Chapter Twenty-Five
Eight days till the show
The next morning, Dylan awoke to an achingly familiar spicy, floral scent. Vicky, in bed next to them. In her sexy silky teddy, she looked like a just-roused Disney princess. Dylan propped themself up on one elbow, skimming their fingers down her bare arm. “Hi.”
Vicky gazed back. The typically sharp glint in her eyes was as soft as the morning light. “Hi,” she whispered back.
Dylan dropped their mouth to kiss her, and it felt so sweet. So easy. A beloved recipe that always satisfied: banana pancakes sizzled in butter, served with warm maple syrup.
Kissing Vicky just felt right.
“I have morning breath,” Vicky protested between kisses.
Dylan ignored this, dipping their tongue into Vicky’s open mouth, feeling a flare of excitement at the way Vicky moaned softly, her hands tangling in their hair.
“We both have the day off,” Dylan reminded her, trailing kisses along Vicky’s jaw, “so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.”
Vicky giggled, running her fingertips up and down Dylan’s biceps. “We have been doing it quite a bit.” She ticked off her fingers. “The pantry. Your bed. My bed. Back seat of my car.”
Dylan smiled at the recent memory of being on their knees in the passenger seat, eating Vicky out while blasting Chappell Roan. A fantasy fulfilled, even if the baiting refrain of Is it casual now? hadn’t just been living rent-free in their head, it was threatening squatter rights.
This was casual, they reminded themself. Summer fling. No strings. Right?
Dylan stroked Vicky’s arm. “Yeah, our list is solid but I wanna make you come with this.” They reached into the bedside table drawer, pulling out their rainbow strap-on and leather harness, dangling it all with a curved eyebrow.
Vicky coughed a surprised laugh then narrowed her eyes playfully. “Sure you’re not a fuck boy, Rogers?”
The heat of the moment cooled. Dylan dropped their gear back in the drawer, trying not to feel hurt.
What was happening this summer was special. Vicky was special.
Dylan decided to keep it light. “I like to be prepared. Fingers can only get you so far, y’know? But if dicks aren’t your jam…”
“They are,” Vicky said slowly. “But, I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Dylan asked. “And I don’t mean that in a pushy way, I just mean, I wanna know what you want. What you like. How I can service you.” They waggled their brows.
Vicky smiled back but there was something uncertain about it.
“What?” Dylan asked softly.
Vicky shrugged, fiddling with her teddy. “Fucking like that, literally letting someone inside me, is just—intense. Like, emotionally. I don’t want to…get confused.”
Dylan’s pulse jumped even as they played clueless. “Confused how?”
Vicky exhaled sharply, eyes bright with emotion. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Dylan froze. Was Vicky about to confess…feelings?
Vicky shook her head, the intensity of the moment deflating like a popped balloon. “Isn’t it obvious, Rogers? I’m trying to protect myself…from…herpes. I’m negative and obviously you’re not.”
“Hey! I already told you I’m good to go!” Dylan protested, but Vicky was already sliding out of bed, saying she needed to pee.
Bummed, Dylan reached for their phone, scrolling through their work inbox.
The first draft of the branding for Hot she’d kept the house.
The estate loomed—a sprawling, three-story Georgian monstrosity.
Sunlight gleamed off its pristine white columns and huge, dark windows, like a place too perfect to house anything human.
Dylan glanced at the wrought iron gate they’d passed through moments earlier, debating an escape route. “Is it too late to call everything off?” Dylan asked.
“It is,” Vicky said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. She was in her blue-and-white seersucker shorts and a preppy matching jacket, her smooth legs elongated in wedge sandals. In her hands, flowers from Jazz’s garden and, crucially, a bottle of white wine. “Just ring the damn bell.”
Dylan fussed with their hair, their insides clenching so hard they might be sick. “It’s so weird that I have to ring the doorbell to the home I grew up in. Like, let me in to my own life.”
“But this isn’t your life anymore.” Vicky swung to look Dylan in the eye. “You have a full, impressive life all your own. Your own business. Your own home. Your own hot fuck buddy, here for emotional and sexual support.”
Dylan softened, reaching over to squeeze Vicky’s arm. “C’mon, Vee. You know you’re more than a fuck buddy.” They stared deeply into Vicky’s cat eye–lined eyes. “You’re a friend, with benefits.”
Vicky scoffed. “Fuck off.”
“My side chick. My boo thang.”
“Okay.”
“My meal, with wheels.” Dylan inclined their head. “Get it? Because you drove.”
“Watch me die laughing,” Vicky said dryly, reaching over to ring the doorbell.
Dylan sobered at the sound of the familiar three-chime bell. “Should we make a run for it?”
“Your maturity is astounding.”
“Can you run in those shoes or should I throw you over my shoulder?”
“I’d love to see you try.”
Before anyone could make a run for it, a humorless older woman in a starched blouse and skirt opened the front door.
“Uh, hi,” Dylan said, momentarily caught off guard by who was most likely a new house manager. “I’m Dylan. The great disappointment of Celine Rogers’s life.”
Vicky elbowed them with cool it eyes, but the house manager just stepped aside, receiving Vicky’s flowers and wine in a way that made Dylan suspect they’d see neither of them again.
The foyer was as grand and impressive as ever, all cold marble and elegant objets d’art.
Small, modern sculptures sat in lit niches along the walls.
The sweeping staircase, with its wrought iron balustrade and glossy wood handrail, spiraled upward toward Dylan’s old bedroom, where they were already plotting to drag Vicky later.
Some of the artwork was new, Dylan noted, as they followed the house manager past the formal dining room toward the kitchen.
Perhaps a bit more color and dynamism on the white walls, but maybe they were misremembering things.
The large, open-plan kitchen was at the rear of the property.
It was separated from the backyard by a series of sliding doors, all of which could be opened in sunny weather.
Dylan recalled Celine rarely making use of this functionality, claiming it let in too many bugs.
Today, however, all the doors were opened, the afternoon’s warmth and a few drowsy flies circling in the sunlit space.
A tall woman with a gray grown-out pixie cut stood by the kitchen island, arranging freshly cut flowers into a vase.
Dylan assumed this woman in loose linen pants and a floral cotton blouse was the new gardener.
So it was a jaw-dropping shock when the woman turned around and Dylan found themself looking into their mother’s green eyes.
“Celine?” The greeting was a cough of surprise. They’d been expecting formal wear, not something out of Home & Gardens. Celine was gray. She was barefoot. Had Dylan ever seen their mother’s feet?
“Darling. You came. I’m so glad.” At least her voice was the same, that slightly enunciated posh-girl warble drummed in by years of boarding school. Celine moved closer, pausing a few feet away.
She looked, well, her age. Sixty-two, with lines around her eyes and sunspots on her cheeks. Was it possible she wasn’t wearing any makeup? Celine always wore makeup. She wore it in the bath.
Dylan caught themself staring, getting flustered. “Yeah, well…I’ll do pretty much anything for meatloaf.” They thrust an awkward hand in Vicky’s direction. “This is—”
“Vicky Fang, yes, of course I remember,” Celine said, smiling with what appeared to be warmth. “How are you, Vicky? I believe you’re a lawyer now?”
Vicky nodded. “Family law, in Manhattan. Your home is as lovely as ever, Mrs. Rogers.”