Money Shot
By
N.J. Harlow
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 © N.J. Harlow /Accio Books
Cover photo © Chunni4691 |
Dreamstime.com
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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 '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
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