Reunion Girls Read Online Free Page B

from a full-time position to a three-way with her stock analyst boyfriend. By the end of the holiday bash, they had exchanged business cards. By the first of the year, Babe had a new job— 212 's official nightlife photographer.
    There were worse gigs. Hell, she'd worked all of them. People from her graduating class were earning megabucks practicing law. They were being paged to surgery in major hospitals. And here Babe was, thankful to finally have a good salary with benefits. Her phone usually started ringing at noon with details about the night ahead. On a typical beat she would hit four events over the course of an evening.
    Somewhere between the first flash and the millionth, resentment had kicked in. There was so much wealth. Every gig reminded Babe of what she didn't have, and, at the rate she was going, what she would never be able to afford. But then the culture began to shift. And the opportunities began to present themselves. So many celebrity magazines. So many paparazzi shots needed to keep them in business.
    The world was operating on a whole new shutter speed. Reese Witherspoon glowing on the red carpet in Emanuel Ungaro was good. But Reese exiting a supermarket rest room with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her Adidas was better.
    Babe had been aware of the new order, but hardly paid attention—until a colleague earned ten thousand dollars for a one-off sale of Jennifer Lopez getting out of her Rolls Royce. That's when the trend captured Babe's full interest.
    There were things that she wanted for herself. Nicer clothes. A great apartment with a rooftop garden. Exotic vacations. Maybe even a weekend place in the country. She knew that true dedication to the task and a few lucky breaks could get her all of that and more.
    The trick was to avoid biting the hand that feeds you. If 212 ever found out that she was moonlighting as a paparazzo, then she would be over. So over. Banished from the A-list scene. Blacklisted from the masthead of credible magazines. She could just see herself after that, waiting at the airport with the other semi-psychotic pic hunters, drinking 200 ounces of Coke a day, boasting about her inside sources—doormen at the best hotels, Brad Pitt's body double, the jealous loser brother of a sitcom star. Such a scenario was imminently possible. That's why Babe executed her every move with paranoid caution.
    Babe set up a dummy corporation to facilitate payment, negotiated prices by e-mail, and launched an on-line file-transfer program that was accessible to buyers by password only.
    Tonight's Jane Bond routine was unusual. She only did the secret agent act on those rare occasions where the risk was worth the potential payout. Wedding photos of Dean Paul and Aspen could easily command a price in the low six figures. On a typical project, Babe kept a safe distance, turning out surveillance-quality pictures of the famous in captivating situations—Jennifer Garner calming her daughters in Central Park, Sarah Jessica Parker arguing with Matthew Broderick outside their apartment building, Emma Stone on Bleecker Street stuffing a Magnolia Bakery cupcake with pink icing into her mouth.
    "Hey, baby, can I see your backstage pass?"
    She jolted as Dean Paul's mellifluous voice shattered her reverie. His warm breath bathed her neck. The bastard was closer than skin. Babe smiled in spite of herself, turning to face him. "I don't need one. I'm with the band."
    He moved in to kiss her hello.
    Babe turned her head so that his lips met her cheek. It was bad enough that she already wanted to rip off his clothes. Why pile on the misery?
    "Those pants are in strict violation of the dress code," he teased, checking her out in an obviously approving way.
    She challenged him with her eyes. "So throw me out."
    "Nah . . . I don't want to cause a scene." He winked.
    She almost sighed. Damn him.
    "It's good to see you, Babe. It means a lot to me that you're here."
    "I'd be a fool to miss it," she said silkily. How