Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

"Three o'clock."
    George wasn't eager to don a suit and tie in this heat, but fifty bucks was fifty bucks. "Sure," he replied gruffly, shoving the assorted brushes back into the stained mug.
    "Hey, what's that you're looking at?"
    George glanced at the browser window. "Gonna copy the unspoiled version and print--"
    "No." Caramel-colored hair swirled around Rissa's shoulders as she shook her head vehemently. A smudge of powdered sugar stood out on her tanned nose. "I promised the customer you'd fix her original. She doesn't want a copy."
    George opened his mouth to protest.
    "The lady said name your price ," Rissa added. "So figure it out, George. I got a payment on this place coming due."
    Arguing with Rissa had a lot in common with telling wind not to blow. "Send the photo out to be restored and add a hefty surcharge."
    She crammed the rest of her donut into her mouth and jumped from her seat. From the front of the building, George heard the faint ring of the cash register. Rissa came back clutching a handful of greenbacks. "The four hundred I owe you for this week, and another hundred to buy anything you need to restore that photo." She laid the bills in perfect alignment on the edge of his table. "Help yourself to the donuts. I'm gonna crash."
    "Got film from tonight?" George sighed, looking at the five benjamins. In his former life, he'd considered that tip money.
    Her head bounced like a bobble head. "I finally caught the bastard red-handed with his wick in someone else's oil lamp. I need them enlarged and dropped off by morning. The woman who brought in the LeTour pic doesn't want to risk mailing it off. Fix it, George. See you tomorrow, gonna crash."
    For one moment, the workroom faded, and George was back in the kitchen in the faraway house he'd shared with Connie, his ex. The chain broke on Adam's bike; George, can you fix it?
    He shook his head to clear it of the sunny image and by the time he'd done that, he could hear Rissa walking around upstairs. Stretching as he crossed to pick up her camera bag, he regretted he hadn't been around to fix more of Connie's problems. He regretted the ones he'd caused her more.
    Caressing the boxy Nikon D3-X for just a moment, George popped the memory card out of its slot, carefully replacing the camera in its cushioned bag with yet another pang of regret. Moments later, he scanned the files on the card. Rissa had indeed gotten her money shot. He pulled up one of the images. A local hotel sign blurred in the background, but the faces of the couple were in sharp focus. For a woman who said she thought love was bullshit, Rissa had a genius for capturing the look of that emotion. Just from this one image, George couldn't doubt the man loved the woman he was looking at. Too bad the woman wasn't this dude's wife.
    Guilt took up his usual spot on his left shoulder, cackling in his ear.
    Rissa stalked cheating spouses in bars and hotels at night when she didn't have a wedding to shoot, working for a local detective. George thought Rissa took assignments from Max to nurse her anger more than for the money.
    He could've written a book on the way women reacted when their husbands cheated on them. An insider's look, so to speak. Cue the dramatic music.
    George was grateful Rissa was upstairs guarding the beer. Casting a wary eye at the LeTour photo, he selected the best shots to print for the detective agency. The small photo printer attached to the computer didn't need him to watch it work. He grabbed a roll of photo paper for the ancient multi-image package printer, checking to be sure Rissa locked the back door behind her.
    Because, yeah, the scary shit was in a parking lot, in the center of a town that had one of the lowest crime rates in North America. He unlocked the door again. Having something to put his fist through sounded pretty damn good, he decided, heading for the room that housed the package printers.
    He closed the door to the cubicle, checking to be sure no light leaked beneath the doorsill before unrolling the black plastic-lined bag protecting the unexposed roll of photo paper. He hadn't yet printed the first order when he felt a sharp jab beneath his left shoulder blade. Pain seemed to slice through his lung, shutting off his breath and doubling him over. His head connected solidly with the metal housing of the printer as he bent forward. George flailed in the darkness as the piercing ache doubled, mirrored beneath his right shoulder blade.
    "Help me, George. I