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My gaze shot toward her as Dylan leaned back in his chair and addressed the younger woman with his full attention. “Yes, I am,” he answered with appreciation in his voice.
“Oh my God,” she gushed, flattening her nervous hands against her chest. “I cannot believe it's you. I was so afraid to ask, but I couldn't, like,notsay something. Holy shit …” She clapped one hand over her mouth. “Oh God, sorry. I-I-I'm just such a huge fan—you have no idea.”
The whole table of family and friends was keeping their curious minds and eyes busy by forcing chat about the menu and what they were going to order … except me. My eyes were aimed at this girl as she tittered with nervous giggles and played with the ends of her shiny, wavy, light-colored hair. She was flirting—I wasn't too blind to notice that—and I was bothered. I had no right to be, but … I was. She was too young for him, too preppy, too, too, too …
Too not you?
Tarryn's pointy elbow nudged my ribs as Dylan scribbled his name onto a napkin for the beaming girl. I couldn't see if he had included his number with it, and, dammit, I wanted to know.
Another jab of Tarryn's elbow, and I turned abruptly toward her. “What?” I hissed, angry and ready to fight.
“Oh, nothing,” she muttered under her breath, pretending her menu was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen. “Just wondering if you're intentionally letting every cat out of the bag tonight or …”
She was right; I had to cool it. I had to dial it back and remember that we were here, celebrating my birthday. It didn't matter if some random woman wanted to flirt with Dylan. It didn't matter if he wanted to go home with her or fuck her in his car the way he had once fucked me. It didn't matter that she touched his shoulder or flipped her hair or made sure her ass swayed just a little more prominently as she walked away.
But it does matter, doesn't it?
“So, you get that a lot, huh?” Connor asked, bumping his arm against Dylan's.
Dylan shrugged with infuriating nonchalance. “I wouldn't saya lot, especially nowadays,” he replied, perusing his menu. “But it happens often enough, I guess.”
“I mean, you don't exactly blend in,” Peter commented, unamused.
Cassie laughed from beside him. “No, he definitely doesn't,” she agreed as Steven grunted a reply.
Dylan looked up from the menu, scratching his bearded jaw. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Peter resituated, sitting up straighter and planting his elbows firmly on the table. “Oh, you know, I just mean with, uh …” He gestured a hand across the table. “All the ink and, uh …” He made a circular motion with his fingers, aimed at Dylan's face. “Hardware.”
He meant his piercings—the labret, nostril, and septum—and if I wasn't mistaken, he sounded disgusted and jealous. Threatened even.
Maybe he suspects something after all.
Dylan laughed, grinning at my boyfriend with what I thought might be malice. “Man, you’re lucky. I thought you were gonna mention the bum leg.”
“O-oh,” Peter stammered, pulling his hands back quickly and folding them over his menu. “No way, dude. I, uh … nah, I wasn't implying anything about that.”
“Good,” Dylan replied, returning his attention to his menu. “‘Cause I was ready to kick your ass, bum leg and all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dylan
The guy really was a douchebag.
A smug, pompous douchebag.
I had known his type the second I saw him. A former jock turned monkey at a desk, disguising himself as something cooler with a couple of generic tattoos and a pair of Doc Martens. He’d probably thought he was a real badass back in high school with a skateboard and a couple of Hot Topic T-shirts. He’d probably liked to pretend he was an outcast while every cheerleader and football star invited him to chill after school and on the weekends.
I never cared much for guys like him.
Posers.
Guys like him envied guys like me, wishing they could truly be authentically unaware of what the world thought of them.
I’d never cared what society thought of me or my tattoos or piercings. I hadn’t given it a second thought until I lost my leg. Now, all I thought about was who was looking, who was questioning, who was sitting across from me, riding the high of a superiority trip.
Peter wasn’t better than me. Not by a long shot.
