Not If I Date You First

Chapter 5

"Your performance this summer will determine which one of you that will be," Agnes continues. "I've created a point system. Each of your photos that I sell will earn you one point. If you manage to capture a shot that sells for more than a thousand dollars, you will be awarded five points. A scoreboard will be posted in my office so you can see where you stand. If that isn't incentive enough, you'll also get twenty percent of the commission on your shots."

I squirm in my seat, thinking of the pictures of Liam and Mia sitting on my camera roll. I don't know how much tabloids pay for photos like that, but I'm guessing they'd easily surpass that thousand-dollar benchmark. My knee bounces up and down. I'm bursting to tell Agnes about the photos, but something tells me interrupting this meeting again wouldn't be a smart move.

"When I'm aware of a celebrity's whereabouts, I'll text you with tips." Agnes holds up her cell. "So keep your phone on you at all times. For the most part, though, you're on your own. You need to hone the skill of tracking celebs and capturing photographs I can sell."

We all nod. My throat is still parched from my run over here. I lean oh-so-casually sideways in my chair, sneaking a sip of my coffee beneath the table. When I straighten up, Man Bun shoots me a smug smile. I frown, setting my drink back down.

Agnes glances around, making eye contact with each of us. "A quick turnaround is essential in this business. You get a shot; I want it edited and in my inbox ASAP."

I see my opening to tell her about Liam and Mia, and I take it. My hand shoots into the air. Agnes fires a glare in my direction so fierce my arm falls right back to my side.

"Now," Agnes starts again, and I stifle the desire to groan. I drum my fingers against my thighs, praying her spiel is almost over. Sitting on these pictures might be the actual death of me.

"You've each been given a map highlighted with the locations where New York's biggest celebrities live and the places they've been known to frequent."

I look around at the other interns carefully studying the maps in front of them—maps that were apparently handed out before I arrived. I lean forward, trying to read Man Bun's map from across the table. Agnes notices. Sighing, she thrusts one toward me.

"Thank you," I whisper.

She shakes her head. "Now, as per the contracts you all signed, any celebrity photos you take belong to Huntley. You are not to sell your pictures to anyone else. Don't even try because I promise you, I will find out." The hard glint in her eyes doesn't leave any doubt that she means what she's saying.

"And you can forget about your social lives," Agnes says, "because this is no nine-to-five, kiddos. You're to come to the office and check in with me once a day to update me on your progress. We'll meet as a group every Monday for weekly staff meetings and training. Other than that, I want you out there." Agnes jabs a finger toward the window. "Getting me photos. This isn't high school. Being a celebrity photographer is hard work, and only the most dedicated of you will have a job here come September. I need photographers willing to do whatever it takes to make this agency succeed. If you don't think you can handle that, well, don't let the door hit you in the ass."

She pauses as though waiting to see if any of us will walk out. The silence in the room is heavy, pressing in on me. Each second that ticks by is an opportunity for someone to sell their grainy cell phone pics to the rags and decrease the value of mine.

Anxiety boils inside me like water in my mom's electric tea kettle until I can't hold it in anymore. Everything comes flooding out. "Liam Anders and Mia Harlow got into this huge fight down the street. She was screaming at him, and he broke up with her right in the middle of the sidewalk."

I expect my words to be met with excitement or at least surprise. But everyone blinks at me like I'm speaking a language they don't understand.

"Oh, and I got pictures," I add, because duh. Talk about burying the lead. I fish my Nikon out of my bag, holding it up like some kind of trophy.

"You got pictures of Liam Anders and Mia Harlow getting into an argument? In public?" Agnes's face is blank.

I nod. "That's why I was late." She holds out a hand. It takes me a beat to realize she wants me to pass her my camera. My fingers are clumsy with nerves as I switch it on and almost drop it for the second time this morning.

Agnes reaches for the glasses perched on her head, giving me a look that clearly says if I don't deliver, my internship here is over. She stares at the screen, pauses, then starts scrolling through the pictures without saying a word. My head feels a little floaty like I'm about to pass out. I  force a wobbly inhale, waiting for her to react.

After an eternity, Agnes asks, "How many other photographers were there?"

"None. At least not until after Mia left."

"You're telling me you're the only photographer who got these shots?"

"Yes. There was a crowd of people watching, though, so I'm sure someone snapped some pics with their phone."

The glacial expression on Agnes's face thaws. She gives me what could almost pass for an approving nod. "Well then, we have no time to lose." She stands. "I suppose your tardiness is excused this one time, but how do you explain—" She gestures at my appearance.

I look down and groan. "Mia threw her green juice at Liam. He ducked. I didn't." Agnes laughs, actually laughs, and says, "Meeting adjourned. I have some pictures to sell." She pops my SD card out of my Nikon and hands it back to me. "You can all watch me edit these, so you can see what I expect of the shots you turn in."

I have to fight the urge to jump up and down and squeal. I'm about to become a published photographer! Reminding myself that I am now a professional, I calmly stand, tucking my camera into my bag. The other interns—who definitely aren't smirking anymore—gather their things and hurry after Agnes.

"Oh, and Miss Datchery?" Agnes stops short. "Next time, don't wait so long to tell me. This is a time-sensitive business." She taps her bare wrist like it's a watch.

"But—" I start to explain that I've been trying to tell her about the pictures for the last twenty minutes, but Agnes turns on her heel and marches out of the room. My head spins as I swing my bag over my shoulder and hurry after her.

Those pictures—my pictures—are going to be all over every media outlet, every tabloid magazine, and every celebrity news blog. Not to mention millions upon millions of social media accounts. This 'dirtbag stalkerazzi' is about to go viral.

Take that, Liam freaking Anders.