Dirty Like Dylan_A Dirty Rockstar Romance

by Jaine Diamond

  So, he was a real biker.

  Lovely.

  I took a deep breath and just tried to relax; I was in now, and it didn’t seem like filming had even started yet. Potential first couple of disasters averted.

  “Sorry about the hassle.” The cart dipped as Connor settled his big body into the front seat with the crew guy. “It is Dylan Cope,” he added affably, as if that explained everything.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  As if I cared who the star of this shoot was.

  Apparently, it was a real stretch of the imagination to believe that a young woman such as myself was actually a professional photographer here to do a job, with no interest whatsoever in Dylan Cope. You know, like I might actually be some feral groupie hellbent on scamming my way into the studio to try to suck Dylan Cope’s rock star cock, security be damned.

  Because that’s what all women probably looked like, at first glance, to Connor the security biker.

  “I’m sure Liv will mention it,” the crew guy told me as we reversed and turned around, “but you’ll need proper footwear to work on set.”

  “I’m sure she will,” I muttered, as we started motoring, slowly, through the parking lot. I hadn’t brought steel-toed boots with me, but really, I wasn’t about to keep a pair of steel-toes in storage somewhere just so that whenever I was—occasionally—back in Vancouver I could work on my sister’s film sets. That would be far too much like admitting that this was something I actually did. That I, Amber Paige Malone, was a whore photographer.

  Although today, I was a whore photographer.

  And not because I was photographing whores.

  Because I felt like a prostitute, whoring out my talent like this. I’m just doing it for the money seemed like a piss-poor attitude for a professional photographer to bring to any photo shoot. But the fact was, my heart wasn’t and would never be in photographing celebrities. In my mind, this was the lowliest type of photography work.

  Other than the paycheck. You really couldn’t argue with the paycheck.

  But you could argue with the work…

  Sexist, misogynistic, abusive. I’d experienced all of it on Liv’s sets. Most days I did not understand how my own sibling—my female, lesbian, smart-as-hell sibling—could work in this fucked-up, male-dominant world of celebrity bullshit.

  As we picked up a modicum of speed, Connor turned to look at me, his mouth flipping up at the corners. “By the way, his name’s Ash.”

  “What?”

  “The guy in the truck,” he said. “Ashley Player. He’s the lead singer of the Penny Pushers.”

  “Good for him.”

  “He doesn’t seem to like you,” he noted, evidently amused.

  Of course he doesn’t, I wanted to say. He’s a rock star.

  “Yeah,” I said instead. “It’s a real travesty.”

  “Where the hell are your steel-toed boots?”

  As soon as Connor the biker led me into the sound stage and deposited me in my sister’s vicinity, Liv hit me up with an admonition and a tight hug. The hug was welcome, because as soon as I’d walked in, the nerves really hit me. My cranky veneer had cracked, and I realized how anxious I’d been about this day, however irrationally.

  I was a professional. I had this.

  But it wasn’t the work I was nervous about.

  I took another deep breath and collected myself. The studio was huge and somewhat dark, the overhead lights shut off, the production’s lights shining onto a large stage where a massive rock ’n’ roll drum kit gleamed, front and center. I was aware of the cameras and the lights, and the film crew milling about, tinkering with equipment as they waited for the shoot to begin. But all I really wanted to feel in this moment was my sister as I squeezed her to me and shut my eyes.

  She felt so familiar in my arms, and so foreign. Smaller than I remembered, but stronger. We were about the same size; I was five-five, and Liv would never admit that she was an inch shorter. She was almost five years older, but we’d often shared clothes growing up. Now, we wouldn’t be caught dead in one another’s wardrobe.

  I loved my big sister something fierce, and sometimes I couldn’t stand her. I’d been out of the country for thirteen months straight and I’d missed her like my arm had been cut off. Yet I knew within days—if not hours—I’d be itching to get the hell gone again.

  It had always been this way.

  When we finally broke apart, there were tears sparking in Liv’s hazel eyes. And I knew there were matching ones in my eyes as she held me out at arm’s length, inspecting me.

  “Hippie,” she concluded with a shake of her head.

  “Tyrant,” I said. I took in the plaid shirt, buttoned up to her neck, and the ripped jeans, the laced-up boots; the same clothes she’d always worn, fashionable or not. Her short brown hair, very short on the sides, longer on top, looked cute on her, but like nothing I’d ever do with my own hair. I raised an eyebrow. “Hipster tyrant?”

  “You’re late,” she said, very tyrant-like, and glanced aside at Connor, who’d taken up residence in the shadows. “You have trouble getting in?”

  “Of course not. They really rolled out the red carpet for me.”

  Liv frowned at my sarcasm, glancing down. “You need steel-toed boots on set, Amber. Or at least boots.”

  I shrugged, trying to look apologetic. It was hard. “I forgot.”

  “Jesus,” my sister muttered. “Every time.” Then she got on her phone, presumably to sort out my footwear situation. Liv was directing this commercial; surely she could make a pair of boots appear if she really wanted to. Did I feel bad about making this her problem? Kind of. But I’d already warned her I probably wouldn’t “remember” the boots.

