Page 9 of Dirty Like Dylan
“Right,” I said. “I’ll just wait.”
Screw Liv and her orders.
I headed back down the hall, trying not to think about how pissed she’d be—at me, probably—if she witnessed that exchange.
At least I fucked off at the end of it, so I got that part right.
Just as I was about to leave the hallway, though, I glanced back. Ashley the Asshole was staring at his phone again, his bent arm making his bicep pop, the ceiling lights that should have been harsh and unflattering skimming the curves of his muscles and casting his eyes in shadow. Unfortunately, he had gorgeous cheekbones and all sorts of sharp angles to his face that totally worked. He looked bitchy and ridiculously beautiful, and I snapped a photo of him.
When I walked back out into the sound stage, I found my sister. Or rather, she found me. “Where’s Dylan?” she asked, throwing a glance toward the hallway behind me, like she seriously thought I’d be able to fetch him.
“No idea, but this guy was super nice.” I showed her the photo I’d taken of Ashley Player, on the screen on the back of my camera.
“Great shot.”
“Why’s he such an asshole?”
Liv shrugged, thumbing her phone. “Why can’t you show up in steel-toed boots like you know you’re supposed to? Some people just like to be a thorn up other people’s asses.”
“Just yours,” I grumbled in my defense.
“Looks like you made an impression on him.” She held up her phone; a text message was open on the screen.
Ash: Your little hippie sister is hot but she’s got an attitude problem. Keep her away from Dylan.
My mouth dropped open.
Okay, so it wasn’t the first time I’d ever been called a hippie. Liv did it regularly, but she was my sister; she was allowed, because she loved me. “Attitude problem?” I scoffed. “That’s rich.”
“Like I said,” she told me, “you bring it on yourself with that chip on your shoulder.”
I opened my mouth to respond, preparing to unleash a diatribe on discrimination and harassment in the workplace—not only had he called me a hippie and insulted my camera, he’d sworn at me and called me sweetheart—but just then, the rock god himself appeared onstage.
Dylan Cope had finally arrived.
I felt him before I saw him. It was the way the vibe completely shifted in the room, and everyone hustled up. And when I looked up, the words I’d been about to spew completely failed me.
Liv shooed me off to get to work, getting busy herself. So I made my way closer to the stage, carefully, just trying not to trip on anything or bump into anyone in my hypnotic state.
Because there he towered under the lights: Dirty’s drummer.
Totally.
Fucking.
Gorgeous.
I stood to the side of the stage and stared, just trying to sort out what I was seeing. Apparently, my brain needed a moment to fully absorb and attempt to process the sheer majesty of such a sight—the way it might if I was standing at the base of Mount Everest gazing up, or maybe setting foot on the moon.
Because how did you adequately capture something like that with mere thoughts, or words, or a camera, anyway?
Awestruck didn’t cover it.
First of all, the man had abs for weeks. A girl could definitely get her laundry sparkling-clean on that washboard. He also had the most beautiful auburn hair, a little casually mussed-up and wavy, about a zillion different autumn shades of red and gold and chestnut-brown. And his face… He was super-handsome, with a strong jawline, a straight nose and a little divot in his chin… but not in a nauseating way. He had kind eyes, actually, and an easy-going manner about him. He looked totally at ease on the stage, in front of the cameras, but not in a gross, cocky way.
I’d definitely seen gross and cocky in front of my camera. This was not that.
Liv and a few other people had rushed to meet him as he strolled out onstage, and I watched him smile good-naturedly as he chatted with some of the crew guys.