by Cari Quinn
Until I’d heckled the she-devil with the camera.
Then it was as if I’d unlocked some secret code and tickled the crowd’s funny bone. Of course, if it took taunting some sexy thing with a camera to get them on my side, I didn’t know if I wanted to be a party to that.
Hell, who was I kidding? Like I had a lot of choices in the matter. If it took me insulting the damn Queen, I’d do it just to get those pretty little flashbulbs popping in my direction.
And if the lovely lady with the golden eyes was the one behind them…well, more’s the better.
I turned over the ancient instant camera in my hand and wondered how to get the film out. I didn’t know how these contraptions worked. There was the big button for taking pictures—
Click.
I chuckled as the photo popped out on the table. Well, then. My first selfie with a vintage instant camera.
Picking it up, I waved it in the air to get the image to appear faster. I cocked my head. It wasn’t a half-bad picture, if I said so myself. My hair was wild, my skin still clammy from my sprint offstage and the halfhearted air conditioning. I still wasn’t used to this blasted heat, and that was when I wasn’t running with purloined goods. My eyes were red-rimmed and oddly naked and somehow vulnerable.
I didn’t like seeing them that way, even if it was a little like looking at a stranger fashioned in Simon Kagan’s stead.
Swallowing hard, I tucked the photo into my knapsack on the floor. I didn’t know why I was keeping it. Probably belonged in the bin. I’d probably toss it out when I got back to my temporary living quarters. In the meantime, I had stolen this bird’s camera and I didn’t have a clue where to return it…eventually. I wasn’t in any hurry.
I turned it over, not expecting to find any identifying marks. It was battle scarred, with a few interesting nicks and scratches. But the little label with an Instagram handle caught my eye right away.
SnapZ.
Hmm, Z initial, perhaps? What might her name be? Zina, Zara, Zena, warrior princess? Ah, no, that was an X not a Z. Fitting image though. I could see the blond hoisting a sword over her head, no problem. She’d wield it like a pro too. Bring it down with no hesitation.
I shifted on my seat. Shit, I was getting a hard-on from that little mental detour.
Semi aside, I now had a direction. I pulled out my mobile and opened Instagram to search for her name. Her page came up.
Zoe Manning. No warrior princess here, but the name grabbed me around the throat just the same.
I was about to click follow when I held back. She didn’t have many followers, just a couple hundred. She followed precisely two people—a woman artist I’d never heard of and Neil Armstrong.
Okay then.
I scrolled down her feed. There were dozens of photos. Close-ups of people. Old ones, young ones, every age in between. Some black and white, some color, some sepia-toned, but all showcasing her remarkable eye even to an untrained sort like myself. Some landscape pictures as well, particularly the beach. She seemed to enjoy snapping the sunrise as it came up over the ocean on Venice Beach—at least according to the tags at the top of her pictures.
That was intriguing. I’d had plans to venture toward that area on my next free day. Not the beach itself, but damn close. I could always make an unscheduled trip.
Not that I knew when she’d be there for certain. Around sunrise, sure, maybe…or maybe not. But where on the beach? It wasn’t exactly small and I was new to the area. I didn’t know shit about LA. I definitely didn’t know anything about her.
But already I wanted to.
A sharp knock came at the door. Fuckin’ A. Had one of the Zeps forgotten his fedora or something? I’d had to wait until they cleared out of the dressing room before I got ready in the first place, even though I’d been scheduled to go on before them. There were too many of them, and they were too loud and jovial in a way I didn’t appreciate unless I had a pint in my hand.
I strode over to the door and hauled it open. “Look, mate, I need a—”
The person in front of me was not one of the Zeps.
She came up to about my nipples, and that included the extra inches from her teased blond hair. A rich honey hue versus Zoe’s white-blond color with purple at the ends as if she’d dipped it in a can of paint.
This woman wore a suit in a sharp steel gray with a bright pink blouse and heels the same color. All business with a hint of funky style that made me cock my head like the Target dog I’d seen on the side of a city bus.
