Page 13 of Overexposed

More photos. This was perfect. I was the only pap capturing this too. Maybe I could actually put a dent in the hospital bills this time.

Red-faced, Marjorie reached out a hand to Clara Belle, who tried to help her back up to her feet, but it was an awkward sort of positioning. The assistants holding her shopping bags just stood there watching too, none of them really giving two fucks to help out.

Unable to help myself, I pretended to brush past the actress as if to leave, only to bump into her and send her sprawling on top of her friend in the gutter. Then, of course, took more pictures.

“Youlittle bitch!” Clara Belle screeched, her sweetheart mask slipping away to reveal the shrew beneath. “I’ll sue you for this!”

I scoffed, clicking the shutter button at dizzying pace as I backed away. “Good fucking luck with that. Hey and sorry about Seven cheating. That woman in the photos looked like she would have been fantastic in bed. It's no wonder he didn’t fight for you.”

Low blow, even for me. Antagonizing the celebrities wasn’ttechnicallya job requirement but sometimes a girl just neededto go the extra mile to get the shot. Besides, this fucking bitch was begging for it.

Clara Belle let out a feral shriek and I genuinely thought she was about to swing at me as I continued taking pictures, but her friend quickly intervened. A few harshly whispered words in Clara Belle’s ear and suddenly that sweet-as-peach-pie mask was back in place, and she dusted herself off as though she were running for Miss Hollywood.

After that, nothing else came even close to getting a rise out of her, so I called it quits and went back to my car. I took the time to carefully pack away my equipment into the padded cases in my trunk, then climbed into the low driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh.

It wasn’t glamorous work, hell it wasn’t even very moral, but it was work. And it was a heck of a lot more exciting than waiting tables at a pizza restaurant…not to mention better paid.

A scroll through my phone showed me the news was still blowing right the hell up about my hookup pics with Gemini. Or rather…Seven cheating on Clara Belle. I snorted a laugh at how stupid the media was to just lap that up without questioning which twin it was. Technically, Gem gave me the idea himself when he said that peoplealwaysguessed Seven first.

“Shit,” I muttered, rubbing at my sternum.

I needed to stop feeling guilty. Gem was hardly innocent to the ways of paparazzi and media, and he hadn’t exactly made me sign an NDA or anything. I wasn’t breaking any rules. But I still sort of regretted leaving the hotel room like I did, sneaking out while he slept soundly. It’d beenso temptingto stay, but ultimately it never would have worked out. When he sobered up, he’d have regretted everything.

At least this way I got something out of it—more than the incredible sex, of course.

With a sigh, I sent off a message to my favorite photo buyer with the subject line “Clara Belle on the verge of a mental breakdown?”

It was enough, I knew, to pique her interest. I’d send the photos themselves later, once I’d sorted through, edited, cropped, and all the other finishing touches. People seemed to forget, sometimes, that paparazzi were photographers and some of us actually gave a fuck about quality and composition, rather than just a breaking scandal.

If you snapped all three, you were absolutely the winner.

chapter

six

Stella

One of the advantages to being not only new to the paparazzi circuit but also a young, pretty woman was that I could gain access to places that the greasy, overweight old-timers parked outside couldn’t get into. In just a few months, I’d built up quite the closet of various uniforms after discovering no one blinks twice when you show up at the back door and claim to be with the caterers.

Sure, I couldn’t really wander around a private party taking pictures, but it did allow me access to vantage points that others couldn’t get to. So while the morning after a lavish party there were fifty-seven different versions of the same celebs standing in front of the same doorway, wearing the same thing and looking equally irritated by the flash cameras, I was submitting my totally unique perspectives looking into the garden or up at a balcony or, my favorite, couples sneaking out the service entrance to “avoid being photographed.”

My hot target for the evening was supposed to be Seven and Clara Belle, but in the fallout from the cheating scandal, neither of them attended the party. Instead, I found myself snapping a few not-for-sale pictures of Olivier Griffiths smoking a cigarette in the garden. It wasn’t newsworthy; he was just a beautifulman to look at through the lens. Tall, broad, raven-black hair and eyes to match, he made the perfect action-movie villain. The kind of character women secretly hoped would turn out to be endgame for the heroine.

His smile was utterly to die for as he spoke with an older gentleman, and I zoomed in to keep him the main subject of my frame. Simply stunning.

Part of me sort of hoped that Gemini might be at this party too. He and Olivier were best friends, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to attend industry events together, so I’d have been lying if I’d said I wasn’t quietly hoping I could catch a glimpse.

No such luck, though.

After some hours, I wandered back around to the staff entrance and sat on the tail of a refrigerator truck while waiting for drunk celebs to wander into my frame. Mostly they were just stars sick of smiling, but every now and then I’d catch a pairing that hadn’t yet gone public.

“Bingo,” I whispered, clicking a few sneaky shots of a silver-haired gentleman leaving with a woman who was very definitelynothis wife. The hand planted firmly on her ass said they weren’t just sharing an Uber home too.

Pleased with the results of my work, I hopped down off my spot and silently applauded my decision to wear chunky-soled boots rather than heels. Most of the guys out the front were probably long gone, having grabbed their shots as celebs arrived, but I was patient.

“I thought that was your car,” a familiar voice came from the shadows as I crossed the street.

My footsteps faltered, and I drew a quick breath before continuing on. Never show fear to a predator—they’ll rip you to shreds. Not wanting to engage in a verbal sparring match, I ignored my violent ex-boyfriend and popped the trunk to store my camera equipment safely.

---