Shooting Stars (3 page)

being a good example.

Wends:
Hey kiddo! Just get in, too?

ZoJo:
Yep. Big night. Ned Hartnett. Good shots.

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Wends:
Ned Hartnett? Cool. Love his music. But isn’t it your night off?

ZoJo:
It was. How was the fl ight?

Wends:
Long and demanding. The usual. You off to bed?

ZoJo:
Just going to stuff down my cold pizza and then go to bed.

Wends:
Okay. Night- night, sweet cuz. I have three days off, so we’ll catch up?

ZoJo:
Defi nitely. Will wait for your knock.

I manage to throw down two more pieces of pizza before I slink off to bed. And it isn’t until I’ve brushed my teeth and fallen onto the sheets, fully clothed, that I realize something.

In all the excitement, I still haven’t taken off my backpack.

★ ★ ★

“Wha?” I snuffl e, roll over, and fumble for my cell. It falls onto the fl oor, where I grab it before it stops ringing. “Hello?”

“Jo, it’s Melissa. Have you seen today’s edition?” Hardly. I didn’t even know it was today yet. “I’ll get it in a minute,” I lie.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring you a copy. We need to meet. Urgently.”

I push myself up now. “How urgently is urgently?”

“About fi ve minutes ago.”

I look down at my exhausted body. Well, at least I’m dressed, even if everything is wrinkled. “Where?” 18

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“How about that diner we went to last time?” she suggests.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

As it turns out, I’m there in twelve minutes, not ten, because I pause to put on deodorant and brush my teeth. I don’t want to scare the general public.

I push open the retro diner’s door to see Melissa already sitting in the booth we sat in last time, today’s edition of her paper lying on the table. As I get closer, I see she’s ordered.

Melissa, I realize, waits for nobody.

I eye her warily as I approach. She’s not my favorite editor by a long shot (or even a close- up). There’s always a catch with Melissa. Like, she’ll tell you she’ll pay you x amount of dollars for a couple shots, then pay you a third when she only runs one. That kind of thing.

“You’ve got to try this cherry pie,” she tells me as I sit down. “I really need to stop coming here. Why I bother going to the gym, I have no idea.”

Did I mention everyone in LA is überobsessed with their weight? I fi gure this probably works in my favor— I’m sure it keeps ice- cream prices down or something, and I pretty much eat what ever I want.

“Okay, I’ll try it.” I gesture at the waitress behind the counter that I’ll have one, too. It’s fruit, right? And fruit is part of a healthy breakfast, so I’m told. Melissa passes me the paper and I take a look. “Nice.” I nod. “I like the layout.”

“You did well to get inside. I was told the security was pretty tight.”

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“I pretended I was twelve and had a little bathroom emergency.”

Melissa cracks a small smile. “I do love your work.” She lays down her fork, signaling it’s time for business. “My boss was very happy with those shots of Ned Hartnett. Very happy.”

“Well, good. And thanks for the tip.”

“Not a problem,” she says quickly. “In fact, we have another one. A big one. And we’d like to offer you a little job.”

“A job?” My cherry pie is placed in front of me, but I don’t look at it, or at the waitress, instead just shooting her a quick

“thanks.” A hundred percent of my attention is focused on Melissa. “What kind of a job?”

Melissa eyeballs me. “If you don’t want it, it goes no further than this table, okay?”

I shrug. “Okay.” But something tells me it wouldn’t, anyway. If Melissa has a job on a plate for me, it’s for a reason. It’s about what I can offer— a small package that looks a whole lot younger than it really is. If I don’t want this job, it won’t be happening.

“We need someone to go to a facility. To be a client there and take some exclusive shots for us.”

“Whoa,” I hold up my hands, “hang on. A facility? What are you talking about? Like a detox place? Drugs?” I’m a paparazzo, sure, but do people think I have no limits? I mean, there’s slightly sneaky and then there’s just plain sick. I shake my head. Hard. “Sorry, I’m not doing that. Not for any money.”

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Melissa holds up one hand herself. “Slow down. Maybe

‘facility’ is the wrong word. It’s nothing like you’re thinking.

It’s not rehab, not even close. It’s more like a retreat. Very expensive and very well regarded. Gets good results, I hear.

Shopping addictions, bad breakups, family issues . . . that sort of thing.”

I’m nowhere near convinced. “This sounds pretty dirty.

Even for me.” I thought I’d gone about as low as I could get when I crashed an actor’s thirteen- year- old daughter’s birthday party. Sure, the family deserved it, considering they’d decided serving beer to minors was a good idea, but still . . .

at least I’d turned down the party favors when I left. I obviously still have some moral code about me.

“Look,” Melissa continues, “there’s no drugs, no alcohol, nothing like that.”

“Mmmm.”

“You have my word.”

I almost laugh. Melissa’s word? There’s only one kind of

“word” that applies to Melissa and that would be unscrupu-lous, crafty, mercenary, ruthless, scheming, two- timing, low-down, shifty, conscienceless, dishonorable, shady, crooked, sly, underhanded, improper, unprincipled, deceitful, or shameless.

Oh, wait. That’s eigh teen words.

“Don’t say no straight off the bat,” Melissa tries again.

“Let’s just talk about it and see what we can work out. Ask me some questions. That can’t hurt, can it?” 21

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I eye her. I guess she’s right. May as well hear what she has to say before turning her down. “Fine. So what’s this place like if it’s not rehab? Is it one of those places that’s into weird stuff? Freaky soul- destroying hikes into the wilderness where you’re left with only some beans and a compass?” Melissa shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. Real counselors and group therapy, that sort of thing. It’s located just outside of Boston. Very mainstream.”

“Wouldn’t it be a huge breach of privacy?”

“That’s for us to worry about. We’ll fi nd a way around it.” Melissa fl ips her hand dismissively.

