Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4)

by Jaine Diamond

  “—but if anyone’s gonna get him out of that dressing room…” She frowned at my blouse like she was disappointed in the lack of discernible cleavage, then frowned again at my naked toes. “Yeah… it’s you.”

  “Um. Wait. You hired me to be rock star bait?” I looked down at myself; did I really look like some horny groupie today or something?

  No. Definitely not. My jeans were tight, but not skintight. My loose blouse revealed virtually nothing about the size or shape of my boobs. This was not a Come-hither-rock-star outfit.

  But then again… I wasn’t wearing one of those when I met Johnny, either. And he’d definitely… come.

  “Of course not,” Liv said. “We hired you to take stills.” Then she frowned at me. She was doing that a lot today. “But it wouldn’t kill you to smile at him.”

  I scowled at her. What the fuck was this, 1958?

  Liv scowled back.

  Unfortunately, she won.

  So I sighed, dredged up a fake-ass smile, and headed off in search of the world’s nicest rock star.

  Chapter Two

  Amber

  At the entrance to the hallway, I told the ’roided-up security guy who was standing guard that Liv had sent me to get Dylan. Fortunately, he let me through without a fuss, so I didn’t have to resort to any eyelash batting.

  The shit I do for my sister…

  I found the hallway empty—except for one person. As I approached, I could see that he was standing in front of a door with a handwritten sign on it that said Dylan Cope. But clearly, it wasn’t Dylan Cope.

  It was that other rock star—the one who’d flipped me the finger. The one with the ink-black hair, tats for days, piercings, the works.

  Ashley Player.

  This time, I’d made a point of remembering his name. It was easy enough to do. Ashley, because it wasn’t such a common name for a man, and Player, because it was cheesy as fuck, a rock star’s bullshit stage name. No big surprise, he wore the requisite Motörhead T-shirt, tight black jeans and rocker jewelry. He was looking down at the phone in his hand; a mermaid with perky boobs was tattooed down his right forearm, her white-blonde hair strategically covering her nipples.

  Scripted lettering tattooed in a band around his right bicep said: Fuck Bitches. A matching band around the left said: Get Money.

  Clearly, this guy was all class.

  When he glanced up and saw me approaching, his posture didn’t change. He didn’t turn to face me. The only acknowledgment of my presence was the movement of his blue, blue eyes as they skimmed down my body.

  There was no sign of recognition in his chilly expression.

  Okay; so he definitely didn’t remember me. Not like I really expected him to. We’d met for like five seconds four years ago. And I wasn’t gonna kid myself that I was as memorable as he was.

  Though he definitely hadn’t seemed this cold the first time we’d crossed paths. As he looked me over now, his gaze was so frigid, my nipples actually pricked. I kind of shivered, and it wasn’t a good shiver.

  Or so I told myself.

  When I stopped a couple of feet from him, camera gripped tightly in hand—kind of like a security blanket—I could feel the hostility rolling off of him before he even opened his gorgeous mouth.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I choked a little, torn between answering that and telling him to go fuck himself. The words rose up in my throat, but got stuck there. I swallowed the mild humiliation and managed, “Amber.”

  “Amber who?” He was examining my blouse with distaste, like the rosebud embroidery personally offended him.

  “Amber Malone,” I said, deciding to drop my sister’s name again. It killed me a little every time I had to do it, but in this world, my sister’s name carried far more weight than mine ever would. In this world, I was a nobody, as evidenced by Ashley Player’s perusal of me: brief, critical and dismissive.

  “Malone?” He returned his cold gaze to his iPhone. “You related to Liv?”

  “I’m her sister.”

  “What’s with the camera?”

  “I’m the stills photographer. I’ve been asked to escort Dylan to set.”

  He flicked a glance at my camera, eying my beloved 1D X Mark II like it was garbage. “Yeah? You just find that in the gutter?”

  “No… I mean… I travel with it a lot…” I blathered defensively.

  Shit. How fucking rude was he?

