by ANDREA SMITH
He removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, massaging away his obvious frustration. “No, Neely. No we’re not.”
I shrugged and grabbed my backpack from the top of my desk, and hoisted it up and over my shoulders. “Goodnight then, Eric. See you in class tomorrow,” I replied as I left his classroom and headed out of the building.
It was just as well we stopped having sex anyway, I thought to myself as I walked along the paved parking lot toward my car. It had run its course, and in the scheme of things, it wasn’t a long-term fit. I’d already concluded that a while back. Now I could focus fully on my curriculum.
My summer semester’s course load was going to be a killer. It was all photography courses, but if I did well, there might be an internship available to me for hands-on experience. It was going to be killer for sure, but I relished the challenge. I longed for anything and everything to occupy a place in my mind. Thankfully, this would be my last class under Professor Andrews.
Literally.
Back at the apartment I shared with Jazzy, she was sprawled out on the sofa, munching popcorn with the television blaring. Her eyes flickered over me as I came through the door. “Early night with the professor?” she asked, giving me a naughty look.
Yeah, Jazzy knew about us, in fact, there wasn’t much I didn’t share with her. Best friends did that sort of thing, and she shared her deep dark secrets with me in return. At least I was pretty sure she did.
“Yeah, well I think our after class fuck fests are history, which is A-okay with me,” I replied, plopping down beside her on the sofa and grabbing a hand of popcorn.
“Hey wait,” she said laughing, “Where those hands been tonight, girlfriend?”
I laughed, and gave her a playful smack. “Shut up! I told you nothing happened. All he wanted to do was badger me about my choice of subject matter. Like always, he wanted me to explain my motivation. It’s none of his damn business anyway.”
She raised the remote and muted the television. “Well, it is kind of weird, Neely. I mean even I don’t totally get it.”
I popped some popcorn into my mouth and shrugged. “Well Jazzy, that makes two of us, I guess. I don’t get it either, but it’s just like that’s all that comes to my mind when I draw or paint. Anything else just comes out looking like total shit.”
“Have you told your shrink that?”
“Oh, right. That asshole? I gave him the boot too. All he wanted was to dwell on my estrangement from Mama. As if I can shed light on it since he obviously can’t—I mean what the fuck? I’m not the one that shut her out of my life, now did I? She’s the one that won’t take my calls, doesn’t answer my letters, and for all practical purposes has disowned me since I didn’t go running back to Tennessee once I graduated. Grandma understands though. She tells me that every time we talk.”
Jazzy reached over and brushed a lock of my now blonde hair from my face, “Hey, at least you have your grandma, and your dad, and even—oh shit!”
“What?” I yelled, jumping up and looking around to see if there was a spider in the vicinity. Jazzy had an irrational fear of all things multi-legged. There was nothing I could see crawling on the sofa or floor.
“No,” she said, laughing, “I just remembered your stepmother called here. She needs to talk to you urgently. You need to call her ASAP. Oh, I had to listen to her go on and on about you not having a cell phone and how you need to come into the 90’s, blah, blah, blah.”
I went over to the kitchen wall phone, calling back to Jazzy. “She didn’t say if it was an emergency with my dad or anything, did she?”
“She didn’t give me any details except it was urgent she talk to you as soon as possible. I’m sure you’re dad is okay, Neely.”
I dialed her cell number and waited for her to pick up, leaning against the kitchen wall and twisting the long, stretched beyond its means phone cord.
“Neely?” she asked immediately. She had Caller I.D.; she knew who the hell was calling.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“We have a situation at the studio, and I could really, really use your help.”
My brow furrowed. What kind of a situation at her studio could possibly require my help? “What is it?”
And within two minutes, I was sorry I asked, and I was even more sorry I’d returned her fucking phone call. Somehow, I allowed my wicked stepmother to whine, beg, guilt, and even cajole me into doing her a big, big favor.
Apparently, whomever the chick was that played opposite Seth’s character—Austin whatever the last name was, had been in a car accident and was in the hospital getting ready to undergo surgery on several broken bones. There was one key scene left to film for the season finale of Lotus Pointe.
Since I was the same height, build, and my hair color and length matched that of the actress who was laid up, Tiffany had promised the producers I would fit the bill in doing that scene, with Seth, as long as it was shot from behind.
What the ever-loving hell?
“It’s only one line and they can cut her voice in and replace yours in post-production,” she said. “Neely, it will take about two hours of your time, and I went out on a limb here. I promised you’d do it.”
That had totally pissed me off. “You had no right to do that, Tiffany,” I hissed over the phone.
It was when it sounded as if she were crying that my last line of defense crumbled. I capitulated. She was ever so grateful and gave me the time and building I was to report to the following day. She assured me the guard at the gate would have my pass and badge to allow me access to the set.
Much later, after I had shared all of this with Jazzy, and she had done her best to convince me that everything would be okay, I allowed my mind to drift.
I hadn’t seen Seth since the night of my drunken stupor at Jazzy’s party. At the time, I hadn’t been sure if it had been Seth there with me, but Jazzy assured me the following day that it had, in fact, been him. I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since then.
