His Paparazzo

By Hollis Shiloh

Movie star + paparazzo...what could possibly go wrong?

 

Movie star Colin Colton has a contentious relationship with the press--especially that pushy paparazzo, Zach Jarlson. He certainly doesn't expect to ever feel sympathy for the little bugger...much less anything more. But somehow, they go from enemies to friends and lovers...and then back again, when their world is turned upside down and each thinks the other betrayed him. But even once they learn the truth, can a relationship between an actor and a paparazzo survive?

 

 

A contemporary gay romance or m/m romance.

Length: approximately 33,000 words - Heat level: Low

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spare Words Press
• Release date: Apr 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201302238

Book preview

Chapter one

Cameras flashed.  Reporters clambered.  Colin Colton hurried past them all, holding up a newspaper to cover his scowling face.

Lookee here, Colin! catcalled paparazzo after paparazzo.  Smile for the cameras!

How'd you get the black eye, Colin? shouted someone else.

Punching reporters, he growled, and ducked into the waiting limousine.  No one would believe his bruise was the result of tripping on set, and his own clumsy fault.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he settled behind the locked doors.  Darkened windows made him feel safer, and the sheltered exterior cut off the shouts and snapping camera flashes.

Where to, boss? asked a gruff voice.  The driver crouched in the front seat. 

Funny, thought he was taller than that.  Colin dismissed it from his mind.  Home, of course, and step on it.  He leaned back and closed his eyes.  Hell of a day on set; he was ready for a rest.  When will they quit? he muttered.

Dunno, boss, said the surprisingly cheerful driver.  Usually these guys were as ghostly quiet and respectful as if the limo was a church.  Not that that didn't get old, but...  He sat up straighter and frowned.  What did you say your name was again?

The limo eased away from the vehicles following them, but the headlights still shone determinedly after the limo.  Will they ever quit?

I'm from the agency, said the driver, hunching lower.

You can barely see over the wheel, observed Colin, his brow furrowing.

So, we can't all be six foot and made of rock.  The short driver made an attempt to straighten his shoulders, but he still...

Hey... he really didn't fit that jacket, did he?

Pull over, growled Colin.  You're not my driver.

I am now.  The man's voice held chortling triumph, a mean note beneath the humor.  "Or aren't I tall enough to be a paparazzi, either?"

Paparazzo, corrected Colin wearily.  The short man continued to drive competently and quickly away from those following the limo.  You guys never quit, do you?  What's it going to take?  My body broken and dead in the street?  You're vultures.  You live off—

Shut up! snapped the short driver.  What do you live off, huh?  He caught Colin's eye in the mirror and glared at him. 

It was dark.  Colin couldn't distinguish features.  Probably wouldn't be able to pick out the man in a lineup, except by his height.  Colin's chest tightened despite himself.  He could handle himself against the man, oh yes, easily.  But this guy was driving... and possibly a bit crazed.

I make movies.  I help give people a few minutes of escape from their lives, said Colin with dignity.  Talk him down, like it's a cop movie and I'm the hero.  I don't want to die in a horrible crash.  Now pull over.  You don't need to keep up the charade.

I damn well do.  I want a good picture, and I'm going to get it.  And I won't with all those vultures on your tail!  The short man's voice rose.

Calm down.  What's your name? asked Colin.

The man snorted.  Please.  As if you care!

Colin grabbed at the door as the car careered around a corner wildly, his heart thumping.  "Would you please watch what you're doing?"

Sorry.  I'm not used to driving a car this big.

Yeah, you probably drive a Volkswagen Beetle and can still barely see over the wheel.  For a brief moment, Colin amused himself by viciously imagining his stalker the size of a mouse, squeaking as he tried to reach the wheel and pedals at the same time.

Tell me your name, or I'll just call you Shrimp.

The driver snorted.  Like that's never happened before.

Okay, you asked for it.  Shrimp it is.  He sat back and crossed his arms.  Tell me, why do you do this job?  Why do you act as a vulture for the scandal papers?

Which is it, Shrimp or Vulture?

How about both?  You're not answering my question.

Because, damn it, some of us have to eat, and we're not famous actors, okay?

"You want to eat? challenged Colin.  You underhanded, sneaking little brat!  You could get a real job, an honest job, but no, you just have to bribe my driver—or worse—and drive me around like a maniac all so you can get your precious picture.  What's that worth to you, a hundred bucks?  A thousand?  Shall I give it to you?  He yanked out his wallet, and began slapping out bills into his hand sarcastically.  Or, no, wait, you just want a meal, so maybe I should take you to dinner.  That be enough for you, your highness?"