  Was I actually going to stand here and explain to him where this camera had been with me, the things we’d been through together these last thirteen months, the things we’d seen and experienced… or the fact that making it look like garbage was kind of the point—meant to deter would-be thieves on my travels? Not to mention that this camera, brand new, cost me over six thousand American dollars—I’d bought it down in Portland to save the sales tax—which for me was a shit-ton of money. Several months’ worth of travel money.

  No. Why bother? Clearly, this guy was a professional asshole. Explaining myself wasn’t gonna change that.

  “Trust me,” I said instead, “I could do more with your iPhone camera than you could do with a Hasselblad and a full support crew.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep.”

  Finally, his cold blue eyes met mine again. “You don’t know me, sweetheart.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “And neither does Dylan. So you can go back where you came from and wait just like everyone else.”

  “What are you, his bodyguard?” I looked him over, trying to appear as unimpressed and dismissive as he’d been of me. “The rock star gig didn’t work out for you?”

  Ouch. That hit a raw nerve.

  His shoulders drew back as he turned toward me, the general air in his vicinity shifting from irritable to motherfucking pissed.

  “Right,” I said. “I’ll just wait.”

  Screw Liv and her orders.

  I headed back down the hall, trying not to think about how pissed she’d be—at me, probably—if she witnessed that exchange.

  At least I fucked off at the end of it, so I got that part right.

  Just as I was about to leave the hallway, though, I glanced back. Ashley the Asshole was staring at his phone again, his bent arm making his bicep pop, the ceiling lights that should have been harsh and unflattering skimming the curves of his muscles and casting his eyes in shadow. Unfortunately, he had gorgeous cheekbones and all sorts of sharp angles to his face that totally worked. He looked bitchy and ridiculously beautiful, and I snapped a photo of him.

  When I walked back out into the sound stage, I found my sister. Or rather, she found me. “Where’s Dylan?” she asked, throwing a glance toward the hallway behind me, like she seriously thought I’d be able to fetch him.

  “No idea, but this guy was super nice.” I showed her the photo I’d taken of Ashley Player, on the screen on the back of my camera.

  “Great shot.”

  “Why’s he such an asshole?”

  Liv shrugged, thumbing her phone. “Why can’t you show up in steel-toed boots like you know you’re supposed to? Some people just like to be a thorn up other people’s asses.”

  “Just yours,” I grumbled in my defense.

  “Looks like you made an impression on him.” She held up her phone; a text message was open on the screen.

  Ash: Your little hippie sister is hot but she’s got an attitude problem. Keep her away from Dylan.

  My mouth dropped open.

  Okay, so it wasn’t the first time I’d ever been called a hippie. Liv did it regularly, but she was my sister; she was allowed, because she loved me. “Attitude problem?” I scoffed. “That’s rich.”

  “Like I said,” she told me, “you bring it on yourself with that chip on your shoulder.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, preparing to unleash a diatribe on discrimination and harassment in the workplace—not only had he called me a hippie and insulted my camera, he’d sworn at me and called me sweet
heart—but just then, the rock god himself appeared onstage.

  Dylan Cope had finally arrived.

  I felt him before I saw him. It was the way the vibe completely shifted in the room, and everyone hustled up. And when I looked up, the words I’d been about to spew completely failed me.

  Liv shooed me off to get to work, getting busy herself. So I made my way closer to the stage, carefully, just trying not to trip on anything or bump into anyone in my hypnotic state.

  Because there he towered under the lights: Dirty’s drummer.

  Totally.

  Fucking.

  Gorgeous.

  I stood to the side of the stage and stared, just trying to sort out what I was seeing. Apparently, my brain needed a moment to fully absorb and attempt to process the sheer majesty of such a sight—the way it might if I was standing at the base of Mount Everest gazing up, or maybe setting foot on the moon.

  Because how did you adequately capture something like that with mere thoughts, or words, or a camera, anyway?

  Awestruck didn’t cover it.

