Dylan: The Sons of Dusty Walker Read Free

brother a finger gun salute for that response, Dylan trailed the others out the door and stalked to the spit-shined limo parked outside. He watched as each of his brothers ducked inside their separate rides before he settled in his cushy seat. It still felt odder than shit thinking of those strangers as his brothers.
    On the bright side, nothing could possibly knock him on his ass after this. No damn way. Shaking his head, he grabbed the Stetson he’d tossed aside earlier and tucked it low over his brow. “Let the fun commence.”

CHAPTER ONE
     
    His head pounding from lack of sleep, Dylan yawned and rubbed the grogginess from his vision before eyeing his opened luggage near the huge oak dresser in the corner of the guest room.
    He didn’t know what it said about him that almost his entire life’s belongings fit in two suitcases. Being on the road more days than not, it didn’t make sense getting attached to stuff that’d only take up too much space. That philosophy stood him well in everything. Clothes, furniture, women. Especially that last option.
    His band members liked to give him shit for not availing himself of some of their more persistent female groupies. And damn, were those chicks persistent. The instant he’d step into the VIP area backstage, the women would be on him in full accost mode, tucking their panties and hotel keycards into his pockets. But while Luke and the other guys had no qualms hooking up with a different woman in every city, it left a bad taste in Dylan’s mouth. Not that he was an angel. He occasionally let his dick overrule his brain. Without warning, his wayward thoughts drifted to the one instance—or more to the point, the one woman —responsible for his biggest lapse in that department.
    Zoe . He didn’t even know her last name. How fucked up was that? They’d shared the hottest twenty-four hours of his life. Granted, they hadn’t spent the entire time in bed. There’d also been the backseat of her car, the shower in her hotel room, and even a quickie in the bathroom of the waffle joint they grabbed breakfast at before he caught a flight to Dallas for his next gig. It’d been the first and only occasion he hadn’t ridden in the tour bus, and his bandmates had been relentless with their info digging regarding his rare absence. He hadn’t caved. His amazing connection with Zoe wouldn’t be fodder for those nosy assholes to rib him about.
    In the weeks—hell, years—that’d followed his time with her, he’d never shaken her from his mind. He wished to God he’d gotten her last name. A number. Anything.
    Why? So you coulda offered her empty promises you were in no position to keep? He’d seen firsthand the pain that kind of selfishness brought. No way in hell he’d repeat Dusty’s legacy.
    Melancholy and regret an anvil on his shoulders, he finger-combed his sleep-rumpled hair and pushed up from the bed. Day Three in his father’s house, and he still hadn’t unpacked. Old habits were partly to blame. He was never anywhere long enough to unpack. Hell, if not for his mom fussing over him whenever he was home he’d likely live out of his bags there too. But the big reason he couldn’t bring himself to fill the dresser drawers in front of him was it’d feel too permanent. Even a week perpetuating this farce was a week too long. He wasn’t cut out for running D. Walker Mineral. He wasn’t the prodigal son who’d forgive and forget the tainted heritage he wanted no part of. And he especially didn’t want to spend one more minute trapped within these walls that bore memories he held zero connection to.
    Tension pressed against his sternum like an angry alien intent on punching its way through his chest. Unable to stand the sound of his own silence for a second longer, he tugged his jeans on and topped the faded denim with a white tee and a short-sleeved blue-and-gray checked shirt. After jamming his feet into his weathered cowboy boots, he jogged downstairs. He