Chapter 13
-Dylan Drake-
Three weeks later…
I’m back at the Shadow Garden, this time for Dare and Flicka’s engagement party.
The stupidly smiley couple are positioned by the entrance, welcoming their guests.
As Lorne promised, everyone who is anyone in the world of entertainment is here.
It’s like the Harris Peppard Trust’s Gala Dinner on speed.
Dare at least seems pleased to see me. His soon to be bride doesn’t seem so sure. She’s no wild child, no matter what certain, more recent newspaper reports would have us believe. If Felicity “Flicka” Caine was a stick of candy rock, she’d have wholesome written right through her.
“You made it.” Dare beams as he claps me on the back.
I nod. “Congratulations. It happens to the best of us.” I offer them both handshakes and pecks on the cheek.
It’s good to be back to civilization after my elective holiday in the wilds.
Lorne’s country hideaway worked a treat.
I didn’t see a soul for the first eight days.
I’m not sure there was an actual postal service to the place, and the phone coverage was decidedly sketchy.
Still, with bugger all else to do, I’ve enjoyed some lengthy walks in the woods, some gloriously indulgent soaks in an oversized tub, and rediscovered my affinity for tap-dancing, so when the casting call comes for a remake of Singin’ in the Rain, I’ll be set.
I’ve heard on the grapevine that’s an actual thing a certain director is considering.
“We’ll have to catch up later. You can tell me what’s happened about your car, and the shooting incident.” Dare clings onto my hand as I’m jostled away from him by the next guest in the line.
“Definitely.”
We part ways, and I have to admit, I don’t really want to discuss either of those things.
One thing the countryside undoubtedly had going for it was that it was utterly drama free.
Other than Howard Falchard’s daily reports—the police are apparently making some headway over the bombing—I haven’t had to think about nutters attempting to rearrange my features.
I don’t want to think about that now. The plan is to slip back into society smoothly, without making any noticeable ripples.
“Dylan, you’re still in the land of the living.”
“Dylan—good to see you again, man.”
“Ready for the new shoot? Three days to go.”
Maybe I need to amend that to waves. Ripples looks as if it might be too big an ask.
I nod and smile in reply to the various greetings as I weave my way through the sea of dazzling lovelies packing out the dance floor.
Already the air is a pungent mix of perfume, sweat, and alcohol.
If you could bottle it out of the air, you’d probably make a killing.
A-list Aroma, that’s what it ought to be called.
Once I force my way through to the bar, I have a glass of sherry shoved into my hand, before I’ve had a chance to order anything more to my taste. The easiest way to be rid of it is to down it in one, and hand back the empty. It’s only two swallows.
“You’ve gone all hipster-ish,” I complain to the barman, while glancing over the lines of real ales and fruity ciders.
“We have gin.”
Yeah, a whole row of them. “All the fancy labels in the world can’t hide the fact it started out as a cure for stomach complaints, or that it was the 18th century drug of choice for the poor to get hammered on.”
“Times change. It’s all the rage with the cool kids.”
“Yeah, well this cool kid will be having a vodka Martini, please.”
“Still determined to wallpaper over your roots, Dylan?” The person who arrives beside me says.
I turn my head to find Chase Woodrow propping up the bar.
Dare’s older brother is looking particularly swoon worthy tonight in a three piece suit that stinks of riches.
His glossy brown hair is combed back away from his classically proportioned face.
He looks every inch the screen god he is.
“Not all of us are so firmly entrenched as showbiz stalwarts.” There isn’t a member of the Woodrow family that isn’t a household name, with the possible exception of little Arrietty, who’s still only seven. I don’t doubt, though, given time she’ll be as exalted as the rest of them.
“Are you pleased to see your baby brother settling down with a good woman?”
He shrugs. “If it makes him happy.”
I glance back towards where Dare is standing, but I can only see the tip of his head thanks to the crowd. “It seems that way.”
“Sickeningly so,” Chase confirms. He orders a gin martini, just to make a point of some sort, I suppose. Though what that exact point is, is lost on me.
“He’ll be the first of us to get hitched.
” I know instinctively that he’s referring to us, as in the Sunsetters crowd.
“I never thought it’d be him to don shackles first.” Chase shakes his head, while I have to concede to the same level of surprise.