  First of all, the man had abs for weeks. A girl could definitely get her laundry sparkling-clean on that washboard. He also had the most beautiful auburn hair, a little casually mussed-up and wavy, about a zillion different autumn shades of red and gold and chestnut-brown. And his face… He was super-handsome, with a strong jawline, a straight nose and a little divot in his chin… but not in a nauseating way. He had kind eyes, actually, and an easy-going manner about him. He looked totally at ease on the stage, in front of the cameras, but not in a gross, cocky way.

  I’d definitely seen gross and cocky in front of my camera. This was not that.

  Liv and a few other people had rushed to meet him as he strolled out onstage, and I watched him smile good-naturedly as he chatted with some of the crew guys.

  Not at all what I was expecting.

  I was expecting attitude for miles.

  I was expecting someone like Ashley Player, with hair too black or too blond. Piercings, too many tattoos, the usual cliches. But Dylan Cope was naked down to his white Underlayer briefs, and there wasn’t a tattoo or piercing or blemish of any kind on all that perfect skin. His complexion was unusually golden for a redhead. And his entire body was so chiseled… he looked like a statue of a god, for real.

  Well holy shit.

  This was either gonna be super easy or crazy hard. Like if I couldn’t manage to make that look good, I was the shittiest photographer who’d ever picked up a camera. I’d have to lay my equipment down and just walk away. Find some other profession where I didn’t suck so much ass.

  As more lights came on, lighting up the drum kit as if onstage at a rock concert, I shifted into the shadows, out of the way of the light stands and crew, and got to work doing my thing.

  I quickly got lost behind the lens, shooting Dylan Cope as he chatted with the execs and Liv. He wasn’t exactly a difficult subject. As it turned out, my camera fucking loved him. I checked a few images along the way, and thank God I seemed to be doing him justice. The photos were so good, I got that excited rush, that almost-high feeling; giddy, almost shaking with adrenaline. I was in The Zone, and I knew when I was making beautiful photographs.

  I was making them right now.

  I kept shooting as Dylan moved to stand behind the drums, casually spinning a pair of drumsticks in his hands. Music started playing, and I recognized the song that rocked through the room; it had been popular in a lot of the hostel bars on the travel circuit about five years back. So popular that I got totally sick of hearing it, even though I could admit I liked the song. It was a song by Dylan’s band, Dirty: “Get Made.”

  Liv was giving him directions, showing him where the cameras would be as he played, while other people flocked around him, getting him ready. A makeup girl was checking his face—for what, I couldn’t imagine; the man was perfect—and another girl started rubbing him down with oil. There seemed to be a debate about how much oil he should have on his arms, and some was wiped off in fear that the drumsticks would slip out of his hands if the oil ran down.

  “You know I’m gonna sweat all this shit off,” I heard him tell my sister.

  “I’m counting on it,” she said.

  I watched how he smiled and laughed easily with her, like old friends, which I knew they kind of were. I got a couple of great shots of the two of them that I was pretty sure Liv was going to like, even if she was in them.

  Then, as Dylan glanced around, he suddenly noticed me. He looked right down my lens and into my eyes.

  His eyes were green in the light, a gorgeous green-gold, and I actually stopped shooting. I stopped breathing. My finger just kind of froze over the button as the unexpected jolt of eye contact hit me—like a lightning bolt, straight to the gut.

  Actually, I could’ve sworn I felt my uterus contract.

  Then Liv directed his attention elsewhere, and his gaze shifted away.

  Holy. Shit.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding and kept shooting. Kept doing my job, just trying to shake off that feeling. I definitely couldn’t remember mere eye contact with a man ever making my uterus spasm before. But all I had to do was remind myself that it didn’t matter if Dylan Cope looked at me or not. I was being paid to see him, and not the other way around.

  With the camera to my face, it’s not like he could really see me anyway.

  Of course, even if he did see me and thought I was cute, it wouldn’t matter. Even if he thought I was super cute. Even if he thought I was the girl of his dreams and it was love at first sight.

