Yeah, I’d hit up Google since getting hired for this thing.
A lot.
Dirty’s lead singer had the body of a love god and a voice he’d clearly sold his soul to the devil for, and yes he was gorgeous, but I only stared at him because it was that or get sucked into eye contact with Jesse Mayes again.
And that was a serious threat to my sanity.
When the man looked at me, things happened to my body that I could only describe as temporary but all-consuming hormonal insanity. It was dizzying, thrilling and terrifying, and I needed to get my shit together before we shot this scene. I was supposed to be all cool and girlfriend-like, hanging out by his side at a party or whatever, not swooning like a pent-up virgin who might combust if he bumped shoulders with me.
It didn’t help that he’d brought all his larger-than-life friends to the shoot.
Sure, I’d seen pictures of all the members of Dirty on the web. But since this shoot was for Jesse’s solo album, I didn’t expect Zane or Dirty’s drummer, Dylan Cope, to be here.
What the hell did I expect?
Maybe some kind of sterile sound stage with an efficient, all-business film crew calling the shots?
This felt more like a party, people crammed into every room of Brody’s architectural marvel of a house, which was in North Vancouver, up the mountainside in Canyon Heights, and probably cost high seven figures.
The film crew looked a lot like what I’d always thought roadies would look like, the roadies looked like criminals, the security guys looked like straight-up bikers, and the management team, which consisted of Brody, Maggie, and various underlings, looked like rock stars.
Jesse, Zane, and Dylan? They looked like something out of a Greek goddess’s masturbation fantasy.
I’d never met people like this in real life.
When I’d first arrived, Maggie had mercifully plucked me from a roomful of women who looked like they’d come straight from backstage at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. I must have looked as out of place as I felt in my Rolling Stones T-shirt, paint-splattered jeans and purple kicks; apparently all my jeans had paint on them, which was something I’d only realized that morning.
Honestly, what the hell was I doing here?
For the second time today, Maggie deposited me in one of the upstairs bedrooms that had been taken over by the wardrobe team, promising to fetch me in ten minutes.
Ten minutes until my scene with Jesse Mayes.
My palms were sweating again.
The wardrobe girls freed me from the robe and stood me on a little platform to stare at me. Which wouldn’t have been all that weird, given their profession, if I wasn’t totally naked except for a bra and panties. It was definitely not my comfort zone, but since there were only a couple of models and the wardrobe girls in the room, and they did this all the time, I tried to convince myself it was no big deal.
Not terrifying in the slightest.
They had me do a quick change in the adjoining washroom, keeping the champagne satin and black lace bra, but switching out the matching panties for a pair of skimpy black lace boy shorts, which showed a hell of a lot of cheek. Luckily, I had decent cheeks.
“Oh, so perfect,” one of the wardrobe girls gushed when she saw me, and I told myself it was kind of cute and not at all weird that they cared so much what I’d be wearing under my clothes, since no one was going to see it.
Then one of the makeup girls walked in with a makeup palette, her little tool belt filled with brushes and sponges, and started painting over a bruise on my thigh with her magic makeup that made it look like I had no pores.
And that’s when it hit me.
These were my clothes.
Like, all of them.
Because apparently I was about to be filmed in Jesse Mayes’ music video wearing nothing but panties and a bra.
“Is there time for me to use the washroom before I go down?” I asked anyone who would listen, hot panic rising like bile in my throat.
“Sure,” the makeup girl said. “Just try not to smudge the makeup.”
I dashed into the bathroom and shut the door, just in time for the first heave. I grabbed onto the beautiful marble sink and wretched, as quietly as I could, my stomach clenching as I dry-heaved. Thank God nothing came up. Kind of glad now that I never actually got to eat any of that sushi.
I swallowed, heaved, swallowed again, and focused on getting control of my breath. Aerosmith was rocking “Sweet Emotion” on the sound system in the next room, so at least I knew no one could hear me.
I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed, long, slow and deep. Then I dug through the pockets of my discarded jeans and found my phone. I called Devi with fumbling hands, a toxic blend of nerves, anger and humiliation broiling in my gut.
“Is he as hot as you remembered?” she answered, and I could hear the self-satisfied smile in her voice.
“Hotter. Devi. What the fuck.”
“Huh? Are you okay?” Alarmed. She sounded alarmed now and I would’ve felt bad if I wasn’t still swallowing down the bile.
“Did you know they want me to do this thing in panties and a bra?”
“Oh,” my best friend said. “That.”
“Yes, that,” I hissed. I would’ve straight-up yelled at her for the first time in our lives if I wasn’t afraid all the pretty people in the next room might hear me. I tugged at the skimpy lace of the boy shorts which now felt several sizes smaller than when I first put them on, trying, and failing, to cover more of my ass.
“Katie, Jesus. Seriously, are you okay? You sound all frothy.”
“Yes, because I’m foaming at the mouth. You never told me I’d be doing this thing naked.”
