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.”
Ignoring the mixed metaphor, I couldn’t argue with her point. I moved back to the stool where Micah had left me right as he showed up at my side. He laid his hand on my shoulder, familiar, and apologized for abandoning me. I happened to look up and caught Victoria’s face change from cool disdain to cold envy and realized I might have trumped her. I’d need to know who Mark Townsend was to say for sure. And I didn’t really care.
Micah saw my camera sitting on the bar, the viewfinder still lit up with a photo of Victoria. He winced playfully. “Sorry about this, but . . .” Then he turned to the room and raised his voice. “Excuse me. Everyone, this is Jo—” He hesitated and glanced at me.
“Wilder.”
I watched the inevitable reaction—lips pressed into a line, one eye squinted—as he searched for a hilarious joke, then fought the urge to crack it. He turned to face the room, his eyes lingering on mine until the last possible second. “Jo Wilder. She’s a reporter and a photographer. And she’s a guest. Please be on your best behavior, or whichever behavior you want to see in the morning paper.” He winked at me.
“So you don’t mind me taking pictures?” An echo of Victoria’s bitter spiel ran through my head. Of course he didn’t mind. I was free publicity, just like Andy had said. I didn’t know what I’d been thinking.
“Nah, but you’re gonna have a harder sell with my sister. Come on with me. All the fun people are downstairs.”
There’d been a dramatic uptick in the number of guests. The halls were harder to navigate, and we walked turned a little sideways. People stopped Micah every couple of feet. Hands slapped shoulders. Exclamations of greeting were exchanged. Introductions were made. This guy was a local congressman. That lady did the evening news.
I recognized some people. I’d already met or photographed some of them. They didn’t recognize me. Their eyes landed on my credentials before they looked in my face. The camera was more interesting still. I didn’t take any pictures. Andy wouldn’t like that, but Micah was pulling me forward, and I was curious to see what the basement held in store.
As we started down the stairs, Micah asked, “Do you like music?”
I snorted. “Who doesn’t like music?”
“You’d be surprised.” He offered his elbow again. I hadn’t needed help climbing down stairs since I was two, but I eagerly wrapped my hand around his arm. His bicep flexed, and he winked, letting me know he’d done it intentionally. In such close quarters, I could smell his skin. Feigning a slight stumble, I tightened my grip on him, and then as though readjusting, I slid my hand down his arm to better feel his muscle.
Involuntarily, my eyes rolled at my own ridiculous reaction to this guy. I’d met honest-to-God celebrities before. I’d met senators. I grew up surrounded by notable notables on account of my dad. I couldn’t remember ever being starstruck. And Micah Sinclair was barely a star.
If anything, he acted as though I were someone worthy of attention. He made me feel like I was someone. But somehow I got the impression he had that effect on everyone. I repeated Andy’s admonition, reminding myself that these people didn’t really care about me. Without publicity, they’d cease to exist—and I was the publicity. Tonight I was nothing more than Micah’s personal paparazza.
The basement turned out to be a recording studio, but so crowded with people, it might as well have been a frat house. Snatches of music drifted over the chatter, coming from one corner. I stood on my toes to try to see who was playing.
He gestured to his shoulders, “You want me to lift you up?”
That elicited a rather unladylike snort. “Do you think anyone would notice?”
We began to move toward the sound. I no longer had any reason to be latched onto Micah’s arm, but when I let go, he caught my hand in his and led me across the room.
As we weaved through groups of people, he asked me. “So who’s your favorite musician?”
“Of all time? Or current?”
“If I say ‘of all time,’ what are the chances you’ll say my name?”
Without hesitation, I said, “Micah Sinclair.” I could flirt, too.
He squeezed my hand. “I won’t ask you to name one of my songs. You can do that next time, and I’ll pretend you already knew.”
I looked away from him, so I wouldn’t have to admit he was right. I swore I’d remedy that.
When we reached the other side of the room, we came upon Adam Copeland strumming a guitar and singing. I figured he might be there, but I hadn’t seen him come in, and it took me by surprise to find him hanging out like any normal guy. Micah was a bit of a fascination in the tabloids, but Adam was the real deal. I stood in the presence of a huge rock star.
But as weird as it was to see someone that famous in this intimate setting, it didn’t make me feel anywhere near as nervous as I’d been moments ago making small talk with Micah.
