Chapter 8
670 Words
Chapter Eight
My brain was still swimming from Ramirez’s visit when the front door opened and my best friend, Leah Campbell, popped her head in. Despite the concern crinkling at the corners of her eyes and mouth, I smiled at the sight of her. Tired of the Sunshine Barbie nickname her co-workers at the newspaper had bestowed upon her, Leah recently rebelled by lopping off her long shimmering locks in favor of a shorter, spiky cut—which still made her adorable, but gave her more of an edgy, precocious appearance. Think Meg Ryan in Addicted to Love.
She offered me one of the iced lattes she was holding, then slipped a doggie treat from her pocket and tossed it into the air. Nicoh inhaled it without chewing, all while giving her one of his famous I-almost-had-to-wait looks. I took a long sip of my beverage before nodding in satisfaction and then proceeded to fill her in on my conversation with Ramirez. She said nothing until I finished, though her usually perky features were grim as she listened intently.
“You ok?” she asked after a long moment, self-consciously attempting to tuck a stray spike behind her ear, only to have it errantly jut in the opposite direction. “It’s a lot to digest for anyone, Ajax. Even you.”
She used the nickname she had given me years earlier. Not that I liked being compared to cleaning products but she had a point—despite my sometimes outwardly abrasive and direct nature, I always managed to get the job done.
I shrugged. I certainly didn’t feel like I was living up to my nickname today. I turned to the kitchen counter, where I had spread out the notes for my next photo assignment—a failed attempt at distracting myself from the day’s events.
“What’s this?” Leah asked, eyeing me carefully. “I thought you were going to take a couple of days off?”
“I was, but wallowing in self-pity doesn’t pay the bills or feed this gluttonous beast.” I scratched Nicoh behind his massive, downy-soft ears and was rewarded with a low whoo-whoo of approval.
“Besides,” I continued, “Charlie basically threatened me if I didn’t get the shots of his new Tempe Town Lake condo done.” I waved to the paperwork in front of me. “Apparently, he has a deadline for another hoity-toity magazine.”
Ahh…Charlie Wilson. My client. Born with a titanium spoon in his mouth. The spoiled grandson of a software magnate. Never worked a day in his life, but notorious for throwing very public, Oscar award-winning—or at the very least, Daytime Emmy award-winning—tantrums. And, to keep up appearances, the tantrums surfaced daily—sometimes even hourly—though thankfully, I hadn’t had the displeasure of being on the receiving end. Yet. I wasn’t inclined to make this the first time, either.
I should have been grateful Charlie had chosen me as his photographer. Of course, he had only done so because he felt we had history, if you could call attending the same high school history.
Our working relationship started at a party we both attended after returning from college—me from UCLA and Charlie from Harvard. While rekindling said history, Charlie generously offered to throw some work my way.
Charlie turned out to be more demanding and difficult than all my other clients combined, but his jobs not only paid the bulk of my bills, they provided me with the word-of-mouth needed to get my business off the ground.
At the time, I was appreciative, as I had recently started my freelance photography business, aptly named Mischievous Malamute after a few photoshoot mishaps featuring my canine companion. Thankfully, it had never been more than a couple of misplaced dinner rolls or uprooted props, but it was still embarrassing. In the end, naming the business after my companion seemed appropriate—not only as a warning to future clients but a reminder to myself to keep him in check while on location.
I sighed and returned my attention to Leah, who was still focused intently on me. She knew, just as I did, Charlie’s project provided a temporary distraction. I’d have to deal with Ramirez’s news sooner or later. Knowing me as she did, she decided sooner was better and jumped in head-first.
“What do you want to do, Ajax? And, more importantly, what can I do to help?”
- Writer
