Behind the Scenes

by Christina C Jones

  “Writing,” I answered my little sister, turning to retrieve my property from where it dangled precariously on the edge of her fingers.

  She sucked her teeth, then came around to flop beside me on the couch. “Duh. That’s obvious. I mean like… what are you doing?”

  “I’m working on the show.”

  Her eyebrows – currently tinted deep purple, to match the three feet of bone straight hair she was sporting today – shot up. “The show? Like your show? You’re really doing that?!”

  I hit the save button on my document, then closed the laptop, knowing the chances of getting any work done with her here were slim. “We talked about this, El. Nubz gave me the green light.”

  “Boy please, we both know that don’t mean shit when your default state is idle.”

  From anybody else, those words may have offended me a little, but I knew my little sister too well for that. Elodie was twenty-two years old – a fucking toddler, with the attention span to match it. Her ass was too easily bored for me to take her opinions on my life with anything except a grain of salt.

  She wasn’t lying on me, but still.

  “Everybody can’t keep both feet on the gas pedal like you,” I countered. “You wanna grab some dinner?”

  Her lashes – also purple, and annoyingly long – fluttered as she blinked at me like I was crazy. “P… it’s late as fuck, you know that right? When did you last eat?”

  Confused, I turned my wrist up to check my watch, surprised to find that it was two in the morning, already. And I definitely hadn’t eaten shit since I’d left the WAWG offices around lunch.

  “Damn. I… guess I lost track of time.”

  “Ya think?” Elodie laughed, grabbing her neon yellow bag to rifle through it. “I’ve got you though.” From the depths of her purse, she pulled out a beat-up brown paper sack. “Ta-da!”

  I frowned. “Ta-da? El, what the fuck is that?”

  Her grin dropped. “It’s a sandwich, nigga.”

  “From your purse? How long you been carrying that shit around?”

  She sucked her teeth. “Just a couple hours, damn! I can’t get a thank you for thinking about your weird ass cause I was over by your favorite spot?!”

  My brow wrinkled as I leaned in. “This is from Sammy’s?”

  “Duh.”

  “You should’ve led with that,” I told her, taking the bag from her hands as I stood to head to the kitchen. “Just so you know, a couple hours is a long ass time. I mean, I’ma eat it still, but…”

  “Okay give it back.”

  “Nah, stop playing,” I laughed, waving her off as she followed me from my makeshift office space to the kitchen, where I put the sandwich on a plate to pop in the microwave. “Thank you, baby girl,” I teased, knowing she hated that shit. When she rolled her eyes, I hooked an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug that was cut short by a whiff of something that wasn’t the cheesesteak in the microwave.

  I pulled back, really looking at her beyond all the colorful adornments she was rocking. Immediately, I noticed the telltale gloss over her eyes. “You been drinking?” I asked, even though the answer was already clear to me.

  “Oh God,” she groaned. “We gotta do this, P?”

  “I just asked a question.”

  She huffed, rolling her eyes again. “Yeah. I was with my friends, I had a few drinks, like normal twenty-somethings do, probably got something spilled me. And after, I got dropped off here safely at your house. What’s the problem?”

  I shrugged. “If you don’t see one, I guess there’s not one.”

  “You say that shit after fucking judging me!”

  “Ain’t nobody judging you, El, I just…” I pushed out a sigh as the microwave went off, distracting me for a second before I could finish responding. “I just wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not the one with the problem!” she snapped.

  Wow.

  That… hit me right in the fucking chest.

  But whatever.

  I guess I deserved that reminder.

  “You’re right,” I nodded, turning to the microwave to take the plate out before it got back to that annoying chime again.

  “P… I’m sorry, I—”

  “You’re good,” I interrupted her, shaking my head as I grabbed a glass and moved to the water dispenser on the fridge. “I should be minding my business.”

  “I am your business though,” El insisted, stepping in front of me to grab my face in her hands. “I’m glad that you even pay attention – I swear, it keeps me from going way further left than I could sometimes.”

  I gave her as much of a smile as I could manage. “I’m glad to hear that. But… no offense… you smell like vodka, and I…”

  “Right,” she said, throwing her hands up, and taking a step back. “No offense taken. I get it.”

  There was an awkward ass moment of quiet between us, then I gathered my shit.

  “I’m gonna head to my room – you good?” I asked her, and she nodded.

  “Last time I was here, I left the guest room stocked with stuff, so I’ll work it out.”

  Her words brought another question to mind – one I knew better than to ask, but I did anyway. “Not that it’s a problem, but… why’d you come over here anyway? I would think you had a hotel room…”

  She sighed. “Uh… yeah. I did. It was with Hellion though, and he was bugging, so I didn’t feel like dealing with him. I’m done with him, period, actually.”

  I smirked. “Oh wow. A nigga that calls himself Hellion was on some bullshit. I’m surprised.”

  “Just go eat your damn sandwich,” she laughed, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “As long as ol’ boy didn’t come at you wrong, cause—”

  “Simmer down,” Elodie insisted. “It was just… typical shit. Nothing you need to get at him about, I promise.”

  “But you’d tell me if it was?”

  She squinted. “Maybe?”

  “El…”

  “Go to bed nigga, damn,” she whined, turning away from me to head for the guest room, in the opposite direction.

  Only because I believed her about this time, I didn’t press the issue. And… now that I wasn’t head down in my script, I was really feeling the late hour and lack of sustenance.

  In my room, I opened the terrace doors wide and cranked up some music in my headphones before I got settled in. Necessary food and water, something in my ears to zone out to, and… maybe hypocritically… a little herbal remedy to smooth out the edges.

  And then, hopefully, sleep would come next.

  At exactly noon, the doorbell rang.

