The Money Shot: A women’s fiction novel about love, betrayal, and the pursuit of happiness in the glare of the public eye. by Anne Dano

Author:Anne Dano [Dano, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ALG Publishing
Published: 2024-06-02T00:00:00+00:00

At nine a.m. I’m hoofing it down the beach for the last half mile of a five-mile run. Beside me, the ocean waves break and slam the shore with the same violence roaring inside me. I could run ten or a hundred miles today and it wouldn’t tame the monster devouring me.

I focus on breathing—in, out, in, out—and sidestep a hole in the sand that’s big enough to break my ankle. Between children digging and folks putting up umbrellas, it’s a hazard I’ve grown accustomed to.

The jutting turret on the house a block down from mine draws my attention. That turret is my motivation. The landmark representing the end of this torture I put myself through.

Pain shoots up my hamstrings through my glutes and settles in my lower back. It’ll stay there until I stretch. And stretch and stretch.

I do this torture to stay in shape. Keep my legs strong and shapely with zero fat so they look good on camera. Age is kicking in, so I take enough collagen that I haven’t experienced the loose, crepey skin many women do.

Yet.

It’ll happen. At which point, I’ll consider surgery. Yes, I’m that vain. It’s not only about my career and looking good on camera, although, that’s part of it.

I like shorts. I like my legs to look a certain way in those shorts.

I’m self-aware enough to admit it.

I shake it off. These thoughts? Who cares? My life is coming apart and I’m worried about loose skin?

I blow by the turret, slowing to an easy jog until I reach Danny’s house. Sunlight glimmers off the glass that stretches from the first floor to the top of the house. The back of Danny’s house is amazing. Glittering glass from end to end in all directions.

The upkeep must be brutal, but it’s stunning.

Beside Danny’s stunner is my single-story cottage with its wraparound deck and weather-worn steps.

I halt. Just stare at the two homes as if it’s the first time.

Every house on this block—every one of them—has been torn down and rebuilt. Gone are the four-room cottages with clanging screen doors and rickety outdoor showers. All of them rebuilt to represent wealth.

Prestige.

All but mine. Mine is the has-been. The throwback to a simpler time when people only wanted an escape from the weekly grind and would drive down for a few days of salty serenity.

My family has owned this home my entire life. There is not a memory of the shore that doesn’t include it. Sure, I’ve updated it over the years. New kitchen and paint, repaired steps, all of it an attempt to leave the footprint unchanged.

To hang on to my childhood.

I’m sentimental that way, I guess.

What I’ve called my adorable cottage has somehow become the ugly little sister to Danny’s beauty queen and I’m suddenly seeing it from my neighbors’ eyes.

I’ve heard the chatter, the casual questions about when I’ll give the house a refresh.

I head up the stairs, taking them at a light jog. At the top, I’ll run through stretches and then feed my ravenous system.

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