Money Shot (5 page)

"My days as a Hollywood
paparazzi are over. I will not invade the privacy of celebrities
any longer. I would encourage those I have worked with to consider
this, and suggest they use their photographic talents to create
beautiful pictures instead."

Questions followed, and
Roxanne handled them all like a kid going to confession.

Bless me Father, for I
have sinned.

The crowd didn’t even want
to give her a penance when she was done.

You know, this acting
thing isn't so tough after all.

***

The producer wore a
crisply pressed cream linen suit as he walked across the hotel
lobby. The Cayman Islands were a long way for Hal Keller to go for
a story, but in this case it was worth it.

Besides, anything to do
with Desmona Jackson could be turned into a month long series and
boost ratings by three share points. The thirty year old executive
producer of the most popular entertainment television show knew
viewers couldn't get enough of Desmona Jackson.

Keller headed outside
toward the pool, enjoying the warm breeze. He looked like any other
well-to-do tourist, tall and handsome, meeting a pretty girl at the
pool.

He spotted her at the far
end, a raven-haired beauty reclining on a teak chair, reading a
book in the shade.

She looked up as he grew
closer. "Glad you could make it. Have a good flight?"

"Of course. Took the
network jet."

"You ought to stay
awhile." She patted the empty chair next to her as she sat up. He
couldn't help but admire her toned, petite body.

"I can't stay, Roxanne.
Especially if you've got what you say you've got."

"And this time I made
several copies. But what the heck, I'll show you the
original."

She grabbed a cell phone
from her purse, flipped it open, and pressed a button. "Might wanna
get some popcorn."

Hal Keller took the phone
and saw a poorly framed shot of a hotel room occupied by Desmona
Jackson and Nicole Wine. His eyes grew wide as he heard the
revelation that would rock Hollywood for the second time in a
month.

"So the rumors
are
true. She paid you
off."

"Uh-huh. Didn’t matter,
she'd managed to destroy the original photos anyway. She gave me
exactly what I got from the Grapevine. I just had to agree to leave
the state and never take her picture again."

"So how did you get
this?"

"I wore a bogus wire when
we met. I knew they'd sweep me, and sure enough some flunky found
what he thought was a working mike. All the time I had my cell
phone camera rolling. It was in the outside pocket of my purse,
plain as day."

"Roxanne, this is really
good stuff."

"That's why I called you
first. Wanted to give you a chance to pre-empt the other
bidders."

"How much do you
want?"

"How much you
got?"

"C'mon, Rox, don't make me
play those games." He looked into her eyes and saw supreme
confidence, and the poker game was over before it started. She knew
his network had bottomless pockets when it came to the
entertainment division.

"So, you gonna start the
bidding," she said, grabbing her phone, "or shall I make a few
overseas calls?"

Keller put up his hand.
"Okay, Okay. I can go one point five million."

"Which means you can go
two. You can have it right now for two. Only condition is that you
can never reveal I'm the source."

"Done."

Roxanne leaned back and
flagged down a hunky waiter who was carrying a tray of cocktails
with little umbrellas in them. "Two," she said. The waiter handed
them each a drink, then Roxanne signed the ticket.

"Thanks, Rox," said
Keller.

"I can afford it," said
Roxanne. She hoisted her drink toward him, "To money
shots."

***

"He'll see you now, Miss
Jackson."

"Thank you."

Desmona Jackson got up and
headed toward the producer's door. The perfectly coiffed blonde
secretary held it open for her. She moved into the room and found
three men behind a conference table. The room featured a panoramic
view of Los Angeles, floor to ceiling windows running the length of
the corner office.

"Desmona, nice to see
you," said Producer Steve Ballantine. "How you holdin'
up?"

"Fine," she said, lying.
"It's been an… interesting month."

"Yes it has," said
Ballantine. "I understand that your studio has dropped
you."

She bit her lower lip and
nodded.

"Well, perhaps their loss
is our gain. We have a script we'd like you to consider. It's an
'R' rated picture… we've done some focus groups and it turns out
men have no problem seeing you in a more, shall we say, adult
situation."

He handed her a script.
She looked at the title.

Shooting Star.

How
appropriate.

"So," said Ballantine,
"will you at least consider it?"

"I'm very interested,"
said Desmona. "Gotta give the people what they want,
right?"

"That's Hollywood," said
Ballantine.

Desmona nodded. "That it
is."

Copyright 2011 © N.J. Harlow

If you enjoyed Money Shot, check out the
following excerpt from N.J. Harlow’s novel...

"Rom-Com"

by N.J. Harlow

I used to think I was Eve in a previous
life. But then again, if that were true, I would have made the
serpent eat the apple.

Doesn't really matter. These days, no Adam
stands a chance against me.

Because I'm the new keeper
of the Garden of Eden. Right now it's known as a television news
network. I, Sydney Hack, a/k/a
Neutron
Syd
, (Okay, okay, so I've fired a few
people) have been running it for a year and a half.

And the ratings have not budged one inch
with news anchored by the pageant fembots. If they don't move in
six months, I'm out of a job.

That scraping sound you hear? Someone
upstairs sharpening the guillotine.

Sydney Hack, white courtesy phone, please.
Your career is calling.

Time for a pre-emptive strike.

So I'm changing the rules tonight. I'm going
to start giving our target demographic, women over thirty, what
they really want.

