Behind the Scenes

by Christina C Jones

  Mari was Nubia’s little sister – ten years her junior, which made she and I roughly the same age. That age difference – especially the one from Nubia to Elodie, almost twenty years – was why she’d always felt more like an aunt than our cousin exactly.

  It didn’t hurt that she’d semi-raised us.

  I shrugged. “Sounds to me like you need this chick more than I do.”

  “And if she lived in Blackwood, trust me, she’d already be on my team. Luckily though, she’s based right here in Vegas, which is perfect since you are most certainly in need.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “It’s really not up for debate, P,” Nubia interrupted, standing back to admire her work. “If you want the show, you take the assistant. I don’t understand why you’re against utilizing this resource – I would expect that someone serious about stepping into such an important role would see the value in something like this and be smart enough to not throw it away. If it were me, I would be exploiting all the advantages I could to prove myself.”

  I smirked. “I’m already utilizing an advantage – nepotism, Auntie Nubs.”

  “That will only get you so far though – thank your cousin Jeff for that,” she said, throwing up her hands. “The Drakes can appreciate familial mess as well as the next, but Jeff fucked with their homeboy,” Nubia explained. “I pulled all my strings to keep his ass on as news director already. Mari has proven herself already and earned her position. I had just enough leeway here in Vegas to get you this show. You have to do the work yourself to actually bring it to fruition.”

  Shit.

  I’d forgotten about Jeff almost getting his block knocked off because he wanted to play TMZ type games with a local politician – one who happened to be tight with the Drakes.

  Dumbass.

  It worked in my favor though, because I didn’t need a cop out, not really. Depending on familial goodwill wasn’t how I wanted to build my legacy – wasn’t how I wanted to honor the foundation I’d been blessed with.

  So…

  “Fine,” I said. “Let me get myself together, take a piss, and… we can talk about it.”

  Nubia smiled. “There’s nothing for us to talk about. We have lunch reservations at Beauchamp’s,” she told me, heading for the door. “One o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  ***

  I wasn’t late.

  In fact, I was early, just to make a point to Nubia, who wasn’t there yet when I arrived.

  “Would you like to wait at the bar?” the hostess asked, with a little hair flip and sultry eyes.

  “I would prefer not to. That’s the only option?” I asked, taking care not to give her back any of the flirty energy she was giving me.

  She leaned onto the podium, the action pushing her breasts together under the black button-up she and all the other employees wore. “You can hang out up here with me…”

  I smiled, glancing around to where there was a waiting area off to the side. “I actually need to get my mind right for this meeting, so… is it cool if I wait over there?”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll be seated when the rest of your party arrives.”

  I gave her a nod, then moved away from the hostess stand so she could tend to the next people in line. In the waiting area, I pushed out a breath, trying to shake the nerves that had been building since Nubia left my house.

  I had no idea what the fuck was about to happen.

  When I pitched my show to Nubia, and showed her the script for the pilot, she was officially the first person who knew it even existed. I’d done things here and there in film and television production, but never anything steady, or too… official.

  And writing?

  Me?

  That wasn’t… a thing.

  Until it was.

  Because we were blood, Nubia would support me through whatever – that was just her nature. That support wouldn’t keep her from being brutally honest with me though, and telling me if my shit was wack, or off-base.

  She was excited about it though, from just the idea. And then, even more when I showed her the script. Other than her, I’d only discussed this with two other people – my baby sister, and a very specific homeboy, none of those other niggas.

  Now, I was expanding that carefully curated fold to include a stranger.

  A helpful stranger, but still a stranger.

  It was fucking nerve-wracking.

  An ailment that could easily be cured at the bar.

  I closed my eyes, blowing out a sigh as I envisioned a couple fingers of top shelf Kimble bourbon in a cold glass, so vivid I could practically taste it. This was a business meeting, sure, but if I was about to talk shop with some stuffy executive concierge for the next hour or however long, the dulling of my senses could be worthwhile.

  Squash that shit, P.

  I opened my eyes, shaking my head in an attempt to clear the visual from my mind.

  Don’t try to rationalize bullshit.

  “Hi. I have a lunch reservation.”

  “Okay. What’s the name?”

  Vague familiarity made me turn around, and I froze when my gaze landed on the woman standing at the hostess counter, wearing the fuck out of slim-fitting navy slacks and a crisp white top. There was an air of confidence about her as she tucked one side of a sleek, shoulder-length bob behind her ear, showcasing an impressive diamond stud as she waited for the hostess’ response.

  “Your full party hasn’t arrived yet, but I believe there’s someone in the waiting area, if you’d like to join him there until we can seat you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was still standing on the other side of the glass, staring like a dummy when she turned around, confirming what I’d already realized.

  Logan.

  Pretty pecan skin, full lips coated in a subtle gloss, cute little rounded tip on her nose. Thick lashes made her eyes pop – the only hint of “glam” on her otherwise lowkey makeup.

  A marked difference from when I’d first encountered her, just hours ago.

