Page 3 of Dirty Like Dylan
I shoved my passport at the biker guy. “See? Amber Paige Malone.”
He inspected it, then closed it and handed it back to me. “Cool. You want a ride in?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“I’m Connor,” he informed me. “You can call me Con.”
“Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t, but whatever.
I stuffed everything back into my backpack—again—and hustled to follow him. When I reached the cart, he stood aside so I could climb into the narrow back seat, but not before I’d glimpsed the back of his leather vest. It had a big patch in the middle; a king of spades, like on a playing card, except the king was a wicked-looking skeleton. Across the top it said WEST COAST KINGS, and across the bottom, VANCOUVER.
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.”
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