Shooting Stars Read Free

toward me. Me and my fauxPod. Keep turning, keep turning, keep turning, I send messages out to him via the universe.
    And he must receive them, because he keeps turning, just like I need him to.
    Snap, snap, snap. I start taking shots that will probably be useless because of the poor light, but I take them anyway, hoping I won’t miss a thing. And he’s still turning, turning, turning . . .
    Wait.
    Wait a minute.
    Something’s wrong.
    Now that Ned’s face is in full view, I keep clicking, because that’s what I was born to do, but all the while, my gut is telling me something’s not right. Something . . . huh . . . What is it?
    I can’t quite put my fi nger on it. It’s Ned all right, but it’s not him. He looks different. And it’s not an out- of- shape thing; it’s something else that stops me in my tracks. It’s his expression.
    There’s something about his eyes. About his face. I see so many stars up close every day, I’m familiar with their every glance: how they breathe, how they move, how they look at their partners (I’m an excellent breakup predictor).
    The thing is, I’d taken some shots of him last year— shots 10
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    that no one
    else had gotten—
    but the Ned Hartnett,
    here
    to night, I don’t know. There’s something that’s changed about him since I took those pictures, and it’s set off my radar. The drug rumors might not be looking like they’re very substantial, but there’s defi nitely something going on with this boy. A whole bunch of thoughts fl it through my head—
    cosmetic
    surgery? Nose job, maybe? Could be, though there was nothing wrong with his nose before. Not that having a perfectly fi ne nose has ever stopped anyone in Hollywood from getting a nose job, of course.
    Someone stalks in through the door after him. Fantastic.
    It’s his father. Matthew Hartnett is well known for being the pushiest parent- manager in the business and his title is well deserved. A few good shots under my belt, I lower my camera as he elbows his way in and blocks my view of his son.
    No one is interested in shots of Matthew Hartnett.
    I’m just about to shove my fauxPod back in my pocket when something that passes between father and son catches my eye. Fast as a whip, my gut tells me to bring it out again.
    And that’s when, only a few steps into the doorway and thirty seconds into the party he’s arrived at over two hours late, Ned Hartnett does the fakest faint I’ve ever seen and ends up lying spread- eagled on the marble fl oor.
    Ned Hartnett, what ever you’re up to, I think I love you.
    Snap, snap, snappity- snap.
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    2
    I manage to keep shooting right up until the ambulance arrives and Ned Hartnett is loaded onto a stretcher and carried outside. I get it all— his coming to, his father fretting over him, holding his hand, and asking people to step back every fi ve seconds (and lapping up every minute of the attention).
    Then there’s Ned being helped up onto his feet, plus his second faint as well, which, in my opinion, is even faker than the fi rst one.
    Over the year and a half I’ve been a paparazzo, I’ve seen plenty of actual fainting by women who’ve starved themselves for three days to fi t into a dress and then gone out and walked the red carpet, not quite making it all the way. Real fainting isn’t pretty. Real fainting is stumbling, eyes rolling 212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 12
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    back, and unfl attering fi nal poses. And Ned Hartnett? Well, funny how he does fainting quite prettily. It’s all very Sleeping Beauty, and, frankly, I’ve lived in LA too long to believe in fairy tales.
    I don’t bother following the stretcher outside. The hungrier paps are still out there with their real cameras that will take crystal- clear shots. My shots from