Up until a few months ago, I’d never have believed that Dare—wild by name, wild by nature—a man known for his preposterous playboy antics, would wind up besotted with some teenaged sweetheart.
“Yeah, well he’ll likely be the last of us too. Unless you’re planning—”
Chase cuts me off with a swift decisive switch of his head. “No chance.”
“Definitely the first and last of us, then, as Lorne’s not going to tie himself to a single person.
Ronnie’s situation is way too complicated.
Jason’s married to his work, and Alfie’s too damn weird to appeal to even the mother of all geeks.
” Plus he has no fucking social skills whatsoever, and digs a grave for himself every time he opens his mouth.
Yet curiously, his pen has produced box office after box office smash.
“What about you? Are you not planning to find yourself a nice dim but horny youth to pander to you in your old age?”
“Less of the old, I’m still a way off thirty.” Besides, there’s literally no one in this world that I’d want to bind myself to that tightly. There are only a handful of people I’ve seen for more than a week.
It’s as if the universe takes perverse delight in tormenting me, therefore, when Kira walks right into my field of vision.
Three weeks—I’ve literally done my damnedest to work her out of my system.
I’d even half persuaded myself I’d managed it.
But then, I’ve always been good at lying to myself.
It’s not so easy to fake disinterest when your body jolts like it’s been zapped with a thousand volts just from the way her eyes narrow as her gaze passes over me.
She’s vexed.
No—more like fucking outraged.
I have treated her like shit and I know it, and even my best line of defence doesn’t clear me of being a total bastard.
The thing is, I don’t deal well with chaos—chaos I haven’t orchestrated—and Kira wafting into my life increases the net entropy by about a million times.
We stare at each other from across the room.
There’s a sea of bodies between us. Kira’s still on the stairs.
I’m by the bar, but we could easily be mere inches apart based on the way my body reacts.
I want her. I’ve never stopped wanting her.
From the moment Kira Carter-Wells broke into my room, I’ve been hooked on her.
There’s no amount of wriggling I can do that will get myself free, nor am I sure I even want to be free of her.
Or rather, I do, because loving a woman is a major fucking problem. It creates a variant future that scares the beejeezus out of me. She’s already turned everything I thought I knew about myself on its head.
I can’t love a woman.
I can’t be in love with a woman.
Or touch her…
Make love to her…
And yet, I do…love her. Oh holy Jesus Christ!
My outrage over that fact comes bubbling to the surface. Why is she present, interfering in my life in this way? Kira Carter-Wells has no business being at this party. She’s neither friend nor family to either Dare or Felicity. She’s not a socialite, and she definitely doesn’t have connections.
I’m half-tempted to march straight over to security and have her ejected, until the strobe lighting zaps me with some clarity.
Duh, dumb arse! She is security. Just because she’s not decked out in All Star’s black fatigues, doesn’t mean she’s not on the clock.
She’s blending in, and seriously, considering the amount of talent here tonight, is it any wonder that Dare’s beefed up the usual security team with a contingent from All Stars.
Kira even told me he intended to do as much the last time we were here together.
Right before I cut off all contact with her.
Will she forgive me?
I’d be wise not to let her close enough to find out. Seriously, if she shimmies her arse over here, it’s 50:50 whether she socks me one, or we end up humping against the bar in full sight of everyone.
My tongue unconsciously chases across my upper lip, and I can almost taste her lip gloss. My pleasure centres all light up when her mouth sets into an egregious smile.
Mustn’t cause a scene…
Really, mustn’t cause a scene.
The disappointment on the face of that kid who saw Kira in my room and sussed everything out still haunts my every waking moment.
If it gets out that I’m besotted with her, he won’t be the only outraged former fan standing up and shilling to the world about my betrayal of our supposedly common values.
Frankly it’s a surprise that my sedition hasn’t already been reported.
Maybe it has on some low level. I haven’t exactly checked out the gossip sites.
Having seen me and made eye contact, Kira starts heading my way. No, no, not good.
In my panic, I spill my drink right down the front of my shirt.
“Butterfingers.” Chase chuckles. “Exactly how many of those have you had? Or are you still in the habit of knocking back a bottle of Thunderbird before you hit a party?”
“Totally, I still do that.” I never did that. That was Ronnie and Emilia’s trick. Probably Chase’s too.