Paparazzi: A Rock and Love story (Roadies Series Book 2)

by Erika Vanzin

  I look at him without being able to say a word. Some of the assumptions I’ve had for years begin to vanish, taking with them some of the anger and hatred that was tearing me up inside.

  *

  “So, she does it because she needs money?” I ask Lilly.

  She’s just called me after doing the interview with Iris. At first, I was mad at her for still wanting to do it despite knowing the truth, but I finally gave in when I realized she wanted to find out why Iris was in the alley outside their house.

  “Yes, she was candid with me. She is simply a girl who decided to be a paparazzo instead of becoming an escort. From what I understand, she needs a lot more money than a normal job pays, and she chose this path. She seems like a really nice girl. Imagine, during the interview, she made no reference to the Jailbirds. Luke, Martin, and Taylor are crazy about her.”

  “Really?” My surprise is so evident that Lilly chuckles amusedly.

  “I’m serious. She was very professional, and it was delightful to talk to her.”

  The guilt that assaults me for the way I treated her almost makes me faint, forcing me to move away from the window where I’m admiring Manhattan to sit in the armchair that looks like the Space Shuttle. Iris is a paparazzo. She’s the one who sold out Michael. She’s the one who climbed a fire escape to take pictures of my friends and then sell them. I’ve always hated paparazzi. I’ve always hated what they did to Michael, what she did to Michael. This awareness has been tearing my heart apart for three days, trampling over any other feelings I’ve had for her. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I shouldn’t feel like a jerk for not going to see how she’s doing. I shouldn’t have felt so scared when I saw her crushed by dozens of people.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that she lied to me.” I become defensive, and I hate myself for it.

  Lilly inhales deeply, and I’m sure if she was here instead of on the phone, she’d have punched me already. “Thomas, think about before you found out. Do you really think she wanted to exploit you? She didn’t even give you her phone number. You followed her, remember that. And now she can’t possibly take any pictures of you because her camera is destroyed. I don’t think she has the money to buy another one. She walked out of the café crying when we spoke about it. I think that’s really the only job that keeps her alive.”

  The sigh I let out expresses all the guilt invading my stomach and brain. “All you need is a cell phone to take a picture.” I continue with my idiotic defense like a kid who no longer has an argument to stand on.

  “Thomas, don’t make me come over and kick your ass. Don’t be an asshole. She doesn’t deserve that.” Lilly’s voice is annoyed and amused at the same time.

  “I know, I know. You don’t need to scold me.”

  “Then don’t act like an idiot.”

  I smile and shake my head. Since this girl entered our lives, it’s been like a breath of fresh air. “Alright, go back to Damian. We spent so much time on the phone it’s going to be him kicking my ass. And I’m sorry to say I’m a lot more scared of that.” She hates it when I tell her she wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Lilly snorts and, in response, hangs up without even saying goodbye. I smile and look out the window, partly relieved, partly weighed down by guilt. On top of that, I’m worried because Lilly said Iris was in really bad shape this morning. Last night, after seeing her get trampled by all those people and then transported to the hospital unconscious, I spent the evening glued to the news for fear that she was seriously hurt or even dead. For the first time I have no idea what happened at an event—and not because I was drunk.

  I turn to the kitchen and see the mountain of cookies I baked after my conversation with Michael. I’ve already decorated about fifty of them, and I haven’t even made a dent in the pile. “Claire is gonna kill me this time,” I whisper to myself thinking about the mess I’ve made.

  ‘Claire, I have a few dozen cookies to donate,’ I text her.

  She answers right away: ‘I had to take the last ones to New Jersey because no one in Manhattan wants them anymore. Please stop! I’ll pay for your therapy but stop baking cookies!’

  I burst out laughing because I can just see her, grandchildren in tow, bringing cookies to all the homeless shelters on the East Coast, muttering like a grandmother who no longer knows how to rein in her grandson.

  I grab my laptop and check out the location of electronics stores in Manhattan. To my surprise, I find one not too far from here. I call Max and, when he gets here, I ask him to drive me there.

  *

  I walk to the door of her building, noticing one of the bars in the window has been damaged in an attempt to force it. The more I spend time in this neighborhood, the more I realize it’s a long way from the safe streets I’m used to living in.

  The usual smell of urine welcomes me in the lobby, making my nose wrinkle. The blankets near the stairs where Charlie sleeps prove that he, in fact, lives here, among the cockroaches and dirt, he’s not just passing by. He’s even got a small suitcase in the corner with his stuff in it. No building with a decent property manager would have allowed such a thing. Making my way up to the third floor, I peek down the other hallways. Garbage in the corners, a bicycle without wheels resting on a wall, and an eviction notice on one of the doors. Only if you’re desperate to save money would you look for a roof over your head in this place. I’m a perfect idiot. How did I not notice? How did it not occur to me that someone who lives in a dump like this does not have any money? After all, when we were just out of prison, without a penny, we lived in places like this too.

