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)
We’ve been shooting this dance number for two days. It’s one of the biggest of the entire film. After today, we break for Thanksgiving and can get some rest. But right now everyone’s on edge. God bless Neevah. Lucia, our choreographer, is a tyrant, and almost as bad as Canon when it comes to getting every single thing right. She has worked that girl and the other dancers past the bone.
Canon, Jill, and Kenneth, the assistant director, huddle around a table at the other end of the tent, prepping for the scene. Inevitably, the band breaks out their instruments and begin to play while we wait. I watch on the monitors as the actors and even some of the crew gravitate toward the Savoy’s bandstand. A trumpet player keeps pushing Monk toward the piano, but he laughingly waves him off. Eventually he acquiesces and takes the bench. I used to love seeing Monk with other musicians. He’s at ease in a way that speaks of the connectedness and community he feels with musicians as an extension of what he feels for music itself. Monk’s fingers fly over the keys, innate confidence squares his shoulders, and most tellingly, awe settles on the faces of those gathered around.
Especially the women.
Ladies, I get it.
The man is fine just breathing, but put an instrument or a mic in his hand, and it’s just unfair. One of the scantily clad dancers boldly sits beside him on the bench, and he flicks her a distracted smile, never missing a beat. He’s so caught up in the tune, in the synergy of the band, the melding of the sounds, he seems unaware that the beautiful woman is sending signals that he could get it.
A surge of possessiveness surprises me. It’s misplaced and unfair and unreasonable. I have no claim to Monk.
Still, something twists in my gut when the dancer runs her hand up and down his back, caresses his nape.
Pushy bitch.
“No,” I chide under my breath. “You don’t get to do this, Verity.”
“Talking to yourself?” The question from Canon jolts me.
“No!” I shake my head a little too vehemently. My response is over the top, but once you’ve actually been in a mental institution and labeled unstable because… well, you are unstable… you become sensitive about people thinking you’re crazy.
“Well you’re talking to somebody,” Canon laughs, and walks to his director’s chair. “Glad you’re here to see this. Your Slim cameo idea was such a great add.”
My eyes wander back to the screen. Monk offers the dancer a polite smile, but nothing about his body language encourages her, and when he stands from the piano and walks away, disappointment colors her pretty face. He says a few words to the band and walks offscreen.
A few minutes later, he enters video village and chats with Canon and then searches the tent for a place to sit. I train my eyes on the monitor when he takes the seat beside me.
“This is gonna be good,” he says. “Neevah and the dancers look great, and so does Clyde. Teamwork, huh?”
He extends his fist for a bump, and after an almost imperceptible pause, I touch my fist to his.
“Teamwork,” I agree.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He reaches over and brushes his knuckle over the back of my hand, where it rests on my bare leg. The touch so startles me, I jerk, half expecting my skirt to spontaneously burst into flame, my skin feels so hot where he touched me. When he doesn’t move his hand, I side-eye him. He’s not smiling. Not frowning. Just observing my response, like a flame test—tossing things my way and watching, waiting to see how brightly I might burn.
I flick my gaze up to meet his searching, unblinking stare. He used to tell me he loved watching me in a group because I couldn’t disguise how I wanted him. He would find ways to caress my leg, or tangle his fingers in the curls at the base of my neck, or if he was really bold, under a table, slip his fingers beneath my skirt and into my panties.
I shift in my seat so that his hand falls away, and he smiles faintly as if I’ve passed a test. Or maybe I’ve failed. I’m not sure, but I believe he got the response he wanted.
“Quiet on the set,” Kenneth calls, and the sudden hush ushers in a new tension. Canon is hoping this is the last take. Everyone’s tired and ready to go home for the holiday, but we all want it to be perfect.
“Action!”
Clyde is pitch-perfect as Slim, banging the keys with the backs of his hands, his elbows, even his feet. Monk watches every second with a hawk’s eye. He is as obsessive as Canon in many ways, but unlike his longtime friend, he usually softens it.