Chapter Twenty-Two
After rehearsals ended, Vicky figured she and Dylan would ride back to Jazz’s together, but Dylan had other plans. They were heading to Hudson to hang up show flyers in a few local businesses and check out another retail space for Marlowe. None of the locations so far had the right vibe.
Vicky leaned against Dylan’s Jeep as they unlocked it, shielding her eyes from the blazing afternoon sun. “I can come with you,” she offered. “Two heads are better than one.”
“Mmmm—say head again.” Dylan tugged Vicky close with a grin. “And come.”
Vicky giggled, letting Dylan nip at her neck for a few seconds before pushing them back—no need to go overboard. “Keep it in your pants, Rogers.” She cleared her throat, heading around the passenger side to open the door. “Let’s check it out together, then grab a drink. My treat.”
Dylan shrugged, all loose limbs and give-no-fucks. “Whatever you want, babe.”
Babe. Hmm. Sounded a bit couply. But then again, Dylan was an equal opportunity flirt. They probably called Deborah “babe.” They probably called Clyde “babe.”
“Let’s motor,” Vicky said, getting in and shutting the door.
· · ·
The pair stuck up a dozen show flyers in and around Hudson’s noticeably busier cafés and shops. While local interest was vital, everyone knew it was equally important that nonlocals knew about the fundraiser—nonlocals who might spread the word about Rhodes, and come back again and again.
When Vicky and Dylan were done, they drove to the retail space, which was a few blocks back from Hudson’s main street. Dylan parked in front of what looked like a small, abandoned church. No stores in sight. “Where is it?” Vicky asked, climbing out.
“You’re looking at it.” Dylan gazed at the church, interest glimmering in their eyes. “The landlord’ll meet us—he said it’s unlocked.”
Vicky followed Dylan up the steps to a wooden door that creaked open when Dylan gave it a push.
Inside, dust motes floated in the multicolored light streaming through the stained glass windows, creating a muted, ethereal glow across the old floorboards, which groaned beneath their feet.
The space was mostly cleared, with a few old pews stacked in one corner, next to a collection of wrought iron candleholders and a pile of old hymn books.
The smell of damp wood and smoky incense hung in the air.
Dylan spun in a slow circle, transfixed, their gaze drinking in every detail: The faded frescos on the stone walls. The vaulted ceiling crossed with ancient wood beams. The solemn, forgotten beauty.
Dylan’s voice was reverent. “This is incredible. I can literally see the whole space! Displays here, and here.” They began pointing, practically skipping around the old church.
“Register here. We’d have room for a little coffee bar!
Maybe keep the pews as seating? And we could use the stage for poetry readings and live music! Like a real community space!”
The front door creaked open again. Dylan hurried to introduce themself to the landlord, a gruff, older man in a tweed newsboy cap. “Needs a spit-polish,” he rasped, “but there’s nothing else like it in the neighborhood. Built in 1901.”
“Wow.” Dylan was brimming with excitement. “Back when they were built to last. What d’you think, Vee? Um, Vee?”
Vicky was busy examining a jagged crack snaking down from a window.
“What do you think?” Dylan called. “Amazing, right?”
Vicky strode back. Where to start? “There’s mold up there.” Vicky pointed to a patch of it near the ceiling.
The landlord looked surprised, at both the patch and Vicky’s mention of it. “That’s nothing. I’ll paint over it myself.”
“Totally.” Dylan waved off Vicky’s concern. “No big deal. I mean, look at this place! It has character. The kind of place that people will be psyched to discover, don’t you think?”
“Will they discover it?” Vicky asked. “You’re not on the main street. Less foot traffic means less walk-ins.”
“That’s what makes it cool. The right people will find us.” Dylan admired the admittedly beautiful stained glass windows. “This is a vibe.”
Vicky raised a disbelieving brow. “They teach you that in your MBA?”
Dylan scoffed. “Don’t be so cynical.” They started pacing again, describing the vintage chairs they’d put in the corner, how they’d repurpose the candlesticks, the smell of fresh chocolate in the air.
Maybe she shouldn’t say anything just yet. Dylan was having a moment. Vicky didn’t want to burst their bubble.
The landlord looked her up and down, his tone dismissive. “What do you think, little lady?”
Vicky burst the bubble. She pointed again to the mold. “Well, old man, mold isn’t something you can just paint over—it’s a health and safety violation under New York State law. You’re legally required to correct any conditions hazardous to health—including mold.”
The landlord met Vicky’s gaze with a huff. “Well, that’s the first I’m hearing of that.”