“Ian Kagan, is it?” She held out a hand to shake.
I was about to ask her how she knew who I was, but I’d just been onstage. And of course, I looked just like Simon and he wasn’t exactly a nobody.
My face was my golden ticket and my destruction, all rolled into one.
“And you are?” I didn’t shake, just crossed my arms over my chest. I didn’t appreciate being interrupted from my Zoe Instagram stalking. I’d save the pleasantries for later.
She cocked a perfectly arched brow and pulled back her hand with a shrug. “You’re an ornery one. That’s my specialty, so you don’t scare me.”
“I can’t say you scare me either, since without your heels you wouldn’t be much higher than my groin.”
She didn’t flush. Her brown eyes flashed then narrowed shrewdly. “I’m Sabrina Price. I work for Ripper Records.”
At once, the back of my neck turned to ice. I rubbed it to try to get some of the circulation moving again.
Good job, idiot. You just insulted someone from the record company.
I’d have to learn to temper my first reaction. Someday.
“Maybe we can start over.” I attempted a smile and extended my hand.
She waved it off and breezed past me into the modest-sized dressing room. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you. I’ve read your file.”
That file again. I was going to find it and burn it. Or else write a bunch of lies inside it.
They thought they had me pegged? Well, screw them.
Screw them all.
“I’m sure my file left some pertinent things out.” With an easy smile, I nudged the door closed and leaned back against it.
“You’d be surprised what the file contains. It’s rather exhaustive.” She moved to the dressing table and picked up Zoe’s camera. My stomach dropped as if she’d touched something precious. Private.
Christ, I was all over the place tonight. The show must’ve taken more out of me than I realized.
Or Zoe had.
“She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Sabrina turned the camera over in her hands. “You might want to give this back. She’s well-connected in the Ripper family.”
All at once, the name Zoe slammed into me, as did an echo of the husky voice that had snagged my attention in the hallway of Ripper Records. She’d been the one in conversation with Lila Crandall.
I’d been drawn to her from the very first. Seeing her hadn’t quelled that interest. If anything, a flicker of a flame had already set to burn.
And she was connected to Lila, and I’d stolen her camera. I was making great moves all over the place.
Yet that didn’t mean I had any intention of rectifying them. At least not yet.
“Is that so? How is she connected?”
Sabrina set the camera down as if she hadn’t heard my question and turned to face me. “Your first show in the States was good. Not great. Next time, I expect more.”
Shock and irritation wound through me in equal measure. I pasted a smile on my face while my fingers tingled with the urge to squeeze something. A stress ball. I needed one of those to save myself from certain violence.
“I’m so sorry to have disappointed you. Excuse me if I ask why you’re involved? I thought my contact at the record company was Donovan Lewis.”
Though Donovan was a shark, he was probably better than Lila, especially now that I’d tangled with Zoe. But Lila was probably hardwired to hate me anyway, thank
s to her husband, Nick, being Simon’s best friend. Add in that Lila’s own best friend was Simon’s wife, Margo, and I didn’t foresee any happy extended-family reunions occurring anytime soon.
Sabrina chuckled and tipped back her head. “Oh, you’re so green, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Donovan Lewis saw you for one reason and one reason only—curiosity. He doesn’t take on clients of his own. That’s what we’re for.” Her laughter at my expense subsided into a small, smug smile. “You lucked out with me, you know. You wouldn’t have been nearly as lucky with some of the other reps.”
“Like Lila.”
“Like Lila,” she agreed. “I’m impressed you know who she is. But then you’ve done your research, haven’t you?”
“The way you keep making assumptions about me is really fucking annoying.” Worst of all, they were right.
“I’m sure it is, since I bet that’s usually your department. But assessing and coming up with an evaluation is my job. And I’m very good at my job.”
