Page 6 of Dirty Like Dylan
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 Amber…” 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.”