“GET IT IN FOCUS THIS time, Lila . . . none of that grainy shit you sent me last week. I need to actually see what’s going down, or in this case, what’s entering what.”
“Ugh, thanks for that mental image, Moose,” I said with a grimace into my cell. “It’s bad enough I have to see that shit through my lens, I don’t need you constantly talking about it.”
“Quit your bitchin’ and get me some good shots. This one’s a high roller.”
“Got it, boss,” I replied, and pressed end on the call.
My boss may be a creepy, low-life PI, but he’d taken a chance on me when my douchebag ex left me high and dry. So even though I regularly gave him shit, he knew I’d do anything for him.
Especially if that meant a more lucrative paycheck.
That’s why I was currently scrunched down in my caravan outside a seedy hotel, a half-eaten sandwich on my lap and my camera at the ready.
Moose got the clients, then hired me to get the goods. This usually involved taking pictures of men, and women, having affairs, but sometimes it was as easy as following someone and snapping a shot of them being somewhere other than where they were supposed to be.
Being a wronged woman myself, I didn’t feel guilty about catching liars and cheaters in the act. I just wish I’d had an inkling that there were problems in my own marriage, and had thought to hire someone like Moose and me to get evidence against The Douche. Instead, I’d been clueless.
I thought my twelve-year marriage was perfect. I was a doting housewife, who’d loved raising our kids, keeping the house spic and span and having a hot meal ready for our family dinners every night. My husband made good money, we had a nice house, and we lived in a neighborhood where the kids could play outside and we didn’t have to worry.
Then, one day he was supposed to be out with his buddies watching the game at a local bar, and Elena, one of our twins, had a sharp pain in her stomach that wouldn’t quit. I got scared and tried to call him, but he didn’t answer. Since our town was small enough that I could drive around it in fifteen minutes, I packed the kids in the car and went to the bar.
Imagine my surprise when neither he nor his buddies were there. Figuring I got the place wrong, I activated the phone finder app I’d installed on all of our phones and ended up in the parking lot behind Starbucks.
Seeing some movement in his car, I told the kids I’d be right back and jogged over to the vehicle, which, although it didn’t register at the time, had foggy windows.
Filled with worry over our daughter, I didn’t think, I just acted, and yanked the car door open. That’s when I saw Slutty Shirley Finkle, legs spread wide, bare cunt lifted in the air, with my husband’s face buried nose deep inside.
“You mother-fucking son of a whore!”
Yup, I’m pretty sure those were the exact words I’d yelled in the Starbucks parking lot before snapping a picture with my phone and hightailing it out of there to take my kids to the hospital.
Now my kids and I lived in a shitty three-bedroom apartment in The Heights. I worked for Moose, and picked up shifts at my best friend Amy May’s bakery whenever I could. They saw their dad most weekends, while I avoided him at all costs.
He’d humiliated me, broken my trust, and made me feel like an idiot for having such blind faith in him all of those years. I hated everything about him. His blond wavy hair, his chiseled jaw, and the stupid way he looked in a perfectly tailored suit. I wanted no reminder of the life we had together, except for our beautiful children, of course, which was why I’d left all of our material possessions behind with him and the house we’d once shared.
And as I watched a slick-looking middle aged man guide a heavily breasted, much younger woman into the seedy motel, I thought, this one’s for the sisterhood. I pumped my fist as I watched them walk back out of the office and down a few doors, then got ready to strike.
First floor . . . nice.
At least this time I wouldn’t have to climb anything.
When I’d first started out, about ten months ago, I’d been woefully out of shape. After being chased down the street by a heavyset woman wearing only a teddy and almost getting tackled, I’d decided it would be in my best interest to join a gym and take up running.
It made all the difference. Sometime I had to get creative, but, knock on wood, I always got the shot . . . even if it was sometimes grainy.
Taking pictures of people in the act is actually easier than you might think. People are stupid. Especially the ones who think they’re untouchable, they’ll never get caught, and that their shit don’t stink.
I eased out of the van, looking around the mostly empty parking lot as I walked casually toward the door they’d entered. I even started whistling, just to make myself more conspicuous.
Hiding in plain sight actually worked.
“Thanks for leaving the curtains cracked,” I murmured as I slid up to the window, camera up and ready, and peeked inside.
Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for my pocketbook, they’d left the lights blaring and must have done some heavy petting in the car, because they were already going at it.
“Sixty-nine . . . classic.”
I snapped quickly, making sure their faces were in frame as I captured each lick, suck, slobber, and moan.
“Gross,” I grumbled as I hurried back to my car.
One of the downsides of the job was that it sometimes took hours to get the sordid visions out of my head. On occasions like these, there was one thing that helped ease my pain.
I needed a cupcake.
Always Room for Cupcakes, the Cupcake Series, book 1, is Now Available on all retailers!