Money Shot Read online

  Money Shot

  By

  N.J. Harlow

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 © N.J. Harlow /Accio Books

  Cover photo © Chunni4691 | Dreamstime.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  An excerpt of N.J. Harlow's novel "Rom-Com" follows

  ***

  Money Shot

  By N.J. Harlow

  Snow White in handcuffs. Film at eleven.

  The Vulture smelled fresh, expensive road kill. And she hadn't eaten.

  In days.

  The Vulture, a/k/a 'Razzi Rizzo, real name Roxanne Rizzo, furiously flapped her wings as she prepared to bolt from the hovel known in some circles as an apartment. The Vulture sharpened her talons as she shoved a dozen assorted lenses into her canvas bag like she was stabbing it. Being a lens mule was a necessary evil when you're a paparazzi; you never know what the situation will be when the money shot jumps out and says, "Cheese!"

  And it's called a money shot for a reason.

  Her stomach growled and she decided to expend fifteen seconds for breakfast. The Vulture ran to the kitchen, grabbed a box of Count Chocula (the preferred brand of choice for those who mainlined sugar), tipped it so she got a mouthful, then opened the avocado green Frigidaire. She turned her head as she caught a whiff of a lab experiment formerly known as pizza, grabbed a milk bottle, and took a swig. Half of the milk and cereal ended up on her denim vest and down the legs of her black jeans; she looked like a white trash toddler at Wal-Mart but didn't give a damn. She forgotten to buy energy bars and didn't have time for anything else.

  She had to move.

  Now.

  Or the road kill would be gone.

  Tick tock, Rizzo. Tick tock.

  She was at Defcon One because Hollywood icon Desmona Jackson, wearer of the Manolo Blahnik line of goody-two-shoes and thumper of every Bible in every hotel suite in the world, had gotten seriously shit-faced and started an actual honest-to-goodness food fight at an exclusive restaurant, featuring everything from soup to crème brulee, and been hauled off to the slammer by Beverly Hills' finest.

  And The Vulture wanted her for lunch. Her deep brown eyes smoldered as she licked her lips.

  The news had broken a few hours ago, so Joe and Mabel Sixpack in Upper Buttcrack, Arkansas desperately wanted to see Hollywood's pure-as-the-driven-snow sweetheart with a few hairs out of place and those that were in place covered in arugula and caviar. They wanted pictures now. And they'd all pay two bucks in the supermarket line and let their kids eat knockoff Oreos for a week in order to see them.

  This was no time for photoshop.

  This was the Holy Grail for a paparazzi.

  She swallowed her breakfast, such as it was, grabbed her gear and sunglasses and headed out the door.

  If The Vulture picked Desmona Jackson clean it would pay the rent for God knew how long.

  If not, the vampire on the cereal box would be her best friend again tomorrow.

  Call it professional courtesy.

  ***

  "What in the hell were you thinking?"

  Desmona Jackson considered the question from her agent, Nicole Wine, and looked away. Between Nicole's lecture and the Chinese gong orchestra that was playing Flight of the Bumblebee in her head, she just wanted to be magically whisked back to her compound and go to sleep like the fairytale characters she played.

  "Have you seen the mug shot?" asked Nicole, clicking her heels as she paced around the tiny dim room.

  Desmona bit her lower lip and dropped her head, almost hitting the steel gray table in the interrogation room the police were letting them use. Her mahogany tangles fell into her porcelain face, hiding the famous cheekbones and to die for coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes. She leaned back, stretched out the long, well-toned legs of her five foot ten inch frame, and turned into a little girl. Despite the no-smoking rule, the room smelled as though nicotine was part of the faded gray wallpaper and made her feel dirty. "What do I do, Nikki?"

  Nicole ran her hand over the straight honey blonde hair that dusted the shoulders of her red jacket. She continued pacing, a petite, taut bundle of energy that became a caged animal in a crisis. She snapped her fingers over and over as her ice blue eyes searched the heavens for an answer. "We need damage control, big time, Des. The piranha are already circling and you've just dumped a bucket of blood in the water. What did you expect?"

