* * *
“Jackpot.” I zoomed in on the couple embracing at the bar and felt like the Cheshire cat as I took photos of a very popular, very married, movie star and his gorgeous, young co-star. They were in town filming a movie.
I considered myself lucky the bartender was a friend from High School. He called me from the local nightclub and gave me the tip. Also lucky the vet clinic was dead and one of my co-workers agreed to take the rest of my shift. If we’d been in surgery or dealing with an emergency, I would have missed out on these photos.
My sister thought I was at work. I rarely told Lavender what I was really up to. She worried too much. Just because I got caught once a few years ago—and punched in the face by a famous talk show host who happened to be cheating on her husband—didn’t mean my side gig was dangerous.
Besides, I’d learned to be much more careful since then.
“Come on baby, give me more.”
As if on cue, the photos rolled in. This was going to be a nice paycheck. I felt bad for his wife, I really did. The way I saw it, I was doing her a favor, exposing the lies. Wonder which picture the gossip rags would want?
Could be the one with his hand up her blouse and his tongue down her throat.
Or the one where she’s rubbing his dick through his pants under the table.
I switched to video mode and took a solid, ten second clip of that action as he leaned over and kissed her.
“With tongue. Perfect.” No one could hear me over the loud music, so I didn’t worry about talking to myself. Excellent shot. This would pay our rent for at least three months. Probably six with the movie promo coming up. I could save the pictures until they were neck deep in movie promotion, but that would mean eating mac-and-cheese and spaghetti for a few months. I’d rather eat real food now. There would be another scandal. Another picture. Another paycheck.
I didn’t make steady income from my photography. Not yet. I’d hoped the alien pictures I took in the fight club a few months ago would make me a small fortune. I’d been sure they would sell like hotcakes, maybe even inspire a bidding war. No such luck. So far, not one of my usual buyers had made an offer, even a bad offer. Which was why I was here, now, pretending to drink a warm beer in this trendy bar.
My subject unzipped his pants and placed his bare dick in her hands.
What the hell? Maybe he liked knowing someone could watch. Did he want to get caught? He had a beautiful Hollywood starlet wife, two adorable children, and more money than a god. Wasn’t that enough?
“I fucking hate people.” My camera should have been on fire with the images I was getting. Mr. Movie Star penis pics? Probably just paid my rent for a year. Definitely going to offload these to the flash drive I kept at work. Our apartment wasn’t in the best neighborhood. Not the worst, either, but break-ins weren’t uncommon. I couldn’t risk keeping the files at home. I figured the inside of an animal kennel was the very last place anyone would ever look. Add the fact that the small kennel was only used for cats’ post-op recoveries inside the clinic, usually smelled like blood, urine or worse, and I knew no one would ever dig around there for a flash drive. Like ever.
Cringing as I zoomed in close on the slab of meat under that table, I took a few more pictures. I had more than enough. In fact, this asshole movie star might pay me double to keep the photos out of the public eye. Would I allow that? The decision felt ugly. I didn’t want to hurt him. This was nothing personal. At least not to me. To his wife? She deserved the truth.
With a sigh, I picked up the drink in front of me and took a sip. Ice cold lemon water helped wash the dirty feeling from my insides. I’d seen enough. More than enough. Why was no man capable of being faithful? Our adopted father was a prime example of infidelity and I had yet to meet a man to prove him wrong. Lavender and I had added three stepmothers and four half-siblings to our fucked-up family since our parents’ divorce. Thank god we’d lived with our mother. At least until she died. For the last few years, we’d been alone, broke, and had an adopted father who spent half his time in county jail for failing to pay child support for his other biological children.
That settled things for me. No sympathy. This spoiled movie star deserved everything these pictures would bring into his life. I didn’t force him to be a lying, cheating asshole. He did that all by himself.
“I hope your wife takes you to the cleaners, buddy.” I hopped off the barstool, slipped the bartender a large bill, thanking him for the hot tip, and deftly avoided answering when he asked me out on a date. Again. I smiled, waved and pretended I didn’t hear him.
Not. Interested. It wasn’t him, it was me. I wanted a lying, cheating, sex-obsessed man in my life about as much as I wanted a hole in my favorite pair of socks, or my favorite show to be canceled.
I put the cap on my camera lens and turned away. I didn’t need to watch the whole show. Maybe she would finish him under the table. Maybe not. Didn’t care. I didn’t do porn and I didn’t watch for fun. I had the photos I needed to get paid. End of story.
If Lav didn’t love her job so much, I might feel badly about what I had to do to pay the bills. But she did. Bless her, she loved making people feel beautiful, even if it didn’t pay enough to cover her half of the rent and her tuition. Forget about having enough for utilities and food.
She wanted to be an veterinarian. She was smart and really good with people. We were a team. She worked days at the vet clinic and went to school nights to earn her college degree. When it came to paying the bills, I made up the difference. I didn’t mind. I paid the rent and she went to school. I bought the groceries and she cooked. I burned everything, so really, she was doing a cosmic good by banning me from the kitchen. Besides, stalking the rich and famous was good practice for what I really wanted to do with my life; investigative reporting. Real news, not what starlet was fucking a co-star, or which director had a ‘casting couch’. No. Real, important news. Politics. War. Big corporate scandals. Crime.
If there was dirt on someone, I would find it. As the sleazy state senator found out a few months ago when I wrote an exposé on his ties to organized crime. The FBI picked up where I left off. He’d been forced to resign and was due to stand trial any day now. That story barely made enough to cover one grocery run, but it was soooo worth it watching him squirm during a press conference. And now? If he went to prison?
Victory. Our mother taught us one thing, if something is wrong in the world you have two choices; live with it or take responsibility and do something about it. I chose the latter.
Our mother was murdered by people protecting secrets. The truth behind her death was the first story I sold when I was seventeen. I’d been shot at, chased, threatened and, on one occasion, punched in the face. I didn’t care. I didn’t stop. I never stopped. Someday, I wanted to be so huge everyone in the world would see an article with my name next to it and just know it was quality truth. I wanted liars and criminals to fear my name.
Grin on my face at the thought, I made my way out of the club. The bouncer gave me a nod and held the door as I stepped outside. The blast of warm air made my lungs feel heavy as I strode onto the sidewalk outside the club. Camera packed safely in my bag, I made sure no one appeared to be interested in me before taking off at a brisk walk. I was only a few blocks from my favorite, 24-hour cafe. My rumbling stomach insisted I pick up the pace. I had a nice, fat payday on my camera. I could afford to splurge. Besides, I couldn’t go home early or Lav would wonder what I’d been doing.
Twenty minutes later, I sat in front of a steaming cup of coffee, a veggie omelet and a Belgium waffle soaked with syrup. Heaven.
The door opened. I ignored it, my face stuffed with eggs.
A woman screamed.
