Chapter 7
MAX
A fter a brutally cold New York winter—and spring—the salt air and sunshine here in France felt amazing.
I tried to think about the last taken time I’d taken a vacation and I couldn’t remember.
Not that this was a vacation, but I couldn’t complain about my work environment.
I’d never experienced such luxury before, even when I traveled with Dante.
His family was wealthy, but this superyacht was next level.
After I’d changed into my bathing suit, I wandered up to the sun deck in search of a lounger for a quick nap. I wasn’t used to long haul flights, and my internal clock was all over the place. Sun and fresh air were just what I needed.
I started up the stairs and spotted Dylan, or rather, his straw cowboy hat.
For whatever reason, the sight made me grin.
Even without trying, Dylan’s presence demanded attention.
Not that he seemed to want that. From everything he’d told me so far, he was content to let others take center stage.
I found that strange. I’d met several actors through Dante and most had enormous egos that needed constant adoration.
As I finally stepped onto the deck, I noticed Dylan had his head back and his eyes closed, his powerful arms spread out on either side of the tub.
The relaxed expression on his face was a turnabout from the one during our flight.
He looked peaceful here, right at home. Since this was his friend’s yacht, I guessed that was true.
I looked down at my own pale body and reminded myself to reapply sunscreen often so I wouldn’t get a terrible burn.
That’s when I’d made the mistake of opening my mouth and commenting on Dylan getting too much sun and me rubbing him down with aloe.
Thankfully, Dylan ignored my blather. Apparently, my mouth was affected by the jet lag as much as the rest of me.
Jesus, I hope he didn’t think I was attempting to flirt with him. I reminded myself that Dylan was straight. Although, I caught him looking at me a lot longer than normal a few times and it made me wonder.
He’s probably just curious to know more about me since I’m going to be privy to all his secrets.
And of course he was studying me, he’s an actor. That’s what they do.
Ignoring my discomforted mood, I stretched out on the padded lounger that faced the bow.
Holy shit, it was as comfortable as any bed I’d ever slept on.
It was like heaven on earth up here. The only sounds were the seagulls squawking and the soft lap of the waves against the ship.
Between that and the warmth of the sun, I started to nod off until Jana, the chief steward, appeared.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Lowell?” she asked me as she placed a fruity drink and a plate piled high with two sandwiches on a nearby table.
“It’s Max, please. And I’ll have what he’s having.” I pointed to the table. “Please and thanks.”
“Right away,” she replied and disappeared as quickly as she came.
I heard splashing sounds as Dylan got out of the tub.
Tempted as I was to turn around and watch him emerge from the water, I didn’t do it.
I waited for a few minutes and then reluctantly got up off the lounger and padded over to the table where he was sitting.
Thank God for dark sunglasses because I don’t think I could’ve hidden my blatant appreciation of Dylan’s physique, even if it was only from the waist up.
He was broader than me with a cut definition and strong, veiny forearms that were the stuff of my hottest fantasies.
Jesus, listen to yourself. You sound like a horny twenty-year-old.
Searching for a much-needed distraction, I grabbed one of the two sandwiches on his plate and took a big bite.
“Hey! Get your own food, Max,” Dylan grumbled at me as he picked up the other sandwich.
“I’m starving and I can’t wait,” I mumbled with a full mouth. I’d much prefer a bite of Dylan’s luscious body, but I dismissed that thought as quick as it came. “I’ll share mine when it arrives.”
“I don’t know you well enough, so I don’t trust you on that,” Dylan quipped. “But don’t you dare touch these french fries. They’re worth fighting for.”
I smiled at him before I took another huge bite and made appreciative noises. Dylan’s smile faded.
“God, this lobster roll with tarragon is the best thing ever,” I mumbled and shook my head in disbelief. It was that good. “My sincere compliments to the chef.”
“That was quite the moan. You got a food porn fetish?” he asked with a crooked grin, and I choked on my bite. I grabbed his glass and took a long sip of the drink, clearing my throat. He watched, mouth open, as I slurped down half of it. Payback.
