I have a good friend who was invited. I’m going to see him later today, so I’ll ask for more details. When are you coming to NY again? We should see another show.
xoxo
I nearly squealed with excitement. Then I sent a quick reply.
You are a rock star. Hope to see NY and you soon. By the way, is this friend a hot guy?
xoxo
Jess
I showered, dressed, ate an apple and a plain yogurt, and hopped on my scooter to swing by the hospital. I needed to drop off Jennifer’s certification renewal with Helen, the bawdy salt-and-pepper-haired woman who ran the volunteer program, as well as the hospital’s human resources department. I knocked on her open door, and she quickly waved me in. She was guzzling a latte, and pointing to the computer screen.
“It’s Reeve Larkin,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face, as if she were fanning herself. “Shirtless. From Escorted Lives Part III. I’m dying from the hotness.”
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Show me,” I said because Reeve was a certified babe. He’d risen to stardom in the first two Escorted Lives pictures, based on the mega bestselling erotic romance novels, and while he’d been shirtless in the first two flicks–not to mention pants-free too–his chest was still a sight to behold.
Helen leaned forward and kissed the screen. “Some day he will be mine,” she said, leaving red lipstick marks on Reeve’s chest.
I laughed. “Good luck tearing him away from Sutton,” I said, referring to his wife, well-known in Hollywood circles for her work as a casting director.
“A woman can dream,” Helen said in a wistful tone, then gulped more of her latte.
I handed her the papers. “Dream big then. And here is Jennifer’s renewal.”
“Excellent. Keep bringing that hound by. The kids love her, and I love chatting with my favorite gossip hound,” she said.
“The hound and the hound are happy to be here. See you next time.”
Several minutes later, I pulled up to the university parking lot for my advanced biology class. After the lecture on gene organization, the professor reminded us about the quiz tomorrow, then tossed out some rapid-fire sample questions. I’d been studying for it for weeks, so my mind wandered briefly to William, and his coursework. He’d been speaking Spanish yesterday at the beach, then said he knew Japanese, and was studying East Asian languages. I wondered how he knew so many languages, why he took pictures, and if he was paying for college himself as well. Most of all, I was curious how he felt about all those things. Did he feel the way I felt? Tense. Poised. The weight of your world on your shoulders.
The professor called on me, and asked me a question about cell structure. I wasn’t paying attention, so I plucked an answer out of thin air.
“Very good,” he said, and I was pleased that my impromptu guess was correct. Good thing William hadn’t worked his hot guy magic yet to distract me from school. I had to stay strong though, and remain impervious to his charms.
Chapter Eight
William
A quick Google search revealed the initials MT stood for…waiting, waiting, waiting.
Ah, there it was.
Of course.
Monica Tremaine. That was all I needed because everyone knew she had the most distinctive identifying feature in all of celebrity culture.
I raced through the hall in the University of Los Angeles building where I’d just finished my two morning classes in Traditional East Asian Civilization–one for Japan, one for China. J.P. had sent the assignment only three minutes ago. As I picked up the pace, I tapped out a curt reply: I’m on it. Will have them.
Rushing to the parking lot, I hopped on my bike and started the engine. Desperately needing to land the shot first this time, I repeated J.P’s orders as I weaved through late morning traffic. Get a shot of MT. She’ll be ordering an iced latte in an hour at the Sbux near those punk crap shoe stores on Melrose.
After finding the spot, I parked, than grabbed a position, leaning casually against a shoe store that peddled buckle-laden boots and chunky platform shoes. My eyes were shielded with my aviator shades, but I wasn’t trying to go incognito as a shooter. Besides, the celeb I was pursuing wanted to be recognized. This celeb preened for all the cameras, and dozens of photographers were lying in wait for the call of the booty. Across the street, I noticed a guy with a soul-patch pacing the sidewalk as he clutched a camera. A couple stores over, a gray-haired and well-weathered guy smoked as he fiddled with his camera lenses. Down the street, a girl with a red braid hunched over her Vespa, waiting to snap a shot. They didn’t even pretend with Monica. There was no need to. Monica lived her life in the public eye.
I scanned for Jess, but saw no signs of her. Equal parts disappointment and relief washed over me. I wanted to see her, and I also wanted to beat her this time. But if she wasn’t here, she wasn’t in the race. Though, it was entirely possible some of the other shooters here were also in JP’s arsenal and that he’d pitted me against someone else in his employ.
Fine. That was fine. I didn’t have fantastic reflexes for nothing. Jess might have smoked me in the quest for Riley Belle yesterday, but today was a new day, and a Monica Tremaine payday would not elude me.
A minute later, I spotted the most famous ass in the world, and the woman it was attached to stepped out of a black town car. Hell, this ass was the size of Kansas. The caboose on Monica Tremaine could double as a shelf. Maybe hold a few books. Park a frappucino there while you hunted for change. I zoomed in on the rear end first and snapped a shot of it because J.P.could peddle one of those bad boys to an online site run by a purple-haired pseudo-journalist who liked to draw doodles on his celeb photos. This ass was a hell of a canvas for doodling. I pulled back the focus and captured a few pics of her heading into the coffee shop.