  Desmona buried her head in her hands. "Fine, whatever. How much?"

  "How much what?"

  "To make this all go away. How much will it cost? Ballpark. You know what? I don't care. Just write the damn check."

  Nicole pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. She reached across the table and lifted Desmona's chin so that it was facing hers. The ice blues turned soft as her hands. "I don't think I can make it go away, Des. You're too big. You are Hollywood."

  "You can spin anything, Nikki. You did it for Roddy O'Hara last summer."

  "Roddy already had a reputation and a police record going back twenty years. You're Snow White and Cinderella wrapped into one. You make Marie Osmond look like a slut. No amount of money is going to buy people off this one. You know the rule; Hollywood worships success but roots for failure. And no one can fall farther in this town than you right now. You may as well be the New Year's Eve ball in Times Square."

  Desmona wiped a tear from her eye. "Just spin it, Nikki. Tell them I had an allergic reaction to some medication when I drank a glass of wine."

  Nicole rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that's original. They'll buy that. Side effects include, nausea, vomiting, and firing miniature quiches like Nolan Ryan fastballs across one of Hollywood's classiest restaurants." Nicole stood up and started pacing again.

  Desmona knew she was right, but there was also the question of The Part. The one that might finally break her typecast. At twenty-eight, playing the virgin was getting a little…old. "Have you heard anything from the studio?"

  Her agent immediately looked away. "Not yet, but I know I will."

  Desmona felt her eyes well up. "I cannot lose that part, Nikki, I just can't. It's got another Oscar written all over it."

  The agent looked at her watch and changed the subject. "Look, the cops have been very accommodating but won't let us stay here forever. And you know the 'razzi aren't going anywhere. So we might as well get this over with." Nicole reached down into a shopping bag and pulled out a wide brimmed woman's hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses, then placed them on the table. "This will help."

  "They'll know it's me."

  "Nothing I can do about that, Des. You've got one of the most famous faces on the planet. I've got the Navigator so you can hide in the back. You just have to get ten feet from the door to the car."

  "My hair's a mess."

  "That's the least of your problems, Des."

  Desmona put on the disguise, stood up, and headed for the door. "Take me home, Nikki. Just take me home."

  ***

  The Vulture, being only five feet four inches tall on a good day, liked lofty perches to survey her prey. Her thirty year old body had spent enough days being battered by the rest of the 'razzi, who were mostly overweight men. Manners, of course, were non-existent in her particular field. When she picked up a camera, she wasn't a woman anymore, just a sexless shark in a feeding frenzy who often got s
tepped on by those twice her size. Shoving angry photogs out of the way when you only had one hundred and ten pounds to play with wasn't terribly effective. Position, in her case, was more important than strength when it came to getting the money shot.

  So The Vulture would take flight, but this gig needed a truly high perch, and she had called in a marker to get it.

  Well, not exactly a marker. But Roger the phone man knew that if he ever wanted to see Roxanne Rizzo do the equivalent of a pole dance around his four poster bed again and whip her raven hair across his face, he'd better play ball and do it fast.

  His bucket truck was already at the location when she screeched to a halt one block from the Jackson estate. The rest of the 'razzi were already there of course, lining the driveway like electronic shrubs. She turned down a side street and ditched her car, then ran back up the hill where Roger was standing next to the truck.

  "I can get in serious trouble for this," he said, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead.

  She walked up to him, wrapped her arms around him, then pulled back and gave his crotch a little squeeze. The concern melted from his face as she reminded him that she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose without smearing her lip gloss. "It'll be worth your while."

  "Of that I'm sure." He reached into the front seat of the truck and pulled out a phone company vest and hard hat. "Put these on. You need to at least look the part."

