Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“My dude,” he says, walking farther into the office and dapping me up. “Welcome home. I thought you were doing the film festival and coming right back.”

Holding his smoothie in one hand, he plucks Neevah’s headshot from my desk, raising his brows and slanting me a knowing glance, even though he doesn’t know shit. “I can see how you might have gotten a little . . . distracted.”

“It ain’t like that.” I grab the photo and toss it onto my desk. “I mean, I did stay longer to audition Neevah, but . . . it ain’t like that.”

“It better not be. We can’t afford another Primal.”

“If I hear one more word about that damn movie.” I sit and take a long draw of my water.

“Believe me. You getting fired from a huge movie over pussy is the last thing I want to discuss.”

“Evan.” His name is a guttural warning in my throat.

“And you better hope it doesn’t come back to bite us that you didn’t at least allow Camille to audition.”

“Auditioning Camille would have been a steaming pile of wasted time. We all know I would never cast her—certainly not after what she did, but probably not even before. She’s not right for Dessi.”

“You injured her pride.”

“What about my pride? Getting fired from a movie I could have directed with my eyes closed because we had a bad breakup? Are you fucking kidding me? What good would it have done to go through the motions like she even had a chance at the role?”

“We’ve seen Camille has a vindictive streak. Just saying . . . hope it doesn’t streak all over us. Turning down one of Hollywood’s hottest names right now, we better cast this right.”

“Neevah is right.”

“I haven’t seen you this set on a particular actress this way . . . well, ever,” he says, taking the seat across from me. “Don’t make the same mistake again. You aren’t—”“Dating her?” I finish for him through tight lips.

“I was gonna say fucking her because I know you aren’t really the dating type, which was why you dating Camille was such a—”

“At some point in this conversation, should we discuss the fact that I found the actress we’ve been searching six months for? Or you gonna just keep talking about useless shit that won’t make us any money?”

“I’m not sure you have found the actress we need for Dessi Blue.”

I take a long draw from the water bottle, cooling my aggravation because you never win a fight with Evan being ruled by emotion. “You saw her audition tape?”

“I did.”

“You watched the reel her agent sent?”

“Yup. Man, that girl can sing. Gorgeous, too.”

“And?”

“And no one knows who the hell she is. You can’t expect Galaxy to sign off on some no-name understudy who just had her first turn on Broadway for a film of this scope. This is a lot of money. It’s a huge investment and they want to make their money back. We need a big name.”

“What we need is the right actress, and I found her. Figure out how to convince the studio.”

“Don’t dig your heels in with me, Canon.” He leans forward to set his smoothie on my desk and gives me a direct look. “You may intimidate everyone else with your grunts and glares, but not me. This is my business, too.”

“This is my story.”

“You’re a producer on this, too. Not just the director. Not just an artist, so act like one and hear me out.”

No one talks to me like this and gets away with it.

Except Evan.

We met at USC, and knew each other casually, but didn’t keep in touch after graduation. Once The Magic Hour won so much critical acclaim, I expected all the doors to fly open, but that’s not really what happened. I struggled to find the right projects for a couple of years, served as assistant director on a few projects, paid my dues. Finally, I managed to make an indie film on a shoestring budget, which garnered more attention. Out of the blue, Evan reached out to congratulate me and proposed we work together. I had the stories, but Evan had a lot to offer. He grew up in the business, had money to invest and perfect instincts.

Most of the time. This time he’s wrong.

“I am thinking like a producer,” I grit out. “If we cast some big name who isn’t right for the part, Dessi Blue will flop. Like Francis Ford Coppola Cotton Club flop. It could easily become some overblown, over-budget albatross that checked all the boxes—right director, lots of money, big-name stars—so no one can figure out why it failed.”

“We won’t let it fail.”

“You damn right it won’t fail. I found this story literally on the side of a country road.” I pound my chest for emphasis. “I interviewed Dessi’s family. I got them to tell me all the things the world doesn’t know about this woman.”