Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

Our elevator comes too soon, and I savor the last few moments around him. Once I return to New York, I probably won’t see him again before we start production. My senses hoard the last of him. His clean, masculine scent. The rich timbre of his voice and the compelling landscape of his features. The intellect and curiosity mingled in his dark eyes. The rare, bright flash of his smile.

I have no right to think I’ll miss him, and yet I know I will.

Monk is still on the phone when we board, and neither Canon nor I speak once we’re in motion. I sneak a peripheral glance at him from beneath my lashes, watching the shift of his shoulders under the jacket. I think about how I felt when I saw him with Arietta—the unreasonable jealousy. I wonder if he’s got a girl, some woman he goes home to or finds solace in or who merely slakes his physical needs. And the thought of it embeds a burning thorn in my heart. How can someone you’ve known for such a short time inspire this visceral response?

I don’t have much time to wonder because we reach my floor and it’s time to say goodbye. Still on the phone, Monk whispers see you soon. Canon holds the elevator door with one hand, waiting for me to get off.

“Uh, well, I guess I’ll see you in a few months,” I say, leaving the elevator car. I don’t wait for a response but take the first steps toward my room.

“Neevah,” Canon calls.

I look over my shoulder, committing his face and the way I feel when I’m around him to memory.

He stares back, his expression enigmatic, but alert.

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice pitched low. Waiting. Breath held.

“Nothing.” He frowns, clears his throat. “Good to see you again. Thanks for flying out.”

Before I can respond, he releases the door, letting it close between us.

19

Neevah

“So they found a new understudy?”

Takira’s sitting cross-legged on the twin bed in my tiny bedroom while I purge and prepare to move. We’re crammed in here like Tic Tacs. I’m due in LA in two weeks and I’m so ready to leave this place.

But I’m not ready to leave Takira.

“Yeah.” I toss a denim jacket I don’t even remember buying into a trash bag for Goodwill. “She starts next week, the new girl. I get a few days off before I have to fly out and report to set.”

“That’s great.” She bites her bottom lip and folds a sweatshirt.

We haven’t talked much about me leaving. I think we’ve both been avoiding the subject. I’ll still be able to pay my part of the rent since they provide a place for me in LA. She’ll have more room, privacy, but I know she’d rather have me here. And I want her with me. When you lose your natural family by blood, the family you choose is that much dearer, and I’m closer to Takira than anyone else.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it to check the text message. A slow grin spreads over my face. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.

“Well this is good news,” I say, waving my phone at Takira.

“Oh yeah?” The forced brightness of her tone does little to disguise the glumness.

“My agent and I had a few things in the contract we needed to negotiate.”

“Nice.” She pairs up socks and rolls them into a ball.

“I told them that too often Black women get to a job and there isn’t someone who knows how to do their hair.”

“Girl, facts.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “They don’t be checking for us.”

“And you already know my hair has . . . we’ll call them special considerations.”

Her eyes soften. “Dr. Ansford said everything looks good, though, right?”

“Yes, and I want to keep it that way, so . . .” I let the smile I’ve been suppressing break out fully. “I told them I need to choose my own hairdresser, which is not unheard of.”

“And?” Takira’s eyes hold curiosity and cautious hope.

“They said yes!” I jump on the bed and squeeze her neck. “Girl, we going to Hollywood!”

“Ayyyyeeee!” Her squeal probably wakes the roaches. “We are? You and me?”

“Unless you don’t want to live rent-free in LA for the next five months and get a movie credit on your resume.” I grab my phone and pretend to start dialing. “’Cause I can tell them right now that you’re not—”

“Gimme!” She snatches my phone and rolls from the bed to stand. “Seriously, Neev?”

“Seriously. I need you out there. For emotional support, of course, but also for this hair, which is on a sliding scale from 3B to 4A with a 4C patch in the back.” I touch the tender bald spot at the base of my head. “And this scalp is a war zone. You know that better than anybody. This is the biggest opportunity of my life. The last thing I want to be thinking about is my hair.”