  "Fine." She dropped her camera bag, put on the vest, pulled back her hair and was good to go.

  Roger put the hard hat on her head, then leaned back in admiration. "It's you."

  "Very funny."

  She grabbed her bag and hopped in the bucket. "Okay, take me up."

  "Hold on to the sides," he said. He pointed to the controls inside the bucket. "These are the only levers you have to worry about. This one releases the bucket so that it always remains vertical while I'm sending you up, and this one locks it when I get it extended. Got it?"

  "It ain't brain surgery, Roger. Let's rock."

  Roger moved toward the cab of the truck. As soon as he was out of sight, Roxanne Rizzo morphed into a bloodthirsty killer. The bucket began to move, and The Vulture took flight.

  ***

  Desmona sat in the back seat as Nicole drove her through the streets of Beverly Hills.

  The world's most famous and beloved actress was about to become a prisoner in her own home.

  "Okay, look alive. There they are," said Nicole. Desmona looked out the windshield and saw them running into the street, an angry electronic mob jockeying for position. She slid down onto the floor of the Lincoln Navigator and pulled a blanket over her body. She felt the warm carpet of the floor mats against her face while the smell of pine air freshener filled her lungs.

  She felt the car slow down and knew Nick was at the entrance to the compound. "Stay down," said Nicole.

  "Way ahead of you."

  She heard the 'razzi yelling her name, screaming questions at the tinted windows.

  "Des, how drunk were you?"

  "Des, are you still hung over?"

  "Des, what was it like in jail?"

  She felt a few thumps against the car door and knew they were shooting through the glass. She pulled the blanket tighter around her and began to shiver.

  She heard the motor of the gate as it swung open and knew she was almost home. She felt a bump as the car rolled over the curb. The pounding on the car doors stopped and the voices faded. Her heart downshifted as the car came to a stop.

  "You can come out now, I'm at the back entrance," said Nicole.

  Desmona Jackson threw off the wool blanket and took a breath of fresh air like she had been holding her breath underwater. Nicole opened the car door. They were safe in the back of the compound. The trees that had once offered an easy perch to the 'razzi had been cut down.

  She climbed out of the car, felt the world spin, and passed out.

  ***

  "Timmmm…berrrrrrrr!" said The Vulture as she saw Desmona Jackson teeter like a bowling pin before collapsing into the arms of her agent. She missed the sound of the auto-winder from the days of film, but the digital clicks in quick succession were enough of an aphrodisiac. Her heart was trying to escape from her chest. She licked her lips as she watched the scene through the telephoto lens, frame by frame, as Nicole Wine caught Desmona Jackson and dragged her to a nearby wooden lounge chair next to the swimming pool.

  The Vulture quickly stole a glance at the other 'razzi. A few had attempted to climb the trees across the street, but those offered no vantage point of the back part of the estate.

  Amateurs.

  They were all too busy watching for Desmona Jackson to notice a telephone worker with a camera.

  The Vulture smiled at her superior brainpower and went back to the business at hand. She continued to fire away grabbing every second of the play as it unfolded. She filled one memory stick and deftly swapped it out in a matter of seconds, like a cop adding more bullets to his gun during a shootout.

  She continued shooting with one hand while she gently tucked the memory stick with the money shot into a pocket on her vest, Velcroed it shut, and patted it for good measure.

  She saw Desmona Jackson coming back to life, her head rising up. Nicole Wine sitting down next to her on the edge the chair, stroking her hair.

  Then what she saw turned The Vulture into Roxanne Rizzo, honest-to-goodness movie fan for one moment, as Desmona Jackson, poster child for wholesome family values, lone Tinseltown defender of the Religious Right, grabbed the breast of her agent and started passionately kissing her on the lips.

  The Vulture's jaw dropped as she kept her fingers pressed harder on the camera, squeezing the life out of the button that took pictures, shooting as many images as it would allow.

  Ho-lee shit.

