Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110116 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110116 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
“He said he’s almost here. Gia’s shooting him.” His voice cracks like a goddamn teenager mentioning Gia.
Which makes my head pound. He wants her, but I can’t even get pissed since she seems to have enchanted everyone. Well, besides Rafe.
In the last week and a half, she’s befriended my crew. Christ, I don’t even know all their names.
But she does.
Taking a drag of my cigarette, I exhale and grind out, “You finish up for me, man.” I jump off the stage and walk through the huge arena toward the doors, ignoring the numerous people calling my name.
“I need to take care of something,” I yell over my shoulder.
GIA
Past – Eighteen Years old
Minneapolis, Minnesota
“You sure you don’t want to come in?” Ammo inhales and hands me his joint. I wave it off as he exhales.
“Stop asking. The answer is still no.”
He grins and opens the door that leads to the arena. “Come on, bring that camera, catch the magic.” he winks.
“God, Ammo.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll just wait out here or we can finish the shoot tomorrow.”
“Nah.” He rolls his neck. “I’m feeling good today.”
God, I wish he had said tomorrow, but whatever. Maybe I’ll try to take a quick nap. As usual, I’m tired. Partying all night and getting up two hours later to shoot the band is killing me.
Which sucks.
I’m young. I should be having the time of my life. I’m traveling with the Stuffed Muffins. Staying in luxury hotels, with chauffeurs, bodyguards, and people who will do anything just because.
And I’m not enjoying it. No matter what kind of happy face I try to put on, or how glamourous this world is, I came here to be with Rhys, not be uncomfortable, insecure, and exhausted.
Nothing has turned out like I planned. After that day when he came to my room, I’ve barely seen him. And if I do, he’s surrounded by groupies or Rafe. Not sure whom I hate more. That’s a lie—I hate the groupies. Rafe’s just an asshole, but at least he’s honest about it. The fucking groupies, on the other hand, are nothing but gold diggers trying to steal my man and my life.
Even Ammo is growing on me. He’s arrogant, but I like that. He’s also fun and extremely talented. God, if only I could turn off my feelings for Rhys and switch them to Ammo. So much easier, besides my brother killing him and all that.
I bite my bottom lip, my heart racing as I watch a couple of skanks throw me a dirty look, then laugh as they open the doors. I hear Nuke’s drum solo and a bunch of yelling.
Fucking groupies or “models.” I snort. That’s what they call themselves since they post themselves on Instagram. I roll my eyes and concentrate my thoughts on the shoot I had this morning with Ammo and my masterpiece.
Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll. That’s what I’m calling my book. Gone is the idea of selling it to Rolling Stone.
The photographs I’ve taken deserve to be in a book. My only problem is getting Rafe to agree. I might be forced to call in my brother on this one, but I’ll wait until I have it ready. I bite my bottom lip to stop smiling at the visual of Axel, Blade, and Ryder making Rafe an offer he can’t refuse.
It’s too fantastic really. I grab the elastic from my wrist and twist my hair back into a low bun. Sliding down the concrete wall, I sit on the floor and pull my coat tight around my neck. It’s not freezing in the concourse, but it’s not warm either.
Cynthia, the band’s personal stylist, dropped by my room last night with this fabulous black three-quarter-length Sherpa coat. I’m assuming it was from Nuke, since he was horrified when I pulled on my designer jacket before we landed in Minnesota. In my defense, I was born and raised in Southern California and have never experienced this kind of cold weather.
I should blow off Ammo, grab my bag, and go back to the hotel to sleep for a couple of hours before the concert tonight.
Or be brave and go inside to take pictures of the sound check. But the thought of seeing Rhys—and hearing him sing—makes my heart hurt.
Who am I kidding? I’ve parked myself outside the arena doors in hopes of seeing him.
Sighing, I let my head rest on the cool wall, my mind going a mile a minute. I’ve taken so many pictures that when I close my eyes, my brain still thinks I’m photographing. I’ve shot the crew, stadiums, fans.
Yesterday I got the band coming off their jet. It was like vintage rock ‘n’ roll. As if I stepped back into time and was photographing The Doors or The Beatles.
I captured everything that is purely the Stuffed Muffins: their charisma, the hysteria of the fans, and the wild energy that follows them with every step they take. It’s what I love about being a photographer. No one can lie to the camera—it sees all.