A Crazy Kind of Love Page 3

  “Hervé always throws huge parties before their band goes on tour, and his shindigs have become a magnet for all kinds of interesting people. Your new friend Micah will probably show up there, too. See if you can catch his eye. He’s been known to bring the wolves right into the pen.”

  “Micah Sinclair is friends with Adam Copeland?”

  Andy exhaled his exasperation. “You could say that. Adam Copeland’s engaged to Micah’s sister. Eden Sinclair?”

  Of course. I should have made the connection myself. “You want me to use Micah to gain access to his sister?”

  I regretted it as soon as Andy’s eyes took on that gleam of zealous self-righteousness he got whenever I talked about the marks like they were people. He loved to hear himself wax prolific on the subject of our holy mission. “Look, Jo. It’s business, and they’re the commodity. If you wanna get paid, you’re gonna have to change your mind-set. You can’t befriend them. They won’t befriend you if there’s nothing in it for them. And without publicity, they cease to exist. Really, by doing your job well, you’re doing them a favor.”

  “Right. Thanks for the assignment. I won’t let you down.”

  Andy pointed his finger at me. “No, you won’t. Jo, a lot of people would kill for your position. Don’t blow it.” He glared at me, reminding me again of the unblinking eye of the dark lord. “The marks don’t care about you, so don’t you start worrying about them. Okay?”

  When Andy used the word mark, he intended to turn the celebrities into an impersonal product. I repeated his words in my head, trying to learn to approach this job with the same ruthless instinct. But when I looked at the picture of Micah laughing while carrying me like an old friend, he seemed so guileless and sweet.

  Then again, he’d only approached me because of the camera.

  I straightened my back and nodded to Andy. “Okay.”

  Chapter 3

  Friday night, I sat alone on the bottom step of a quiet Brooklyn brownstone and settled in for a long wait. I’d arrived early, before any other photographers had staked out a spot, long before the first guests had begun to arrive. A muscle-bound bouncer type peeked out the front door and eyed me a couple of times, filing me away in his you-shall-not-pass mental database of creepy stalkers. Nights like this, I felt like a loser two times over, uninvited and unwanted.

  I thought Andy was delusional for suggesting Micah might invite me in, but what could it hurt to give the plan a chance? I’d even dressed a little nicer just in case. Not so nice as to feel stupid when Micah inevitably snubbed me—just a flattering scoop-neck T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. I still wore comfy tennis shoes, but I’d taken a little more time on my hair and makeup.

  If Andy was wrong, at least I’d be in a great position to get clean shots of any other big-name celebrities as they entered. And if he was right . . . My heart beat a little faster, in fear and anticipation.

  After twenty minutes of inactivity, I rummaged in my backpack and unearthed my emergency reserve of SpongeBob fruity snacks. I chewed on a gummy Squidward and opened Facebook on my phone to check the comments on the video I’d shared on my wall, the one of me riding Micah like a mechanical bull. I’d already watched it so many times I had all the subtle changes in Micah’s facial expressions memorized, from his wide goofball smile to the round “oh” of surprise when I toppled forward and grabbed his hair.

  My mom cracked me up with her naughty comment: Ooh, does he have a father?

  Mom’s obnoxious neighbor Marisa Bennet, mother of perfection-incarnate Kelsey Bennet, wasted no time posting a link to an article titled “Lothario Rocker Micah Sinclair Confirms Split with Girlfriend.” Marisa added, Are you aware of this guy’s reputation, Annie?

  My mom never appreciated unsolicited parenting advice and replied, Thanks for the article, Marisa. I’m sure Josie can make her own decisions.

  I clicked through and frowned as I read the article. “Ever reluctant to settle down, Micah Sinclair has dropped his latest in a string of groupie-turned-lover girlfriends in record time.”

  The reporter had somehow gotten a quote from Micah. “We simply agreed to go our separate ways.”

  The editorial judgment was predictably harsh. “Going separate ways seems to be a recurring habit for Micah, forever on the prowl. When his tours come to an end, so do his short-lived relationships.”