  Liv knew this wasn’t my world, that I didn’t really do this kind of work, yet she’d still chosen to hire me.

  I turned away, glancing around the busy set, checking out who was here. But I didn’t recognize anyone yet. The nerves were still with me, but I was gradually getting a grip. All I had to do was remind myself that it didn’t really matter where I was. That as long as I had my camera, I was in my element.

  Who cares about the rock stars.

  When Liv got off her phone, she informed me, “You’re lucky we haven’t started rolling yet. I can take you around.” Then she led me on a whirlwind tour of the facilities. The craft services table had better food than the cafe where I’d had breakfast, so I snagged a handful of grapes and ate them, despite my sister’s disapproving look, as she walked me around.

  She showed me the camera set-up—two HD video cameras, one that would glide in front of the stage on a dolly track, the other suspended above on a jib arm, to film Dylan Cope in all his rock star glory.

  Then she introduced me around to some of the crew as well as the Underlayer execs and the creative director—the people she’d convinced to hire me for this shoot—and I did my best to project grateful and professional.

  All the while, I kept one eye peeled, until I’d had a chance to scope out every last face in the room. And yes, I was looking for him. I couldn’t exactly help it. It was kind of a nervous twitch.

  Johnny O’Reilly.

  Because running into my rock star ex was not exactly on my wish list for today.

  All I really wished for, actually, was to get through this thing quickly, quietly, and with a little grace. Without falling on my face or, you know, falling in love.

  It was Liv who’d introduced me to Johnny, and any time I rubbed shoulders with anyone in this particular sector of my sister’s world—the rock star sector—I found myself looking for him. Not because I wanted to see him. Because I wanted the chance to vanish if I saw him, before he saw me.

  “He’s not here,” Liv said, picking up on my wandering eyes. My sister never really did miss much. “Why would he be?”

  Why, indeed. Johnny had no particular affiliation with Dylan Cope that I knew of. He wasn’t in Dylan Cope’s band.

  But neither was that dude who’d just
flipped me the finger.

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Right.”

  When we’d returned to the area behind the cameras, where the “Video Village” was set up—viewing monitors for Liv and the execs to watch what was being filmed—I lay my backpack down out of the way and dug out my camera. Just as I’d switched out the lenses, Liv’s assistant materialized to whisk my backpack away to one of the offices for me. I fiddled with my exposure settings, making adjustments to match the general light in the room. Photographing the star of the shoot under all those stage lights would be easy enough. But to photograph the crew at work in the shadows, I’d have to combine the available light with a high ISO and hope to capture enough detail without everything turning to mud.

  Not the best conditions for photographing people, but I’d worked with worse.

  I rejoined my sister after she’d had a few words with her camera crew. Everyone was beginning to look a little restless and put out. I’d checked the time on my phone; we were running over forty-five minutes late, yet there was still no rock star onstage. The drums sat, gleaming and untouched, waiting. And it was easy enough to figure out what was going on here.

  The big rock star was making everyone wait for him.

  Because he was that special, and really, there was nothing the rest of us could do about it. We were, after all, just regular mortals.

  “So,” I asked Liv, “any ridiculous rules I should know here?” I didn’t even want to know, but I had to ask. I’d been on enough of my sister’s film sets to know you always had to ask. Because no one ever told you the unspoken rules unless you asked. “You know, anyone I’m not supposed to photograph? Anyone to avoid eye contact with? Anyone I’m expected to address as Your Highness?”

  My sister scoffed. “You can call me Your Highness if you really want to.” Then her shrewd eyes narrowed at me from behind her glasses. “Just don’t give anyone attitude, okay?”

  “Me?” I balked, like I was shocked at the suggestion.

  “Yes,” she said dryly. “You, Amber.”

  “It’s not always me, Liv,” I informed her.

  “Right…”

  “Remember that made-for-TV movie I helped you out on?”

  She frowned, which I took to be a yes.

  “You know the one. I did that promo shoot with Mr. Action-Hero-of-Yesterday, and only ‘attractive’ women were allowed to be on his set, but we weren’t allowed to speak to him?”

  “The way I remember it,” my sister said, “you weren’t allowed to speak to him because you were rude the first time you met him. He was there to do a job and so were you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You were lucky you weren’t fired.”

  “Right. Lucky me.”

  “You know,” she informed me, her eyes narrowing further, “you really bring it on yourself with that chip on your shoulder.”

  “Sure I do. How about that skincare campaign, starring Ms. Aging-Pop-Star, who did have me fired, for being ‘too pretty’? I guess I brought that on myself by showing up with a face?”

  “Amber…”

  “You know the rules at these shoots are fucking ridiculous.” I added in a grumble, “And the hot guys are the worst ones.”

  My sister arched an eyebrow at me. “Maybe they say the same thing about stuck-up hippie chicks.”

  “Whatever.” I let her words roll off, however accurate—though mean—they might be. I wound my camera strap around my wrist. “I’m just doing it for the money, right?”

  Why deny it? We both knew why I was here: to make money so I could go traveling again. I only ever came home when I ran out of money. Quickest way to make more money was to whore myself out to my sister. She knew as much.