And what they want on their "to-do" list is
on his way from the front door. He struts, as if in slow motion, a
chiseled six-foot-two trophy buck with tousled black hair and a
chin that could carve granite. I cross my legs and playfully rock a
Kelly green four-inch heel on my toe and smile, calling my dimples
and high cheekbones into service as he makes his way through the
crowded, dimly-lit restaurant. The brass rails and colorful tiffany
lamps are suddenly painted in sepia tones as his powder blue eyes
stand out like they were surrounded by black velvet. His five
o'clock shadow is a light brush stroke of virility.

Members of my target demographic drool,
posture dramatically improves as c-cups raise their hands for
attention, and forks are suspended in midair over crème brulee as
he passes. I can see it in their eyes as they note my bar stool is
his destination.

He's ten years younger than her.

Why not me?

And I know he's the key to the ratings.

Damn, it's so simple. Robbing the cradle.
Age inappropriate. Cougar newscast. Or call it whatever. Older
woman, younger man.

I shove my long copper tangles back behind
one ear, widen the eyes that have been dipped in the Caribbean
(thanks to the kind folks at Eye-World, with several convenient
locations to serve you) and stand to greet him, my heels taking my
five-ten slender frame up to his level. I'm the long-stemmed Red
Queen of the Garden.

Scott Harry extended his hand. "Good to see
you again, Ms. Hack." His deep, smooth voice flowed, the edges of
the words smoothed over as they segued into one another.

"Sydney, please," I said, sliding back onto
the stool. "Our table won't be ready for a half-hour. Would you
like a drink?"

"Never drink on a job interview," he said,
smiling, dimples to match mine, then hopping up onto a bar stool.
He leaned toward me, and the faint scent of his Polo cologne
followed.

"The interview was this afternoon," I said.
"This is the negotiation."

He tried to hold back a smile, but couldn't.
The twenty-nine year old Ken-Doll didn't have a poker face. "So,
you're making me an offer?"

"Well, I'm still considering two other
candidates." I paused, watched the color drain from his face as if
I had pulled a plug.

Gotcha.

I ran my eyes up and down his body. "But I
like what I see." I turned my attention to my glass of bourbon and
took a sip. "Your agent tells me you've been looking for an anchor
gig for awhile."

"The job market's tough."

"Well, to be brutally honest, your reporting
skills aren't the best."

His head dropped.

Okay, he's ready to
swallow the hook
.

"But you're a decent enough anchor for our
purposes." The head raised up, a hint of hope crept back into those
powder blues. I downed the rest of the drink in one gulp and
checked my watch. "Tell you what, Scott. I don't feel like waiting
here thirty minutes for dinner, and the service is slow anyway. I’m
thinking room service."

He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

I reached into my beaded bag, pulled out a
Mont Blanc pen, and grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on the
bar. "Tell you what, if you want to continue our negotiations,
here's my room number at The Plaza." I wrote 1634 on the napkin and
slid it over to him. "If not, well, I'm sure you'll have a nice
career in Indianapolis."

His face remained a twisted puzzle. "Ms.
Hack… are you--"

Geez, the man needs a road
map
.

But, if the other head
works and he can read a teleprompter, I'm good to
go
.

I slid my toe inside one cuff of his slacks,
gently running it up his shin. "If you want the job, just bring
yourself to my room. I need to check your… references."

I hopped off the barstool, smoothed my short
green halter dress and headed out, zigzagging through the
tables.

Watching my target demographic look at me
like I was nuts.

I had them.

And I was pretty sure I had him.

Two hours later, his references checked
out.

\***

As an attractive 38-year-old woman, I didn't
need focus groups or expensive research to know what women want in
a newscast.

They sure as hell don't want a blonde
pageant fembot who is prettier than they are.

And they don't want to feel past their
prime.

So here's a newsflash for the next
generation. I'm giving them news delivered by a woman who is one of
them. Middle aged, smart, experienced, attractive.

And for dessert on this news buffet, male
eye candy.

But not just any confection. They want a
late twenty-something with a body so hard you could give him an
hour-long massage and a bottle of wine and still bounce quarters
off his ass. A guy with a chiseled face and a smile that can melt a
heart. Eyes that can look through the camera and caress a soul.
Buffed shoulders that could easily carry you into the bedroom.

And they want that sitting on the anchor
desk next to a woman…

Just.

Like.

Them.

They want to know a woman on the back nine
still has a chance against the fembots.

Yes, we're still interested in sex. We're
mature, not crypt keepers.

Our drivers licenses may say we're over
thirty, but the libido is still in high school.

For years, male news executives had their
casting couch.

Now it's our turn.

And when you've got an anchor in your stable
like Scott Harry, well, membership has its, uh… privileges.

Weekly.

***

The female-owned network that hired me as
Vice-President of the News Division gave me carte blanche my first
day, but thanks to the incredible ratings spike provided by Scott
Harry in his first month, I've been upgraded to platinum.

The powers that be want me to take the woman
on top theme co-anchor theme national, opening chapters in our
other three affiliates in Los Angeles, Chicago, and Dallas. (They
don't know about my current "benefits package" that has Scott on my
to-do list, and as long as the ratings stay up, they won't
care.)

Thank goodness I was smart enough to hire
women as News Directors for those stations.

All between 35 and 40.

All intelligent, attractive and single.

May as well give you a lineup card as I lead
the gals who will change the face of the news business into our
conference room, for those of you scoring at home. And if you're
not, you should be. (If there were a drummer in my office, I would
call for a rim shot after that one.)

"Tawk to me, Syd," said Rica,
coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes searching my face for more
information and somehow getting female-only telemetry that I'd
gotten an infusion of y-chromosomes the night before. "Did'ja have
a pahty afta woik?" she asks, in an accent sharp enough to slice a
stale bagel. One perfectly plucked eyebrow goes up like an extra
question mark. The girl does love details.