  The rest of the article veered off into related gossip with click-bait links to companion articles. “Fear of commitment must run in the family. Micah’s sister, Eden Sinclair, and her fiancé of two years, Adam Copeland, have yet to set a wedding date. Will they ever get married?”

  I couldn’t understand why people obsessed over the marital status of engaged celebrities, as if anyone else had a chance with Adam Copeland as long as he didn’t say “I do.”

  Likewise, I couldn’t understand why the gossip surrounding Micah bothered me at all. It wasn’t as if I stood a chance with him, even if he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Not that I wanted to be “the latest in a string of girlfriends.” I was still holding out for my happily-ever-after, despite how that hadn’t worked out for my mom.

  Knowing the way tabloids took a concept and stuck to it, I couldn’t help wonder if there might be more to Micah’s story, and I wasn’t going to find the truth in the judge-jury-and-executioner gossip pages. I caught myself wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt even though I barely knew him. Maybe I was already under Micah’s spell.

  But I’d seen how the sausage was made. Some of the gossip sites posted total lies, and everyone knew it. At least Andy made us track down actual stories. He liked our newspaper to be a reliable source of trash. Granted, he considered speculative journalism to be an offshoot of the truth. “Are they dating?” is a close enough hand grenade.

  As streetlights began to pool soft circles on the sidewalk, other paps appeared and set up their equipment. I stood and put away my phone, checking my camera to make sure I’d be all ready to do my job.

  Before long, the first car pulled up. Immediately, two walls of cameras created a kind of arched entrance for whoever would emerge. A young girl with long sleek blond hair climbed out and blinked. A few cameras clicked, but the whispers grew like an oncoming wave. “Who is she? Does anyone know who that is?”

  Still the cameras flashed—just in case. I hated night shots. It was bad enough I had to get in people’s faces in broad daylight, but at night, I had to blind them, too.

  The girl swept up the steps and in through the front door. Nobody had figured out the identity of the first fish out of the sea. She was probably nobody. Most everyone would be a nobody.

  With the excitement over, the camera wall broke into its individual pieces. The others uploaded photos and texted like crazy to see if anyone would recognize the girl with the long, blond hair. I did the same.

  Andy texted, That’s Victoria Sedgwick. She’s a hanger-on. Don’t worry about her. Andy had worked so many events over the years, he was a font of expertise on even the lowest ranks of the wannabes.

  The levels of celebrity were nothing compared to the levels of nobody-ness. Hangers-on, fans, friends, managers, reporters . . . As a gossip page photographer, I didn’t even rate as an A-list nobody. And that was fine by me. I’d much rather be on this side of the camera.

  To kill time, I looked through the pictures I’d shot to make sure the lighting was good. Victoria Sedgwick flashed by like those cartoon images animated by flipping the pages of a book. She was still one moment, and then the forward button sent her into spectacular motion. It was hard not to envy the elite. Victoria had the kind of stunning beauty money could buy. Her shoes alone probably cost more than I was willing to spend on the new laptop I sorely needed. And yet she didn’t merit the storage she took up on my camera. These photos would get archived and forgotten.

  After working in this field awhile, I’d become somewhat inured to how fast the interest in someone dropped off the further they got from the center of the celebrity Tootsie Pop. I
n most contexts, a girl like Victoria would command the room, but here, she didn’t elicit another thought—not unless she came in on the arm of someone famous. The paps around me were hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the big names. If someone like Adam Copeland or even Micah Sinclair appeared, the frenzy would begin. But someone as close as Adam’s mom could show up, and nobody would care.

  Then again, Micah’s sister . . .

  “Eden Sinclair!” The guy to my left practically shouted a whisper, and I looked up, thinking he’d read my mind. But in fact, Micah’s sister was walking quickly down the sidewalk, head down. And she was alone.

  I aimed my camera and started bursting the shot. But as soon as the cameras click-clicked, she put her hand up, palm out, blocking a clear view of her face. The guy to my left shouted, “Eden, where’s Adam? Is he on his way?”

