Chapter 5
chapter
five
Stella
N othing made me happier than seeing my bank account sitting in the black for the first time in too damn long. Even after paying off all the crucial bills, such as power and water, and chipping away at Dad’s in-home care bills, I still had money left. Not a lot, mind you, but enough that I could treat myself to a drive-thru Starbucks on my way through downtown LA.
My phone rang as the barista handed over my venti brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso with vanilla sweet cream on top. It was 100 percent a splurge drink, and I felt expensive as hell for even ordering it.
“Hey, Dad, everything okay?” I asked after accepting the call on speakerphone in my lap. There was no Bluetooth in my ’57 Chevy Bel Air but she was divine to drive and had ample space for camera equipment, so I wouldn’t trade her in for the world.
“I saw the pictures, Shutterbug.” His voice slurred slightly, which was a result of his head injury. The injury may have ended his career as a paparazzi, but it had saved his life. Without those brain scans, they never would have found the tumor until it was too late to operate. Now he was bed-ridden and required in-home nurse care, but he was alive. That was the important part.
I wet my lips, a small amount of guilt curling through my chest. “Mmhmm, not the best quality but what can you expect from dashcam stills, right?”
He sighed, and it sounded distinctly disappointed. “Stella. I don’t like you doing this work. What happened to that job you were working over at the Grove? That was a good job, wasn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes skyward as I came to a stop at a traffic light. He was talking about the waitressing job I had at a swanky pizza restaurant. “I got fired, Dad. Some guy grabbed my ass and I broke his nose. Besides, even you have to admit, I’m kinda good at this celebrity-stalking shit. Maybe even better than you.”
His laugh was more of a cough, but I’d take it. “You wish, Bug. You wish. I just want you to stay safe out there. Those men can be?—”
“I know, Dad. Trust me. I’m a tough cookie. I can handle myself.”
He huffed. “Well, do we need to have a talk about the content of those photos, young lady?”
My jaw dropped and I gave a horrified screech. “Ew, Dad! God, I’m twenty-five, not twelve! We are absolutely not discussing the content of those photos. Ever. Gross.”
Dad’s hacking laugh came down the phone line and I shook my head. He’d smoked for way too many damn years, but after walking in his shoes for the past six months, I kinda understood. The job took a toll on your morals, and every now and then I wasn’t averse to taking the edge off. Though I went more for weed than nicotine because I respected my arteries a fraction more than that.
“Dad, I’m almost at Rodeo Drive. I gotta go,” I said, despite the fact I was still a solid fifteen minutes away. “Get some rest, okay? Don’t watch any more episodes without me, though.”
“Can’t promise anything, Shutterbug. You stay safe out there, and for god's sake, steer clear of Dillon if you see him.”
I wet my lips, nodding to myself. “I will, Dad. I promise. Love you.”
“Love you more,” he replied, gruff as ever.
I ended the call with a sick feeling of dread curling through me. Dillon Paget was the reason my Dad wore a massive scar down the side of his head but also sort of the reason he was still here…I guessed. He was a smooth talker, a professional paparazzi photographer, and a real mean drunk.
We used to date. Sort of. Until he turned that mean my way, and my Dad intervened.
One punch. That was all it took for my whole world to fall apart.
Somehow, thinking about Dillon made me think about Gemini. Again. I’d done a whole lot of thinking about Gemini since Saturday night and had gone back and forth with my own conscience for way too long over whether to sell those photos. Ultimately, though, I accepted the fact that I’d never see him again, so what did it matter?
Did I feel bad for blowing up his brother’s life? Fuck no. Seven Harrison had been in the business long enough to accept the risks. So had Gemini for that matter. At the end of the day, the paycheck was more important than any weakness toward Gem’s theoretical feelings on the images.
Everyone knew that Seven was deliberately cleaning up his act to not violate the morality clause with Carriage Pictures. It meant that juicy gossip and photos of him were few and far between, and most were somehow smoothed over by his shark of a manager, Jerry Thompson.
Not these ones, though. By selling them as Seven, not Gemini, I’d tossed a grenade into his perfectly crafted squeaky-clean image and paid off a shitload of bills in the process. It didn’t matter what damage control Jerry did; I’d already collected my fee.
By the time I pulled into a parking spot just off Rodeo Drive, I’d finished my indulgent Starbucks and was in a much better mood. My friend Tessa had tipped me off that the high-end clothing store she worked at was expecting a celebrity visitor, and I wanted to poke the bear with a stick a little.
Camera slung over my neck, I walked the rest of the way and casually leaned against a lamppost in front of the clothing boutique where a simple belt cost more than a month's worth of insurance payments. My camera was far from inconspicuous but my leather jacket disguised it a little bit. Enough that the shiny blonde actress stepping out of the store with a small army of assistants carrying bags didn’t see me until it was too late.