  Wouldn’t mean a thing.

  Because I knew how moments like this played out.

  It was pretty much a universal law: the men I was most attracted to never liked me back. Or at least, not for long.

  It was kind of a curse.

  The bane of my love life.

  Somehow, it never stopped me from trying… and failing. From falling for the wrong men. Including the rock star who’d wined and dined me until I fell for him, then cheated on me. Repeatedly.

  It was inevitable.

  I, Amber Paige Malone, sucked at love.

  Good thing I wasn’t here to fall in love, then. Nope. I was here to do a job and nothing more. To see things as they were—through my camera. I definitely wasn’t here to let my uterus get carried away with any notions of getting closer to Dylan Cope.

  The truth was, after my last few romantic catastrophes, I’d actually become so averse to getting close to men, I wasn’t sure I could even bear the idea of liking someone enough to actually date him—knowing he was just gonna dump me. Because that part was definitely inevitable.

  They always dumped me.

  Because I totally sucked at love.

  Not that I was a loser or something. I wasn’t stupid or naive or unlovable. I just made bad, bad decisions when it came to men.

  I was romantically challenged.

  But I was an intelligent woman (or so I kept telling myself). I could learn from my mistakes.

  So I dismissed that ridiculous eye-contact-lightning-bolt thing and the whims of my over-eager womb and just kept doing my job. Because at my job, I definitely did not suck.

  I rocked at it, actually.

  I captured a few deliciously-suggestive shots of the oil girl, her brow creased in concentration, as she smoothed oil over Dylan’s godlike chest and his rippling abs with her bare hand. All the while, he kept right on chatting with Liv, oblivious. The girl actually bit her lip, and I got an amazing shot of it. I giggled a little, actually, amusing myself.

  “Bet you’re thinking, ‘Why didn’t I get that job?’” a gruff voice muttered beside me, startling me out from behind the camera.

  It was Ashley Player.

  I didn’t respond.

  I definitely didn’t feel lightning bolts to my uterus when he glared at me. But I did feel… something. The guy put me on edge. He had those piercing, penetrating blue eyes, and there was so much derision in them
as he stared me down, it almost hurt.

  Which was ridiculous, since I didn’t even know him.

  He didn’t know me, either. But for some reason, he’d already made up his mind to despise me.

  For some other reason that I could not fathom, he was standing too close to me. Like right beside me. And some stubborn, jaded part of me refused to give him the satisfaction of backing away or running scared.

  So I stood my ground.

  He crossed his toned arms over his chest and finally turned his attention away from me, toward Dylan. He steadfastly ignored me, actually, as we stood here, together, in the shadows beyond the lights. And he looked so irritatingly beautiful, with his edgy dark hair and his angsty, angry-at-the-world expression… It shouldn’t have mattered to me, but honestly, it was annoying as hell that he was so hot.

  Because it made me want to stare at him—like I was doing right now—even though I was pretty sure I already hated him.

  So instead, I ignored him right back.

  I kept right on photographing Dylan Cope.

  The entire time, Ashley Player stayed right beside me. He never looked at me. Or at least, I never caught him looking at me.

  But there was no doubt in my mind: he was keeping an eye on me.

  Chapter Three

  Dylan

  As the cameras started rolling, I played along to “Get Made.” Obviously, it was fucking loud. But to her credit, the photographer at the side of the stage didn’t flinch.

  She also didn’t seem to be aware that anyone in the room existed besides me.

  After we’d run through several takes, I saw Liv’s assistant hand her some work boots and a pair of socks. I watched her, amused, as she grudgingly put them on, while pointedly ignoring Ash, who was standing beside her. He’d been standing beside her the entire time.

  Right beside her.

  Interesting.

  A while later, when Liv called for a quick break, the photographer had worked herself up onto the side of the stage, way back out of the way, without anyone seeming to notice or care. She’d seemed to be photographing some of the crew while I played, but only briefly.