KissnTell

Chapter 10

ANAIS MARTEL'S LET'S-AMBUSH-THE-PAPARRAZZI SCHOOL OF GETTING INTO CLUBS

Anais

 

 

I knew exactly what I was doing. I'd seen enough crackpot eighties movies to come up with a plan, fast. I made my way over to the group of photographers, doing my best to keep my head held high. I may have been inexperienced, but I knew to exude confidence. People are more likely to take you seriously if you believe in yourself. I made that my temporary mantra as I drew near a guy who looked about my age and was wearing a white t-shirt and banged up jeans.

The first thing I noticed was that he was really, really hot. And I don't say that often. Ryan Phillippe in 54. Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. And that's pretty much it. The second thing I noticed was the way he looked at me, scanning my whole frame, his eyes wide and hungry. It made me feel naked, even more than the silly transparent top Vaughn talked me into buying. His hair was light brown and a little bit sun- kissed, particularly the stubble surrounding his lips. His lips. They were full and plushy and smiling at me, I noticed. I took a deep breath, tucking some hair behind my ear.

"Hi," I said, approaching him.

"Hi," he replied, grinning at me. Why was he grinning at me? I hadn't even said anything yet.

"Listen," I started, "can you do me a favor?" He furrowed his brow, crossing his arms over his chest. I pointed to Vaughn. "That girl over there, she's my client. I'm her, um, publicist," I said, trying to keep it together. He stared at me blankly. "You don't recognize her?" I asked. He shook his head. "She's the new face of Burberry," I offered. "Vaughn Francis?" He shrugged. I laughed nervously. "That's okay," I said, leaning closer to him and whispering, "she's kind of a bitch."

"She looks like one," he stated plainly, appraising her.

"Right, well. She's kind of ... annoyed no one's taking her photograph."

"Hm."

"Yeah. So, could you do me this favor, just bite the bullet and, uh, take her picture?"

He shifted his weight, regarding Vaughn, then me. He smiled and took a step closer to me. I could smell his sweat. It was salty, like the ocean. "I don't believe you," he whispered.

I swallowed, stunned. "What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound innocent.

He smirked. "If you want me to take your friend's picture so you can get into the club, just say so."

My eyes widened. I suppressed a smile. A warm sensation spread through my chest. "Okay," I said weakly. "I'm saying so."

He smiled, holding up his camera. "What's her name?" he whispered.

"Vaughn Francis," I said.

He brought the camera to his face and shouted her name. Like a shot in the dark, the rest of the photographers reacted instantly, poised behind their lenses, overwhelming Vaughn with flashes. For a second she stood stunned like a deer in headlights, but quickly caught on. Vaughn kept her head down, strutting past them and into the club as I scurried in her wake, taking a moment to mouth the words thank you to the hot photographer.

We had made it. We were in.

The second we crossed the threshold, Vaughn turned to me, her eyes bugging out of her skull. I'm pretty sure she shrieked—her smile was so wide I could see her tonsils—but I couldn't hear a thing over Vampire Weekend blaring from the speakers. She did a mini-jump for joy, gripping my hands, and I smiled. It was nice to see her so happy after the past few weeks.