Vicky went on, striding toward the back of the building. “Also, under Section 1109 of the New York State Building Code, every public business requires accessible restrooms, clear path-of-travel signage, and compliant entryways. You don’t have any of that, right?”
The landlord’s face began to darken. He pulled his cap off his head, looking around with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “It’s an older building.”
Vicky gave him a patient, steely smile. “Which is not exempt from safety codes just because it hasn’t been updated. You’re leasing to a new business, which means you’re obligated to meet those standards, regardless of prior use.”
Dylan’s shoulders drooped. “Maybe it’s worth fixing? I could split the costs…?” They glanced uncertainly at the landlord.
“As long as you have a budget in the tens of thousands to get everything up to code,” Vicky said, pointing to some peeling paint.
“Including that lead paint. New York State Law mandates that any chipping paint in pre-1978 buildings be tested for lead. Plus, under the state’s Lead Poisoning Prevention Act—”
“Okay, okay,” Dylan interrupted, sounding bewildered. Then, to the red-faced landlord, “We’ll think about it.”
The landlord mumbled something about them “seeing themselves out,” shutting the front door behind him.
Vicky inhaled a careful breath, preparing herself for Dylan’s disappointment, even annoyance.
After all, she’d invited herself along on this inspection, and in her experience, not everyone responded with gratitude to bad news, even if it was, objectively, helpful and important.
“It’s just, you deserve a space that’s legally secure, not a liability waiting to—”
She was cut off by the warm, urgent feeling of Dylan’s lips, kissing her square on the mouth for a long, luscious beat.
“—happen,” Vicky finished, after Dylan pulled back. She blushed a little, not used to this sort of thanks in this sort of situation. “I thought you might be pissed.”
“Pissed? Dude. That was hot.” Dylan ran their hands up and down Vicky’s arms, gazing at her with a new sort of wonder. “I’ve never seen you in action before. You probably just saved my butt.”
“I definitely saved your butt,” Vicky said, snaking her hands around Dylan’s waist. “It’s a butt worth saving.”
Dylan grinned, eyes flashing like tossed emeralds.
They cupped Vicky’s face to kiss her again, then gazed into her eyes with a surprising depth of emotion.
“I like having someone to look after, who also looks after me.” They nibbled her earlobe, speaking low and warm.
“Me and you and your differently sized earlobes. We’re sort of a good team, don’t you think? ”
Vicky froze. A hard knot of fear tightened in her chest. Deep down, Vicky did think they made a good team but that was a feeling she could not afford.
She was not leaving Rhodes hung up on Dylan Rogers again.
She made her voice light but firm. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t team up with fuck boys. ”
Now it was Dylan’s turn to stiffen. They let out a low, frustrated laugh, swearing under their breath.
“Okay,” they muttered, “this has gone on long enough.” They stepped back, looking Vicky right in the eye, dead serious.
“Vee. I’m not a fuck boy. I don’t sleep around.
I’m too busy building a business! Yeah, I hook up sometimes, but not like it’s my job.
And not with anyone else since you. Because you’re not just… anyone.”
Vicky’s cheeks warmed even as she shook her head. “What? No, you basically said it yourself.”
“No, you said it, and I didn’t correct you.” Dylan gave an embarrassed shrug, combing a hand through their hair. “I was kind of flattered.”
A strange swell of emotion caught Vicky by surprise. Relief chased by something deeper. Darker. She resisted the urge to snap off a snarky reply. Instead, Vicky summoned her courage. “Then, we need to have an honest conversation,” she said, “about what we’re actually doing here.”
Dylan nodded, apprehension tightening their face. It took them a long beat to speak. “Agreed.”
· · ·
Vicky and Dylan sat across from each other at Rock Around the Clock, both nursing sodas that were becoming lukewarm. The drive over had been quiet and quick, like trying to outrun a coming summer storm.
Dylan slouched way down in the vinyl booth, turning their glass in a slow, endless circle.
Vicky tried to tap into her professional skill set—to organize the facts, prepare a logical argument, keep emotion out of it. A Sisyphean effort. This was Dylan, after all.
Which was exactly why she needed to be honest.
“Look,” she began, “we both know this isn’t just”—she fluttered her hand—“a hookup. We have history.”
Dylan nodded. “Yeah,” they said softly. “We do.”
“But we also know,” Vicky went on carefully, “that this can’t go anywhere. Be anything.”
Dylan tipped their head, their tone not defensive, more questioning. “Because?”