“Did you really need help for this next scene?” he whispers in my ear, his wide palm running down my back and resting just above the curve of my ass.
“Yes. In this next scene, can you tell me . . .” I glance up mock-seriously through my lashes. “What’s my motivation?”
He flashes that too-rare grin, white and wolfish, confident, bordering on cocky.
“You’ll be fine.” He squeezes my hip. “That’s my girl.”
And while I’m still relishing that, he turns and walks away.
31
Dessi Blue
INTERIOR – TILDA & DESSI’S APARTMENT – DAY
* * *
Dessi rushes around their bedroom, tossing clothes into a suitcase lying open on the bed. She grabs a pair of stockings drying on the radiator, checks them on her arms and fingers for runs, and folds them neatly into the suitcase, too. She opens a few drawers, looks in bags.
* * *
DESSI
Now where is my passport?
* * *
Keeps looking around the apartment, growing more panicked when she can’t find it.
* * *
DESSI
Tilda, you seen my passport?
* * *
Dessi walks out to the fire escape where Tilda leans her elbows on the rail and blows smoke from a cigarette.
* * *
DESSI
My passport! You seen it? Cal will be here to get me soon. I coulda sworn I just had it.
* * *
TILDA
I still don’t understand why you gotta go off to Europe anyway. The band’s making perfectly good money playing clubs like Café Society. But no! That ain’t good enough for high-and-mighty Cal. He gotta go overseas and prove something.
* * *
DESSI
It’s a big opportunity, Til. We making perfectly good money, yeah, but in Paris, London, Rome—we can make great money. More to send home to Mama. More for you and me.
* * *
Dessi grabs Tilda’s cigarette and takes a long draw.
* * *
DESSI
’Sides, I want to see the world.
* * *
Tilda snatches her cigarette back, stubbing it out on the rail with jerky movements.
* * *
TILDA
Thought I was your world.
* * *
DESSI (CARESSING TILDA’S FACE)
Aw, baby. You are. I’ll send money back so soon you won’t have to work at the Savoy no more. I’m doing this for us.
* * *
TILDA
Tell yourself that lie. You the one that want to be a star. This is for you, Dessi Johnson. Or should I say Dessi Blue, since that’s what Cal’s calling you now?
* * *
DESSI
And if I do wanna be a star, what’s wrong with that?
* * *
TILDA
You shooting too high is all. I don’t want to see you fall.
* * *
DESSI
You could hope I’ll fly. Could you just do that ’cause you love me?
* * *
Tilda nods reluctantly.
* * *
DESSI
And you’ll wait for me? ’Cause I’ll wait for you.
* * *
TILDA
Yes, just don’t be gone too long. You know I hate waiting on hot fried chicken, much less waiting for your skinny ass.
* * *
They laugh and hug each other. Cal calls from the street below, waving in front of a parked car.
* * *
CAL
You ready to conquer the world, Dessi Blue?
* * *
Tilda rolls her eyes and Dessi laughs.
* * *
DESSI
Yeah, I just need to find my passport before . . .
* * *
She trails off when Tilda pulls the passport from the pocket of her dress and offers it begrudgingly.
* * *
DESSI
I know you don’t want me to go.
* * *
TILDA (TEARS IN HER EYES)
It ain’t gonna be the same if you leave, Dessi. I feel it. Not ever again.
* * *
DESSI
It’ll be better than ever. I know it will.
* * *
TILDA
You ain't got no crystal ball, Bama.
* * *
Cal honks from below.
* * *
CAL
I’ll come up and help with your bags.
* * *
Dessi steps back into the apartment from the fire escape and closes her suitcase, grabs her purse, and shoves the passport inside.
* * *
DESSI
I gotta go. Tilda, you coming to see me off?
* * *
Tilda walks to the window, but doesn’t step through.
* * *
TILDA (WITH A SAD SMILE)
This is as far as I go.
* * *
Dessi walks to the window and kisses Tilda passionately, not caring who sees. With a choked cry, she grabs her suitcase, opens the apartment door, and leaves with Cal.
32
Canon
“You ain’t slick.”
I glance up to stare at Monk, lounging by the craft services table, not sure I even want to know what he’s talking about.
I don’t.
Without responding, I place a slice of smoked salmon on my plate.
“You hate fish,” Monk says, now standing across from me. “Especially fish that ain’t even cooked right.”
“Monk, man, what the hell you talking about?”
“You over here pretending to eat smoked salmon when we both know why you slithered out of your video cave.”
I stiffen.
“For the record.” I point to the slimy pink fish-mass on my plate. “I love this stuff.”
“Oh, you do?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Let’s see you eat it.”
I make a scoffing noise, mostly as a delay tactic because I really do hate smoked salmon. Monk nods to the plate and lifts his brows. It’s none of his damn business. I know that, but I can’t let him win the point. I wish I wasn’t so proud. And stubborn. And bullheaded.