  I breathe deeply. I take courage and knock on Iris’s door. I hear the sound of the latch, then the door opens a few inches until the chain strains.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The answer dies on my lips when I see the tension on her face, like she’s not particularly happy to see me. I certainly can’t blame her. The last time I spoke to her, I was extremely rude and told her I would have her arrested. I look down at the floor, shaking my head, and exhale a disappointed sigh. The moment she closes the door, my heart sinks into my stomach. I almost turn around to leave when I hear the sound of the latch, and she appears wrapped up in a jumble of clothing. Holy cow! Her face is bruised and swollen, and her shoulder is in a sling. Lilly told me she had obvious bruises, but I had no idea the extent of her injuries until now.

  “Can I come in?” I ask ashamedly.

  Iris hesitates for a second, then she steps aside and lets me walk in, closing the door behind us.

  Dexter catches up with me and rubs on my pants, purring. “And how are you?” I ask him, lowering and scratching his back.

  Iris beckons me to sit on one of the two stools, and I gladly accept. Better than standing like a jerk in the middle of her house.

  “Do you want coffee?” she asks, pointing to the machine.

  I gladly accept. I notice her tampering with the pot, grumbling, exasperated when she can’t turn on the faucet. I get up and help her. At first, she stiffens but then makes room for me by pointing to the cupboard where I find the coffee I bought her a few days ago. I take a few seconds to look in the cabinet and see only the stuff I bought her. How could I not notice that basic things like food are missing in this house? I was so focused on her I didn’t see anything else.

  Iris looks at me from a distance. Neither of us talk and, while we wait for the hot liquid to fill the pot, I observe my surroundings. Most of her stuff looks like discarded objects which she painstakingly restored. Iris has done a great job of making it all look presentable, but when you look a little closer, you see the curtains are worn and ripped in some places, the bookshelves are made of old vegetable boxes held together by metal wire. Most of the containers are nothing more than boxes of food cleaned and used for other purposes, like storing brushes. Or canned food tins used as pots for plants. Nothing in this place is new.
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  “You never told me what you’re doing here,” she says when we finally both sit at the table.

  I scratch my neck and take a deep breath. “I was really worried about you when I saw them take you away in an ambulance the other night,” I admit with sincerity.

  Iris smiles and shakes her head slightly. “Really? Because I must have missed your messages asking me how I’m doing,” she reproaches, irritated.

  I’m ashamed because I deserve it, but I can’t tell her. “I couldn’t text because I don’t have your number.”

  A smile slips from her lips as she lowers her gaze and shakes her head annoyed. “Lilly didn’t either, yet she found a way to message me not even half an hour after the accident. Try another excuse.”

  I look down because I don’t know what to answer. I know I was an asshole, but I was pissed off. I felt betrayed, and these are things I can’t get over by snapping my fingers.

  I feel her inhale with difficulty and, when I look up, she seems less angry. She seems almost resigned. “Did you come here just for this? You could have asked Lilly.”

  “I spoke to her, but she didn’t reassure me much. I wanted to see with my own eyes how you are. Anyway, I didn’t come here just to find out about your condition. I also have this,” I tell her, raising the bag I’d brought and put aside when I got here. I place it on the table in front of us.

  Iris peeks in it and, after a puzzled moment, widens her eyes as if diamonds were inside. “Beautiful, is it yours?”

  I frown, surprised. “No, it’s for you. I know yours broke. I thought you’d like to have another one.”

  Iris looks up sternly at me, and I see she’s not pleasantly impressed by my gesture. “I don’t want your charity. What is it with you? You think I live like Charlie in the basement? With a filthy blanket and clothes that smell like urine?” She gets up and goes to the sink and spills her cup out, then turns and leans on the counter, annoyed. I expected anything but this reaction.

  “It’s not charity. It’s just that I thought you’d like it. You work with your camera, and I thought... I don’t know, I guess it’s my way of telling you that I accept what you do. I talked to Michael, and he opened my eyes about what happened. I’ve been harboring anger for so many years, and maybe that wasn’t the only feeling I had to carry. But until he showed me the situation from another perspective, I was mad at you, period. So I’m apologizing,” I snap, annoyed by her reaction to a gesture that was meant to be positive.

  “Not everyone needs a superstar to give them gifts. People can survive without the help of ridiculously rich people’s charity. I don’t want your pity. What am I? Your new social project?” She continues angrily as if she hadn’t heard a word I said.

  “No, you’re not my new project!” I get angry too, more hurt than annoyed. “I just wanted to do something nice.”

  “You got mad because I lied to you, but who are you? The sweet and caring Thomas I knew until three days ago or the ruthless man who threatened me in front of my house and didn’t let me explain?” she screams angrily, and her tone pisses me off.

  I burst into exasperated laughter. “Are you really reducing it to this level? Do we want to compare who’s done the most damage? Because I’d like to point out that you’re no saint either. And as much as you need money, what you did was petty, even if the consequences worked out well for everyone. And you know what? Hell, if you want that camera, good. Otherwise, throw it away, sell it, do whatever you want!”

  I stand up furiously and stomp out the door, slamming it behind me.