I raise an eyebrow. I don’t see how. What she’s suggest-ing would be a massive invasion of privacy. They’d never be allowed to run any shots I gave them, and if they did, they’d probably be sued swiftly and expensively.

“All your fl ights, transfers— everything—would be paid for. And we’d be willing to top all of it off with a substantial fl at fee, of course.”

Always worth hearing this bit. “A fl at fee of . . . ?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Melissa deadpans.

Fifty thousand dollars? Is she serious? I try not to drool on the table when I hear the sum of money she’s offering.

Wow. They must really want these shots. A lot. And again, like last night, they must have another reliable tip here, plus some amazing hotshot lawyer they think will be able to get them out of the mess they’ll be in when they run any shots they get. To be honest, it takes a whole lot of control not to 22

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get up and dance on the table and scream, “I’ll do it!” The problem is, I still don’t like what ever this stinks of. Somehow I get the feeling there’s more to this than Melissa is telling me.

I’m not at all worried about the stealth thing; I’m used to that. I’ve spent half a day in a Dumpster, hidden by a card-board box. I’ve “borrowed” a tent from an electrical company and camped out on the sidewalk for a whole twenty- four hours, an orange safety jacket on my back and a hard hat on my head. I’ve pretended to be a replacement dog walker and effectively kidnapped a dog for several hours. But this—

entering a treatment facility, rehab or otherwise, to take pictures— is simply . . . low. Lower than low.

I don’t say anything for a while and instead pick up a slightly shaky fork, take a bite of pie, and think about Melissa’s offer. There’s no doubt about it, fi fty thousand dollars is a whole lot of cash. Not to mention if I put all of it into my savings account, Dad would then have to spring for the same amount, which would mean I’d have met my savings goal for school. A whole year and a half early.

Not that I’d quit papping or anything. I mean, I might slow down a bit in order to stop falling asleep on my desk at school, but not by much. And if I kept saving, I’d have enough money to do some traveling, too. Right now, what it would give me is choices. Like the other night: I’d been beat and had wanted to stay home, eat pizza, and chill out. I could have done that if I had this kind of money saved up.

It’s so tempting. I don’t want to do this dirty job of 23

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Melissa’s, but is one dirtier job any worse than the thirty- fi ve less dirty jobs I’d have to do to make up that kind of money?

“How many days?” My eyes move up from my plate to meet Melissa’s.

“However many it takes, but nine, tops. The place is pricey.”

I take another bite of pie and chew it slowly before swallowing. “What’s my reason for being there?” Now it’s Melissa who shrugs. “I’m sure you can come up with something,” she says, before laughing slightly. “How about a few abandonment issues now that your dad’s setting up in Japan?”

The look on my face wipes the smile off hers.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sound glib.” It’s her quick apology that gives me an insight into how much she wants these shots. Very. Badly. Indeed.

My brain goes into work mode then. I need the money and she needs the shots. My dad would tell me I’m really over-thinking this transaction. I put my fork down hard against my plate and the unexpected noise makes Melissa jump.

“I’ll do it. For sixty thousand, half up front and half on delivery, plus a seven and a half percent cut if you sell any of the shots elsewhere. Including foreign and online media.” Melissa pauses for a second or two before her hand shoots out to shake mine. “You cut a hard deal, Jo. Now go home and pack your things. Your fl ight leaves just after midnight. It’s been booked and paid for.”

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I frown when I hear that. She’s already booked my fl ight—

she knew I would say yes. What does that say about me? But then my brain latches onto the other thing Melissa has just said: just after midnight. I’d better get cracking. I’ll have to pack, let Wendy and Mannie know what I’m up to, do some research on this treatment facility, and maybe even get a little sleep. Not to mention that half- hour shower I’ll need in order to scrub off the dirty feeling I have now that the deal’s done. I signal for the waitress that we’ll take the bill. But, like I’d thought before, Melissa doesn’t believe in wasting a second.

She slaps some money down on the table, enough to cover both our orders, and throws her handbag over her shoulder.

“Wait,” I tell her, as I rise from the table to stand beside her, realizing I’ve forgotten to ask one little question.

“What’s up?” Melissa frowns slightly, looking down at me from her lofty normal height, plus heels. She seems put out that I’ve asked her to pause for just a second in her busy, busy day. Even though what I have to ask her is kind of important.

“I was wondering— who’s my target?”

Melissa’s attitude suddenly changes as she realizes it’s her mistake. “Ah, yes. I should probably fi ll you in on that.” I nod, waiting.

In front of me, one of Melissa’s eyebrows darts upward.

“Well, it’s Ned Hartnett again. You saw him last night: maybe some of those rumors fl oating around about him could actually be true. . . .”

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3

Twice on the short bike ride home, I pull over, grab my cell, and consider calling the whole thing off. The more I think about it, the sleazier the job seems, and I know from experience Melissa can’t be trusted. Ever since she saw me off at the diner door with her usual “Toodles, dahling!” (I really hate it when she says that), I’ve been thinking there has to be more to this job than meets the eye.

But I don’t call Melissa, because something stops my fi ngers from doing anything more than hovering over my cell. And it’s not the money that stops me. It’s the other thing.

The six- foot- tall, green- eyed and dark- haired, good- looking thing.

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The Ned Hartnett thing.

Okay, fi ne, so I’ll admit it: 99.9 percent of stars make me want to puke. And the other .1 percent? Well, he makes me sort of swoon.

That’s right. Me. A paparazzo. This is a huge fail. It’s practically the fi rst rule of the job: don’t think you’re anything like them and never think they could ever be interested in you. Seriously, my dad would die a little inside if he knew I’d had even a passing thought about Ned Hartnett that wasn’t related to how I could get him out of his house and into my camera’s line of sight.