Kiss Me Goodnight (28 page)

Authors: Michele Zurlo

BOOK: Kiss Me Goodnight

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I glanced at him, surprised he’d ask me to lie. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s not going to cut it.”

“I’m not sorry I said it. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, but you know how I feel about that song.” I turned into the parking lot and found the space designated for my apartment.

“You called me a manwhore, Lacey.” His entire life, Dylan had slept with two women, one of whom was his late wife. “That’s not the image we’re trying to project. We want fans to focus on our music, not our imagined bedroom antics.”

I got out of the car. This seems to be another “discussion” Dylan wants to have. You know what I’m spoiling for? An all-out fight. There’s a lot of pent-up frustration and anger mixed with residual hurt and grief inside me, and that much emotion is going to demand an outlet if I don’t provide one.

On the plus side, the fact that I want to argue, scream, and yell bodes well for the conditions of my hands. Perhaps that’s why Dylan listed those options for me earlier. He knew what I wanted before I did. I kind of resent him for that. People you’re mad at aren’t supposed to be right or accommodating. Dylan manages to be both. Manwhore.

He followed me into the apartment, hopefully noting the stiffness of my shoulders. I projected outrage as hard as I could. Lies to cover lies. I know what I did was wrong, and that it wasn’t a little problem. I’d said it in front of the media. Not for the first time, I considered that I was a bad choice to manage his band. My mouth was bound to garner negative press.

I went into my bedroom and into the closet. It’s a large, walk-in number half full of his clothes. I went to my dress section and began evaluating which one I would wear to see John’s grave. Though it had been chilly when we left this morning at an ungodly hour, the sun had come out for the return trip and warmed things up considerably. The ice in the parking lot was melting, and the early spring day promised to get even warmer. I selected a long-sleeved black velvet shirt and its matching full-length skirt.

Dylan stood in the door of the closet, blocking my path. He eyed the dress in my hand incredulously. “What the hell are you doing?”

I responded with a passively neutral expression. “Changing.”

This is my way of goading him. He has a temper, but it takes a lot to get him to explode. I have a hard time expressing anger, and I hate how Dylan gets eerily calm when he deals with me. This is my way of compelling him to force me to let it out. Fucked up, right?

He took the clothes from me and threw them on the floor, which was littered with shoes. Then he gripped my chin in his cupped hand, making me face him. “No. We’re going to discuss whatever is eating you up.”

I tried to shake my head, but he didn’t let me move. “I’m fine.”

“Liar. You’re so not fine, it’s not even funny. I haven’t seen you this way in months.”

If I take a step back, he’ll let go of me and back off. I stared at him, wondering who was going to break first.

He studied me, searching my eyes for answers I didn’t have. “You weren’t calling me a name; you were lying.”

“It’s a fine line, isn’t it?” I spoke softly, my eyes locked to his. “And at the end of the day, it doesn’t actually matter.”

“No,” he agreed, releasing my chin. “It doesn’t. The damage is done. You’re going to have to deal with the fallout to make this right.”

I am not prepared to handle public relations, but I nodded anyway. Tonight I’m supposed to hang with Jane and Luma. I’ll spill my tale of woe and ask for advice. Luma has a degree in public relations. She’ll have some ideas.

He tried to take me in his arms, but I stiffened and pulled away. The whirligig of crappy emotions hadn’t left the building. Dylan wasn’t nearly as pissed as he should be.

He sighed. “You’re a difficult woman to live with.”

I put my hands on my hips and squared up to him. “I never asked you to live here.”

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