Page 21 of My Charming Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 1)
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 J.P.’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 frappuccino 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.
This was a two-part shot, and it was the second one that was most valuable. The swarm of photographers waited like hyenas to pounce on the prey.
Willing prey, mind you.
Soon she was on her way out, a massive handbag dangling on her arm, and a venti iced drink of some variety in her other hand. Her shades were high on her head.
“What are you drinking, Monica?” someone called out.
“Soy chai latte,” she replied when she spotted the questioner, the dude with the soul patch. She pretended to point at something beyond him, brandishing a huge smile as if to say Hey, look at that adorable bit of absolutely nothing that I’m pretending to admire for the camera.
I snapped more pictures of her, capturing the happily staged point, then the lowering of the shades as she continued to smirk, then the first cold taste of soy chai deliciousness on her bee-stung lips.
A driver held open the car door and she slid into the backseat. The show was over as quickly as it had begun. This woman gave new meaning to the phrase wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am with the way she played every move for the gossip rags.
As soon as the car turned into noontime traffic, I dug my phone from my pocket and rang J.P. I wanted to let him know that I’d pulled off today’s shoot far better than yesterday’s.
“J.P. here,” he said gruffly as I raced into the shop.
“Hey, it’s William. I got the shot.”
“Yeah? Where is it?”
“I’m heading into Starbucks right now to get on the wifi and send it to you.”
“You do that,” he said, and he sounded distracted. Or disinterested. The latter was more concerning.
“It’s a great shot,” I said, keeping up the conversation as I snagged a chair.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Just get moving and send it to me. The first to post is the first to gloat,” he said. “And yes, I do know that doesn’t rhyme but it’s close enough.”
“Indeed it is,” I said, as I grabbed my iPad and sank into a chair. “Hey, so I was just curious. How did you know Monica Tremaine was going to be here?”
I was greeted by silence. Dead silence, and my heart dropped for a second. Had I pissed off J.P.? I hoped to hell not. I needed this man on my side.
“Seriously?” he finally said, his voice doing a fantastic impression of the adjective irritated. I could practically see him rolling his eyes.
“Well, yes,” I said. “Seriously.”
“Her PR firm puts out an alert for her. She wants to be shot. That’s why the photo is only worth a few bucks. Now send that bad boy to me, and stop asking questions that make you look like a noob.”
Noob.
As he ended the call, I fired up my photo software, downloaded the pics, and sent them off to J.P. I was tempted to add a line to the email that said, “I was just kidding. Of course I knew that.”
But then I really would look like the noob I was. And who wants to be a noob?
Besides, I had other masters to answer to, like the name blasting now on my phone. Uncle James. Grabbing my iPad, backpack, and phone, I scurried out of the Starbucks and back onto the street. A woman in red high heels walking a miniature poodle with a black-and-white polka-dot collar glared at me for nearly knocking into her.
“Sorry,” I muttered to her, as I answered the phone. “Hey, James.”