“One. Panties and a bra does not equal naked. You wear less at the beach. That sexy-ass string bikini of yours?”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
Ugh. I hated it when she out-argued me. Which she did all the time. Hence, me standing here in sexy underwear that wasn’t even mine. “I don’t know. It just is.”
“It’s not. And two. I didn’t get around to telling you they’d changed the plan because I knew you’d freak out and bail and I really, really think you should do this.”
“What do you mean, they changed the plan?”
“That party scene thing? They called yesterday to say they’d altered it a bit, so your scene with Jesse will now be a one-on-one thing. Like, just the two of you.”
Just the two of us?
What was she talking about?
“Devi, what the hell did you sign me up for?”
“Nothing. It’s just a love scene.”
Cold. I suddenly felt shivering cold. But the contents of my stomach… a churning ball of hot lava. “What do you mean, a love scene?”
Like, sex?
Simulated sex, on camera?
With Jesse Mayes? Hottest guy in the universe?
Hot panic. Bile rising…
I swallowed hard.
“All you have to do is fake make out with Jesse,” Devi said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “He’s gorgeous, right? And you were all worried you’d have to dance on cue or strut around or something. This way, you don’t even have to perform.”
Right. Because pretending to make out with a super hot rock star while a camera crew filmed it was a daily occurrence for me. Totally natural.
“Not to mention I got you more money. You know, for doing it in your skivvies.”
Slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Katie?”
“I’m breathing.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Okay… so breathe and then get your ass out there. We went over this. We drank wine. Remember? You’re gonna rock this.”
Rock this. Right. Despite Devi’s confidence in me, I was pretty sure Jesse Mayes was the one who was going to rock this.
I was very possibly going to throw u
p.
For the first time since I started dry-heaving, I caught my reflection in the mirror: the reflection of the girl who was about to fake make out with Jesse Mayes.
Half-naked.
I blinked and stared, trying to imagine that girl in a music video.
She had a lot more makeup on than usual, but okay… it’s not like there was nothing there to work with. Face kind of heart-shaped. Symmetrical features. Slender, arched eyebrows and decently high cheekbones. Full lips. Largish blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes. Pale Irish skin with a few micro-freckles dusted across a decently cute nose.
I looked over my figure in the lingerie, which was much sexier than I’d realized, now that I was seeing it through the eyes of the girl who was about to wear it in front of Jesse Mayes. I’d always been kind of petite, nothing like the other women they’d hired for this, but at least I had curves. I used to be a tomboy, actually. A skater kid, I dressed like the boys I hung out with and looked like them too. It was hard not to still see that girl in the mirror. I was kind of a late bloomer, but I had bloomed.
And someone liked what they saw, enough to hire me for this, right?
“Katie?” Devi sounded worried now. I didn’t like being the one to make her sound that way.
I tried to wrap my head around the idea of walking out there, in this, in front of Jesse Mayes, and all his hot friends, and the camera crew and the security guys and all those other models—real models… and I just couldn’t. I couldn’t. My palms were still sweating as I clung to the sink.
“Shit, Devi,” I said in a small, parched voice. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Should he?”
“Um, yeah? I thought he picked me. But he didn’t even know I was hired.”
“So? You were hired. I know you feel all weird about it because you’ve never done this before, but who the fuck cares? Trust me, babe. This is the kind of thing some girls, beautiful girls, bust their asses trying to get their whole careers and never do. This is Jesse Fucking Mayes.”
“Yeah. I’m aware.”
Both Devi and Google had filled me in on the extent of the man’s fame, informing me that Jesse Fucking Mayes was nothing less than a rock god, a sex god, and a total heartbreaker.
Not to mention that his current girlfriend was none other than Elle, the super hot female bass player of Dirty.
Even if I could muster the nerve to walk out there in this lingerie, I, Katie Bloom, was not built for that kind of pressure.
“You know we rep an actress who just shot a love scene with Leonardo?” Devi went on. “And an actual Victoria’s Secret model. They passed on all of them. They want you.”
“Uh-huh.” That part, to be honest, still didn’t compute. But it did make me feel more nauseous. “Why the hell did I agree to do this? You know I hate being in the spotlight.” I shut my eyes, fighting back the spins.
Devi fell silent. She knew, alright.
She’d been there, standing by my side at the altar while the minister looked on with grave sympathy and the minutes ticked by. While everyone stood looking at me in my white dress; everyone but the one person who was supposed to be there.
The one who’d just walked out.
I wanted to disappear then, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t escape that horrible moment that just stretched on and on.
I was still reliving it, almost two years later.
“And that’s exactly why you need to do this,” my best friend said.
“Why, exactly?”
“You know why. Look, Katie, I’ve been there with you. Through all of it. I’ve watched you mope around for the last two years of your life—”
“One year and ten months. Let’s not exaggerate.”
Someone knocked on the bathroom door. “Katie?”
It was Maggie, here to take me to shoot my scene. I pictured Jesse Mayes out there, waiting… Shit, would he be half-naked too?