Adam didn’t notice us as he sang quietly without an audience or a microphone. Only his guitar carried into the room past a few feet, but as close as we were, I could hear his voice, too. Another voice wove in, and I located Eden, standing in the shadows, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed, and she was harmonizing with Adam, but it was as if she sang to herself. I wasn’t used to musicians, and I gaped, completely awed listening to them create something so private right there in the chaotic cacophony.
As the song ended, her eyes opened slowly like she was reluctant to come out of a sweet dream. Adam put the guitar down and jumped up. He took two steps and pressed her up against the glass separating them from a soundproof booth as if the song served as some kind of aphrodisiac. I worried these two were about to share an even more intimate moment surrounded by partygoers.
Micah reached over and picked up the guitar. When he hit a chord, Adam drew away from Eden and looked over. His face lit up. “Micah! When did you get here?”
Maybe Andy was right. If I were cut out for this, I’d have thought to get pictures of Adam and Eden lip-locked in that hot embrace. By the time it occurred to me, it was too late.
The expression Eden shot at Micah was equal parts frustration and forbearance—until she saw me. Then storm clouds gathered. “Micah, what’s she doing here? Isn’t it enough you’re dating your groupies? Do you have to feed the strays as well?”
My camera bag weighed my shoulder down, as if I carried a baby elephant in there. I hadn’t taken a private picture of her when I could have. She had no reason to be angry with me. And yet, I felt like I should leave.
Micah swung an arm around my shoulders, protective. “Hey. You need to remember that reporters are people, too.”
She scoffed. “You need to remember that they are not your friends, Micah. She’s probably looking for an angle right now that she can sell to her editor.”
She wasn’t wrong. In fact, I worried I’d never be allowed to take my camera out now that she’d seen me.
Micah retracted his arm and lifted his hands, palms up. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Eden wasn’t having it. “Like they care. You of all people should know she’ll twist reality if she can’t find any actual dirt.”
“But Eden, she might have some good in her yet.” He elbowed her, and any doubts I had these two were siblings dissipated. “If you could save just one, wouldn’t you want to try?”
She burst out laughing, and her face transformed into a radiant beauty. No wonder she’d hooked Adam Copeland. “I’d love to see one of them redeemed. It would be one less soulless bloodsucker in circulation. But I don’t think she came here to be converted. Your mission is doomed to failure, my friend.”
I felt like I should say something in my defense. After all, I hadn’t asked to come inside. But before I could open my mouth, Micah followed through with his request. “Let her shoot pictures tonight, okay? It’ll be fine. I’ve already cleared it with Hervé—as long as you give your blessing.”
The laughter she’d shared with Micah melted off her face. She sucked on her lip for a minute, then appraised me. “You’ve got three options.” She held out her index finger. “First, you can pack up and leave.”
She was so tiny, I could have laughed, but right then, I thought she might bite my face off, so I nodded to let her know I was listening.
Her middle finger joined the first, making a sideways peace sign. “Second, you can leave your camera with me and enjoy the party.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t relinquish my camera. For one thing, it wasn’t mine.
“Third, you can move around and shoot any pictures you want. But there’s a catch. And if you don’t agree to my terms, I’ll personally escort you out. Okay?”
I swallowed hard. “Sure.” It came out a croak. I glanced over at Adam, standing with his fist covering his mouth like he was trying to hide his laughter. I wondered if he was laughing at me or Eden.
She started over with her index finger. “First, you will let me see everything on your camera before you leave here. Anything I don’t like, you’ll let me delete.”
Damn, she liked lists. I wondered if I should tell her I could upload pictures to our server via a hot spot on my phone periodically anytime I wanted, so waiting until the end of the night to check my pictures was going to be pointless. But I agreed and actually meant it. I could tell Andy I didn’t have good service if he’d even hung around this late on a Friday night.
“Second, you will not alter any of the pictures in any way that would change the context in any meaningful way. I understand you need to clean them up, but you will post nothing intentionally misleading.”
I could make that promise for myself, but Andy liked to frame a photo with a context meant to lure readers. He specialized in rampant speculation.
But Eden wasn’t a fool and said, “Those are my conditions. I recognize that you can agree to them and then do whatever it is you do. But if you break your word, it will be the last time you come to any party I’m at.”
I nodded. “No problem. And thank you.”