Snap, snap, snap!
“Clara Belle! You don’t look particularly upset today,” I called out, grinning as my camera captured the horrified expression on the beautiful woman’s face. “Did you know that Seven was cheating on you? Who was the woman?”
Okay, now I was just having fun.
“Probably some filthy, obsessed fan,” Clara Belle sneered, before clapping a hand over her own mouth with a dramatic gasp. “Oh my goodness, excuse me. I never should have said that.” Her face screwed up like she was about to cry, but no tears escaped. “I’m just so utterly heartbroken that he would betray me like this!” This time she whined like she was actually crying…yet no moisture leaked out.
“Are you…trying to fake cry?” I asked, bemused even as my finger worked my shutter button, making sure to capture every single angle and expression from the starlet. “Oh, wow. I heard you couldn’t cry on cue, but I figured you’d be a little more broken up to lose Seven Harrison . Didn’t he basically make your career?”
To my disappointment, Clara Belle’s friend came barreling out of the store toward me, hands waving. “That’s enough!” she shouted as if I gave a flying fuck about her. “No pictures! Have a little respect, you filthy animal.”
I barked a laugh, popping a few more frames of Clara Belle’s smirking face while her friend insulted me. It was nothing I wasn’t used to, even if I’d only been in the business six months.
“I said, no pictures! ” the older woman yelled in my face, reaching out to grab my camera or push it away or something . Not a damn chance. I whipped the expensive equipment out of her reach, and she stumbled, her momentum carrying her forward to fall in the gutter between two cars.
Clara Belle gasped, pressing her manicured fingers to her mouth. “Oh my god, Marjorie, get up ! What are you doing?”
More photos. This was perfect. I was the only pap capturing this too. Maybe I could actually put a dent in the hospital bills this time.
Red-faced, Marjorie reached out a hand to Clara Belle, who tried to help her back up to her feet, but it was an awkward sort of positioning. The assistants holding her shopping bags just stood there watching too, none of them really giving two fucks to help out.
Unable to help myself, I pretended to brush past the actress as if to leave, only to bump into her and send her sprawling on top of her friend in the gutter. Then, of course, took more pictures.
“You little bitch! ” Clara Belle screeched, her sweetheart mask slipping away to reveal the shrew beneath. “I’ll sue you for this!”
I scoffed, clicking the shutter button at dizzying pace as I backed away. “Good fucking luck with that. Hey and sorry about Seven cheating. That woman in the photos looked like she would have been fantastic in bed. It's no wonder he didn’t fight for you.”
Low blow, even for me. Antagonizing the celebrities wasn’t technically a job requirement but sometimes a girl just needed to go the extra mile to get the shot. Besides, this fucking bitch was begging for it.
Clara Belle let out a feral shriek and I genuinely thought she was about to swing at me as I continued taking pictures, but her friend quickly intervened. A few harshly whispered words in Clara Belle’s ear and suddenly that sweet-as-peach-pie mask was back in place, and she dusted herself off as though she were running for Miss Hollywood.
After that, nothing else came even close to getting a rise out of her, so I called it quits and went back to my car. I took the time to carefully pack away my equipment into the padded cases in my trunk, then climbed into the low driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh.
It wasn’t glamorous work, hell it wasn’t even very moral, but it was work. And it was a heck of a lot more exciting than waiting tables at a pizza restaurant…not to mention better paid.
A scroll through my phone showed me the news was still blowing right the hell up about my hookup pics with Gemini. Or rather…Seven cheating on Clara Belle. I snorted a laugh at how stupid the media was to just lap that up without questioning which twin it was. Technically, Gem gave me the idea himself when he said that people always guessed Seven first.
“Shit,” I muttered, rubbing at my sternum.
I needed to stop feeling guilty. Gem was hardly innocent to the ways of paparazzi and media, and he hadn’t exactly made me sign an NDA or anything. I wasn’t breaking any rules. But I still sort of regretted leaving the hotel room like I did, sneaking out while he slept soundly. It’d been so tempting to stay, but ultimately it never would have worked out. When he sobered up, he’d have regretted everything.
At least this way I got something out of it—more than the incredible sex, of course.
With a sigh, I sent off a message to my favorite photo buyer with the subject line “Clara Belle on the verge of a mental breakdown?”
It was enough, I knew, to pique her interest. I’d send the photos themselves later, once I’d sorted through, edited, cropped, and all the other finishing touches. People seemed to forget, sometimes, that paparazzi were photographers and some of us actually gave a fuck about quality and composition, rather than just a breaking scandal.
If you snapped all three, you were absolutely the winner.