Money Shot
By
N.J. Harlow
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 © N.J. Harlow /Accio Books
Cover photo © Chunni4691 |Dreamstime.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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***
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 'RazziRizzo, real name Roxanne Rizzo, furiously flapped her wings as sheprepared to bolt from the hovel known in some circles as anapartment. The Vulture sharpened her talons as she shoved a dozenassorted lenses into her canvas bag like she was stabbing it. Beinga lens mule was a necessary evil when you're a paparazzi; you neverknow what the situation will be when the money shot jumps out andsays, "Cheese!"
And it's called a moneyshot for a reason.
Her stomach growled andshe decided to expend fifteen seconds for breakfast. The Vultureran to the kitchen, grabbed a box of Count Chocula (the preferredbrand of choice for those who mainlined sugar), tipped it so shegot a mouthful, then opened the avocado green Frigidaire. Sheturned her head as she caught a whiff of a lab experiment formerlyknown as pizza, grabbed a milk bottle, and took a swig. Half of themilk and cereal ended up on her denim vest and down the legs of herblack jeans; she looked like a white trash toddler at Wal-Mart butdidn't give a damn. She forgotten to buy energy bars and didn'thave time for anything else.
She had tomove.
Now.
Or the road kill would begone.
Tick tock, Rizzo. Ticktock.
She was at Defcon Onebecause Hollywood icon Desmona Jackson, wearer of the ManoloBlahnik line of goody-two-shoes and thumper of every Bible in everyhotel suite in the world, had gotten seriously shit-faced andstarted an actual honest-to-goodness food fight at an exclusiverestaurant, featuring everything from soup to crème brulee, andbeen hauled off to the slammer by Beverly Hills' finest.
And The Vulture wanted herfor lunch. Her deep brown eyes smoldered as she licked herlips.
The news had broken a fewhours ago, so Joe and Mabel Sixpack in Upper Buttcrack, Arkansasdesperately wanted to see Hollywood's pure-as-the-driven-snowsweetheart with a few hairs out of place and those that were inplace covered in arugula and caviar. They wanted picturesnow. And they'd all paytwo bucks in the supermarket line and let their kids eat knockoffOreos for a week in order to see them.
This was no time forphotoshop.
This was the Holy Grailfor a paparazzi.
She swallowed herbreakfast, such as it was, grabbed her gear and sunglasses andheaded out the door.
If The Vulture pickedDesmona Jackson clean it would pay the rent for God knew howlong.
If not, the vampire on thecereal box would be her best friend again tomorrow.
Call it professionalcourtesy.
***
"What in thehell were youthinking?"
Desmona Jackson consideredthe question from her agent, Nicole Wine, and looked away. BetweenNicole's lecture and the Chinese gong orchestra that wasplaying Flight of the Bumblebeein her head, she just wanted to be magicallywhisked back to her compound and go to sleep like the fairytalecharacters she played.
"Have youseen the mug shot?"asked Nicole, clicking her heels as she paced around the tiny dimroom.
Desmona bit her lower lipand dropped her head, almost hitting the steel gray table in theinterrogation room the police were letting them use. Her mahoganytangles fell into her porcelain face, hiding the famous cheekbonesand to die for coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes. She leaned back,stretched out the long, well-toned legs of her five foot ten inchframe, and turned into a little girl. Despite the no-smoking rule,the room smelled as though nicotine was part of the faded graywallpaper and made her feel dirty. "What do I do,Nikki?"
Nicole ran her hand overthe straight honey blonde hair that dusted the shoulders of her redjacket. She continued pacing, a petite, taut bundle of energy thatbecame a caged animal in a crisis. She snapped her fingers over andover as her ice blue eyes searched the heavens for an answer. "Weneed damage control, big time, Des. The piranha are alreadycircling and you've just dumped a bucket of blood in the water.What did you expect?"
Desmona buried her head inher hands. "Fine, whatever. How much?"
"How muchwhat?"
"To make this all go away.How much will it cost? Ballpark. You know what? I don't care. Justwrite the damn check."
Nicole pulled out a chairand sat down opposite her. She reached across the table and liftedDesmona's chin so that it was facing hers. The ice blues turnedsoft as her hands. "I don't think I can make it go away, Des.You're too big. You areHollywood."
"You can spin anything,Nikki. You did it for Roddy O'Hara last summer."
"Roddy already had areputation and a police record going back twenty years. You're SnowWhite and Cinderella wrapped into one. You make Marie Osmond looklike a slut. No amount of money is going to buy people off thisone. You know the rule; Hollywood worships success but roots forfailure. And no one can fall farther in this town than you rightnow. You may as well be the New Year's Eve ball in TimesSquare."
Desmona wiped a tear fromher eye. "Just spin it, Nikki. Tell them I had an allergic reactionto 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 Ryanfastballs across one of Hollywood's classiest restaurants." Nicolestood up and started pacing again.
Desmona knew she wasright, but there was also the question of The Part. The one that might finallybreak her typecast. At twenty-eight, playing the virgin was gettinga little…old. "Have you heard anything from the studio?"
Her agent immediatelylooked away. "Not yet, but I know I will."
Desmona felt her eyes wellup. "I cannot lose that part, Nikki, I just can't. It's got another Oscarwritten all over it."
The agent
