Page 35 of My Charming Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 1)
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.
15
William
As I walked into the kitchen buttoning my shirt, John peered at my feet from over the open 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 LA now. Lock your door,” he said as he thrust the carton into the shelf on the door. “Americans like myself are freeloaders.”
I shook my head. “No kidding, and by the way, do not put the milk carton back in the fridge, especially since it’s empty.”
He yanked open the fridge door, plucked the milk-free carton from its spot, and slapped it on the counter. As the door fell shut, he eyed my bare feet again. “You moonlighting as a drag queen? C’mon, admit it. You were out last night with the whole full face on, right?” He mimed drawing a circle around his face. “Mascara. Eyeliner. Lipstick, right?”
“Yes. I was. I had my feather boa and even my fake eyelashes. Please don’t borrow them without asking like you did the last time,” I said as I finished buttoning the shirt, then began knotting a tie.
“Okay, seriously. Why are your toenails red, why don’t you lock your door, and why in the hell are you wearing a tie?”
“One, my toenails are red because a hot girl dared me to do it. Two, sometimes I forget when I come home from a morning swim that the guy who lives across the hall from me has no sense of boundaries—my bad—and three, I have a job interview in thirty minutes.”
