“So you’ll get the shots?”
“Of course,” I said, and dropped the envelope into my backpack, as if I were regularly accustomed to clients handing over such big and delicious unmarked bills.
“Will you email me the shots tonight?”
“No. I’ll meet you tomorrow and give them to you in person. I’m sure you’re an upstanding guy and all, but cash talks better than people.”
He pointed his index finger at me and snapped. “Don’t you know it. Girl after my own heart.” He leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face that he’d started a new business transaction. Keats had more than Monopoly money to throw around, and if I were him I’d be satisfied too.
“I can meet you at twelve-thirty tomorrow to give you the pictures. Somewhere on the promenade?” I said, because I had my volunteer visit slated with Jennifer at the nearby hospital tomorrow afternoon.
“Perfect. Rosanna’s Hideout?”
“I’ll be there,” I said, then thanked him and said goodbye.
When I was safely out of view, I swung my backpack around front, dropped my hand inside, and clasped the bills all the way home on my scooter as I marinated on the Riley and Avery connection. Maybe they were simply meeting about her production company. Maybe she was going to tap him to direct a project, rather than to direct his lips onto hers. A part of me hoped that was the case. I liked Riley; I didn’t want her to be the type to canoodle with a married man. But if she was going to, I’d gladly take the money from a shot.
When I reached my apartment, Anaka was still sleeping. I gathered eggs from the fridge and sprayed a light dusting of olive oil on the skillet. As I cooked just the whites, I spied a pile of mail on the nearby table, including information from my bank about obtaining low-interest loans for medical school. I scoffed silently. I was allergic to loans, and determined to find the cash to pay for school, just as I’d done for the first four years.
My parents had planned to help pay for college, but they’d been blindsided. One day when I was a sophomore in high school, my dad came home from work, his jaw tensed, his eyes deadened. He held on tight to the doorframe that led into the kitchen. My mom was making dinner, and I was doing homework. “My company is being investigated for fraud,” he said in a monotone. He was a vice president at his firm.
The next several weeks spiraled into a dizzying domino-like rush of hushed conversations, tense moments, and the kind of pathetic hope you harbor that the worst—well, financially, the worst—isn’t about to happen. My dad had always been an upbeat, happy man. At the time all this went down, he was anything but, and his moods rubbed off on my mom. They snapped at me for every little thing. Bed not made. Yelled at. Dishes not cleaned. Scolded. They were both tightly wound, knobs turned well past high for many months. His firm and its pension fund cratered, taking every employee’s financial future in the rubble of the wrecking ball. The only good part was that my dad stayed out of the line of fire because he’d never been the one skimming off shareholders. Leaving with his reputation intact was all he could hope for as he looked for a new job.
Eventually, their moods unsoured when it set in that there was literally nothing to be done about the lost savings, except to start over. I resolved then to keep far away from loans. I vowed to stay in charge of my own fate, from school to money to what I ate to how I exercised.
But how could I take charge of my own future? Photography fit since I’d always had a steady hand, and a good eye, and had been taking pictures of anything from caterpillars to cakes to friends at the pool since I was in kindergarten. Sunsets were a favorite subject of mine too, and a peach-violet sky hanging over the Pacific adorned my bedroom wall. As I’d grown older, and had fallen in love with the world of celebrity around me, I captured photos of stars I saw on the streets, or the beach, or in stores.
They were everywhere in LA, and so paparazzohood was a natural career choice for a gal in need of a new nest egg. At first blush, my life appeared complicated, from balancing classes, chasing photos, planning for medical school, and managing my volunteer work. But in reality, my world was simple. I had one motivation–pay for school to become a doctor, and photos were my means.
Everyone had a motivation. Any decent screenwriting book will teach you that.
After I ate breakfast, I headed to the science building, considering what Riley’s motivation with Avery might be. Was it a career move to land a role? Was it love? Or was it simply to scratch a naughty itch?
Later, when I finished my advanced bio quiz, I returned to that topic. If everyone had one, what was William’s in taking pictures? Was he simply trying to pay for school? Or was there more? And were those kisses in the movie theater part of his goals, or were those kisses obstacles in the way of reaching his goal?
Whether he was the good guy or the bad guy was still up in the air.
Chapter Fifteen
William
As I walked into the kitchen buttoning my shirt, John peered at my feet from over the open the fridge door. “Something you want to tell me, Will?”
John took a swig from my milk carton, guzzling the beverage.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do have something to tell you. And that is this–there is a store called the grocery store. You go there. You buy milk. You put it in your fridge. Across the hall. In your apartment,” I said, pointing to the door.
John shrugged in a way that said he had no plans to do that. “By the way, you’re out of milk, and so am I,” he said. “That’s why I stopped by. Plus, your door was unlocked. Dude, how many times do I have to tell you–you’re living #in L.A.# now. Lock your door,” he said as he thrust the carton into the shelf on the door. “Americans like myself are freeloaders.”