Page 4 of Dirty Like Dylan

“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.