.

“I am glad you’re okay.” I slowly shake my head. “But I am done with this. Bastian made plenty of his own beds. He can fucking sleep in one of them for once. I’m done with anything to do with South Neck, okay? I was done with it nine freaking years ago and, nothing has changed my mind about that since.”

He frowns. “Yeah, you took off after graduation pretty fast. But c’mon, Ana, it wasn’t that bad.”

I stare at him. “Are you kidding me?”

“Look, Bastian was an asshole, and you weren’t the most popular chick in school, but it’s not like you had it that—”

“I know you’ve seen the fucking pictures, okay?” I hiss, my face bright red with mortification. “Are you seriously surprised that I up and left after all that?”

He frowns, giving me a confused look.

“What pictures?”

“Dylan.” I look away, my face heated in embarrassment. For years, I imagined the four of them - probably more - cackling away at the pictures Bastian snapped that night.

Stupid, inexperienced, naive, drunk, naked Anastasia Bell, for all the world to see. Courtesy of Sebastian fucking Crown.

“Look, it was a long time ago, and I’m over it, but you don’t need to lie about—”

“Ana I have no fucking idea what pictures you’re talking about.”

I look up, sighing. “Bastian’s graduation party, Dylan. Ring a bell?”

He grins, and I start to whirl away from him when he chuckles.

“Shit, you mean the party where he got blackout drunk and fell asleep alone on his boat like an idiot and missed the whole thing?”

I freeze, swallowing thickly before I turn back to him.

“What?”

“Bastian’s graduation party.” He shrugs. “Shit, we haven’t stopped riding his ass about that in almost ten years. The guy blacked out at his own party while the rest of us cleaned up when it came to last-chance fuck—” He stops, clearing his throat. “I mean, you know, he missed the party.”

He gives me a funny look.

“What pictures are you talking about?”