  Another voice raised above the din. “Is Adam already inside? Why are you alone? Is everything good with Adam?”

  The questions overlapped. “Eden, have you and Adam set a date yet? When are you going to finally tie the knot? Where’s Adam? Have you set a date? Have you set a date?” It was a chaotic song with a repeating refrain.

  I framed her in my shot and zoomed in on her, watching her once removed through the lens. I’d never seen her before in person. She had a song that played on the radio a little, but she was more well-known for her connection to her boyfriend. She was surprisingly small, maybe five-three if that. Her dark hair contrasted with her porcelain skin. Her clothes were also all black, and there was a tear in her jeans at the knee. She wasn’t beautiful in the same way as Victoria Sedgwick, but I’d noticed no matter how traditionally attractive people were, if they had charisma, they were always compelling. Eden was captivating.

  She closed in on me and threw a glance my way. Her dark eyes flashed anger at me as though I was the one bombarding her with questions she clearly wouldn’t answer. She tossed her mess of black hair back and took the steps two at a time up to the front door, and I heaved a sigh. If looks could kill, I’d be lying in a chalk outline on a Brooklyn sidewalk.

  “Boy, she’s really nothing like her brother,” I muttered.

  The guy to my left laughed. “Can’t really blame her.” He pointed at my credentials. “You work for Andy Dickson, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re public enemy number one around here. Persona non grata.”

  I swallowed hard. “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Preaching to the choir.”

  He looked somewhat familiar to me, but I hadn’t formally met every single pap in Manhattan. “What’s your name?”

  He rested his camera against his beer belly and reached in his back pocket for an overstuffed, cracked leather wallet. With one hand cradling the camera and the other manipulating the wallet, he managed to slip out a bent business card with nothing on it but his name and phone number. Why couldn’t he just say “Wally”?

  I thanked him for the card and handed him my own. “I’m Jo. It’s nice to meet you. Have you been doing this long?”

  Rather than answer, he hoisted his camera up. Another car slowed in front of the townhouse. This time a driver stepped out and came around to the side. Out stepped a man I didn’t recognize, but the paps closed in, questions flying, cameras clicking. I dutifully crammed in and flashed directly in his face before he ducked his head and bounded up the stairs. I uploaded the picture for Andy to decipher.

  More people rolled in, either on foot or via personal motorcade. The feeding frenzy intensified as the level of fame increased. Some celebrities disappeared as quickly as possible. Others walked the runway, stopping to give the photographers ample time to capture them, only answering questions about whichever project they wanted to publicize.

  By the time Micah Sinclair emerged from a black sedan, tall and confident, voices had reached fever pitch.

  “Micah, over here!”

  As his car drove away, Micah stood a moment to take in the scene. Rather than escape the fishbowl or pose for publicity shots, he shook hands with one of the reporters and chatted for a few seconds before he came my way. He tilted his head back, and his face lit up.

  “Wally!” He crossed over, hand outstretched. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. I hope everything’s good at home.”

  Wally actually put his camera down to shake Micah’s hand. I glanced around. Nobody was taking pictures. Was there something inherently un-newsworthy about a guy talking to the media? I lifted my camera and started shooting. The whirr of my camera caught Micah’s attention, and he turned away from Wally with a wide-eyed look of recognition.

  He put his hand up against the flash and peered around his fingers. “Jo-Josie from Georgia! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  Since he was facing me, I kept snapping pictures. Knowing that Andy would want me to at least get a comment if I could, I blurted out, “Hey, Micah. Are you here alone tonight?”

  I knew I should have asked him something more specific, but he was smiling that cocky-bratty grin, and it was messing with my killer instinct. If I had a killer instinct.

  “I am. Or at least I came here alone.” The cameras around us began to flash, but Micah kept his cool, eyes on me, as if we were still standing on the sidewalk in Park Slope, all alone. His lip curled up on one side, like he was gearing up for a challenge. “How’d you like to be my date?”

