Page 145 of Evil Hearts

Perfect Shot

S.C. Principale

Chapter One

“Would you takea job in Hershey this weekend? It’s going to be hectic, but it pays well. And you’ll be near chocolate.”

I strained to hear my best friend over the sounds of whining and crying. “This weekend? In Hershey? I’m nowhere near Pennsylvania.” I finished uploading the wedding photos from that weekend to my website and looked at my calendar. I’m usually booked, but February is a slow time for weddings, and there was a gap for the next five days marked “Editing/Wildlife/Freelance/Enter comps.”

So… I was technically free—but driving my RV/motorhome across a half-dozen states in the middle of winter sounded unpleasant, to put it mildly.

“It’s Puck Con. I know you secretly love sports photography.”

Midwest winters be damned. My legs immediately did their telltale crisscross as I squirmed on my black ergonomic chair. “What do you mean, secretly? That’s no secret. I’m probably the only woman you know who gets turned on watching baseball players spit in the dugout. Tennis will do it for me! Anything but football—I mean, soccer.”

“Your Brazilian is showing. Ooh, sorry, that sounded wrong. I can’t help it. My brain is mush. The twins both have strep throat and double ear infections. Nora has her second molars coming in. My husband might actually divorce me for leaving him alonewith infectious two-year-old twins. This is like the terrible twos on steroids. Oh, Noah—not Mommy’s laptop!”

I winced. “You’re putting my biological clock back by five years with one phone call.”

“It’ll start ticking again the next time you do a newborn shoot. Pleeeeeease? Lots of shirtless hockey players,” Lynn wheedled.

“I… I’m in Grand Rapids! The governor’s niece just got married.”

“I not only have a contract for the fan photos and some meet and greets, but I have an exclusive contract to do headshots for several teams like the Devil Birds and the Pine Ridge Lumberjacks.”

I’m already bringing up the map site I always use to plot my drives. “Any chance to do some freelancing while I’m there, or does Puck Con own the rights to anything I shoot?”

“Only during set hours. You can shoot on location during free time at the expo or set your RV up as your traveling studio and get extras all weekend.”

I switch tabs. The RV life (a big step up from van life, if you ask me) means that I make my own schedules, my own rules, my own money—and that I can choose when to go home. I always make it home to Fortaleza, Brazil, in time for Carnival. The tab with flights and dates sits open, mocking me, reminding me that I need to book soon—something that I’ve been putting off, needing to choose between my insurance (which is crazy high) or my ticket.

This gig will let me pay for both. “I’ll take it.”

“Thank God! Hold on. Let me hit send.”

“Huh?”

“I already had an email written up to the organizer. Don’t worry, they told me I could subcontract as long as I provided references, and yours are pristine. To die for.”

“You really thought I’d come through, didn’t you?”

“You never let me down.”

“But one of these days…”

“Never, ever,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, even though my godkids sound like they’re sticking each other with pins.

Lynn and I met when I came to the States for school years ago. Her family was my host family, and she got me into the photography club at her high school. Twelve years later, we still share that passion, our friendship, and now a career.

And she’s the only one in the States (at least that I know of) who knows about my other life—the one I had on the other side of the camera. “You didn’t tell them I modeled, right? Strictly sent them my photography credentials?”

My best friend laughs. “No one will ever worm that out of me. Not even Dave knows.”

“I’ll get driving. Tell the kiddos Tia Fia hopes they feel better. I’ll buy them some little hockey mascot stuffies.”

“Please, for the love of my condo, don’t. We can barely see the floor as it is.”

With a sigh, I close my laptop and switch from my computer chair to the driver’s seat. “I’m on my way. Thanks, Lynnie.”

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