“I told you about my ex and his catering company, so let’s just say I have an appreciation for great food,” I finally replied and kept on eating.
Jana returned and placed the additional sandwich platter and drink on the table. Dylan looked at the glass and went to grab it but hesitated for a moment.
“Same as yours,” I commented, and he grabbed the glass and almost finished it off. Fair’s fair.
We scarfed down the remaining food and then I headed back to my lounger to stretch out again.
As much as I wanted to continue to feast on the visual of a half-naked Dylan, I needed a nap to get my brain working normally again, before I did something incredibly stupid like flirt with him.
I must be delirious from lack of sleep because that is not me at all.
Flirting was a necessary evil when I needed to hook up.
Other than that, I was the least flirtatious gay man I knew.
“I’m heading inside.” Dylan walked past me, the scent of chlorine and sweat teasing my nose.
I won’t look, I won’t look , I won’t look …
But I gave in to my baser instincts and did indeed take a long look at Dylan’s swagger.
Or rather, his phenomenal ass. Damp shorts clung to taut cheeks that flexed with every step.
I closed my eyes and recited my class lecture on Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing (how apropos) and thankfully that got my blood calm again.
“Let’s get started on the book in the morning, around 8?” Dylan offered.
“That works for me,” I said without glancing at him.
I heard his footsteps getting farther and farther away and finally my body sank into the lounger.
I drifted off in the sun and flitted in and out of vivid dreams. When I woke up an hour later, I called Dante but there was no answer, so I left a voicemail.
Then I group texted him and Blake to see how things were going at home.
Blake wanted pictures, and Dante complained that I texted him too early in the morning New York time.
I replied to Blake with a few snaps of the scenery and apologized to Dante for the early hour—that text was met with no reply. No surprise.
Reluctantly, I got up off the lounger and headed back down to my suite to change into navy shorts and a white t-shirt.
I took my briefcase and made my way round the corner to Rowan’s office which was spacious and well laid out, including a sitting area.
Hell, it was bigger than my office at the university and people were usually impressed by that.
One wall was a picture window that looked out to the beautiful blue sea and the coastline beyond. I wondered if I should close the blinds as the view was unbelievably distracting. A little part of me worried that the book would never get written in this environment.
Opening my laptop, I checked my email, including one from Warren.
He sent me a reminder about the timeline and asked me to check in once a week with an update on the draft.
There had been no further contact from that annoying reporter, so that put me at ease.
I intended to get work done on my latest novel, but my mind wasn’t into it, so I started researching Dylan again.
Might as well gather as much intel as possible on the man and then parse out from him what was truth and what was fiction as we went along.
Warren had sent me Dylan’s official bio, but it didn’t reveal much more than the basics. Place of birth, family members, education, film, and TV roles. I started searching El Paso, Texas and Dylan’s last name to see what popped up.
I’d already outlined the book into four parts—Dylan’s childhood in Texas, his transition to Hollywood, the rollercoaster decade of highs and lows, and finally, his last two years of sobriety.
There was a lot of material to cover but I had a feeling his early years would tell me more about the man than the thousands of articles about his Hollywood triumphs and trials.
As I perused several articles, one from the El Paso Daily in 1994 made me sit up and take notice.
Ryland Aylmer, age 41, died in a collision three nights ago on Route 4.
Police confirmed that Aylmer’s blood alcohol level was at 0.
09, well above the legal limit. Aylmer had prior convictions for drunk and disorderly behavior as well as assault.
The driver of the other car was taken to the hospital and is in stable condition.
That article led me to an obituary. Ryland was Dylan’s father.
He’d left behind his wife, Mackenzie, his four daughters, and Dylan.
Dylan had been ten years old at the time.
Prior convictions for assault. The comment circled around in my head like an ear worm as I continued to search out more information about his family.
The first piece of the puzzle that was Dylan Aylmer was now in place.
And my curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d unearthed the entire picture.