With Eden’s permission to shoot the party, I wanted to start moving around, but Micah stuck to my side like a chaperone. Every time I’d lift my camera to get a candid shot of a group of people, Micah would tap one of them and say, “Hey, guys. Say cheese!” Then he’d throw an arm over someone’s shoulder and smile perfectly. Confirming my fears that his true interest lay in my camera, Micah insinuated himself into every single shot. But if he hoped to show up in the morning paper, he was wasting his energy. Unless any of the others revealed themselves to be Banksy or Daft Punk unmasked, I didn’t expect Andy would use any of these posed pictures.
Yet, I followed Micah from group to group, my lip firmly caught between my teeth as I fought the urge to ask him to let me work alone. After all, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have been there.
Besides, despite my frustration with the results of my labor, I didn’t mind Micah’s company one bit. Even if he hadn’t so brazenly photobombed every picture, my camera would have sought him out on its own. He was the prettiest thing in the room.
After a short time, I ran out of people in the basement to capture. I certainly didn’t need twenty identical posed pictures, so I leaned against the wall to flip through what I’d gotten and see if I could identify anyone worth seeking out later. Most everyone appeared to be musicians which—with the exception of Broadway musicals—wasn’t my scene at all.
Micah apparently didn’t intend to lose sight of his pet paparazza and peered over my shoulder. “So how’d you get into this business?”
The back of his hand brushed against my arm, standing every hair on end, and I inched away for fear of succumbing to a crazy, dead-end infatuation. “My dad’s a photographer. He taught me everything he knew—when he was around.” I flipped through the last few pictures. “Unlike him, I can’t make a living off my photos yet. That’s where you come in.” I looked up to find him hunched over my camera.
His eyes met mine, and my perfidious heart fluttered. “What kinds of photos do you like to take? I’m guessing since you came to New York, you’re not interested in capturing nature in its wildest state.”
Nobody at work had ever bothered to ask me, and they’d be horrified at my silly answer anyway. “To be honest, I like to capture people at their most vulnerable.” When Micah frowned, I realized that made me sound like the worst kind of paparazzo. “No, I don’t mean—”
“Micah!” A short, rotund man whose face was mostly mustache slapped Micah’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Of course! Hervé, this is Josie Wilder. She’s the photographer I told you about. Jo, meet Hervé, our host and the best drummer in the world.”
We shook hands. “You’re Hervé? Your place is incredible.”
Hervé tipped an invisible hat. “Micah’s not making you work, is he?”
Micah nudged me with his shoulder. “I’m not making her do anything. She’s one with her camera.”
Hervé winked. “Micah will co-opt all your time if you don’t watch him. But you’re in luck. I need to borrow him away for a bit. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I had a compulsive urge to bear hug him. Micah was impossibly sweet, and he tempted me to ditch my camera and enjoy his company, but I couldn’t afford to squander this opportunity. I needed just one fortuitous shot to appease my boss.
Before Hervé pulled Micah away, he asked, “Can I at least bring you something to drink?”
“Um, sure. Some water would be fine.”
With Micah gone, I moved around like a deer hunter, seeking out camouflage and trying to blend into the woodwork and eavesdrop on conversations, hoping to hear anything I might be able to carry home to Andy and lay on his doorstep like a dead mouse. But nobody was confessing infidelity or plans for divorce. It might have been too early or else my presence had them on high alert, but every snippet of conversation I overheard was innocuous and useless to me.
“No, I didn’t go to the VMAs this year.”
“How are you enjoying South Hampton?”
“My wife and I went on that cruise line two years ago.”
I inched around to where we’d first encountered Adam playing guitar and settled in to shoot pictures from that angle. A movement in the soundproof booth caught my eye. Adam leaned against the wall, gazing intensely into Eden’s eyes. When my shutter snapped, they couldn’t hear it.
He brushed a strand of hair off her face. Click click. His hand stopped at the back of her head and clutched her hair in his fist. Click click. Her hand came up and grabbed his. Her engagement ring caught the light. Click click. They stared at each other like they were seeing each other for the first time. A pang of jealousy hit me. I’d never felt anything close to that kind of connection to another person. They were so obviously in love. Click click.
Then Adam stepped back and laid his hand on Eden’s stomach, caressing. He said something, directed at her midsection. Click click.
He leaned down and pressed his ear against her belly, as if listening for a second heartbeat.
I dropped my camera, and the strap pulled taut against my neck.
Oh, my Lord.