  “Pierre,” she breathed, then cleared her throat and straightened her posture. “Um… hi.”

  I smirked. “Hi?”

  She pulled her lip into her mouth, just enough to chew at it a bit without messing up her lipstick. “I’m not sure what else to say.”

  That was valid.

  What were you supposed to say to the stranger you were in a car accident with in the wee hours of the morning, then fucked, never really expecting to see them again?

  “I never did get your insurance information,” was what I came up with, and counted as the right thing, since it made her smile – beautiful fucking smile, damn – and shake her head.

  “I guess we did get a bit distracted, huh?”

  “Yeah… I guess so.”

  Hell… I was plenty distracted now, thinking about the velvety ass skin covering the lush, curvy body currently hiding underneath her perfectly professional clothes. She was polished now, sophisticated – a far cry from the flustered woman I’d met in pajamas and fuzzy slippers last night.

  “I could give it to you now,” she said, suddenly shaking her head, like her mind had gone someplace else too. “I have my card on me.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about that car shit,” I told her, stepping toward her to stop her from diving into her designer bag in search of a business card. “I was just… saying something.”

  “Oh. So what I’m hearing is… my pussy was enough to cover the damage?” she asked, quietly, with a sexy smirk that had me ready to say fuck this meeting, and whatever she was here for too.

  “Your words shorty, not mine.”

  “So you disagree?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I laughed, then gave her a slow once over that had her doing that same little hair-tuck thing. “You clean up nice.”

  Her eyebrow lifted. “I could say the same. I see you left the diamond fronts at home – do those only come out when you’re trolling bad neighborhoods for pretty girls who ar
e terrible drivers?”

  I chuckled. “Something like that.”

  “Oh good! You two have met!”

  The sound of Nubia’s voice cut into some of whatever little magic was happening between Logan and me, forcing me to break contact with her expressive brown eyes to acknowledge my cousin, who—

  “Wait, what?” I asked, as Nubia’s words really struck my brain.

  Her mass of curls bounced over her shoulders as Nubia looked back and forth between us, her mouth spreading into a grin. “Oh. You two aren’t meeting, you’re flirting, aren’t you?”

  Logan let out a nervous giggle as she turned to Nubia. “Mrs. Perry-Foster, I—”

  “I told you – it’s Nubia to you, sweetheart,” she interrupted. “And there’s nothing to explain, you’re attractive kids. Logan Byers, meet Pierre Perry the third. You’ll always hear me call him P, or P-Three, depending. We can discuss this at the table though – let’s go sit down.”

  Without waiting for a response from either of us, Nubia breezed off to approach the hostess desk, presumably to ask about our table. As soon as she was gone, Logan turned to me, eyes wide.

  “What exactly is happening right now?”

  Before I could answer, Nubia waved us over, so… I guess we were about to find out.

  I motioned for Logan to lead the way, my motives not purely based on good manners. Really, I just wanted to watch her move, and I wasn’t disappointed. Her feet were clad in simple, sexy heeled sandals that she practically glided on as she followed the hostess and Nubia to our private table, her hips moving in a hypnotic sway I couldn’t look away from.

  Logan Byers.

  If I’d just gotten her information like I was supposed to – all I was supposed to do – I would’ve already known that.

  3

  Logan

  “I’m sorry to have been so cagey with you, Logan,” Nubia started, once we were seated and the hostess had stepped away. “But I didn’t want to give you any real details until I was sure Pierre wasn’t going to go all moody artist on me.”

  My gaze skipped to Pierre, whose expression was guarded as he studied me, then back to Nubia as finally, real understanding dawned. “Oh. So… you’re saying that Pierre is…”

  “Yes,” Nubia agreed. “You’re going to be working with my baby cousin.”

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  When I got the call from the Nubia Perry, that she had a project she wanted me to work on, I’d been excited beyond belief. I’d worked with other execs at the network before, at varying levels, and had even done some liaison work directly for Nashira Drake.

  That was probably how I’d landed on Nubia’s radar in the first place.

  I’d signed the non-disclosure and contract without the full details, without blinking.

  In my line of work, that wasn’t uncommon, and all protections in the contract went both ways – I required it. In my executive concierge capacity, I wasn’t required to do anything that contradicted my morals or beliefs, and I wasn’t yet in a place to be super exclusive with my clientele.

  I’d work for pretty much whoever could pay my premium fees.

  At our meeting, just yesterday, Nubia had explained what she needed from me – a right hand person for a freshman showrunner. At no point had she alluded to being related to the showrunner in question, but when I thought about it, I also hadn’t gotten very many details about the show itself – just that I needed to be prepared to help in whatever capacity was necessary.

  The mystery of it all was intriguing, and this was Nubia freaking Perry, and… working on a TV show just seemed cool. All of that in combination with her offering a bonus equivalent to a third of my fee?

  It was a no-brainer.

  I just hadn’t realized, when I was digging my fingers into his shoulders nine hours ago, that Pierre was going to basically be… my boss.

  Wonderful.

