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I spend the rest of the day nervous and sweaty at the thought of twenty-five grand. Our business checking account shows that we have enough to cover our expenses for next month. That’s it. The $7,093 I have in my personal account stares at me with accusing eyes. Maybe if I make the payment now, I can get an extension? It’s worth a shot. I fill out the information for the e-check with shaking hands. This seven grand is my independence. I’ve fought so hard for it, and paying off this stupid loan I didn’t want in the first place…ah, it hurts. Another year living with my father. I squeeze my eyes shut and click the button to pay it before I can chicken out.
Nausea churns out as I click out of the page and focus on getting this week’s issue ready and brainstorming items for the website. We’re going to need to sell a lot of photos and papers if we want to make eighteen thousand dollars in the next six months, much less the next two weeks.
I better get out and take photos then. I grab my jacket and my camera bag, settle my ball cap on my head, and run out the door.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I’m leaning against a parked car outside the restaurant Jonah Crown goes to every Tuesday night. It’s a quaint Italian place not far from his apartment. It’s impossible to get a table from what I hear, though I’ve never tried.
Numbers run on loop in my head. I started the paparazzi side hustle five years ago when my dad couldn’t pay rent. Five years has taught me that exclusive photos will rake in at least $1000 each, but they have to be good—like a celebrity doing something salacious, or photos of someone who never lets themselves be photographed. Except I never get those photos.
I never get them because I hate doing what it takes to get the shot. I love being a reporter. I like reporting gossip alongside our usual articles. It’s fun and light in a world filled with too much darkness. Street fashion photos, articles about celebrities in the neighborhood, fun tidbits about their dogs — all of that deserves to be reported right alongside the news about the latest construction delay on the subway station near our apartment.
But I hate following people. I hate invading their privacy, running from their security teams, seeing the shocked look on their faces when they’ve been caught doing something bad. I hate following people with kids more than anything. It’s one of the reasons I started photographing Jonah. He’s single, and he rarely sees his family. He doesn’t do anything secretive or exciting.
In fact, following Jonah is boring as hell most of the time. The man is utterly predictable. Early morning wake-up, black car to the office, the occasional dinner. He rarely goes to events. He never goes on dates. If he weren’t so hot, I wouldn’t even bother. Hot and famous. He’s self-made, ruthless, and loaded.
I never see other paparazzi taking photos of him. Maybe because they don’t know his routines like I do. We live pretty close to each other, even though the twenty blocks between our apartments make a world of difference. Paparazzi are typically tipped off because they cultivate relationships with restaurant hostesses, security staff, and employees of the celebrity in question, but I’ve never heard of anyone betraying Jonah’s trust. I smile into my scarf as I scan the restaurant facade. Not surprising. He has a kill quickly and hide the body sort of vibe.
I tap my fingers on my camera, trying to look casual. He went into the restaurant with a woman forty-five minutes ago, and I have to know who she is. If I can get a photo of him with a date, it will be a major scoop. In my dreams.
I’ve never seen him with a date. Not like some of the other celebrities and rich people I photograph. There’s one guy who lives in the skyscraper on 55th and Broadway who has a new woman on his arm every time I see him. Not Jonah, though. And not his business partner, Miles Becker, either. He rarely saw women before he started dating Lane Overton, and now she’s his entire world. At least judging from the way he can’t take his eyes off her.
Even with his boring life, Jonah’s photos still sell better than anything else. It must be the arrogant way he looks at the world, or his permanent sneer. Men want to be him, and women, well, judging from the comments on our articles, they want to do lots of unprintable things to him.
A guy walking by gives me a weird look, and I duck my head to fiddle with my phone. I’m in all black, like I usually am on the job, with my hair tucked in a ball cap and a giant camera on my hip. It’s obvious I’m here to take photos. Most New Yorkers don’t care. It’s a badge of honor to shove rudely through a celebrity’s entrance to a hotel and throw your hands up like they are in your way. But a sketchy looking girl leaning against a parked car? That will draw attention.
Luz and Adriana are texting me, asking if I’m free for drinks, speculating about whether Luz’s new boss has an actual stick up his ass or a metaphorical one. I grin and tap out a response that implies Luz should fuck around and find out.
I’m lost in my phone when I hear, “You.”
My head jerks up. It’s him. Jonah. Ah, shit.
2
Callie
Did I ever wonder if Jonah Crown would happily murder me and stash the body? Well, now I know the answer. He strides forward, eyes black with rage, face set. He crowds me against the car, and I freeze. I’ve spent at least a year following his every move, but I’ve never been this close to him before.
His attention is a physical thing. Heavy, unwavering. When our eyes meet, I shiver. I can’t decide if it’s unpleasant or not.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
I’ve heard him speak before, but never directly to me. Hairs go up on the back of my neck. Must be the cold air.
“Do I know you?” I will not be intimidated by him, and I’m definitely not blowing my cover. My stomach clenches. My body is poised for fight or flight. This is the worst part. I’ve been accosted before, and it’s everything I can do not to apologize to the subjects. Usually. Right now, I just want to run away.
“You’re the one taking the photos.”
He’s huge up close, bigger than I thought, actually. His shoulders are broad, and he’s taller than I realized. Tall enough to make me feel dwarfed by his presence. I tip my chin up to meet his flinty gaze again. His eyes are dark in the dim light of sunset. His hair is black and silky. His forehead is high, regal almost, and his nose is a straight slash. Solid cheekbones, dark brows, a jaw that could cut glass. Lucifer himself. A fallen angel on this mortal coil.
Think, Cal. Why would you be out here? “You got me. I’m a real estate photographer.” I’m definitely not, and sunset photos of real estate make no sense, but whatever. I press my lips together to keep from saying or doing anything else that might make me look nervous.
His scoffs. “Stop following me.”
“I’m not following you. In fact, I’m really busy. I need to get a photo of this building.” I give him a calm smile, when in reality, my heart is thundering.
He looks furious at my words. He’s probably not used to being defied.
