Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
“Darren’s writing the script?” Monk’s question jars me from that pivotal memory.
“Uh, actually, no. I really think this story should be written by a woman.” I pause, leaving plenty of room for the bomb I’m about to drop. “I want Verity Hill.”
Monk’s knife stops mid-slice into his medium-rare steak. He looks up, blinking at me a few times. His knife and fork clatter when he drops them on his plate. A muscle works in his jaw.
“Look, I know you two have a past,” I say.
He answers with scornful laughter and sits back in his chair, making no move to return to his steak.
“You don’t know shit about our past,” he says, his voice even, but his usual good humor absent.
“I know you dated in college and—”
“Don’t speculate, Canon.”
“I mean, she didn’t say it would be a problem for her, so I assumed you’d be—”
“You already asked her? Before you asked me?”
“Sorry, bruh, but the studio was more interested in who would write the script than who’d do the music. She’s in high demand since she won the Golden Globe.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“I needed to nail her down, get her attached as early as possible.”
“I said I get it.” Monk’s words are diced up into tiny pieces, but it sounds like he’s choking on them. “She’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, she didn’t seem to have a problem with you.”
“She shouldn’t,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear it.
“So it was a bad breakup?”
“It was college.” Monk picks up his fork and knife, slices into the tender pink meat. “We grown, and we’re professionals.”
“Make sure, because I don’t like personal shit messing up my movies.”
“Oh, you mean like Camille and Primal,” he says with a sudden evil grin.
“Man, if you don’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He puts up both hands in surrender. “You drop Verity and I won’t mention Camille.”
“Bet.” I flick my chin up and lift my empty glass so our server can see I need a refill. “We got our studio. Our writer. Our music. Now if I can just find Dessi. I don’t want to cast the guy until I know who Dessi’ll be. I need to see who she’ll have chemistry with.”
“Makes sense,” Monk says distractedly, looking down at the phone by his plate. “Oh, damn. Good for her.”
“Good for who? What’s up?”
“A few weeks ago, an old friend begged me to step into this gig for him in the Village.” He picks up the phone, smiling. “His wife went into labor and he didn’t want to leave the band hanging.”
“So he asked you?” I blow out an impressed breath. “Must go way back.”
Monk’s a big deal. Asking him to sub at a local gig is like bringing in LeBron for a pick-up game on the playground.
“It was fun. Whatever.” Monk shrugs and smirks. “So there’s this chick singing with the band that night and she was phenomenal. Sick with it. Like ‘star’ written all over her. It’s only a matter of time with this one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, you’ve never heard of her. Neevah Saint. I started following her on Instagram after that gig. Anyway, she just posted that she’s in that Broadway play Splendor. She’s an understudy, and apparently the lead actress is on vacation so she’s stepping in tonight for the first time.”
He glances at his watch and then to me. “What you got going on? You wanna catch a show?”
“You think we can get tickets day of? With such short notice?”
He gives me a do you know who I am look. “Bruh, I always got a hook up.”
“I was gonna look at first passes Verity sent over of the script.”
“Screw that. We’re in New York. Come on. You work too hard.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Yeah, but I play hard, too. Extract the stick from your ass at least for tonight.”
“Wow. You really know how to charm a guy.”
“Bruh, we way past charm. I’m dragging you down to this show.”
I stare glumly into my empty glass. “Aw, hell.”
“Aw hell my ass.” He signals to the server who never made it over with my refill. “Check, please.”
2
Neevah
“Calling to wish you luck tonight, Neevah. Sorry I can’t be there.”
Listening to my mother’s voicemail, I hear the regret in her voice, but it doesn’t lessen my disappointment that she’s not here.
“I had surgery and you know my knee ain’t been right ever since,” she goes on. “Traveling that long on a bus would be hard. Anyway, I’m so proud of you. We all are. I love you.”
She doesn’t fly.
I’m only in the role for a week.
She has obligations at home.
I rehearse the litany of reasons my mother cannot be here when I need her like I have many times over the last decade. Like I did my first semester in college. And when I was struggling after graduation. I toured with a play once and we did a show in Charlotte. It was a small role, but Mama came. She beamed with pride over the couple of lines I had onstage for only a few minutes. How would she feel tonight seeing me on Broadway as the star of the show?