Today was the first time in my life I had legit palm sweat.
I rubbed my palms on the plush robe, my hands tucked into the pockets as I followed Maggie through the massive house she said belonged to Jesse’s manager, Brody, the guy with the tattoos from Devi’s office. I’d met him for real this time, and he had this intensely sexy business-meets-rock-’n’-roll thing going on that made me all tongue-tied. I was relieved when the incredibly nice Maggie rescued me from that conversation. Same, when she did it again with Zane. Because what the hell would I say to Zane Traynor, the most charismatic frontman to rock a pair of leather pants since Jim Morrison?
Yeah, I’d hit up Google since getting hired for this thing.
A lot.
Dirty’s lead singer had the body of a love god and a voice he’d clearly sold his soul to the devil for, and yes he was gorgeous, but I only stared at him because it was that or get sucked into eye contact with Jesse Mayes again.
And that was a serious threat to my sanity.
When the man looked at me, things happened to my body that I could only describe as temporary but all-consuming hormonal insanity. It was dizzying, thrilling and terrifying, and I needed to get my shit together before we shot this scene. I was supposed to be all cool and girlfriend-like, hanging out by his side at a party or whatever, not swooning like a pent-up virgin who might combust if he bumped shoulders with me.
It didn’t help that he’d brought all his larger-than-life friends to the shoot.
I mean, I’d seen pictures of all the members of Dirty on the web. But since this shoot was for Jesse’s solo album, I didn’t expect Zane or Dirty’s drummer, Dylan Cope, to be here.
What the helldidI expect?
Maybe some kind of sterile sound stage with an efficient, all-business film crew calling the shots?
This felt more like a party, people crammed into every room of Brody’s architectural marvel of a house, which was in North Vancouver, up the mountainside in Canyon Heights, and probably cost high seven figures.
The film crew looked a lot like what I’d always thought roadies would look like, the roadies looked like criminals, the security guys looked like straight-up bikers, and the management team, which consisted of Brody, Maggie, and various underlings, looked like rock stars.
Jesse, Zane, and Dylan? They looked like something out of a Greek goddess’s masturbation fantasy.
I’d never met people like this in real life.
When I’d first arrived, Maggie had mercifully plucked me from a roomful of women who looked like they’d come straight from backstage at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. I must have looked as out of place as I felt in my Rolling Stones T-shirt, paint-splattered jeans and purple kicks; apparentlyallmy jeans had paint on them, which was something I’d only realized that morning.
Honestly, what the hell was I doing here?
For the second time today, Maggie deposited me in one of the upstairs bedrooms that had been taken over by the wardrobe team, promising to fetch me in ten minutes.
Ten minutes until my scene with Jesse Mayes.
My palms were sweating again.
The wardrobe girls freed me from the robe and stood me on a little platform to stare at me. Which wouldn’t have been all that weird, given their profession, if I wasn’t totally naked except for a bra and panties. It was definitely not my comfort zone, but since there were only a couple of models and the wardrobe girls in the room, and they did this all the time, I tried to convince myself it was no big deal.
Not terrifying in the slightest.
They had me do a quick change in the adjoining washroom, keeping the champagne satin and black lace bra, but switching out the matching panties for a pair of skimpy black lace boy shorts, which showed a hell of a lot of cheek. Luckily, I had decent cheeks.
“Oh, so perfect,” one of the wardrobe girls gushed when she saw me, and I told myself it was kind of cute and not at all weird that they cared so much what I’d be wearing under my clothes, since no one was going to see it.
Then one of the makeup girls walked in with a makeup palette, her little tool belt filled with brushes and sponges, and started painting over a bruise on my thigh with her magic makeup that made it look like I had no pores.
And that’s when it hit me.
Theseweremy clothes.
Like, all of them.
Because apparently I was about to be filmed in Jesse Mayes’ music video wearing nothing but panties and a bra.
“Is there time for me to use the washroom before I go down?” I asked anyone who would listen, hot panic rising like bile in my throat.