“Congratulations.” I stalked over to the dressing table and skirted her to pick up Zoe’s camera. I didn’t know why I needed its weight in my hands. Just as I needed the memory of my stage conversation with Zoe in my head, running on a continuous loop. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
Sabrina’s gaze dropped knowingly to the camera that was now my touchstone. “Dangerous ground there, and I’m a risk-taker by nature. Consider this a friendly warning.”
“Just a pretty camera.” I rubbed my thumb over the sticker on the bottom, smiling slowly. “I like to collect pretty things.”
I didn’t even know why I said it. I didn’t collect much of anything, pretty or otherwise. But I didn’t appreciate her “friendly warning” any more than I liked the rest of this conversation so far.
“Some collections are far too expensive to warrant the pursuit.” She angled her head as she studied my face, her bright pink nail tracing over the thick beads looped at her throat. Those were also pink. Same exact shade. Her attention to detail was frightening.
Especially since she was examining me now like an escaped lion she needed to corral.
“Let me be the judge of that, hmm?” I tucked the camera under my arm and leaned a hip against the dressing table. “I assume there’s a purpose to this visit besides your desire to tell me I sucked onstage and not to touch property of Ripper Records. I wonder though if Zoe knows she’s been pissed on and marked?”
“Your accent and style of speech is so intriguing. The sounds of London with some American idioms mixed in. Have you been studying or have you traveled here extensively?”
“Isn’t that in my file?” I mocked. “Seems like an oversight.”
“You’re obsessed with your file. Makes me wonder if you have something to hide. But no, that couldn’t possibly be true.” She gave me a bland smile. “Your mother was American, I understand.”
The was hit me low in the gut. “She was. As was my father. As is my brother. She also had numerous American boyfriends. You’d be surprised what you pick up.”
“So this is your first trip to the States then?” She didn’t take out a physical notepad, but I could practically see her taking mental notes she could transcribe in the official Ripper paperwork later.
What would she write?
Okay performer. Too cocky. Infatuated with girl who heckled him onstage. Preoccupation with what’s in his pants. Evasive about his past.
Forgettable.
The last was my biggest fear. More than anything else, I was scared to die in obscurity. To have made it this far and for no one to know my name.
Mine. The name I’d built, not the one I’d inherited by an accident of birth.
“I’ve been here before once or twice,” I said noncommittally.
“Yet you retain your British sensibilities. Your accent is thick. Don’t lose it.” She came to stand in front of me and eyed me up and down with a scrutiny I hadn’t experienced since my last med visit some time ago. “In fact, you’ll play it up. Play all of this up.” She gestured at me as if I had one whit of a clue what she meant. “This has to go.” She pulled at the hem of my shirt. “These have to be tighter. A half size at least, but we’ll have them tailored so everything is showcased properly.” She tugged at the pocket of my trousers and moved on while I tried to lift my jaw from the floor. “Your shoes absolutely need to hit the circular file. I think I like the idea of you in boots.”
“Like Puss?”
Her molasses-colored eyes narrowed. “Do you want to succeed or fade away before you’ve even had a chance to be a one-hit wonder?”
My biggest fear. This woman was good. Or perhaps us musical types weren’t nearly as unique as we believed.
“I won’t be a one-hit anything.”
“Then what does it hurt to try it my way?” Her voice turned cajoling. “Look, Ian, I like you.”
“You do?” The incredulous question left me before I could clamp down on my tongue. “Sure doesn’t seem that way. And as for you telling me I need smaller pants to ‘showcase’ things, I didn’t realize I’d signed up for a male revue.”
“Oh, Ian.” She smiled sadly. “You’re like a leaf. So fresh and young and new. Untainted by this business. It’s going to change you.”
“Do you see so little to think any part of me is untainted?” I shook my head and gripped Zoe’s camera that much tighter.
“Your life has been hard. I can see that.”
“More file tidbits?” There was no tempering the bitterness in my tone.
“I wouldn’t need the file to see the scars on you.” Snake-fast, she whipped out a hand and snatched my wrist, turning it over to reveal the healing cigarette burn I’d intentionally left bare.