“Oh my God,” I had moaned, the morning after the party as Jazzy had held my hair up while I puked for the third or fourth time. I’d lost count. “I’m pretty sure we had sex there in that rose garden.”
“Duh” she exclaimed, and then laughed so hard she was practically rolling.
“Please, Jazz, I don’t want to know,” I replied, flushing the toilet and standing up on wobbly legs to rinse my face and mouth.
“Girlfriend, we could hear y’all going at it behind those shrubs, I swear!”
“Uh uh,” I argued, shaking my head. “No you didn’t.”
“Uh, yeah we did. You two were gettin’ down from the sounds of it. Blake said you both were moaners,” she finished, starting to giggle uncontrollably once again.
“Oh, shit,” I groaned. “What the hell had he been thinking? Shoot, what the hell had I been thinking?”
She shook her head, still grinning like a fool. “He wanted pussy. You wanted dick. S’all good. I think that last shot of Wild Turkey did you in.”
And now, as I fought to find sleep, I wondered if maybe Seth had been just as wasted as I was that night.
If I were lucky, maybe he didn’t recall the entire incident at all. At least that’s what I hoped. It wasn’t possible for me to ever forget that night. The repercussions from it had hit me full force before I even left for Pasadena last August.
I rolled over in bed, and buried my head under my pillow to drive it all from my mind. It was too painful, still too fresh even though it had been nearly a year since the last night I’d seen Seth Drake.
And as always, whenever the bits and pieces of that night—our last time together—crept into my mind, a dull ache gnawed in the pit of my stomach, and I was overwhelmed by the emptiness and despair I was left with once the pain subsided.
Paparazzi
Book #3 - Evermore Series
By
Andrea Smith
Dedica
tion
This book is dedicated to my friend, Jennifer Stewart, who I playfully referred to as J-Stew the last time we talked, which was unfortunately, too many years ago.
Life happens. Good intentions to stay in touch go by the wayside, or are put off until another day in good faith that we have all the time in the world to make our connection. But the truth is, we only have now. Beyond that is not promised to anyone.
Jenny was the reason I started writing. We shared our love of writing back when we were neighbors, living our lives as ‘desperate housewives’ and dreaming of someday seeing our words in print. We devoured historical romance paperbacks and wrote contemporary romances together with strong female characters with sass - just like us.
I learned just recently that Jenny passed away in June of this year. I never knew she was ill; I never had a chance to say ‘goodbye.’ But that is the way she wanted it according to her family. Like all of life’s challenges, Jenny was committed to doing it her way.
So, Jennifer, this book is for you. R.I.P my friend.
Chapter 1
April 5, 1999 (Present Day)
The night air was chilly and damp. Southern California wasn’t supposed to host humidity, but here in the Valley, I suppose the weather played by its own rules. Just like every other fucking thing, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral.
My walkie-talkie squelched static, and then the crackling sound of Malcolm’s voice came over. “Ten-six to nine, Cracker Jack.”
Oh, puleeze.
Malcolm was my boss. And though he was a pretty cool guy, he did have this peculiar penchant for using police codes over the two-way radios, like exclusively. Oh, and if you were wondering, I am Cracker Jack. That’s the code name I was assigned by Malcolm right from the start, which was going on seven months now.
“Ten-four to nine, Bald Eagle,” I replied, switching the channel on my unit over to nine. He wanted to switch to a different channel for an extra precaution.
I still didn’t understand why we didn’t use cell phones instead of these contraptions, but Malcolm was adamant that going with walkie-talkies was a much more secure means of communication.
“Anyone can listen in on those damn cell phones, Neely,” he’d argued when I nagged him for about the tenth time to lose the radios and get with the newest and easiest technology.
I snorted. ‘Well, anyone with a two-way radio in the vicinity can hear our transmissions,” I argued.
It was pointless. He wouldn’t budge. “The beauty of it, Neely, is that nobody bothers with walkie-talkies much anymore. And besides that, we use code, so it’s all good and we’re keeping with tradition on this one.”
It had been pointless to argue. This was Malcolm’s business. He could run it anyway he saw fit. I was simply a Junior Operative, and part-time at that.
Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I?
Malcolm West was a Hollywood private investigator. A one-man show, but that didn’t mean he didn’t pull the clients in because he did. He was as slimy as they come, but loveable as shit. I’d seen a ‘Help Wanted’ post on the bulletin board outside the Photography Lab at school when the semester started last fall.
The post had creeped out everyone except me. I was intrigued, so I snatched it off the board and called. After my interview, I officially became Malcolm’s part-time sidekick.
Most of the business coming into Malcolm’s agency was from divorce lawyers in and around the LA area. And their clients were wealthy enough to spend funds trying to get dirt on their respective spouses in order to ensure the best divorce settlement possible.
Cheating husbands, cheating wives, scandalous public behavior, unsavory friends or business connections—you name it, we captured it on film. At least I did. That’s where Malcolm needed my expertise. I had changed my major to Commercial Photography last fall, and I was always at the top of my class. My grades were mine, not the result of me doing my professor. Those days were long gone.
