Side Trip(47)

He looked at the list in Joy’s hand. “Which one are you going to do?” He had no clue.

“You’ll see.”

She intently watched the parents fold their beach chairs and lead their kids away. Then she folded the list with trembling hands and returned it to her purse. Nervous energy rolled off her.

“Joy . . . What are you doing?”

“I told you. You’ll see.” She bolted into the water.

What the hell was she up to?

Dylan stood, hand raised against the glare of the setting sun.

She’d better not do something stupid like climb up the side of the waterfall and jump. Even he wasn’t that insane, and she’d already checked off do something dangerous.

Before he could figure out what she was up to, her bikini bottom landed at his feet with a splat. What the—?

Her bikini top followed. Splat.

Dylan looked up, slack-jawed. Joy waved from the center of the swimming hole, naked, albeit underwater, but totally butt-ass naked. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. Two guys off to his right had seen Joy toss her suit at him. They catcalled.

“Want some company?”

Dylan saw red. “Stay the fuck out of the water,” he yelled at them. “Joy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Something daring!”

No shit. Damn her. Why skinny-dipping? Why not something a ton less provocative and a hell of a lot safer? She could have totally rocked a handstand in the middle of Route 66.

“Get out of the water. No, wait. Don’t move.” He rubbed his face with both hands. He didn’t like the idea of her naked with SpongeBob and Patrick nearby. He didn’t trust them. Obviously she hadn’t thought this through.

He let his arms fall. “Okay, you’ve had your fun.”

“Toss me my suit.”

And risk exposing her boobs when she tried to catch it? Not a chance in hell.

Dylan picked up her suit and waded into the water.

Joy’s eyes bugged out. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you doing?” she squeaked.

Something daring. “Bringing you your suit.” Obviously, he wasn’t thinking any straighter than Joy.

“Stay right there,” she ordered when he came within arm’s reach.

He held out her suit, letting it dangle from his index finger. “You didn’t put much thought into this, did you?”

Joy snagged the bikini. “No, I didn’t, or I’d get cold feet. Now shut up and turn around.”

He did. He also positioned himself between Joy and the numbskulls leering from shore. Dylan wanted to punch the lecherous grins off their faces. “Why’d you do this?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Judy never had the chance, that’s why.” She splashed to shore and bundled up in her towel. SpongeBob and Patrick clapped. Joy bowed dramatically. She then dried her hands and crossed out do something daring on the list.

“Feel good to get that one over with?” he asked dryly, scooping up his towel.

“So good.”

“Ready to get out of here?”

“So ready.”

Good, because he needed a cold shower.





CHAPTER 17





AFTER


Dylan

Dylan settles in the chair across from Chase’s desk. Fresh off a weeklong trip to New York, he drove straight from LAX to Westfield Records on Sunset Boulevard. Their digs aren’t glamorous—three floors of studios and offices in a concrete box of a building with reflective glass windows. But the place serves its purpose, having pumped out some ridiculously sick top-grossing talent and chart-topping tracks.

He drops an ankle on the opposite knee and sucks down an Americano, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the leather armrest. He’s been working with Catharsis on their latest project, and Rod, their sound engineer, sent him a recent track the band had recorded. Dylan didn’t like being away while Catharsis was in the booth, but Sharon, a junior producer he’d hired last year, filled in. She got things done, and she was able to get the best out of the band. The track is lit, and his gut tells him it’ll get plenty of airplay. He listened to it on repeat for a decent portion of his flight.

Chase stabs his keyboard, finishing an email, then slaps his laptop closed and leans way back in his chair. Shoving both hands into his hair, elbows wide as he stretches his upper back, he groans, exasperated. “iTunes will be the death of me. I’m so over dealing with them.”

Dylan doubts that will happen anytime soon. If anything, Chase will be working more closely with them. iTunes is the present and future of twenty-first-century music distribution.

He leans to the side, picks up the cup he set on the floor. “Got something for you.”

“A brick-and-mortar record store?”

“Ha! No. Coffee.” Dylan hands off the iced blend he picked up at Peet’s for Chase.

“I’d kill to work in this industry back in the eighties. Simpler times. Simpler deals. No auto-tune.”

“Same crappy digs. More competition.”

“Whatever.” Chase rolls his eyes and drinks the beverage, sets aside the half-empty plastic cup on a stack of manila folders. “New York. Talk to me.”

“Found a spot in Chelsea.” Dylan drops his foot and leans forward. The space has windows, which is ideal. He can’t work in a windowless box of an office. It stunts his creativity. “The lease comes in way under budget, so we got more grands reserved for tech. We can pack that place with gear that would make Grips drool.”