It was supposed to be a two-day job.
Chris had a client in Miami who needed “lifestyle” stills for a resort launch — models on balconies, golden hour on the sand, the usual fiction that rich people bought with their eyes. He couldn’t fly. I could. That was how I ended up in a rented Chevy at two in the morning on Collins Avenue with a camera bag in the back seat and the nickname I still hadn’t killed.
Hollywood Jim.
Chris gave it to me years ago because I quoted movies at the wrong time and knew too much about people I would never meet. Then Paris happened. Then the others. Then the nickname stopped being a joke and started being a rumor I couldn’t outrun.
The shoot wrapped late. The talent had been fine. The light had been better. I was packing stands in the hotel service corridor when the elevator opened and a woman stepped out in a baseball cap, hoodie, and sunglasses at midnight, which in Miami means either a celebrity or someone who wants to be treated like one.
She pulled the sunglasses down.
Scarlett Johansson looked at me like she was deciding whether I was staff or a problem.
“You’re the photographer,” she said. Not a question.
“For the resort, yeah. Jim.”
“Hollywood Jim.” She almost smiled. “Someone on the crew wouldn’t shut up about you at dinner. Said you used to shoot perfume campaigns in L.A. and that you once drove Paris Hilton home to ditch paparazzi.”
I winced. “That story gets taller every year.”
“Is it true?”
“The driving part is true. The rest depends who’s telling it.”
She glanced down the empty corridor, then at the camera bag. “You still have cards in that thing?”
“Always.”
“Good. I need pictures that don’t look like a magazine already decided who I am. Private. No agency. No publicist. You get an hour. I get the files. Cash.”
That was how I ended up in a suite on a high floor with the ocean black beyond the glass and Scarlett Johansson taking off the hoodie like the night had already agreed to be a secret.
She was thirty-nine and looked like the joke was on anyone who thought that number meant less. White tank. Soft shorts. Bare feet on cold marble. She poured two whiskeys without asking if I wanted one and set mine on the table next to the camera.
“Don’t make me look holy,” she said. “I’m tired of holy.”
“I can do tired,” I said. “Holy’s harder anyway.”
She laughed, short and real, and the room changed temperature.
I shot her by the window first. City light, no flash, the kind of grain that makes a face look like a memory instead of a product. She took direction the way people do when they’ve been looked at for twenty years and are finally choosing the look. Chin down. Shoulder to the glass. Tank strap slipping because she let it.
“You’re staring through the lens like you already know how this ends,” she said.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Or a reputation.” She walked toward me, took the camera out of my hands, and set it on the table beside the whiskey. “Hour’s not up. But I’m bored of posing.”
She kissed me like she’d decided an hour ago and was only now letting me catch up. Mouth warm from the drink. Hands on my shirt like she was curious whether the rumor had a body attached. I should have stopped it. I had files to deliver and a flight in the morning and a nickname that already made decent men look like liars.
I didn’t stop it.
The tank came off. No bra. The body the internet had turned into a referendum was just a body in a quiet room — warm, heavy in the chest, a small scar I didn’t ask about. She pushed my shirt up and made a sound when she got her hands on my skin, not impressed so much as pleased that the night was going to be physical.
“Bed,” she said. “You’re going to be useful.”
The suite bed was huge and unused. She sat on the edge, pulled me in by the belt, and undid it with the same economy she used on a script. My cock was already hard. When she got the shorts down she looked at it the way some women look at a problem they intend to enjoy.
“Okay,” she muttered. “The crew wasn’t lying about everything.”
She sucked cock like she had time and no audience — slow, wet, taking me deep enough that her eyes watered and she didn’t pretend they didn’t. One hand on my hip to control the depth. The other between her own legs inside the shorts. I held her hair back because she made a noise that said she wanted to be seen doing it.
“Fuck my mouth,” she said, pulling off just long enough to say it. “Don’t be polite. Polite is for premieres.”
I wasn’t polite. She took it, gagging once, spit running down her chin onto her tits, and she looked up at me with that famous face wrecked on purpose. I pulled out before I finished because if this was the only hour I was going to get I wanted more than her throat.
She shoved the shorts down and lay back, knees open, pussy already shiny. I went down on her because the rumor mill never mentioned whether Hollywood Jim knew how to do that, and I did. She was blunt about it.
“There. Stay. Don’t write a poem, just—”
She came on my tongue with her fist in my hair and a sound she probably didn’t let cameras hear. I climbed up, rubbed the head of my cock through the wet, and waited.
“In,” she said. “No condom if you’re clean. I asked the crew that too. They said you were boring about it.”
“I’m boring about it.”
“Good. Then fuck me.”
I pushed into her pussy in one slow slide and she swore like she’d been waiting for the stretch. Tight, hot, the kind of grip that makes a man understand why people ruin careers. I fucked her deep and steady at first. She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me in harder.
“Massive cock is a stupid phrase,” she said against my ear, breathless. “Until it isn’t. Don’t stop.”
I didn’t. The headboard started tapping the wall. She laughed once at the sound, then stopped laughing when I changed the angle and hit whatever she’d been aiming me at. Her nails found my back. She came again with her mouth on my shoulder, biting to keep quiet, and I almost followed her.
“Not yet,” she said. “I want it in my ass. You look like the kind of rumor that does that if a woman asks.”
“You asking?”
“I’m telling.”
She rolled onto her stomach, reached back, and spread herself. I spat on her hole, worked a thumb in until she pushed back onto it, then replaced it with my cock. The first inch made her gasp into the pillow. The second made her fist the sheet. I went slow because I wasn’t trying to hurt a woman who could end me with one text. When I was buried she let out a long, broken sound and nodded.
“Okay. Okay. Fuck your way in. I can take it.”
I fucked her ass with the city glittering behind the glass and Scarlett Johansson saying filthy, ordinary things into a hotel pillow. Harder when she asked. Slower when her thighs shook. I reached under her and rubbed her clit and she came with my cock in her ass, pulsing around me, saying “Jim” like the nickname had finally earned its keep.
I lasted another minute. I started to pull out.
“In,” she said. “I asked for a night, not a scene.”
I came in her ass with my forehead on her shoulder and her hand covering mine on the sheet. We stayed like that until the shaking stopped.
After, she stole my shirt, poured the rest of the whiskey, and sat on the windowsill with the ocean behind her like a cheap postcard that had gotten lucky.
“You going to write this down?” she asked.
“I take pictures.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I didn’t answer. She smiled like she already knew men with nicknames told stories whether they meant to or not.
She fell asleep on her stomach across the wrecked bed, one leg bent, my shirt rucked up over her ass. I sat in the chair with the camera in my lap and didn’t take a single frame. Mom sleeping was the wrong phrase. A movie star sleeping was worse. I watched her breathe until the sky went pale and then I packed the cards she’d paid for, left them on the table, and wrote my number on the hotel pad because the rumor already had my name on it.
In the elevator I caught my reflection and almost laughed.
Still Hollywood Jim.
The flight home was quiet. Chris texted: How was Miami?
I typed fine and deleted it. Typed long night and sent that instead.
Three days later an unknown number pinged.
Still boring about it?
Then: I’m in New York next Thursday. Bring the camera. Don’t bring the nickname unless you’re going to live up to it.
I packed the bag.
Some jobs don’t wrap.
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