  “I see the look on your face,” Nubia gushed, reaching across the table to grab my hand. “And I know, you’re probably thinking, what have I gotten into, I’m about to be working for some spoiled brat whose auntie-cousin got him a job.”

  I let out a dry laugh. “I… promise you, I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

  “Okay, but it’s true – I am getting him this job, and he is a bit spoiled – sorry P – but he’s actually talented, and I know he’s going to do the work,” Nubia swore, beaming in Pierre’s direction.

  He’d finally stopped looking at me, staring at something in the distance as he cringed his way through Nubia’s embarrassing words, but when he felt us looking at him, he reconnected to the conversation.

  “P, tell her about the show.”

  Instead of speaking immediately, he ran a hand over his waves, doing unnecessary smoothing, since his cut was impeccable. The action made me flash back to last night – this morning – when I’d almost hoped that hat was hiding a fucked-up hairline. Something on this man to count as a physical flaw.

  That didn’t exist with him, apparently.

  “Uh… so, the series title would be One Day Sober, which—”

  “It’s a play on words,” Nubia gushed, too excited to avoid butting in. “It’s a running count, and a goal, and a lament, and—”

  “So you’re gonna explain it then?” Pierre asked her, smirking across the table.

  “My bad.” Nubia was grinning as she tossed her hands up. “I’m just really excited for you. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you,” he teased. “Yeah tho… everything she said, about the title,” he told me. “The main character is navigating a struggle with alcohol abuse, a difficult relationship with his father, overwhelming pressure to join the family business, and the rigors of his upcoming last year of college. This first season would take place over the course of the summer before senior year.”

  “Wow. That sounds great, actually. I would watch that. There’s a love story too, right?” I asked. “There’s always a love story.”

  Pierre’s eyebrows shot up, like my question had caught him off guard. “Uh… yeah, I guess. I haven’t really written that far yet.”

  It was my turn then for lifted eyebrows. “Oh, you’re writing it yourself? So you’re a writer then?”

  “I… yeah. Yeah, I guess I am,” he said, as if it were a revelation. Or maybe he was just uncomfortable.

  He’d likely never expected to see me again, and yet… here I was.

  “You do a lot of guessing – I can help you develop that into certainty,” I explained, earning widened eyes from both Perrys at the table.

  “Well,” Nubia grinned, gathering her bag. “With that said, I’m actually going to leave you kids to it – you don’t need me for any of this, so I’m going to get some rest before I have to be ready to start hair and makeup for my signing tonight. You’ll be there, P?”

  Pierre nodded, giving his “auntie-cousin” a warm smile. “Fa’ sho.”

  “Alright. Thank you again, Logan,” Nubia said, rising from the table. She offered me a wave, but Pierre got a stain-free kiss on the cheek that had me wondering exactly what kind of lipstick she was wearing.

  It wasn’t the time for that, though.

  Very recent history aside… this was a business meeting.

  I could be professional.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Pierre suggested, giving me a look from across the table that made it clear he wasn’t even a little interested in the same. “My place is closer than yours.”

  “I’m going to have to decline,” I told him, keeping my tone as perfectly polite as I could. “It’s important for us to use this time to establish a baseline. From there, we can parse exactly how my services can be best utilized on a continuing basis.”

  He bit down on his lip, studying me for a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t need an assistant, Logan.”

  “I disagree. If this is your first time creating a TV show, or even being part of its development, there are going to be things you don’t know, and th
ings you can’t do alone. I can ease that transition. Besides that, I can help with managing your life outside of the show – keeping your personal affairs in order, so you don’t have the added stress of those things, in addition to work.”

  “What if I don’t have any stress?”

  “Then I would say you’re probably ignoring or neglecting a large amount of the responsibilities that come along with being a productive adult,” I answered, honestly. From the way his expression shifted though, I got the clear impression he didn’t like my answer very much.

  “I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Logan,” he told me in a low, aggressive tone I’d never heard from him before. “I don’t know – or care, frankly – what Nubia told you, but this ain’t me – aiight? I’m not interested in this shit.”

  Instead of feeding into his sudden swing in energy, I smiled, trying to remain upbeat. “You don’t have to be interested in my services for them to be valuable to you,” I explained. “Often, when I’m referred to people, they don’t really understand what it is I do – until they see it in action. Give me a week to work with you, to help you set the foundation for your series. If you still don’t see the benefit, we can discuss a dissolution of contract with Nubia. Fair?”

  Usually, that little speech – the personalized variations of it – was enough to get a reticent client off the fence. And they always saw the value after the week.

  Typically, it didn’t even take a full day.

  Pierre though… seemed confusingly unmoved, just giving me a blank ass look until again, he leaned across the table.

  “Listen to me, shorty… the only thing I want from you, is for you to let me strip you out of your little preppy professional clothes, and stroke all of this bullshit off either of our minds. If you can agree to that… we’re golden.”

  I blinked several times, lips pressed together to keep myself from speaking until I was sure I could do so without cursing him out.