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)
“What’d you want to run by me?” I ask.
She gestures to one of the loungers by Evan’s pool. “Could we sit?”
“Sure.”
She takes one lounge chair and I take the other so we’re facing each other. I keep the apple, tossing it back and forth between my hands to distract me from the picture she makes. The pool lights have come on. The Flashdance sweatshirt droops off one shoulder, and her skin glows deep coppery brown in the water’s reflected light. Her hair got wet when she bobbed for apples, so it’s curling around the edges, a few damp strands clinging to her neck. She kicks off the red pumps and presses her knees together, tugging the hem down when it rides nearly up to the top of her thighs. That’s a lot of skin showing if she expects me to focus on an actual conversation, but I fix my eyes on her face, striped in the reflected glow of the pool lights.
“Did you mean it when we called truce?” she asks, raising her eyes and watching me closely, as if she’ll know I’m lying by even the twitch of an eyebrow. That used to be true, only I never lied to her. I won’t start now.
“I think I meant it.” I chuckle when she rolls her eyes.
“Monk.” She groans and grips her hair at the sides, frustration and amusement warring on her pretty face.
“I mean, sometimes I just say shit to get people off my back.” I pause, letting myself just look at her for a few seconds, something I haven’t been able to do in years. “But I guess you’re not people.”
She drops her gaze to her lap almost immediately, snipping the thread that connected us.
“I, um…” She shakes her head and sets that luscious mouth into a determined line. “Do you know who Slim Gaillard was?”
“Vee, come on now.” I lean back and press my palms to the lounge chair behind me. “Of course I know him. One of the greatest to ever hit the keys. I love that you guys included ‘Flat Foot Floogie’ for one of the Savoy dance numbers.”
“I was wondering… and we’d have to run it by Canon, of course… but I wondered if we could take a little creative license with that scene to highlight Slim’s unique talents. He hasn’t gotten nearly the recognition he deserves.”
“Or the money. ‘Floogie’ was their biggest hit, him and Slam Stewart. Benny Goodman played it, which made it hugely popular,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “But Slim and Slam made next to nothing from it. They sold the publishing rights for a measly two hundred and fifty bucks. Wasn’t till he joined ASCAP years later that Slim saw any real royalties.”
“Typical.” Verity shakes her head and sighs. “I love that we have the chance to amplify, not only Dessi’s life with this film, but so many other artists from her day as we tell her story. I think Slim deserves a little screen time.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
She leans forward, her eyes lighting up in that way they did when she used to get excited about an idea.
“You know how he’d play the guitar with his fingers pointing down on the fingerboard? Upside down? Or play the piano with the backs of his hands?”
“And make up outrageous lyrics.” I chuckle. “Yeah, he was something else. He played a crowd as well as he played the piano.”
“I’m just thinking when we do the big dance number at the Savoy, and we play ‘Flat Foot Floogie,’ what if leading into it, we let Slim have a little fun?”
“Oh, that could be really cool. I know a guy named Clyde with enough comedic stage presence and the skill who could pull it off.”
“Maybe we could talk to Canon together about it?” She presses her hands together like she’s pleading.
“Canon respects your opinion, Vee. You don’t need me to convince him.”
“But you’re the musician. If you think it could be cool, he’ll think so, too. We both know he’s just gonna come to you and ask what you think.”
“True.” I grin at the face she makes. “Maybe we should corner him now, while he’s all relaxed smoking his cigar out on the balcony.”
“You mean while he’s out there brooding over Neevah?”
I lift my brows, surprised she picked up on that.
“Does everyone know he’s slightly obsessed with her?” I ask.
“‘Slightly’?” She cackles and leans back, flattening her palms behind her on the lounge chair. “He’s not that obvious or anything, but remember I had to ride with them to Alabama when we met Dessi’s daughter. There were so many pheromones in that car, I wanted to roll down the windows.”
We both laugh, and my gaze crawls up the long length of her legs in the sweatshirt that rides higher the more relaxed she becomes. Something must tip her off. Maybe I didn’t look away quickly enough or maybe she is so familiar with the lust she is capable of inspiring in me that she senses it. Not sure what it is, but something makes her self-conscious, makes the laugher dissolve from her expression. She sits up straight and tugs the sweatshirt down as far as it can go, which isn’t far.