Page 1 of Dirty Like Dylan

Chapter One

Amber

I stood on the curb with my travel backpack hoisted up on my back, my blouse all sweaty and stuck to me under the weight of the bag, even though it was October and pretty cool out. It was taking a ridiculously long time for the dude at the security gatehouse to let the Mercedes in front of me through. Not because there was a security issue. No, I had to stand here while the security guard and the driver of the car shot the shit like a couple of old ladies at a church bake sale. For seven minutes straight.

I could’ve put my backpack down. I could’ve sat my ass down on the curb and gotten at least a little more comfy. But it was the principle of it; I was standing right where the security guy could see me.

I might as well have been invisible.

Finally, he patted the roof of the Mercedes and waved the car into the gated lot. As his gaze fell to me, I walked right up to him like I belonged here. In the driving lane. I figured he didn’t get many walk-ups; there was no sidewalk.

I glanced into the movie studio lot with all the big, windowless buildings and the expensive cars, and wondered if this guy was gonna give me a hard time. If I’d have to call my sister to come out here and collect me.

Worse, if I couldn’t reach her, if I was gonna be a no-show at her shoot, miss out on this desperately needed paycheck and have to find somewhere to sleep tonight with approximately zero dollars to my name. Worst case scenario, I’d have to crash at my sister’s place.

But that option would only ever be a dead-last resort.

Technically I was homeless, which was always weird to get my head around. But that was only until I caught my next plane out of here. Then, I was a world traveler.

It just depended how you looked at it.

“Yes?” The security guard looked me over, taking in my peasant blouse and my well-worn jeans with the patch of the Venezuelan flag on one thigh, which strategically covered a blood stain (long story). He had a pot belly in his uniform but, presumably, he also had a steady paycheck and a home, so who was I to judge?

When he actually looked at my face, I did my best to smile and remind myself why I was here: because this paycheck would be half the funds I needed for my next one-way ticket to the opposite hemisphere.

“Hi.” I did my best to sound cheerful, even chipper, but it was incredibly forced. I probably came across as a caricature of myself: the happy, ditzy hippie. “I’m here for the Underlayer commercial. Amber Malone?”

As I spoke, the security guard reached through the window of the gatehouse and pulled out a clipboard. He flipped through several pages, scanning a couple of them. “No Amber Malone on my list.”

Great.

“I’m the stills photographer,” I informed him.

When he gave me a dubious look, I held up a finger to indicate One sec and hefted off my backpack. I laid it on the ground and dug in, unpacking all my shit to unearth my only credential: my most expensive professional camera. When I had the travel-battered Canon in hand, I hoisted it up to show him. “See?”

He didn’t see. He kept half-heartedly scanning his papers. “Anna Malone?”

“Amber,” I said, as politely as I could.

“Hang on,” he said, heading into his booth. “And you’ll need to clear that off the road.”

“Thanks.” Not even sure why I said that. But I started cramming everything back into my backpack, post-haste, before all my worldly belongings could get run over by a Hummer limo or something. I heard him mumbling to someone on his cell phone; always such a warm welcome at my sister’s shoots.

It was a real wonder I didn’t do more of them.

Admittedly, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to be showing up for a job. For one thing, I’d only touched down in this time zone less than twenty-four hours ago and I was severely jet-lagged. Also, I was more than a little irked that I’d been groped last night by an old ex who’d let me crash on his couch; that after a couple of beers, he’d cried on my shoulder about his recent breakup and decided it was okay to put his hand on my boob. I’d slept there anyway, since I was low on options, but skipped out this morning before he woke up.

I’d had a crappy coffee shop breakfast, accidentally caught the wrong bus, and arrived here late.

All-in-all, not a great start to the day. But truth be told, it was no worse than I’d expected.

I had very, very low expectations of this day.

Just as I finished cramming all my shit back into my backpack, Tetris-style, a tricked-out golf cart thing came buzzing through the parking lot toward me. When I saw it coming, my stomach roiled. Probably thanks to my crappy breakfast, but also: nerves.

So maybe I was more nervous about this shoot than I’d wanted to admit to myself.

Two men were riding in the cart; they parked across the lane in front of me. I took a deep breath and stood to meet them as they got out and strolled toward me. The driver, some film crew guy, was dressed no better than I was—worse, even—in his faded jeans and old sweatshirt, but he did have steel-toed boots on; there was a walkie on his belt, spewing snippets of barely-discernible conversation into the air. He looked me over, his gaze landing on my naked toes in my flimsy sandals.