So I wouldn’t forget.
“And these.” She traced the small hatch marks beneath the burn and I yanked my arm away, suddenly so ashamed I could hardly remain standing. She’d ripped me to my roots in a flash. “You’ve been hurt, and you’ve lived through a lot. Things I’m sure many people wouldn’t survive. And you have. You have,” she repeated as my eyes smarted and I looked away.
“This isn’t a therapy appointment.”
“You’d be surprised. The making of an icon requires a full strip to the bone. Then we decide what stays and what goes as we remake you.”
“An i-icon?” I hated that I stuttered. But to hear her offer me my dreams on a platter…
Suddenly, I didn’t care that she knew of my weakness. My weaknesses. I didn’t care that she thought I needed tighter pants to show my dick. I didn’t even care she had a file that wrote of my broken childhood as if it was fodder for a news story. Snippets that could be used and spun later for a human interest piece to raise my status in the public eye.
Poor London boy makes good.
I’d take it. I’d take whatever she offered me. Sell my soul to the devil.
I already had before, hadn’t I? And was still with every heartbeat. I’d been bought and paid for before without such a hefty reward at the end.
“An icon. You have all the potential in the world to be not another Simon, but the one and only Ian.”
My eyes burned. “Leave your card,” I choked out. “I’ll be in touch.”
I expected her to press. To push. That was what types like her did. But she nodded and withdrew a fancy card with foil type, setting it on the dressing room table. She laid a hand on my arm—the one clutching Zoe’s camera like a life raft—and my gaze lifted to meet her surprisingly compassionate expression. Not pity. Pity would have shut me down in an instant.
But empathy. Understanding. Even a kindred soul perhaps.
If any souls like mine existed. I didn’t know.
I didn’t have that kind of hope left inside me.
Then she turned and walked out, heels clicking smartly before she pulled the door closed behind her.
I sank onto the chair in front of the table and dropped my forehead
to Zoe’s camera. And pretended I couldn’t feel the hot tears squeezing out to soak the plastic.
Three
I flipped up the hood of my coverup against the breeze coming off the water. A thorough coating of sand stuck to my legs and belly. Probably because I’d been camped out on the beach for hours.
Sleep was definitely not in my zip code these days.
However, if I had to be up at an absurdly early hour, at least I could enjoy the sunrise against the backdrop of my favorite place—the boardwalk in the distance. From out here it was crisp and iconic. A never-changing silhouette. I dug my toes into the packed sand as the tide crept back into the ocean. The lace barely tickled my ankles at this time of day. It was also too early for the tourists to inundate the beaches.
It was just me and the runners.
I dug out my camera from my waterproof hobo bag. I’d taken a picture of the sunrise every day since I’d moved to Venice Beach six months ago. Half a year. Half a lifetime.
With my favorite camera, dammit.
A camera that was not currently in my possession.
Now the whole series was ruined. Sure, my other dozen Polaroid cameras would do the job well enough. But it was Matilda who had the most character.
Matilda left ghost trails through the middle of a shot whenever she wanted to. Odd flares. Random stripes or bubbles formed during processing.
Matilda had so much life. I’d hung my entire series on her idiosyncrasies.
It wasn’t enough anyway and you know it.
I jammed a cartridge into Lucy, my second-in-command Polaroid camera. That jackass British singer had stolen my camera, ruining everything.
I needed this series of photos or I was totally fucked. Part of my residency at J Town required that I had an art show every year of my stay. I was six months in—officially. I even had the email from my advocate to prove it.
Did I have a show put together? Was I ready to show her my work?
Nope.
With each picture I took, I had a little more hope that something would come of them. Now?
Fuck.
The blame button had singer boy attached to it. It was better than my face. And seriously, I didn’t even know why people were going wild for this Kagan kid. Sure, he was talented, but walk up and down The Strip for an hour and you’d see a hundred guys with just as much talent.
