Royal Pains

Chapter 1

"I still can't believe Mr. Anderson gave me an F on that last exam. It was totally B+ material, or at least a B," Bash said as we headed towards the college café across the prestigious Ludivine campus. It was basically Juilliard for extremely talented photographers, and I was lucky to attend with my best friend of eight years.

Thanks to our shared fascination with photography, Bash and I had met during our first year at Lakeside Middle School in our elective class. Over the years, we had acquired new skills and refined them. By the time we'd graduated high school, we both had scholarships to Ludivine. Two years had passed since then, and we'd formed a very successful business partnership. "Well, Mr. Anderson is very biased towards you," I said as we passed through the courtyard.

"I really don't understand why." Bash grinned, his words dripping with sarcasm.

I rolled my eyes. "It obviously has nothing to do with you calling his display—and I quote—'imperceptive, a waste of time,'—oh and here's the kicker—'mind-blowing in the sense of losing brain cells.'" I laughed.

Bash threw his arms up. "Oh, come on! It's not like I was lying. You can totally tell the lighting in his photo was nothing but a result of overusing photoshop, and he was balls-to-the-wall for his lecture on why natural light is and will always be the only way to go." He finished in a mocking voice with excessive air quotes.

It was hard to not laugh at the bluntness of his comment. One thing about Bash—he wasn't afraid to tell you exactly what was on his mind, never bothering to sugar-coat his comments.

"I don't disagree with you. I think it is very unprofessional and completely hypocritical to say one thing and do another. I just think you could've been smarter and said it behind his back like a normal person would," I said as I opened the café door and let him pass. 

"Why thank you, doll-face." He winked.

We made our way over to the buffet and grabbed salads and sweet tea before settling over at a table off to the side of the room.

"So," I began, "I received a cancellation from Jenna Avery for Wednesday evening."

Bash let out an aggravated groan. This shoot would've made us eight-hundred dollars. That could have bought a new lens he had been pining over these past two weeks.

"But there is that gig, the fashion-model underwater shoot," I added.

His eyes widened and I could tell he was eager for more information. "I thought they had already found a replacement photographer?"

"Oh, they did. Turns out the guy fell from a ladder during his last shoot and broke a rib or something," I replied matter-of-factly. "Book em!"

The corner of my mouth quirked up. "Already did." 

Excited, Bash jumped up, pulled me into his arms and kissed me on the cheek. "You, Emma, are amazing!" 

"I forwarded you the information two hours ago." 

"You of all people should know that I never check my email. That's why I set it up so everything forwards to yours. You need to text me these things." He laughed. 

We spent the rest of our lunch eagerly calculating the money we would be paid. It was a twelve-hour job with twenty models, and we had decided to take ten each. The job paid fifteen hundred per model, which would add up to over thirty grand very quickly.

Our last class was a forty-five-minute lecture on photo- session odds-and-ends that ended at three o-clock. The subject today was proper makeup.

If a model's makeup wasn't done right and the photographer used their flash, the model could end up looking chalky with white streaks across the t-zone and jawline. It was pretty painful to sit through the slideshow of celebrities on the red carpet with white streaks running down their noses and jaws.