Dirty Like Dylan_A Dirty Rockstar Romance Read online

  Praise for the Dirty Series

  “It hooked me from the very first chapter … a charming, entertaining, sexy and fun read. I’m definitely on board for the next book.” — A Dear Author Recommended Read

  “Diamond (DEEP) crafts a spicy, sassy, sexy romance with likable characters who share intense chemistry, and populates it with a memorable, entertaining supporting cast.” — Publishers Weekly

  “… blends humor and horniness into one hell of a wild ride. I absolutely could not put this book down and I cannot wait to see what’s next in the Dirty series.” — Hines & Bigham’s Literary Tryst

  “A fun sexy whirlwind of a rocker romance book…” “… love, lust and passion has never burned so hot.” — Read Between The Lines

  “Jaine Diamond is new to me and I believe she will be taking the romance world by storm. Her writing gives you all the feels and pulls you in.” — Jo & Isa Love Books

  “Jaine Diamond is quickly becoming one of my favorite contemporary romance authors. … the perfect balance of romance and raunchy.” — Author Unpublished Reviews

  “Without a doubt a 5 star book. There’s heat and angst in spades!” “… a fantastically fun page turner…” — Liz Ellyn Reviews

  “… red hot chemistry … his love for her jumps off the page.” “Jaine Diamond is now on my must-read list.” — Badass Bloggettes

  “… deliciously angsty…” “Maggie and Zane have delicious push-pull … I want more Zaggie and I want them now!” — Smexy Books

  “Oh, Zane and Maggie! These two ... I can’t wait for them to get it together but it’s a process and one I am addicted to.” — Two Book Pushers

  “Sweet and sinful, like erotic icing on a cake … Jaine Diamond’s ability to convey the inner thoughts of a man on a mission is a true gift.” — AddictedToHotLove, Amazon review

  “This series is so good. … Fantastic. Sexy. Angsty. Dramatic. Hilarious. Sexy. Loving. Loyal. Sexy.” — Backstage Books

  “The banter between Zane and Maggs have propelled them to my Top Couples List. Ms Diamond I do hope you write really fast.” — Kathy, Goodreads review

  “She writes with such passion for her characters.” “Her knowledge on the industry and the ability to bring life to the band is incredible.” “Be prepared for a bad boy who will turn your life inside out!” — iScream Books

  “… a first rate rock romance that gives you everything you would want; super-hot rocker who does not do girlfriends, a ‘normal’ girl with a chance of a lifetime, a connection between these two that everyone around them sees, and sexual chemistry that is off the charts. …this one hit for me and I am an avid rock romance fan.” — The Book Enthusiast

  “If rockstar romances are your thing then you’ll definitely need to add this series to your TBR pile!” — Wicked Reads

  “… sucks you right in and doesn’t loosen its grip until you read the last word.” “Down and Dirty and fantastic!!” — Bookgasms

  Dirty Like Dylan

  A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty #4)

  Jaine Diamond

  Copyright © 2018 Jaine Diamond

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, uploaded or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The publisher and author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Published By DreamWarp Books

  First edition: July 2018

  Published in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN: 978-0-9949843-9-5

  ASIN: B07D7JVR64

  V_1

  Cover design: DreamWarp Books

  Jaine Diamond Online

  www.jainediamond.com

  For Brittany. FBGM.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Books by Jaine Diamond

  Enjoy This Book?

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This book, Dirty Like Dylan (Dirty #4), is the fourth full-length novel in the Dirty rockstar romance series, and the sixth book in the series overall.

  The characters featured in this book were introduced in the earlier books, and if you’d like every detail of their stories so far, you’ll want to read the previous books first.

  Each novel in the Dirty series will focus on the love story of a different couple (or in this book, threesome) in the larger world of the series. I consider the novels in the series interconnected standalones, meaning you could pick and choose which ones you read, in any order, but you will definitely get the most out of the series, the individual books and the relationships within if you read the books consecutively.

  I would always recommend starting with Dirty Like Me (Dirty #1). It is probably the best entry point to the series, as it gives a broad introduction to the world of the series and the various characters.

