Page 175 of Dirty Like Dylan

“Yeah. You’ve gotta have ownership in something to really feel a part of it. To know we’re on equal footing. We learned that lesson with Seth.”

“Seth?” I asked, confused.

“We never gave him rights to the songs, in the beginning.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. Even though he was one of our primary songwriters,” he explained, “he didn’t get the songwriting credit, and that meant he didn’t make the same money as the rest of us. He didn’t get what they call publishing royalties. Even though Jesse and Zane have always written most of Dirty’s music, me and Elle have always shared the songwriting credit, so that the band splits the publishing royalties equally, four ways. Lot of bands do that, to keep things equal, avoid conflict. Jessa was also credited as songwriter on the first Dirty album and gets the publishing royalties for those songs.” He paused and sighed a little, shaking his head like he now couldn’t fathom what they’d done. “In the beginning, leaving Seth out of the publishing rights seemed to make sense, because we hired him on almost like a laborer or something, like a crew member. We didn’t originally hire him to write songs. He got paid a cut for the shows, for the album he played on, and a lump sum for the songs he’d co-written, but that was it. No ongoing publishing royalties. It sounds shitty now and pretty crooked, but we did it because when it came down to it, we didn’t really trust him. Brody didn’t trust him, for good reason. Seth was already pretty heavy into drugs, hard drugs, and we all knew it. So Brody and our lawyers advised us to structure his deal that way.”

“It was probably for the best, then,” I offered.

“I don’t know. I think the band figured that at some point in the near future Seth would prove to us all that he was one-hundred-percent in, and we’d bring him in closer, give him an equal cut. But that just never happened. By the end of the first world tour, he’d already spiraled out of control, and we let him go.”

“That’s so… sad,” I said. “It’s hard to imagine some out-of-control drug addict when you meet Seth. He seems to have his shit so together.”

“He does. Now that he’s back, things are so different. And we all sat down and had a conversation about it, realized that in order for this thing to work, we need to bring him in tight, give him a real stake, and treat him like an equal part of this. So, with his new contract, Seth gets the shared songwriting credit and now he’ll be paid an equal share of royalties on the new songs, just like Jessa and the rest of us, so we’re all on equal footing. We even gave him a generous signing bonus when he came back, to start things off on the right foot. Show him we’re serious about the band’s future with him.”

“That sounds like the right thing to do,” I said, still wondering what this had to do with me. “Smart.”

“Yeah. So, what if you were hired as Dirty’s tour photographer?”

I stared at him. “Tour photographer…?”

“Then you get paid. And you get to take photos all the time, and if you get sick of me you can go take photos, and if I piss you off, you can go take photos, and you can just generally get paid to take photos of everything until you forgive me for being annoying and you come back to my bed.”

“Um—”

“And you get regular checks issued to you by band management.”

“Well—”

“So then you have a bunch of money when you leave me in some foreign country never to be seen again. But most importantly, you’d own the rights to your photos, so you’d always have that. And you could do your gallery tour, or your coffee table book, or whatever the hell you want to do down the road… no matter what happens between us.”

“Hmm. That does sound like a better plan…” I was playing it cool, maybe, but tingles of excitement were rising in me; the whole idea was giving me goosebumps.

Dylan ran his hands up my arms, pulling me closer. “But then, maybe you’re so happy because you get to do all your favorite things that you don’t leave me. And we live happily ever after.”

“My favorite things…?”

“Yeah. Taking photos. Making money taking photos so you can support yourself. Traveling the world. And fucking me.”

“Are those in order from most to least favorite?” I teased.

“You tell me.” He leaned in and kissed me, slowly.

“Mmm…” I broke away, before I hit the melting point and totally dropped the ball on this conversation. “No. Fucking you goes above everything on that list, except making money to support myself. That’s gotta be in first place, right alongside fucking you, because if I can’t support myself, I can’t respect myself. And if I can’t respect myself, trust me, I’m gonna be a lousy, grumpy lay.”

“I dunno, Amber. You’re kinda sexy when you’re grumpy.”

I frowned, doubtful.

“See?” He kissed my pouting lips. “Duck face.”

“What?” I laughed.

“Ash calls that your duck face. I believe the exact term was ‘fucking adorable duck face.’”

My face fell. “Ashley Player thinks I’m adorable when I’m grumpy?”

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