  Now I dropped my camera, and it slammed into my gut. Oof. Damn if Andy hadn’t called it. I still couldn’t process the invitation. “Sorry, what?”

  He gestured with his head toward the steps. “Come on. You’ll get better pictures inside.”

  I threw a glance at Wally who looked as envious as Charlie Bucket when the last golden ticket was found. He nodded me forward. Now that fantasy had turned into reality, I realized I wasn’t remotely prepared to rub elbows with the same people I needed to exploit. “Sure. But are you sure it’s okay? Nobody will mind?”

  “Eden will, but I owe you one. And besides I have an in with the guy throwing the party.” He offered me his elbow. “Come on. Don’t be shy. You might get that Pulitzer prize shot.”

  I gathered my gear together. Micah stopped and looked down at me while I threw my camera bag and backpack over my shoulder and straightened up. At my full height, he only had a couple of inches on me. I put my hand around his proffered bicep, completely aware of the feel of his skin on my fingertips. He turned his blue eyes on me, and I forgot how to breathe.

  The smile dropped from his face for a second, and he asked, “Everything okay?”

  I sucked in a lungful of air and laughed off my nerves. “Entering enemy territory for the first time.”

  His confident, charming smile returned, and he led me up the steps into the brownstone—my own personal Trojan horse.

  Micah nodded at the burly man inside the door as we passed. “This is Jo. She’s with me.”

  The bouncer shot me a look of grudging respect. “Good luck.”

  As Micah pulled me along, I looked back, unsure what the bouncer meant by that, but he’d already turned his attention away, so I faced forward, glancing around wildly for any A-list celebrities.

  And it hit me for real. I was on the inside.

  Chapter 4

  We glided through the partygoers lining the hall, straight into a darker room that appeared to be an entertainment center. A large flat-screen TV occupied the far wall, and a long counter ran down the side of the room in front of a fully stocked bar.

  Micah placed his hand on my back and directed me to one of the bar stools. “What’ll you have?” He lifted a finger, and an auburn-haired woman appeared out of nowhere, attentive to my needs.

  “Club soda please? Could I get a twist of lemon?”

  As she occupied herself, Micah slid onto a stool next to me. “Don’t drink on the job, Jo Jo?”

  There were two answers to that question. I went with the second and confessed. “Don’t drink.” That answer would leave him wondering if I
was straitlaced or overly religious, but whenever I told people I was type 1 diabetic, I ran into even weirder assumptions and judgments. Or people who would want to police my every choice and give me advice based on their experience with Great-Aunt Sally who nearly lost her leg to complications.

  Something caught his eye, and he tapped my arm. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I surveyed the room, feeling way underdressed in my T-shirt, jeans, and Converse combo. Not that anyone was in tux and tails, but I got the distinct impression that if I asked, “What are you wearing tonight?” nobody would answer, “Something I found at the Mall of Georgia two years ago.”

  At the end of the bar, Victoria Sedgwick sat, nursing a drink. She looked like that Degas painting, the one where the woman’s got her glass of absinthe and a vacant expression. I pulled my camera out of the bag and lifted it slowly. The shutter made the quick whirring sounds that always gave me away, but Victoria was too far away to hear them, in every sense.

  I scooted down the bar next to her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve shot some pictures of you. You remind me of this old painting.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a reporter. Is everything all right?”

  She took a sip of her drink and grimaced. “I’m supposed to meet Mark Townsend.” Her eyes met mine, and I could tell she was assessing me for signs of envy. I didn’t know who Mark Townsend was, but obviously she thought he was a big deal.

  “Is he not here?”

  “He’s not here. And now nobody cares that I’m here.”

  “I care that you’re here,” I offered.

  Her head tilted toward me, her eyebrow arching directly at me. “And who are you?”

  My hand ran across my press badge of its own accord. Victoria eyed it. “No, sweetie. You are not your credentials. Do you think you’d be invited in here without that? You’re here because someone wants something from you. My guess is free publicity. But you could walk out that door, and nobody would notice any longer than it would take to fish another rat out of that snake pit of paparazzi out front.”