“Just a minute!” I called as sweetly as I could, even as the bile rose up again. I tried to choke it down, but it was winning.
“Okay,” Devi pressed. “I’ve watched my best friend in the entire world feel bad about herself for a year and ten months, all over some asshole who didn’t deserve her anyway—”
“Devi—”
“Wait. He never deserved you in the first place, and we both know it. I know you know it, deep down, that he was a total dick and the way he hurt you was despicable.”
I threw up. Quietly.
Just a bit, in Jesse Mayes’ tattooed manager’s beautiful marble sink.
“But the fact that you’re still letting it run your life,” Devi said, oblivious to my vomiting, “…Katie, that’s on you.”
This.
This was exactly why Devi was, and would always be, my best friend.
She loved me when I needed love. And she tough loved me when I needed a kick in the ass. Unfailingly.
“You’re right,” I croaked. I swished some water around my mouth and spat in the sink, rinsing the vomit down the drain.
“You need to grab this moment by the balls. Take your fucking life back, babe.”
Devi was always trying to get me to grab something by the balls. Usually life. Sometimes a man.
I’d never been more grateful for it.
“Okay,” I said.
She was right, and I knew it.
I couldn’t let what happened to me almost two years ago on that shitty day, the day that was supposed to be the best day of my life but turned out to be the worst, ruin my life.
And if I didn’t take drastic action, that was exactly what was going to happen.
“I’m doing this.”
I dabbed at my mouth with a tissue, making sure there was no trace of vomit on my made-up face as I studied myself in the mirror.
“Fucking right.”
“And by the way,” I told her, “I love you.”
I hung up and rinsed my mouth with some of the mouthwash that had been left, thanks to some small miracle, on the little tray of guest toiletries.
Then I took a deep breath, opened the door, and went to make out with a rock star.
Get Dirty Like Me
Sneak Peek: Dirty Like Us
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Dirty Like Us (Dirty #0.5)
What happens in Vegas… better stay in Vegas.
Maggie Omura has never been a gambling woman. As assistant manager of Dirty, the hottest rock band on the planet, she brings order to the lives of four crazy-ass rock stars.
But when the band lands in Vegas, a streak of bad luck lands Maggie in a bind—and in the penthouse suite, with the last man she’d ever want for a roommate.
Zane Traynor, lead singer of Dirty. Rock god. Sex god.
Total nightmare for women.
And the only man who’d make Maggie a proposal so insane it just might work.
A night of chance.
An irresistible gamble…
It’s time for Zane and Maggie to go all in.
DIRTY LIKE US
PROLOGUE
Maggie
The red carpet was worn beneath our feet. The altar was a single step, also carpeted in red, on which we stood, along with the officiant.
The officiant wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, a faded Steppenwolf T-shirt, ratty jeans and biker boots. A black leather bible decorated with silver studs lay open on his hands.
I wore a pink dress.
The room was small, and there were no windows. The ceiling was arched and the walls were black, strewn with neon beer signs and replica platinum albums.
There was a row of eight gunmetal chairs, four to the right of the aisle and four to the left, two of which were occupied. A woman I didn’t know stood at the back of the room with a polite smile on her face. A man with a gun stood guard at the door.
Outside, traffic rumbled by, occ
asionally vibrating the kitschy junk on the walls.
In the next room, an awful song played faintly on repeat. A cheesy, sleazy rock song about a schoolgirl.
Near me, someone was talking.
But all I could hear was that old Steppenwolf song, “Magic Carpet Ride,” playing in my head. I heard it the way Zane once sang it, as we sat around a campfire drinking Jäger from a bottle someone passed around, his voice so raw and smoky and beautiful it gave me goosebumps. I heard it the way my mom used to play it, loud, on her wonky old turntable, as she danced in the kitchen in one of her flowy blouses and a pair of cut-offs.
I could see her now, dancing in her bare feet, and looking so, so young.
And I wished she was here.
I was holding hands with him, and my knees were quivering. I could feel his heartbeat in his fingers wrapped tight around mine. His thumb smoothed back and forth across my knuckles, over the new ring on my finger, as I breathed, shallow and slow.
He was looking at me. I knew he was. I could feel the heat of his gaze moving over my face.
“Maggie.”
I took a breath and felt his heartbeat, once… twice… Then I looked up into that gorgeous face. His arctic blue eyes held mine. He squeezed my hands slightly.
Zane.
Me.
Holding hands at the altar.
Holy shit.
“That’s your cue, babe,” Zane said, and I realized the man in the leather jacket had been the one speaking. To me. Everyone was looking at me and waiting.
And I just stared at Zane.
The corners of his eyes twitched. He smiled slightly and I couldn’t stop myself. I never could, when it came to him.
I smiled back.
“Yeah,” I said, in response to the man’s question, but the word cracked and came out a whisper. I cleared my throat and found my voice. “I do.”
A Dirty Wedding Night: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2.5) Page 17