  Red Velvet Curtains Interview!

  Hi, Roadies!

  The wait is over. Finally, you’re going to know what the Red Velvet Curtains confessed to me during our interview. We covered some powerful topics, some of them inspiring their most meaningful songs.

  Q: Your song, “I Will Rise Stronger,” that we heard at the festival, talks about bullying. As you shared yourself from that same stage, it’s based on your personal experience with this topic. Is this a commentary about the society in which we live?

  A (Lilly): More than commentary, it’s the desperate cry of a victim who can no longer bear to be crushed. The experience I had when I was only fifteen years old has marked me deeply. Bullying is something that changes your life and transforms you. It can make you stronger, but it can also make you slide into a deep state of depression. I needed to channel my emotions and suffering in the only way I had to express myself at the time: music. We found that this song helped many people to process their own pain and we’re pleased about that.

  Q: This aggressive bullying, nowadays, is channeled mainly through social media. What’s your relationship to it?

  A: (Luke): Love and hate (laughs). Sometimes we’re still amazed at how inclined people are to confess deeply personal things to us through social media. We get the impression, reading specific messages, that people think they know us. They make assumptions, give us advice, or, in great detail, confess to us what they would not dare to say to people close to them. While it flatters us, it scares us to death. Because some get very insistent and ask very personal questions that we don’t want to answer. We always walk the thin line between not answering and giving the impression of agreeing or answering and starting an uproar because we disagree with them.

  Q: I assume “I Will Rise Stronger” will be included on the new album. How far along are you? Are you finished with it? The record company has not yet announced a release date.

  A: (Martin) We finally have a final list of songs that will end up on the first album (laughs). I swear before I signed with the record company, I had no idea it was a problem to have too many tracks. It was hard to decide which ones made the list and which didn’t; each of us has songs we’re attached to that didn’t make the cut. But now we can go ahead with the promotion and then launch it.

  Roadies, there’s more to the interview, but if you want to read it and see new exclusive photos, subscribe to my newsletter. You’ll get more content about the up-and-coming band of the year!

  Be kind and Rock’n’Roll,

  Iris

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  I’m an idiot. Here he came back, despite my lies, and I managed to make him angry again with my refusal to accept help. I peek into the bag again. The camera is top of the line. I could never afford it, even if I saved for the next hundred years.

  I walk to the door and thrust it open, ready to chase Thomas down the street, but I’m surprised to find him in front of me. “Sorry...I shouldn’t have treated you like that.” My voice sounds uncertain.

  “And I shouldn’t have left like a little kid. Let’s start this conversation again and pretend I never brought you that camera?”

  I invite him to come in, and he doesn’t think twice. He grabs Dexter, who seems invigorated by his presence, and takes him to his chest, cuddling him. He sits at the table, and I sit in front of him.

  “I owe you an explanation.” I start.

  “Yes, you owe me a lot of them.” His voice is not angry, it’s more like an observation.

  “Do you want to ask me questions? I don’t know what you know about me.”

  “Why are you doing this job?”

  “Because I need money. More than just what it costs to live in Manhattan.”

  “Do you have a drug problem or something?”

  I burst out laughing, the pain in my ribs flaring up, but I hide the groan that closes my throat. “No, nothing illegal. Believe me.”

  “Did you call the ambulance when you found Michael?”

  I didn’t expect that question. I didn’t think anyone knew I did it. “Yes, when I realized the situation was serious, I left the garage and called the ambulance. I waited outside until they arrived and guided them to the floor where Michael was. When I saw the foam coming out of the girl’s mouth, I realized the
y didn’t just fall asleep in the car. She overdosed.”

  “Why didn’t you take pictures of her in those conditions?”

  “I took a lot of pictures, believe me, but I didn’t sell them. I was desperate, but I have a limit, too. I thought about what a mother would feel to see her daughter overdosed on the front pages of all the newspapers.”

  “You had to be close to see those details.”

  I see him tightening his jaw. He’s testing me, he wants to know the truth, and I owe him the truth this time. “I was next to their car door, but I decided to sell only those from afar with some reflections of the glass... I didn’t want the world to see that scene up close. Michael would never have survived the scandal after those photos.”

  “Can you show them to me?”

  I hesitate for a moment. I would never want to see pictures like that of someone I love.

  “I’m sure,” he insists, noticing my hesitancy.

  I get my laptop, access folders protected by two different passwords, and look for pictures of Michael. Thomas brings his hand to his mouth as he scrolls through dozens of photos I took but never sold. They’re raw, desperate, of two people who look like they’re dead. I see his eyes watering, and I can hear him clearing his throat before closing my laptop.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  I don’t know if he’s thanking me for showing him the pictures or not selling them. He is particularly shaken, and I prefer not to probe any further.

  “Why don’t you move somewhere less expensive to live?”

  “Because famous people live here, and I need this job.”

  “Can’t you move to a city where the cost of living is lower? Where you can do a normal job and get a decent apartment without having to climb over drunk people to get to the front door?” The irritation in his voice is almost palpable.