I pressed the button on the side of my radio. “Breaker one-nine,” I barked, smiling mischievously. I enjoyed fucking with Malcolm from time to time, “What’s your twenty, Bald Eagle? Am I gonna catch you on the flip-flop? Over.”
I heard the crackling of the radio break, and then, “Very fucking funny, Cracker Jack. Your 10-62 has an ETA of seven minutes. Do you copy?”
“Ten-four. Out.” I replied, shutting off the radio.
“Showtime,” I thought to myself as I piled my hair up inside my ball cap, making sure the tiny camera that was made to look like a NASCAR button that I’d pinned on the front was ready and in place. It operated as a video camera and only had fifteen minutes worth of recording storage once I activated it.
I waited a few minutes, and then, sure enough, the Ponchello’s Pizza car came careening around the corner, anxious to deliver before his thirty minutes was up no doubt. Same shit, every week for the past four that I’d been watching. People truly were creatures of habit I decided.
I pressed the tiny button on the backside of the pin and climbed out of my car, walking up the driveway where the driver was delivering the pizza.
The driver was leaning over, trying to check the order to see which pizza he was to deliver to the “Smith” house, I was sure. You’d have thought they’d have come up with a more original name.
Good. It wasn’t the usual driver, which made my job easier.
He’d just slammed the passenger side door and turned towards the house when he spotted me coming towards him.
“About time,” I said with a smile. “We’re starving in here.”
“I’m not past thirty minutes,” he interjected quickly.
“Hey, I never said you were, Slick. Where’s Jimmy? He’s usually the one who drops off here.”
He visibly relaxed a bit, seeing that I wasn’t trying to jack a free pizza from him. “Oh, he…uh, had an audition or something. This is my first night on my own. I got lost for a minute when I got off Reseda. I think I’m still within my thirty minutes, but I got three more deliveries in the back.”
“Well, here,” I said, flashing him a smile, as I handed him a twenty. “Keep the change. I don’t want to slow you down.”
He hesitated momentarily. “You live here…at this address?”
I was still holding the bill for him to take. “Well…duh,” I replied, giggling. “I just got off work. Mom had me order the pizza before I left so it would be here when I got home.”
“Oh, okay then,” he replied, grabbing the bill and shoving the pizza box my way. “Thanks for the tip. Enjoy.”
“Drive carefully,” I called after him and started up the driveway, moving a bit slower than my normal pace to allow him time to drive away. Once his car was well down the street, I prepared myself for Phase 2 of the plan.
At the front door of the one-story stucco ranch, I rang the bell and waited. I knew from previous stakeouts that our mark, Mr. Richard Blumfield, would be answering the door to pay for the pizza. My job was to see exactly who it was he had pizza with every Wednesday evening. The house was a rental in the Blumfield’s secret LLC name, but it wasn’t his residence, that much we knew. Movie directors with this guy’s reputation didn’t live in the Valley, trust me.
He answered the door, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. Not a bad looking guy for being well into his forties.
“Right on time,” he said, thrusting a twenty-dollar bill at me. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I replied politely. “Would it be okay if I used your phone? That beater they gave me to use tonight died across the street,” I explained, waving my hand toward Jazzy’s vintage VW bug I’d borrowed for this assignment. “I have three more pizzas in the car, so I have to call back to the store to have someone come get me.”
I saw the reluctance on his face and there was a moment of silence before he finally relented. “Sure, no problem,” he said, opening the door wider, allowing me to step inside the house.
“T
here’s one just around the corner to the right. It’s on the wall right inside the door.”
I followed his direction and stepped into what must have been the family room. A television was blaring, and across the large room, a fire in the stone fireplace crackled. An extremely pretty, and extremely pregnant Hispanic woman came into the room from an opposite doorway that led to the kitchen I presumed. She had plates and napkins in her hands, and a toddler followed closely at her feet.
“She needs to use the phone. Her pizza delivery vehicle broke down,” Blumfield informed her. She smiled and nodded at me.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I promised, turning my back to them and lifting the phone from its cradle. I made a fake call to the pizza parlor, which was very convincing.
The toddler, as it turned out, was a boy named Luis. His mother was trying to get him settled into his highchair, and he was not a happy camper. He wriggled and squirmed, his little face contorted with anger. “Quiero Papá! Quiero Papá!” he squealed, his little hands fisted and flailing.
Su papá no se puede sostener, Luis, que está comiendo demasiado,” his mother consoled him. “Y que quería otro, Richard? Lo que estábamos pensando?” she said with a laugh, looking over at the mark with love evident in her dark brown eyes.
He smiled up at her. “Éste es una niña. Probablemente se pegará a ti, María.”
I pretended I didn’t understand what was being said. This ought to do nicely I thought to myself, as they both turned to look my way. “Thank you so much. My ride is on the way. Enjoy your pizza. I’ll let myself out,” I said.
“Have a good evening,” Richard Blumfield called after me.
Oh I would. I most certainly would.
Back at the office, Malcolm and I went over the video recording. “Does this tell us anything?” he asked abruptly.
“Of course it does,” I replied with a sly smile. “I take it you don’t speak Spanish?”
