Shooters

Copyright © 2023 by Julia Boggio All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Shooters is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, with the exception of some well-known public figures, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. To request permissions, contact the publisher at [email protected]. Ebook: 978-1-7392151-0-1 First edition. Cover design: Bailey McGinn Library in Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication has been applied for. To all the people who feel naked without their camera CONTENTS 1. Annual BAPP Convention (British Association of Professional Photographers) Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Epilogue Acknowledgments Sign up to my newsletter About the Author 1 ANNUAL BAPP CONVENTION (BRITISH ASSOCIATION OF PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHERS) The room simmered with talent: those who had it, those who wanted it, and those who would always suck no matter how hard they tried. Stella Price wondered where she fell on that scale. Was this new career the right choice, or was she about to make another big mistake? Taking a deep breath, she retreated further into the corner of the busy hotel lobby, hugging the convention guide to her chest. It was one of those bland corporate hotels that existed solely to host conferences. Stella bet there would be a stereotypical Irish Pub on the ground floor and a bar named something insipid like Whispers or Secrets. It reminded her of a past life. She shuddered. Through her earphones, she absorbed the calming sound of Dolly Parton singing ‘Love is Like a Butterfly’, the tinkling notes soothing her nerves. She scanned the room for her friend, Claudia. Late as usual. Their chances of sitting anywhere near the front, or even getting seats together, dwindled as the foyer filled with eager bodies. ‘Ohmygod, hello! It’s been so long!’ A few feet in front of Stella, a brunette woman threw herself into the arms of a muscular bald man. The woman immediately started flirting with him, touching his chest, biting her lip. Claudia had warned Stella that these photography conventions were a hotbed of sexual activity, but so far, she hadn’t seen anyone that would tempt her out of her self-imposed dry spell. Stella was strictly there to learn. She had one job, and nothing would get in her way. Idly stroking the small cleft in her chin—one of her many nervous habits—Stella took another step back, away from the couple as though flirting was contagious. At the same moment, Dolly began singing ‘Jolene’ and Stella hastily switched off her music, tore the headphones out of her ears, and shoved them into her bag. The last thing she wanted to think about was a flame-haired marriage wrecker. She took another anxious step backwards. Her heel kicked something behind her. Turning, she saw a roller banner that read ‘Discover your potential with Connor Knight’ above a picture of a thirty-something man who could’ve stepped out of an action film. He clung to the side of a helicopter with one hand, powerful muscles straining against the sleeves of his tight, white t-shirt. With his other hand, he held a camera in front of his face, only his chiselled jaw visible, but she didn’t need to see his features to know his kind: arrogant and self-involved with an allergy to commitment. Exactly the Old Stella’s type. Next to her, a woman stopped and commented to her friend, ‘It should be illegal to be that hot.’ ‘I’d like to discover my potential with Connor Knight,’ sighed the second woman. ‘I heard he doesn’t get out of bed for less than £50k.’ ‘Why would anyone want him to get out of bed?’ Laughing, they continued into the hall. Stella crinkled her nose. Was this really the respected wedding photographer whose talk Claudia insisted she attend? Stella had researched his work before booking, studying blog post after blog post showcasing his wedding images, but she hadn’t seen a picture of him. Standing this close to a life-size replica, she could practically smell his cologne: something expensive, arousing, its key ingredient milked from the glands of an obscure Bolivian rodent. Hopefully this wouldn’t be a waste of time. She snapped a photo of the poster on her phone, making a mental note to send it to Tristan—her oldest friend and ex-dance partner. Connor Knight was exactly his type, as well. Unfortunately for Tristan, based on what those women were saying, she suspected Connor wasn’t gay. Smiling to herself, she paused as she saw the time on her phone. Claudia was officially half an hour late. Stella couldn’t wait any longer. The talk started in five minutes. Clutching the guide to her chest, Stella inhaled deeply and plunged into the labyrinth of people. She hunched her shoulders to make herself small. As a slim redhead with green eyes and a healthy dose of freckles, she was used to attracting attention, usually from men, but today she wanted to blend in. She brushed past a young tattooed girl talking to an older woman in a floral kaftan. Sidestepping a Sikh gentleman and a Hell’s Angel comparing cameras, she narrowly missed getting crushed between a large bearded man leaning in to hug a Goth. Wedding photographers were a varied bunch. She yearned to belong among their ranks. Stella pushed into the vast conference hall, scanning the packed room for free seats. Two chairs lay covered by a