Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1) - Page 45
“Everybody thinks they’re already fucking,” Monk says.
“I don’t know.” I set my drink on the balcony ledge and roll a cigar between my fingers. “Takira seems to be holding out a little while longer.”
“Not Takira. Neevah and Trey.”
My grip tightens around the cigar. I’m still and hot, like a wick trapped in the wax of a burning candle.
“What did you say?” I slow the words so Monk can have no trouble understanding them.
He looks away from me and to the crowd, his expression intent. I follow the direction of his stare.
Verity. Of course.
I snap my fingers in his face to regain his attention.
“Man, don’t be snapping at me.” Monk turns to me with a scowl. “I ain’t no damn dog.”
“How else do I get your attention,” I ask, tipping my head toward Verity, “when she’s around?”
“I ain’t thinking about that girl. She can do whatever she damn well pleases.”
The Monk doth protest too much.
“And I’m sure she will, but you mentioned something about Neevah and Trey.”
“Oh, yeah.” He looks back to the spot where Verity stood a moment ago, but she’s not there anymore. “They’re probably sleeping together.”
I don’t mean to harm the cigar, but it snaps in my hand.
“You alright there, Holt?” Monk’s alert stare shifts from my face to the crushed stogy.
“I’m cool.” I toss it over the balcony into the yawning canyon below.
“Oh, good. ’Cause for a minute there, I thought you might feel some type of way about Trey fucking our sweet ingénue.”
“Stop saying that.” I grit my teeth and try to regulate my uneven breathing. “I stay out of my cast’s business.”
“Right. Right.” He taunts me over the rim of his drink. “Well, here comes some cast business now.”
Takira and Neevah head toward the balcony, fanning their faces.
“Whew,” Takira says breathlessly. “Lawd. I need some air. All them bodies. It’s hot in there.”
“Who y’all supposed to be?” Monk asks, gesturing to their color-coordinated outfits.
“Sidney and Sharane from House Party,” Takira rolls her eyes. “We realized too late that movie was made in 1990.”
“It released in 1990,” Neevah corrects. “So it was probably made in 1989. So we’d be alright on a technicality.”
Takira points to her bright yellow body suit and hair. “You don’t spend an hour putting in crinkle curls for a technicality.”
Monk laughs along with them, but it’s not funny to me. Nothing’s funny. Specifically not the thought of Neevah sleeping with Trey. I’ve made it a point not to be alone with her again since the day in her trailer. I give notes to most of the cast directly, but usually, I send Neevah’s through Kenneth. Nothing good can come of this connection between us, so I’ve steered clear of her.
Apparently, that was unnecessary thanks to Nick at Nite. I take another swig of my drink and turn away from the trio cutting up. I lean my elbows on the balcony ledge and contemplate the glimmer of lights scattered throughout the hills.
“You didn’t want to dress up?”
I turn my head to find Neevah beside me, her back to the city, elbows propped on the ledge. Now that I know she’s supposed to be Tisha Campbell’s character from House Party, her vest and bright yellow pants make more sense. She’s left her hair out and wild, floating around her shoulders with the slight breeze blown in by the night.
Instead of answering, I pull another cigar from my pocket. Cameo’s “Candy” booms from inside followed by a collective whoop from the crowd. I glance at Monk and Takira, who immediately start the steps of the electric slide. My back is to the crowd Neevah’s facing, and humor lights her expression.
“Oh, my God! You should see this. They even got old Mr. Anderson out there dancing.”
Maybe the thought of the seventy-year-old cameraman doing the electric slide would typically make me smile, but I’m too preoccupied with visions of Trey bending Neevah over a couch in her trailer.
Monk and Takira leave the balcony to join the dancers. Neevah stays.
“You like to dance?” she asks.
“Did you need something?” I carve the words out of stone and show her my irritation with a scowl.
Surprise and dismay mingle on her pretty face. “I-I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Go try with someone else. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“Wow.” Hurt fills her eyes and she presses her lips together, shaking her head. “Sorry I bothered you.”
When she turns to leave, which is exactly what I told her to do, like the conflicted motherfucker I am, I reach out, cuffing her wrist to stop her.
She drags a glare from the loose clasp of my hand up to my face. “Did I misunderstand? I could have sworn you wanted to be alone.”
“I’m an asshole.”
“That’s a well-established fact, but no excuse for being rude when I was just trying . . . well, you told me to go try with someone else. So let me go.”
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