Youâve done it a thousand times. Youâve been admonished for your profession even more times, in much crueler and more biting words. You have to get a shot of his face.
Oh, shit. I didnât get a shot of his face!
As I turn back toward Ethan Wyatt, I see nothing but a dying wisp of smoke rising from the ashtray.
The automatic doors slide open and he stomps back into the airport.
I force my feet to follow him, but when I get within camera range, my knees go a little funny. Theyâre jittery, weak.
Across the room, Ethan Wyatt helps the concierge girl load several large suitcases onto a cart.
It takes will and courage to get three or four shots off. Three crisp shots of the back of his head.
I should sprint out in front of him and get his face. I should. But, I canât. He would look at me again, and for some reason that terrifies me.
Â
Iâve retreated back to the glass enclosure between inside and out. My nervous foot shuffling makes the automatic doors whir open and closed. I watch as Ethan Wyatt pushes his luggage cart toward an exit.
I have never frozen up like this. Never. Never ever. Iâve been spit at, cursed out, flipped off, and pushed around by more celebrities and celebrity handlers than I care to remember, but every time I got the shot. Once, a twenty-million-dollar-a-picture star, in a particularly steamy relationship, âaccidentallyâ elbowed me in the stomach and knocked me to the ground. Still, I got up off my ass and got the freaking shot! Thatâs what Iâm known for, damnit. I get the shots that nobody else can get. They call me Killer, for Christâs sake. Stars donât get to me. Iâm not attracted to them. I donât care what they think. Iâm not one of those women with quixotic celebrity fascinations. Well, there was a brief period in the late eighties when Ralph Macchio had a very special place in my heartâand my bedroom wallsâbut I outgrew him. I mean that literally; the guy is, like, five feet tall.
So why did I have the sudden urge to flip my hair and giggle when Ethan first smiled at me? What was with that bout of nausea at his insults? Oh, and who is Ethan Wyatt to tell me what I should and shouldnât be ashamed of? This is a guy who has always done everything he can to grab his bit of the spotlight, or at the very least, show how little he cares about having his mug shot stamped across the front page. Yet he looks at me like itâs my fault. Like I put him in the papers. I absolutely cannot let some random⦠reaction to some randomâ¦really hot guy throw me off my game. I mean, this is what I do. Itâs what I am! And for crying out loud, the guy got his start dropping trou on Calvin Klein billboards. Does that really sound like the act of a man who closely guards his privacy?
I have to get hold of myself. I need to regroup, take a deep breathâ¦and then get him.
Chapter 5
O ut of the corner of my eye, I spot Ethan Wyatt being helped into the driverâs seat of his rentalâa brand-new Mustang convertible.
The sight of him sliding into the plush leather seat sparks a cascade of palpable frustration through my entire body. No, this is more than frustration; itâs making my hands shake and my eyes water.
I canât let him get away like this.
Clutching my camera to my overly exposed chest, I take off through the airport doors and sprint toward the parking garage.
I make a beeline for my car, the rigid soles of my heels clicking out a strident rhythm through the cavernous parking area.
This isnât a chase.
I am not chasing him, because I donât do that.
No, this is just me nonchalantly trying to get the shot that I missed before.
Oh, shit, heâs taking off.
I jump into my Camaro and, with the camera still around my neck, peel out. The screech of rubber on pavement echoes across the deserted building, which gives me the strange sensation that Iâm in a chase.
But
Oh, shit. I didnât get a shot of his face!
As I turn back toward Ethan Wyatt, I see nothing but a dying wisp of smoke rising from the ashtray.
The automatic doors slide open and he stomps back into the airport.
I force my feet to follow him, but when I get within camera range, my knees go a little funny. Theyâre jittery, weak.
Across the room, Ethan Wyatt helps the concierge girl load several large suitcases onto a cart.
It takes will and courage to get three or four shots off. Three crisp shots of the back of his head.
I should sprint out in front of him and get his face. I should. But, I canât. He would look at me again, and for some reason that terrifies me.
Â
Iâve retreated back to the glass enclosure between inside and out. My nervous foot shuffling makes the automatic doors whir open and closed. I watch as Ethan Wyatt pushes his luggage cart toward an exit.
I have never frozen up like this. Never. Never ever. Iâve been spit at, cursed out, flipped off, and pushed around by more celebrities and celebrity handlers than I care to remember, but every time I got the shot. Once, a twenty-million-dollar-a-picture star, in a particularly steamy relationship, âaccidentallyâ elbowed me in the stomach and knocked me to the ground. Still, I got up off my ass and got the freaking shot! Thatâs what Iâm known for, damnit. I get the shots that nobody else can get. They call me Killer, for Christâs sake. Stars donât get to me. Iâm not attracted to them. I donât care what they think. Iâm not one of those women with quixotic celebrity fascinations. Well, there was a brief period in the late eighties when Ralph Macchio had a very special place in my heartâand my bedroom wallsâbut I outgrew him. I mean that literally; the guy is, like, five feet tall.
So why did I have the sudden urge to flip my hair and giggle when Ethan first smiled at me? What was with that bout of nausea at his insults? Oh, and who is Ethan Wyatt to tell me what I should and shouldnât be ashamed of? This is a guy who has always done everything he can to grab his bit of the spotlight, or at the very least, show how little he cares about having his mug shot stamped across the front page. Yet he looks at me like itâs my fault. Like I put him in the papers. I absolutely cannot let some random⦠reaction to some randomâ¦really hot guy throw me off my game. I mean, this is what I do. Itâs what I am! And for crying out loud, the guy got his start dropping trou on Calvin Klein billboards. Does that really sound like the act of a man who closely guards his privacy?
I have to get hold of myself. I need to regroup, take a deep breathâ¦and then get him.
Chapter 5
O ut of the corner of my eye, I spot Ethan Wyatt being helped into the driverâs seat of his rentalâa brand-new Mustang convertible.
The sight of him sliding into the plush leather seat sparks a cascade of palpable frustration through my entire body. No, this is more than frustration; itâs making my hands shake and my eyes water.
I canât let him get away like this.
Clutching my camera to my overly exposed chest, I take off through the airport doors and sprint toward the parking garage.
I make a beeline for my car, the rigid soles of my heels clicking out a strident rhythm through the cavernous parking area.
This isnât a chase.
I am not chasing him, because I donât do that.
No, this is just me nonchalantly trying to get the shot that I missed before.
Oh, shit, heâs taking off.
I jump into my Camaro and, with the camera still around my neck, peel out. The screech of rubber on pavement echoes across the deserted building, which gives me the strange sensation that Iâm in a chase.
But
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