  ***

  The Vulture held back a laugh as Nigel Hack weaved his way through the tables, keeping his arms pinned to his sides as if he was afraid to touch anything. She knew he couldn't stand places like this, his proper British upbringing taking a big hit as he passed the tourists with fanny packs wolfing down huge plates of breakfast specials.

  He spotted her. She held up her coffee cup and nodded toward him as if offering a toast. She'd grabbed the table in the back of the restaurant, not just for privacy but for the kick of making Nigel walk through the whole place.

  "Slumming again, I see," he said in his perfect British accent, as he arrived at her booth.

  She shoved a forkful of pancakes into her mouth and talked through them. "Have a seat, Nigel. I'm buying if you're hungry."

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dusted off the seat, and slid into the booth, careful to keep his hands in his lap. "I've eaten already."

  A waitress showed up holding a coffee pot. "Coffee, honey?"

  "Nothing, thank you," said Nigel.

  The waitress snapped her gum, said, "Okay," and disappeared.

  "This had better be good, Roxanne," said Nigel.

  "Now Nigel, would I drag you all the way down here if it wasn't?"

  "I don't know. You have a perverse sense of humor."

  She reached into her satchel, pulled out a manila envelope, and slid it across the table. She quickly glanced around the restaurant. No one was paying any attention to them.

  Nigel grabbed the envelope, opened it, and pulled out a half dozen eight-by-ten glossies. His eyes bugged out and his jaw nearly hit the table. "Surely not!" he said.

  She smiled as his eyes burned holes in the pictures as he quickly flipped through them, then put them back into the envelope and slid them back across the table. "You like?"

  "Roxanne, you have outdone yourself. Exclusive?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Talked to anyone else yet?"

  "You're the first," she said, casually pouring more maple syrup over her breakfast. "You've always been good to me, Nigel. I wanted to give you a chance to pre-empt before I put it on the market."

  "I appreciate that, R
oxanne. How much do you want?"

  "How much you got?"

  "Give me a number, Roxanne."

  She shook her head. "Uh-uh. We're not playing that game. You want these, you gotta knock my socks off. I'm giving you till the end of business today."

  "How many photos do you have?"

  "Several hundred, but those are the greatest hits. I would think the Hollywood Grapevine would love to have one for its cover. And I believe your deadline is tomorrow, am I right?"

  Nigel shook his head. "Roxanne, you are, without a doubt, the smartest paparazzi I've ever known."

  "Hey, I'm from Jersey. I know how things work."

  "I will have to get back to you for something of this magnitude."

  "I thought you might. You've got my number. And I'll be here for about the next half hour. Sure you don't want any stuffed French toast?"

  Nigel rolled his eyes. "I'll be in touch shortly," he said.

  He got up and started to leave. She grabbed him by the arm. "Oh, Nigel?"

  "Yes dear?"

  "When you come up with a number, keep this in mind. I would love to work whenever I feel like it."

  ***

  "Oh my God!"

  Desmona heard the panic in Nicole's voice. She wrapped her thick red bathrobe around her waist and headed downstairs. She saw Nicole in the foyer, sitting on the black marble floor, legs sticking straight out.

  She was holding a supermarket tabloid.

  And staring into space.

  "Nicole?"

  Nicole said nothing.

  "What is it?" She reached the bottom of the stairs and quickly moved toward Nicole. "What?"

  Nicole handed her the tabloid, upside down. Desmona flipped it over and the headline on the Hollywood Grapevine slugged her in the soul.

  America's sweetheart out of the closet!

  EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS PAGE 2-6

  The picture on the front page screamed at her.

  You're out!

  She bit her lip and peeled open the tabloid, wondering if anything would be worse than the cover shot.

  Ten seconds later she dropped the tabloid. It fluttered to the floor, pages separating, landing as a photo album that taunted them both. Desmona wrapped her arms around her waist and looked up at the ceiling. "How did this happen?"