Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

She could never be.

To be honest, I don’t know if the woman I thought she was even exists.

“Oooooh!” Neevah points frantically to a building not much better than a hut with two gas pumps. “We can stop here.”

“You want to sit on a toilet in this place?” I ask.

“I need to pee, and I won’t sit on it. Duh. I hover.”

“I don’t need that visual.” I pull into the gas station’s gravel lot. “Be quick.”

The back door flies open and Neevah dashes off, disappearing into the hovel-ish structure.

“I like her,” Verity says, smiling. “She’ll be fun to work with.”

“What about Monk? You still okay working with him?”

The amusement on her face burns to ash, a frown kindling between her thick brows. Verity is striking with the rich undertones of her smooth skin and the jet-colored hair adorning her shoulders in two fat, silky braids. She’s smart as all get out and has a dreamer’s soul. Monk was probably a goner as soon as he laid eyes on her.

“I told you the first time you asked I’ll be fine,” she mutters through tight lips, folding her arms across her chest and staring out the window. “I can’t speak for Monk. I barely know him anymore.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Golden Globes a few years ago.” Her shrug dismisses the incident or him or both.

“I don’t actually care if you two hate each other with a passion, or if you fuck the first chance you get.”

Her head snaps around, her eyes slits of outrage.

“Keep your shit out of my movie,” I tell her, my face set in stone. “I don’t need personal history messing up my project.”

“And did you have this little talk with him, or just the woman in this scenario?”

“Of course I did. I might be an asshole, but I’m not a misogynist. The most talented, capable people I’ve worked with have been women. A woman needs to write Dessi’s story, and I think that woman is you, but I also think the score of this movie is trapped in Monk’s head. Setting aside whatever beef you guys have, you know the man’s a genius.”

“He is that,” she says, her voice grudging, her gaze shifting to her lap.

“We have the chance to do something extraordinary. I don’t want to screw it up with personal complications.”

Neevah comes out running. She left her natural hair free today, and the breeze tosses the textured nimbus cloud around her face. Her body is toned and firm, not thin. There’s a ripeness to her, and she moves with a dancer’s easy grace; there’s a natural sensuality in the swing of her hips and arms. A confidence in her stride. I don’t usually allow myself to look at her much in case I look too long and my dick ever gets hard. There’s no coming back from that.

But I look now.

“Hmmm,” Verity huffs, tipping her head toward the window and giving me a knowing glance. “Speaking of making things personal.”

I shoot Verity one of my best glares.

“That doesn’t work on me, boss,” she says. “You got this reputation for being all mean and broody and artistic. I know your secret.”

“Oh, you do?” I cock a brow at her, genuinely curious. “And what’s that?”

“I saw The Magic Hour. You’re a mama’s boy, and they’re all bark, no bite.”

“Oh, I bite. Let this shit with Monk affect my movie, you’ll feel it.”

“Fair enough.” Verity glances back to Neevah who has almost reached the car. “Make sure you heed your own advice.”

14

Neevah

It’s an odd experience, sifting through the detritus of Dessi Blue’s life. Dog-eared books and diaries, faded dresses from bygone eras, letters so old, parchmented like they might crumble in my hands. Her daughter, Katherine, has given us complete access to everything left in the house after Dessi died. She said she hasn’t gotten around to looking through half this stuff because her parents were pack rats and held onto every little thing documenting their colorful lives. She hasn’t made time to pick through their past or to dispose of it.

It’s like stumbling into a pharaoh’s tomb, the walls lined with riches and treasures. It’s mundane and magnificent. Worthless. Priceless. So many things I need to know about the woman I’m to portray. I’m eager, but also feel like a peeping tom, glimpsing another woman’s nakedness through the window of her past.

“Finding what you need?”

Canon stands in the doorway, his wide shoulders filling the frame. His eyes curious in the sharply hewn face. I drag my gaze away from him and to the stack of letters tied with string I’m holding.

“Yeah,” I say. “More than what I need. It’s kind of overwhelming and I’m not sure where to start.”

He walks in, his usual confident stride slower. He’s always guarded, but his expression seems almost wary when he sits beside me on the bed in what Katherine affectionately calls the “back room.” A box of old photos rests on the floor, and he bends to retrieve a few. A tarnished silver frame displays a happy, smiling couple on their wedding day. The style of Dessi’s dress and her rolled upsweep hairdo indicate early twentieth century, maybe late 30s, early 40s. It’s a black and white photo, but it’s clear that she’s fairer than her groom. They make a beautiful study in contrasts, him darker and her smaller, slim and elegant next to his imposing height. Shunning the camera, they stare into each other’s faces, noses nearly touching, love radiating from their expressions.