  Dirty series reading order so far:

  Dirty Like Me (Dirty #1)

  Dirty Like Us (Dirty #0.5) - Free

  Dirty Like Brody (Dirty #2)

  A Dirty Wedding Night (Dirty #2.5)

  Dirty Like Seth (Dirty #3)

  Dirty Like Dylan (Dirty #4)

  From beautiful Vancouver (the home of Dirty!),

  Jaine

  Chapter One

  Amber

  I stood on the curb with my travel backpack hoisted up on my back, my blouse all sweaty and stuck to me under the weight of the bag, even though it was October and pretty cool out. It was taking a ridiculously long time for the dude at the security gatehouse to let the Mercedes in front of me through. Not because there was a security issue. No, I had to stand here while the security guard and the driver of the car shot the shit like a couple of old ladies at a church bake sale. For seven minutes straight.

  I could’ve put my backpack down. I could’ve sat my ass down on the curb and gotten at least a little more comfy. But it was the principle of it; I was standing right where the security guy could see me.

  I might as well have been invisible.

  Finally, he patted the roof of the Mercedes and waved the car into the gated lot. As his gaze fell to me, I walked right up to him like I belonged here. In the driving lane. I figured he didn’t get many walk-ups; there was no sidewalk.

  I glanced into the movie studio lot with all the big, windo
wless buildings and the expensive cars, and wondered if this guy was gonna give me a hard time. If I’d have to call my sister to come out here and collect me.

  Worse, if I couldn’t reach her, if I was gonna be a no-show at her shoot, miss out on this desperately needed paycheck and have to find somewhere to sleep tonight with approximately zero dollars to my name. Worst case scenario, I’d have to crash at my sister’s place.

  But that option would only ever be a dead-last resort.

  Technically I was homeless, which was always weird to get my head around. But that was only until I caught my next plane out of here. Then, I was a world traveler.

  It just depended how you looked at it.

  “Yes?” The security guard looked me over, taking in my peasant blouse and my well-worn jeans with the patch of the Venezuelan flag on one thigh, which strategically covered a blood stain (long story). He had a pot belly in his uniform but, presumably, he also had a steady paycheck and a home, so who was I to judge?

  When he actually looked at my face, I did my best to smile and remind myself why I was here: because this paycheck would be half the funds I needed for my next one-way ticket to the opposite hemisphere.

  “Hi.” I did my best to sound cheerful, even chipper, but it was incredibly forced. I probably came across as a caricature of myself: the happy, ditzy hippie. “I’m here for the Underlayer commercial. Amber Malone?”

  As I spoke, the security guard reached through the window of the gatehouse and pulled out a clipboard. He flipped through several pages, scanning a couple of them. “No Amber Malone on my list.”

  Great.

  “I’m the stills photographer,” I informed him.

  When he gave me a dubious look, I held up a finger to indicate One sec and hefted off my backpack. I laid it on the ground and dug in, unpacking all my shit to unearth my only credential: my most expensive professional camera. When I had the travel-battered Canon in hand, I hoisted it up to show him. “See?”

  He didn’t see. He kept half-heartedly scanning his papers. “Anna Malone?”

  “Amber,” I said, as politely as I could.

  “Hang on,” he said, heading into his booth. “And you’ll need to clear that off the road.”

  “Thanks.” Not even sure why I said that. But I started cramming everything back into my backpack, post-haste, before all my worldly belongings could get run over by a Hummer limo or something. I heard him mumbling to someone on his cell phone; always such a warm welcome at my sister’s shoots.

  It was a real wonder I didn’t do more of them.

  Admittedly, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to be showing up for a job. For one thing, I’d only touched down in this time zone less than twenty-four hours ago and I was severely jet-lagged. Also, I was more than a little irked that I’d been groped last night by an old ex who’d let me crash on his couch; that after a couple of beers, he’d cried on my shoulder about his recent breakup and decided it was okay to put his hand on my boob. I’d slept there anyway, since I was low on options, but skipped out this morning before he woke up.

  I’d had a crappy coffee shop breakfast, accidentally caught the wrong bus, and arrived here late.

  All-in-all, not a great start to the day. But truth be told, it was no worse than I’d expected.

  I had very, very low expectations of this day.

  Just as I finished cramming all my shit back into my backpack, Tetris-style, a tricked-out golf cart thing came buzzing through the parking lot toward me. When I saw it coming, my stomach roiled. Probably thanks to my crappy breakfast, but also: nerves.

  So maybe I was more nervous about this shoot than I’d wanted to admit to myself.

