Authors: Rae Lynn Blaise
Teacher's Pet (28 page)
Or both their albums, I see as I load up the bands website. They have two. I skim the front page, looking for the buy links and gleaning some info as I do. They’re a newer band. Hugely successful. Their first album went gold, then double platinum. Then they released the next album. Currently they’re on a world tour with a few stops in America.
They played Chicago the night before last. Which seems oddly coincidental and I wonder if that’s why Dylan was in town. Then half a second later I
know
it was why he was in town.
My fingers freeze their scrolling and my heart pounds loudly in my ears. Because in the middle of the page I find a picture of the band—five tattooed, rocker guys.
And Dylan is the frontman.
Holy shit.
In a slow motion slideshow, memories flash through my mind.
The guy fistbumping Dylan at the bar.
Dylan asking if Alex was the fan when I told him she was the one who really bought him the drink.
The way he evaded my pressing when I said he had a great voice when he sang in my apartment.
The looks he got when we went to Millennium Park—it wasn’t because people were judging him for his appearance.
His acceptance of my lack of interest in personal details about him—he was probably relieved I wasn’t prying like everyone else.
The big shades he wore that are now on my head.
How the operator of Tilt looked the other way when Dylan broke the rules by standing behind me, and then took me to the stairwell.
The reason he had to leave—he was performing.
I thought he was just a regular guy who was struggling and ashamed of what he did for a living.
Dylan St. John could probably pay my entire graduating class’s student debts without breaking a sweat. He could rent out Tilt and have an orgy with the trail of supermodels he’s been linked with—if these pictures in the website’s gallery haven’t been photoshopped.
Well, why would they have been? He’s a star. He’s not my memory. He’s not just
my
anything.
The scruffy man who made me cracker sandwiches and tied me up and fucked me in front of my window was on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine last month. And I refused to give him my phone number or email address. Most women would have given anything for his contact information.
And while I don’t have his contact info either, I know entirely too much—
When Dylan St. John’s not touring, he lives in Los Angeles
.
I close the browser, mind reeling.
LA’s so far away, but it’s real. Now he’s too real.
All the warmth is sucked from the memories, confusion swirling through, muddying the waters. He was supposed to be a part of my past, that hot, nameless guy from a wicked weekend. I was supposed to be able to go on and leave our time together as a happy memory, moving on with my plans and serious career with no regrets. He was supposed to be forgettable.
Now he’s just an entertainment magazine, a celebrity news show, an Internet search away. Now that I know who he is and how easy he is to stalk, how will I ever be able to forget him?
And shit, where I’m headed? I really need to be able to forget him.
T
he rest
of the books in the
Badass in My Bed
series are all available in Kindle Unlimited.