Reel (Hollywood Renaissance #1) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,5

The guy’s too smart to be poor. Not that he’s ever been. Evan grew up in the business with a screenwriter for a mother and a cinematographer for a father. He bleeds film.

“Still no closer to finding your star?” Monk asks.

I put the drink down and lean back in my chair, watching Lincoln Center glow through the window as the first layer of darkness blankets the city. Finding a great story is only the first hurdle. Getting the money to make it? That’s another. Casting the right actors—one of the most important steps in the dozens you take to make or ruin a film.

“I’ll know her when I see her,” I tell him.

“How many have you seen so far? A hundred?”

“The studio put out this huge casting call that’s been a joke. I like to be a lot more precise than this. It’s a waste of time and money, if you ask me, but they didn’t. They just started looking at all these actresses who are totally wrong for the role.”

“Well, in their defense, you have been searching for six months without one callback, so they’re probably just trying to help this baby along.”

“But it’s my baby.” I glare at the passersby on the street like they’re the suits safely ensconced in their Beverly Hills homes. “I found this story in the middle of nowhere. They have no idea what it will take to make it what it should be. All I want is their money, not their ideas.”

“Silly them, thinking they should have some say about how their money is spent.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how it works, but there are some things I know only with my gut. And casting this movie is one of those things, so I need the studio execs to stay the hell out of my way while I find the right actress.”

“It’s still kind of a miracle how you got Dessi Blue. Like, once-in-a-lifetime.”

I’d been traveling from one interview for Cracked to another. Driving through a rural Alabama town, I almost missed the small roadside marker.

Birthplace of Dessi Blue (1915–2005)

Driving, I didn’t have time to read all the fine print beneath the heading that told more about her life, but the gas station in the tiny town where I stopped was on Dessi Blue Drive. Inside, I asked the cashier about Dessi Blue, and the rest is history. That sent me on the winding road that has brought me to the most ambitious movie I’ve ever attempted—a biopic about the life story of a hugely talented jazz singer most have never heard of and never knew.

“Darren’s writing the script?” Monk’s question jars me from that pivotal memory.

“Uh, actually, no. I really think this story should be written by a woman.” I pause, leaving plenty of room for the bomb I’m about to drop. “I want Verity Hill.”

Monk’s knife stops mid-slice into his medium-rare steak. He looks up, blinking at me a few times. His knife and fork clatter when he drops them on his plate. A muscle works in his jaw.

“Look, I know you two have a past,” I say.

He answers with scornful laughter and sits back in his chair, making no move to return to his steak.

“You don’t know shit about our past,” he says, his voice even, but his usual good humor absent.

“I know you dated in college and—”

“Don’t speculate, Canon.”

“I mean, she didn’t say it would be a problem for her, so I assumed you’d be—”

“You already asked her? Before you asked me?”

“Sorry, bruh, but the studio was more interested in who would write the script than who’d do the music. She’s in high demand since she won the Golden Globe.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I needed to nail her down, get her attached as early as possible.”

“I said I get it.” Monk’s words are diced up into tiny pieces, but it sounds like he’s choking on them. “She’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, she didn’t seem to have a problem with you.”

“She shouldn’t,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear it.

“So it was a bad breakup?”

“It was college.” Monk picks up his fork and knife, slices into the tender pink meat. “We grown, and we’re professionals.”

“Make sure, because I don’t like personal shit messing up my movies.”

“Oh, you mean like Camille and Primal,” he says with a sudden evil grin.

“Man, if you don’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He puts up both hands in surrender. “You drop Verity and I won’t mention Camille.”

“Bet.” I flick my chin up