  Two men were riding in the cart; they parked across the lane in front of me. I took a deep breath and stood to meet them as they got out and strolled toward me. The driver, some film crew guy, was dressed no better than I was—worse, even—in his faded jeans and old sweatshirt, but he did have steel-toed boots on; there was a walkie on his belt, spewing snippets of barely-discernible conversation into the air. He looked me over, his gaze landing on my naked toes in my flimsy sandals.

  The other guy was obviously security, though not the uniformed, pot-bellied kind. This one was tall and imposing and dressed like a biker—black boots, black jeans, black leather vest over a Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Cheesy skull tat on his muscular arm. Long blondish hair pulled back in a messy man-bun. He was cute, which just annoyed me.

  Unfortunately, I had an incredibly long history of doing the stupidest shit where cute guys were concerned.

  “Underlayer?” he asked me, no preamble, as if we were continuing a conversation we’d already been having.

  “Yes. I’m the stills photographer. Amber Malone?” Why I kept saying my own name like it was a question, I’d never know.

  He looked a little closer at me, squinting in the morning sun. The perusal went from head to foot, slowly and unnecessarily, like he’d just noticed I was cute. “Liv Malone—?”

  “Is my sister.”

  He pulled out a cell phone and appeared to do some searching on it. Then he informed me, “You’re not on the list.”

  Of course not.

  I started to squelch a sigh, but then something occurred to me. “Can you try Amber Paige?”

  He consulted his phone again. “Yeah. I’ve got that.”

  Well thank fuck.

  “That’s me. I go by my middle name, professionally. Amber Paige?” Damn it. Quit saying your own name like you don’t know who the hell you are. “But they usually put my legal name on the crew list. Malone.”

  He kept looking me over, but made no move to welcome me into the fancy golf cart. “You have some ID, Amber Paige?”

  Yeah, I had ID. Somewhere deep in the bowels of my backpack, probably under all the shit I’d just piled back in there.

  The big dude arched his sexy eyebrow at me, waiting. (Truth be told, I kinda had a thing for eyebrows.) He hadn’t even cracked a smile in my direction, but shit… was it my imagination, or had he just taken a flirtatious tone with me? Was there an opening here I was missing?

  Briefly, my inner feminist turned a blind eye and the rest of me actually wondered if this guy would be amenable to a little eyelash batting and/or hair twirling.

  Unfortunately, I just wasn’t the girl who knew the answers to such questions. Nor was I the girl who could actually pull off flirting my way in here. No exaggeration, the last guy I’d consciously tried to flirt with had actually asked me if I was feeling ill. Are you feeling ill? Those were his exact words.

  Apparently, when I tried to flirt with a cute guy, the ensuing blushing, fumbling, babbling and mild hyperventilating was concerning to some people.

  So instead, I bit back another sigh, laid my bag on the ground again and started digging everything back out. Wondering all the while why I was doing this to myself.

  Oh, right. Paycheck.

  While I searched for my passport, I listened to the voices crackling on the walkie; the driver pulled it off his belt and chatted with someone in crew-guy shorthand. It sounded like they hadn’t started filming yet?

  So at least maybe Liv wouldn’t be pissed at me for being late.

  I found my passport, just as a vehicle rolled up behind me, music blaring. I glanced up; it was a pimped-out black pickup truck, Pink Floyd’s “Young Lust” rattling the windows. I was almost blinded by the glint of sunlight off the driver’s rings as he lifted his hand in greeting towards the security guys. The biker dude waved him through with a little salute. And as the truck rolled past, the guy behind the wheel looked right at me.

  Black surfer-dude hair, black T-shirt, tattoos all down his arms… and hot as all hell. The kind of hot, once you’ve seen it, you don’t forget it.

  “I know that guy…” I said, getting to my feet. “Hey!” I called over to him. “I met you, at that party… you know… at that guy’s place?” Shit. I’d definitely met him—at a party for one of the guys in Dirty, about four years ag
o, when I was fresh back from Australia. The same party where I’d also met—

  Never mind that.

  I just couldn’t remember much more than this guy’s face, though. I just knew he was some rock star or another. Guitarist? Lead singer? Whatshisname?

  Whatever his name was, he didn’t seem to give one fuck that we’d met. Or maybe he couldn’t even hear me over the bass vibrating through his truck. As he drove on into the lot, he actually flipped me the finger.

  Admittedly, it wasn’t the first time a man had ever given me the finger, but come on.

  Fucking rock stars.

  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.