Dylan by Amelia Mae

Dylan:
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
I smirk. I’m annoying her and she’s not bothering to hide it. It’s the first time all week that someone hasn’t been especially nice to me because I’m good looking or because they want something from me.
In fact, she’s being a little rude. But I’m a New Yorker. Rudeness doesn’t faze me one bit. In fact, it makes me want to push her buttons harder.
It’s been years and I never found that bar again. I never see Jane again. But I never forget the sad-eyed, broken-hearted, tattooed, Irish artist-slash-bartender.
I see her name in stars.

Jane:
“Are you ever going to tell me why you hate that bloody band so much?” my best friend muses.
I don’t hate the whole band. I only hate that fucking blonde singer.
I hate knowing that I could be in the same building as the tall, tattooed devil himself and that I could push my way to the front and watch him sing and sweat and rile up several thousand women who all wish they could find their way into his pants after the show.
I hate that I know what it feels like to have his hot, muscled body on top of me. I know what’s like to get naked with him and let him make me come. Over and over.
I also hate that I know what it feels like to wake up in an empty bed after being absolutely ravished by Dylan Cotter, never to hear from him again and I hate that after all this time, I still think about it.
A lot.