“Tell it all,” Canon says. “If you’re gonna tell it.”
“It was ‘Grind Up On Me, Girl,’” Monk admits, his smile chagrined.
“Ew,” Arietta murmurs. “You wrote that?”
“Co-wrote, thank you very much.” Monk tips his head toward Canon. “And guess who directed the video?”
“No way!” I screech before I remember not to be rude. “You did that?”
“In my defense,” Canon says, his full lips spread in a self-deprecating smile, “I was twenty-two years old and had bills to pay. A Grand Jury prize does not pay your rent.”
“Seriously?” Arietta asks. “I can’t imagine you struggling after all the accolades you got for The Magic Hour.”
“Hype is not money,” Canon says, sobering. “And buzz doesn’t keep the lights on. Truth be told, I took all those prizes and awards for a documentary, and it was great, but nobody was beating my door down. It’s a haul for anyone in Hollywood, but a young brother like myself fifteen years ago? Man, I was grateful when they asked me to direct the video for that cheesy song Monk wrote.”
“Alright now,” Monk protests. “I can talk shit about my songs. You can’t.”
“Bruh, it was bad.” Canon laughs. “I think it’s not your tits, but your wits was my favorite line, and by favorite, I mean made me cringe the most.”
Monk almost spits out his drink. “I said I co-wrote. I do not take responsibility for that line and begged them not to keep it. Don’t you put that on me, motherfucker.”
“You did win a Soul Train award for it,” Canon says.
“So did you, though I at least showed up to accept mine.”
“By then I was making another documentary.” Canon takes a long swallow of his Macallan. “I was in South America during that awards show. I meant no disrespect. Hell, I may have gotten more mileage out of the Soul Train award than I did from Sundance in some ways. I just had to be more discriminating about what I accepted.”
“What part of South America?” Arietta asks. “My neck of the woods?”
“Not Venezuela, no. I’ve never been there actually. It was Brazil.”
So that’s the accent I hear, and it accounts for her beautiful coloring. “You’re from Venezuela?” I ask.
“Yes.” She waves her hand to encompass the rooftop. “Thus The V. When my father arrived in America, his business associates called him the Venezuelan. He bristled at first, but then embraced it and has turned it into a brand, The V.”
“The hotel is amazing,” I tell her. “I’m glad Graham booked me here. Can’t wait to meet her.”
“She’d be here tonight, but had a family commitment. You’ll meet her soon. She keeps the ship running,” Evan says, taking a seat and joining us at the table again. “Speaking of running, I’m on empty. Can we order some actual food?”
“Agreed,” Canon says. “That event had nothing to eat and I need more than this drink.”
He slips his suit jacket off and hangs it on the back of his seat. This man’s shoulders and the width of his chest . . . damn. The silvery-blue open collar against the rich hue of his skin is criminal. Some imp inside my head, conspiring with my vagina, obviously, telegraphs an image of me biting into the corded muscle of his throat. When my eyes roam farther up, I meet his gaze, my breath catching. Him watching me watching him. Mortified, I grab one of the menus, using it as a shield while I grapple for my composure.
I’m a professional.
I can sit at a table with the sexiest, most brilliant man I’ve ever encountered without lusting all over him.
I think I can.
I think I can.
I think I can.
When I slowly lower the menu, I’m glad no one seems to have noticed my lust-lapse. Just as I think I’ve safely disguised my fascination with Canon, I feel the weight of his stare on me, and when I look up, there is an undeniable knowledge in those dark eyes. A recognition. An awareness. That same pull I felt sitting with him on the bed in Alabama, riffling through Dessi’s memories, resurfaces between us, doubling my heartbeat. I cannot look away, and we may as well be on this roof alone, the darkening sky an awning covering just us two.
“Neevah, what looks good?” Monk asks, snapping my focus back to the table and the other people seated here.
“Um, let me see,” I say, actually reading the menu this time. “Maybe something with shrimp.”
His question dispels the mist fogging my brain and I force myself to concentrate. Everyone discusses their orders, and the easy camaraderie provides cover while I pull my proverbial shit together and suppress the carnal urges the sight of this man in a suit stirs.
I’m a professional.
I chant it in my head a hundred times during the course of the delicious meal. It’s a night I’ll treasure. These are remarkable people, powerful people in the entertainment industry, but so comfortable with one another in a way that comes with time. It’s hard to believe I’ll be telling Dessi’s incredible story with them.
“It was so nice to meet you, Neevah,” Ari says once the plates are being cleared. “These two were so picky about casting Dessi, so I knew you had to be special when I heard they’d found you.”
“Canon,” Evan coughs into his hand, and then grins across the table at his partner.
“It was great meeting you, too,” I tell Arietta. “Your rooftop is amazing. I hope I can come back when I get out here.”
“For sure!” Arietta’s eyes light up. “We’ll hang once you get settled. When do you start shooting?”
“Fall,” Canon says, a frown knitting his brows. “September or October. If it works out with Trey, we need to confirm his schedule.”
That’s still a few months away, and I’m in limbo, suspended between the simple grind I’m living now in New York as an understudy, singing in small clubs, and the great demands of starring in one of the most epic biopics to come along in years.
“I’ll walk out with you, Ari,” Evan says, standing. “I need to ask you something.”
He reaches down to hug me and I squeeze back.
“It was great meeting you, Neevah,” he says. “And I can’t wait to get started. You’ll be a fantastic Dessi.”
He’s movie-star handsome, and from what I can tell, the definition of rich and privileged, but he also seems grounded by his relationships, the friendships represented at this table. He and Canon definitely have a lot in common, but also seem to provide counter perspectives. I can see how their personalities would blend well in a partnership.
“We’ll talk tomorrow about Trey,” Canon says, knocking back the last of his drink.
Evan nods, says his final goodbyes, and leaves with Arietta.
“And I actually have a recording session starting in an hour,” Monk says. “So Imma pull, too.”
I glance at the time on my phone. Nearly ten o’clock. The night is just beginning for studio rats. Recording is such a nocturnal scene.
“Great seeing you again, Neevah,” Monk says. I stand to hug him and give him an extra squeeze.
“Thank you again for everything,” I tell him, feeling unreasonably emotional as I realize none of this would have been possible had we not met, had he not seen my potential.