Page 1 of Overexposed

prologue

No one plans to become a celebrity stalker—a car-chasing, privacy-smashing, garbage-diving predator ready to feast on red-carpet prey. No one plans to climb unscalable trees, make friends with every catering service waiter, dog walkers, and morgue attendants.

Everyone comes to Hollywood seeking the dream. No one comes here planning to rip open those dreams and expose the seedy underbelly, not even those of us who grew up on a steady diet of it and understood that, in the ecosystem of notoriety, the predators and the prey were symbiotic.

We needed the celebrities’ scandals to create headlines and they needed us to maintain their front-page status. It was a straightforward—albeit ugly at times—business and my father raised me to be a practical woman.

chapter

one

Stella

Cactus and Cocktails wasn’t exactly hopping when I parked in the broken and cracked lot next to it. Then again, the sun was only beginning its descent. Besides, the place wasn’t one of the trendier bars. It had fallen off the radar for the hip and the hot two years earlier.

Maybe three.

I didn’t really track the ones that went away so much as the best ones for stargazing, the clubs the celebs went to in order to be seen, and the staged opportunities were good for a few hundred here and there.

Photographers made money, the celebs got free press—it was a win-win. Most of the time. It was also usually jam-packed with fans and wannabe paps who were looking to make their mark.

Some of those little shits would elbow you in the face for a slightly better angle. I flipped the visor down and knocked open the mirror to give myself a critical eye.

I’d just spent the afternoon haunting theotherparty venues currently in favor. With award-season prep already in full swing and the film festival at Balboa Pier starting this weekend, the stars were flying in from their homes in Montana, Wyoming, Nevada, Northern California, and New York.

Oscar season was always in style. Balboa Pier happened to be one of the premiere festivals for launching potential contenders for the gold statues. That meant if you wanted a shot at the early buzz, you wanted applause and maybe a prize at the festival.

It also meant the celebs who wanted to party for real headed to the hangouts known for more discretion and security. Getting in and out of those took experience, skill, and lately a friendly smile. While I’d been around and I knew the business, I wasn’t aknownface, so they hadn’t banned me yet.

After I touched up my lip gloss and let my hair down from the clip so it fell around my face, I checked my phone where it was connected to the camera. I’d uploaded the five very nice shots I’d gotten of the past year’s award favorite with his wife, and their very close friend, lounging at the Mercantile.

Considering all three had been making out with each other, the pictures were of the extra-spicy variety. They may not net me much right now, but they were good to have on standby. I loaded them to the cloud, then sent one off to tease my contact at the gossip channel.

They liked to verify before they would buy. I didn’t have a problem with the women making out or the director alternating between his wife and their friend. If they were happy and it was consensual, well, party on. They were in public and they were popular faces, especially the ingenue who was rumored to have a breakout role.

If she went viral, these pics were gonna be gold. Worth the past eight hours of floating in and out of the local spas, wine bars, and clubs. Now, it was time for a break. I checked my watch, then secured the camera back in its bag.

The Cactus and Cocktails was known for its heavy pours rather than watering the crap out of its house liquor. I checked the phone for messages, then grabbed my purse and slid out ofthe car. A cool breeze carried the sweet scents of fried foods and bad decisions. Both specialties of the place in front of me.

The exterior was a kind of burnt-sienna color. They were going for a southwest aesthetic, with the cacti painted on the stone walls. The effort ended out here though. I locked the car and headed for the entrance.

Someone pushed open one of the heavy doors, letting out a fragrant cloud of melted cheese, meat, beans, and spices. Hell yes, the nachos here were just this side of perfection.

They were also the second reason why the C and C went to the top of my list. The margarita pitchers were only five bucks on Wednesday nights. A fact my wallet and I had appreciated for a few years. While I wasn’t a broke student anymore, I did have to watch the dollars.

I headed right to the bar. I didn’t need a booth or a table. I wanted the corner seat…but my steps slowed at the sight of someone already sitting in my favorite spot.

Any hope that he might just be sitting there to get a drink died with the fresh plate of nachos delivered to him as he tilted up his bottle of beer to drink. His gaze was fixed on a hockey game playing on one of the big TVs mounted behind the bar.

As tempting as it was to stomp my foot, I swallowed the sulk and jerked my big girl boots back on. I came for margaritas, food, and…I stared at the game on the television for a minute.

Yeah, I didn’t care about the hockey but I’d watch ’cause it was that or doomscroll on my phone. Ignoring the long length of bar that stretched down the room, I went pastmycorner spot and slid onto a stool two seats over. Not close enough to invade his space but definitely close enough to score the seat when he abandoned it.

Plans were good.

The bartender gave me a friendly smile and raised his brows. “Be right with you,” he said with a lift of his chin as he poppedout a few more bottles and removed their caps to set on the tray for the single waitress who was working tonight.

That was fine. There were menus somewhere, laminated and kind of sticky, but they hadn’t changed what they served in all the years since they opened, so I didn’t need one anyway.

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