Chapter 4
Laine
Tom had picked up the pieces of my camera like a baby, then he took Randee’s hand. Her eyes lit up like strobe flashes. He yanked her, and we all ran to the Exploder so fast I couldn’t keep up. For a guy who had his head up his ass whenever he was working, he seemed competent and together, even purposeful, as if he’d woken up from a long sleep.
I was pissed at him. Livid. But we were on autopilot. I didn’t know how to stop the process and bitch out my brother. I only knew how to stop everything and upload the pics. Everything went on hold between the picture getting shot and the upload, because the lapse between the click of the shutter and the pic going online—complete with negotiation, photo retouch, and edited copy—was all of ninety minutes. A ten-minute delay to bitch at Tom could lose the sale.
I stood at the driver’s side automatically, hand on the handle and waiting for him to lean over and pop the lock. Randee stood with her hands in front of her.
“He’s not driving,” I said. I wasn’t getting in the back because he’d locked lips with her for fifteen minutes. That was already more explanation than she’d earned.
Pop.
I got in, and Tom and I did our thing. I snapped the camera from him and did quick forensics on the damage. The Canon was busted. The scratches and dings were nothing, but the hairline fracture across the front meant I’d have to buy a new body, and the lens was cracked. This would hurt to the tune of about seven thousand dollars.
“The memory card is shredded,” I said, reaching for the laptop and wifi.
Randee sat crammed against the door, hands in her lap. I still hadn’t heard her speak.
“I ran it through the internal.” He looked into the back. “There’s food and water in the cooler if you want.” He plugged in the cable. “You gross industry douche, I got you.”
“He’s not,” I said.
“Who are you defending?”
The picture came up. The angle could not have been more perfect. Michael was caught mid-camera grab, looking like an enraged, entitled little prince. The public loved seeing them rise and loved seeing them break. Tom was about to make a couple months’ rent and then some.
“Wait, Tom.”
He didn’t look up from his screen. “What?”
“I’m in the picture.”
He hit Send. “You wanna sign a release?”
“Tom!”
“What?”
“You don’t talk to me? You don’t ask me? It’s my camera, my face—”
“Your back.”
“You are an asshole.”
I knew Randee was back there. Her presence loomed like a video camera in a bedroom.
“It was a shot,” Tom protested. “You told me—”
“Don’t—”
“Get the shot if the shot can be got. That’s what you’ve always said.” He tossed me the keys. “Drive.”
“I told Leo we didn’t have our rigs.”
“You lied,” he said.
“You lied. You ‘borrowed’ my rig, and you lied. That is not cool. He could get fired.”
I’d never spoken to Tom like that because I’d never had to. He was fragile and passive, which explained too much of his childhood.
He straightened up and got onto the freeway. I faced front and stewed. He knew I wouldn’t cut him off, not for this infraction at least, but I didn’t know what to do with this level of rage. One, because he was my brother, but two, because the picture was going to net him a bundle, and I wouldn’t stop him from making a bunch of money. I was trapped by my own loyalties. But I wanted to punch him in the face because I was who I was.
“So what?” Tom said. “I’ll make a nice take on this, and I can buy you a new camera and dinner.”
“I lost my appetite,” I said, pulling away from the curb. “I am so mad at you. Do not speak to me again.”
“Come on, Laine.” He flicked my knee. “Let’s meet Irv. You can get mad at him.”
The sad thing was, Irv, our mentor, had joints that ached late in the night. He was probably already awake and would be happy to meet us at three in the morning.
“Oh, Irv is going to eviscerate you good.”
From the back, Randee snickered. I turned around. She just sat straight.
“You all right back there?” I asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled.
I did not trust that girl. I’d wanted to make things happen for Tom, and I had, but I determined that I’d never do that again. Nothing good could come from this.
We waited for his upload, and the calls started coming in. The heat on the picture and the story of the temper tantrum surrounding it was so hot, we had to pull over three times while Tom and Kill Photo negotiated the sale. Even though I wanted to strangle him, I made hand movements to communicate when he could ask for more money. If he was going to screw up, he should at least get paid for it.
It took us over an hour to even get to downtown, and by the time we hit club traffic on Olive Street, the picture was just about to go viral.
“Poor Michael,” I said.
“He broke your camera,” Randee said from the back.
I shrugged. “Still. It didn’t belong there.” I punched Tom in the arm for the tenth time. “You’re lucky about that nice payday.”
“Maybe the guy who threw it should replace it.”
“Don’t even…” I let myself drift off. Tom had to replace it, because there was no way Michael Greydon would lower himself to speak to me ever again, and that shouldn’t have bothered me. I didn’t need to talk to him to do my job. But he’d touched me, and I still felt the electricity of it. Jesus, I wanted him, and I hated myself for it.