You are an entitled, stuck-up asshole with your head so far up your—your backside you wouldn't recognize a real person if they bit you! said the driver, his voice rising and shaking with rage.

The vehicle veered suddenly to the right and pulled up alongside the road.  The lights weren't following now, Colin noticed, and the road was desolate.  It looked like a bad part of town, with a burned factory ahead and an empty lot to the left.

Is he going to shoot me and leave me for dead?  Maybe he wasn't a photographer after all, but some kind of crazed stalker.  Hard to tell the difference sometimes.  Colin's breath quickened in fear.  If this was a movie, he'd disarm the villain singlehandedly without messing up his hair.  Since it wasn't, he might just wake up dead, face down in a pool of his own vomit and blood.

Hey, said Colin softly.  Seriously.  Calm down.

You calm down! said the driver.  He clicked his seatbelt off and twisted in his seat.  He raised a camera and flashed two quick shots.  Colin blinked stupidly against the light, raising his hand a moment too late.

And I'll sell them and you'll be damned lucky I didn't let the others get to you!  He got out of the car and yanked the door open.  Go on, get in.  I bet you can't even drive your own car!

I bloody can! he snarled, the old British accent surfacing for a moment.  He lunged from the car and for the photographer, but the smaller man danced away.

Ha!  That all you got?  His voice rang with triumph; his steps scuffled in the street.  He snapped two more pictures.  The light from the flash showed his face for a moment, smiling, twisted in glee.

Get back here.  Colin bit down on his further words and put his energy into a burst of speed.  The reporter was fast, but he was distracted with his camera.  Colin reached out like a basketball player and slapped it down.  It splatted against the ground with a sound of breaking plastic and glass.

The shorter man gasped and skittered backwards, around the car, trying to put it between them.  You'll be sorry! he snapped.  I—I'll save the card, and—

Crunch.  Colin ground the remains of the camera underfoot.

Damn you!  The paparazzo started to lunge for Colin, and Colin moved forward to meet him, grinning the way he had for his one-and-only serial killer role, early in his career.  He reached up, for a certain scrawny, oh-so-squeezable neck.

Eek!  With a little squeak of fear, the paparazzo reversed course and dashed around again.

They made two laps of the car in deadly serious silence.  The photographer's shoes squeaked on the pavement.  Somewhere, a siren sang, a dog barked, a bottle smashed and someone raised their voice in anger.  Colin's shoes were too shiny and expensive; they didn't have as much grip.  And that little guy was inhumanly fast at reversing course.

But he was, after all, human: he tripped over the broken remains of his camera and went down with a little cry, and Colin, far too angry to worry about fair play, dived after him, catching him up by the shoulders and giving him a very rough shake.

This is for being my driver.  And this is for ruining my last vacation.  And this—

The short reporter cowered, bringing his arms up, trying to protect his head as if expecting to be punched in the face.  He didn't make a sound, but his body was tensed with terror, all of his movements protective and none of attack.

Colin stopped shaking him, released him so abruptly he thumped back against the limo.  Colin stepped back, one foot skittering on broken plastic.  Quickly, he got his balance.  He gaped at the man he had, for one horrible moment, wanted to murder.

I can't believe I did that.

The reporter pulled his jacket back onto his shoulder, an oddly protective, vulnerable gesture that made him look, by the one flickering street light's illumination, far too young.  He kept his head down, moving slowly, looking as though he was afraid of being grabbed again and beaten.

Colin's chest hurt, right below his breastbone.  He'd never been that guy before, couldn't believe he would now, no matter the provocation.

Are you all right? he asked in a strange, grating voice.

Uh huh, said the man. 

I'm sorry.

Don't be, he said in a voice not quite steady.  I pushed you to it.  Just thought I'd get photos, that's a-all.  His voice cracked a little on the last word.

Wait, I'll drive you home.  Where do you live?

Oh, please.  Hollywood Nice Guy, huh?  Just leave me the f-fuck alone.  His voice caught a little more, and he hunched his shoulders and started to walk away.

At least tell me your bloody name! called Colin after him, voice rising, accent stronger with his stress.

Zach Jarlson, said the reporter over his shoulder.  And don't forget that name!

Colin stared after the retreating figure in frustrated dismay, then climbed into the limo's driver seat, thumped his head against the wheel, and finally started it up for the long