Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I lean against the counter and wearily push the hair out of my face.
“This film is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened in my career,” I admit, deciding to drop my guard and share something true. Something real. Something I hope will break through that wall his anger erected between us. “Telling Dessi’s story feels like something I’ve been waiting for all my life. Canon has assembled the kind of stellar team Dessi deserves, and we’re both a part of that. Can we get past our shit long enough to not just tolerate each other, but truly work together? Because if we can figure out how to do that, we could do something special. For her.”
He searches my face, and maybe what he finds there steals his fight. The tightness around his mouth loosens and he drops his gaze to the floor.
“You’re right,” he says. “It’s rare that we get to tell a story like this. It’s a shame that a life as rich and uniquely American as Dessi’s has been buried.”
“Erased. Dessi and artists like her were used for their gifts and then discarded, forgotten.” I pause and look at him with as much sincerity as I can. “We get to make that right in some small way.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “We do.”
“So… truce?” I ask, holding my breath like I’m defusing a bomb.
For a few tight seconds, I think it’s impossible; that too much has passed between us for this to work, but Monk is an artist first. Maybe I offered the one thing that could make him set aside his resentment, at least long enough to do Dessi justice, because the tight mask his face has been every time I’ve seen him since that last night eases. At least long enough to show me the man I fell for. The man I broke.
After a moment, he extends his hand to me. “Truce.”
With a grin, I accept, and the simple contact steals my breath just like it did all those years ago the night we met. A familiar strike of lightning. An irrepressible spark. His eyes catch mine, the only acknowledgment that he feels it, too.
“Looks like you guys are making peace in here,” Canon says, watching us from the kitchen entryway, his gaze bouncing between Monk and me.
“All good.” Monk drops my hand and sports that now-familiar smirk. “I’mma bounce, but I’ll get you my thoughts on vocalists for some of the stuff we’ll need.”
“Alright.” Canon fist-bumps his friend and watches him leave before turning back to me. “The two of you gonna be able to pull this off without killing each other?”
“Guess so.” I shrug and let out a humorless laugh. “At least I think now we’re going to try.”
Canon doesn’t quite look convinced, and I can’t blame him because, even though I feel a little lighter as I drive home, neither am I.
TWENTY-THREE
Monk
Working on one of the biggest projects of your career with one of your closest friends is the stuff dreams are made of. Canon and I met on the set of a music video when were nobodies. Fresh out of college, I had cowritten a shitty song and Canon was directing the video. On set, he scowled and yelled at everybody and was generally the kind of ass you can afford to be when you’re famous, but not when you’re nobody.
And you Black. Nigga, what?
“Bruh,” I had said, pulling him aside between takes. “This ain’t The Godfather and you ain’t Francis Ford Coppola. I mean, come on. The song is called ‘Grind Up on Me, Girl.’ I wrote it and I’m not even taking this as seriously as you are. You need to dial the attitude down.”
He watched through narrowed eyes for maybe ten seconds. Then his stern mouth twitched, and he started laughing so hard he almost doubled over.
“Uhhhh… okay.” I had glanced around the set, wondering if he was not just an asshole, but also… “eccentric.”
“You… you… the song.” He had gasped, unable to stop laughing long enough to get the words out. “You wrote this shit? Man, I’m embarrassed for you.”
He’s lucky I already knew how bad that song was. The cost of living in New York was a rude awakening. With more bills than pride, I did some work that was not my finest and so did he. At twenty-one years old, he’d taken grand jury and directing prizes at Sundance for The Magic Hour, a documentary about his mother’s fight with multiple sclerosis, but a year later, he was trying as hard as I was to make ends meet.
And look at us now, collaborating on Dessi Blue, which may become a defining project in both of our careers.
We’re finally ready to start shooting, and I know Canon wants Verity involved in the day-to-day as much as possible, more than a screenwriter might typically experience. I haven’t seen her since the dinner at Canon’s house a few months ago. Commitments for two albums kept me in New York for the most part. A lot of my work for Dessi will occur in postproduction once it’s time to actually score the film. I want to be here for today’s table reading, though, so I can see how everything is coming together.