Takira points to her bright yellow body suit and hair. “You don’t spend an hour putting in crinkle curls for a technicality.”
Monk laughs along with them, but it’s not funny to me. Nothing’s funny. Specifically not the thought of Neevah sleeping with Trey. I’ve made it a point not to be alone with her again since the day in her trailer. I give notes to most of the cast directly, but usually, I send Neevah’s through Kenneth. Nothing good can come of this connection between us, so I’ve steered clear of her.
Apparently, that was unnecessary thanks to Nick at Nite. I take another swig of my drink and turn away from the trio cutting up. I lean my elbows on the balcony ledge and contemplate the glimmer of lights scattered throughout the hills.
“You didn’t want to dress up?”
I turn my head to find Neevah beside me, her back to the city, elbows propped on the ledge. Now that I know she’s supposed to be Tisha Campbell’s character from House Party, her vest and bright yellow pants make more sense. She’s left her hair out and wild, floating around her shoulders with the slight breeze blown in by the night.
Instead of answering, I pull another cigar from my pocket. Cameo’s “Candy” booms from inside followed by a collective whoop from the crowd. I glance at Monk and Takira, who immediately start the steps of the electric slide. My back is to the crowd Neevah’s facing, and humor lights her expression.
“Oh, my God! You should see this. They even got old Mr. Anderson out there dancing.”
Maybe the thought of the seventy-year-old cameraman doing the electric slide would typically make me smile, but I’m too preoccupied with visions of Trey bending Neevah over a couch in her trailer.
Monk and Takira leave the balcony to join the dancers. Neevah stays.
“You like to dance?” she asks.
“Did you need something?” I carve the words out of stone and show her my irritation with a scowl.
Surprise and dismay mingle on her pretty face. “I-I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Go try with someone else. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“Wow.” Hurt fills her eyes and she presses her lips together, shaking her head. “Sorry I bothered you.”
When she turns to leave, which is exactly what I told her to do, like the conflicted motherfucker I am, I reach out, cuffing her wrist to stop her.
She drags a glare from the loose clasp of my hand up to my face. “Did I misunderstand? I could have sworn you wanted to be alone.”
“I’m an asshole.”
“That’s a well-established fact, but no excuse for being rude when I was just trying . . . well, you told me to go try with someone else. So let me go.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s better than I’m an asshole.” The tight lines of her face soften almost undetectably. “Look, I know how you get kind of lost in what you’re thinking and want to be left alone. If you’re—”
“It’s not. I mean, you’re right. I do get like that a lot, especially when I’m making a movie. I’m usually turning the next day over in my head, thinking about the scenes and everything that goes into the shots, but I don’t mind some company.”
I glance over my shoulder at the packed room, the dancers, the drinking games some of the crew resurrected from their frat-party days. “Not them.”
We share a brief laugh, our amusement cresting and falling, leaving us staring at each other with the same intensity I felt on the sidewalk, in Alabama, on the roof, in her trailer. Hell, every time I’m alone with this woman for more than two minutes, this happens. I don’t look away like I usually do—don’t suppress the rising wave. I let it, just this once, wash over us.
“What I meant to say,” I continue, “is I don’t mind your company.”
She swallows, the muscles of her graceful neck shifting with the motion. And it happens. The thing I swore to myself I would not let happen.
I get hard.
I’ve avoided looking at her ass all night. Breasts have been off-limits since day one. Even this woman’s hands, slim and elegant and decorated with ink, have the potential to turn me on, so I never look long. And, damn it to hell, it’s her swallowing that pours cement all over my cock? Maybe it’s the thought of my dick in her mouth. Or her swallowing me down after she—
“I can’t do smoke,” she says, gesturing to the unlit cigar in my hand. “It aggravates my . . . I just can’t do smoke, and I want to let you enjoy your cigar, so I’ll go.”
She tugs to free her wrist again, but I still don’t release her. Instead, I toss this cigar over the balcony like I did the last one.
“Stay.”
It’s one word, but it tells her a thousand things I haven’t said before.
And we both know it.
Her nod is a little jerky and the pulse at the base of her throat flutters, trapped beneath the delicate skin. Do I make her nervous?
Well, you are still gripping her wrist like some psycho who might tamper with her drink.
I release her and she steps closer again, leaning her elbows on the ledge beside mine and slanting me a look.
“The therapist you guys brought in has been great. We’ve talked a few times. I wasn’t prepared for how some of this would affect me. Thank you.”
“That’s what a director is for. Just doing my job.”
Our eyes catch and hold. It’s true. I didn’t bring in the therapist just for Neevah, and several have used the service. Taking care of the cast is my job, but I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend that the way I think about her, am attuned to her, want to be around her, is about the job. I need to cling to that excuse for as long as I can. At least until this movie wraps. For both our sakes.
Directors have famously taken advantage of their position of power for sex. It’s a problem and a bad cliché. I’ve turned down many offers. Every offer. I don’t play that shit. It disrespects the artists and cheapens my craft. That’s why dating Camille was such an anomaly. That epic failure only served to confirm that I am oil and my actresses are water, and we should not be shaken together. I won’t make that mistake again.
“Well, thanks.” Her voice is hushed. “Even if you were just doing your job, it was exactly what I needed.”
I nod, but don’t respond further. I asked her to stay, but cannot think of anything safe to discuss. Nothing’s safe because every time we talk, I find more to like about her. Before I can embarrass myself by bringing up early 20th century film innovations, the music from inside the party changes. Quiets.
“Let’s take a few songs and pay tribute to one of the eighties’ greatest crooners,” the DJ says. “The legendary Luther Vandross.”
The opening piano flourishes of “A House is Not A Home” drift out to the balcony, with Luther’s distinctive baritone close on the heels of the poignant notes.
“Oh, this was my jam,” Neevah says, closing her eyes and lifting her face toward the sky. Moonlight caresses the high curves of her cheekbones, kisses the ripeness of her lips. Long lashes rest like feathers on her cheeks. She’s a druid. An innocent. A hedonist. A cluster of contradictions that somehow all make sense in this woman.
“You weren’t even born when Luther made this song,” I remind her.