  But in the end, since getting paid was all that really mattered to me here, and she had hired me, I should be grateful to her. Plus, I did actually harbor a teeny, tiny desire to please her, in some minuscule little closet somewhere in the back of my heart that I’d never tell her about. So I forced out, “What I mean to say is, thank you for hiring me.”

  Liv just rolled her eyes. “The rules are fucking simple. Just do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut. There won’t be any drama.”

  “Gotcha.”

  My sister eyed me, but there was some sympathy in her gaze. Pity, actually. “You know, not every hot guy on the planet is a dick, Amber.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Not every rock star is an asshole.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Dylan Cope is not Johnny O.”

  Right.

  All I really knew about Dylan Cope was that he was the drummer for Dirty, the biggest rock band Liv had ever worked with; a band I’d met a couple of members of in passing, and really didn’t give a shit about. Though, admittedly, most of the rest of the world did.

  And now Dylan Cope was an underwear model. He’d been cast as the rock ’n’ roll “god” in Underlayer’s latest ad campaign—the Underlayer of the Gods campaign.

  By that evidence alone, Dylan Cope should be an even bigger asshole than my ex. Nothing like the label of “god” to really humble a man. Especially a man who was already rich and famous.

  According to Liv, Underlayer also had a hip-hop god, a couple of athlete gods, and a movie star god in the campaign, but they’d already shot commercials with them. For this final shoot, they’d worked around Dylan Cope’s ever-changing schedule, bringing the entire production up to Vancouver to accommodate him. Because that’s what people did when you were a rock god.

  They came to you.

  Though Liv had also told me that Dylan recommended her to direct this commercial, so maybe that was a point in his favor.

  Or maybe he just wanted to fuck her? Wouldn’t exactly be the first time a man had ever attempted to make my lesbian sister switch teams.

  “So where is this rock god anyway?” I asked her. Everyone was still waiting on Dylan Cope to manifest; Liv kept glancing at her phone as the seconds ticked by.

  “Dylan’s always late, because he’s always eating,” she informed me. “It’s a drummer thing.” Like I was supposed to know what that meant?

  “Right before you film him in his underwear? Isn’t he worried about bloat or anything?”

  She gave me a look I wasn’t even sure how to interpret. “Clearly, you haven’t met him.”

  True. I’d only met Elle, Dirty’s bassist, and one of the guitarists, whose name I honestly couldn’t remember. I only remembered Elle’s because she was so famous—her face was everywhere these days, from magazine covers to makeup lines. Plus, she was a woman in an otherwise male rock band, which was pretty kick-ass. She was even nice to me, but I wouldn’t let that skew my opinion of rock stars in general, since most of them were male. Elle, I figured, was an anomaly.

  I raised my camera and snapped a photo of Liv’s face, capturing her semi-scowl as she checked her phone again. The scowl deepened. My sister had never loved being on the other side of the camera.

  “Just checking my exposure…” I said innocently.

  “You really don’t need to shoot me,” she informed me. “But just make sure you don’t only shoot Dylan.”

  “Why would I only shoot Dylan?”

  She gave me another look I wasn’t sure how to interpret. “Just shoot everyone and everything, but be discreet about it, okay? Candid. Use the longest lens you can and stay the hell out of the way.”

  “Intend to.”

  If I could get away with taking zero pictures of the star of this commercial, I’d be happy. I’d probably just take several of him right away to get it over with. After that, photographing the crew doing their thing could actually be interesting.

  I was already mentally staking out the best vantage point, a clear shot of the drum kit through all the filming equipment, where no one would be in my way and the lights they’d set up should work in my favor. Stage left, just beyond the end of the dolly track…

  “And Ambe
r…” Liv caught my arm before I could wander off in that direction. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

  Seriously? Did she seriously have so little faith in me?

  I shook her hand off. “What if they talk to me first?”

  “Then you answer as briefly and politely as you can, then fuck off.”

  I tried to keep the attitude out of my voice when I said, “Sure thing, boss.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t like her lack of faith in me was totally unfounded. I knew that. I’d been known to put my foot in my mouth, and in front of the worst people to put my foot in my mouth in front of. It was kind of an unfortunate talent of mine.

  But still.

  I watched as she glanced at her phone again, checked her wristwatch, then frowned. “I swear,” she grumbled, “he slows down every time I ask him to speed up.” Then she looked at me and sighed heavily.

  She reached out and smoothed a lock of my hair behind my ear. It was an almost-tender gesture—until she clucked under her breath as if my hair, which wasn’t quite long enough to stay put in the ponytail I’d attempted, was a sad disappointment.

  “Fuck it,” she said, almost to herself. Then: “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Okay…?”

  “Head down that hall over there…” She pointed toward a hallway that appeared to lead behind the stage. “And knock on Dylan’s dressing room. His name’s on the door.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I told you to,” she said, in a very Do-not-question-my-orders-on-my-set tone of voice. It was a tone I was, unfortunately, familiar with. Then she rolled her eyes. “I swear to God. He’s like, the world’s nicest rock star.”

  Riiight.

  “He just has some punctuality issues—”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “—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.”