  It jolted me from sporadic sleep just long enough for me to glance at the clock, decide I didn’t give a fuck who it was, and take my ass right back to sleep.

  Unfortunately for me, Elodie was still in my house.

  Which was how Logan Byers ended up in my bedroom doorway.

  “Good afternoon,” she declared, entirely too perky for me when I’d just woken up. My erratic slumber had been more draining than restful, which already didn’t bode well for my mood.

  I really didn’t need Logan and her enthusiastic ass energy right now.

  I opted not to respond.

  “I would ask if you’re not a morning person, but it’s not morning anymore, so…”

  “You’re really just not gonna take the fucking hint?” I asked, finally turning over to actually look at her, and… damn.

  She wasn’t trying to obscure that body of hers at all today, in a matching mustard pencil skirt and top combo that popped nicely against her deep brown skin. Her hair was different today too – the same asymmetrical cut, but instead of being straightened, she had soft curls framing her face.

  It was hard to give her hostile energy when she looked that damn good.

  “I don’t respond to hints, Pierre. If you’d like me to leave, just say so. If not… I’ve got lunch waiting d
ownstairs. Let’s get to work.”

  Her crimson painted lips turned up into a smile, and then she turned and left – I guess she was just that confident I wasn’t about to put her out.

  Fuck.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom for the typical morning stuff – even though it was well past that. Toilet, sink, shower, all that, and then my stomach led me down to the kitchen to see what kind of lunch she’d brought.

  I found Logan at my kitchen counter, with a pristine white laptop in front of her, her fingers flying over the keys. When I walked in, she glanced at me, then back to her screen, then back to me, lips parted as she took in the fact that after my shower I hadn’t put on anything more than my towel.

  She blinked, then looked away, pulling herself from her barstool to open my fridge.

  “We haven’t discussed your food preferences yet,” she said. “So, I kept it simple and got you a rice bowl like mine, except with all the ingredients on the side. I can construct it for you, based on your preferences, or you can do it yourself.” From the fridge, she produced a bag and started pulling things out, lining them up on the counter. “You can just let me know.”

  “Yours looks good,” I told her, glancing at where her lunch was situated beside her laptop. “I’ll let you get back to it, while I fix mine.”

  Logan nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

  She started to move back to her seat, but quickly realized I’d moved into a position where I was in her way, and it wasn’t as simple as getting around me.

  “Pierre… can we not?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Can we not… what?”

  “Do… this,” she said, wiggling her fingers at my bare chest and body. “The sexual tension.”

  “I can’t help it if you want me, shorty.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “Fair enough,” she agreed. “But you can help the fact that you’re putting it right in my face. I’m trying to be professional here. You don’t have to…” she glanced down, right at my dick, before bringing her gaze back to mine with a sigh. “make it harder on me.”

  “Me?” I smirked. “You’re in here with all this ass, that pretty face, all that, but I’m making it hard? Nah, that’s all you,” I countered. “Don’t look so good if I’m not supposed to react to it.”

  “I can’t help how I look!”

  “Neither can I!” I argued, barely keeping a straight face about it.

  Logan pressed a finger right to the middle of my chest. “Go put some damn clothes on.”

  I wrapped my hand around hers, pulling her into me as she smiled. “Make me.”

  “I thought you said you were his assistant?”

  Shit.

  Elodie’s voice had Logan snatching away, quickly putting distance between us.

  “I am, basically,” she told El, who didn’t look very convinced as she turned to me.

  “Whatever. I’m heading out. Back to LA.”

  She was way more dressed down than usual – wearing her natural hair, no false lashes, just shorts and a tee shirt. Without her colorful accessories, she was back to the Elodie I’d grown up with – and looking more like a teenager than a grown woman.

  “You got everything you need?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer – she wouldn’t have full trust-fund access until she was twenty-five, but still had more than enough… everything.

  “Yes, big brother,” she groaned, then started fake-gagging when I pulled her into a hug. “Put some clothes on, ew. Your nipple touched me.”

  “I can’t cover up all this hotness, it’s impossible,” I teased, squeezing her tighter for a moment before I finally let her go so she wouldn’t really throw up. “Text me when you get home.”

  “Duh.”

  We went opposite directions – her out the front door, where her ride was waiting, me up the stairs to throw on some clothes. When I came back, my lunch had already been assembled, and Logan was back on her laptop, fingers flying again.

  “Based on your script, I pared down some of the production team lists,” she said, once I was seated too. “Of course, you can add whoever you want, I just thought it might make things easier to narrow it to people whose style matches the vibe you’re going for.”

  Mouth full, I looked up, swallowing too much at once to ask, “So you read what I sent already?”

  “Of course. That was the plan, right?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” I ate a few more bites before I looked up, wondering why she hadn’t kept talking.

  She was already looking at me. “So… you wanna know what I thought or nah?”

  “You’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

  “So yes then?”

  “Obviously.”

  Logan pushed her laptop away to prop her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand. “I… thought it was…”

  “Stop playing with me.”

  She laughed, because she was fucking around, and she knew it. “Okay. My honest opinion is that… it’s amazing. No cap.”

  “Would you tell me if you thought it wasn’t?”

  “Very tactfully, yes,” she giggled. “I most certainly would, and I would have recommendations to make it not suck. But this doesn’t suck, Pierre. It’s exactly like you described it – it’s moody, yes, but still approachable, and relatable, and… kinda tragic. I hope Jason isn’t going to break Tracy’s heart with all his mess.”

  I sucked my teeth. “What? If anybody winds up heartbroken it’ll be Jason. Tracy has too much light for that nigga, she’s not gonna let him drain her, and it’s gonna fuck him up.”

  “Or… maybe they get to be happy?”

  “Nobody wants to see that. They don’t want hope, or to see what could be. They want what they can relate to – which is misery. That’s the only thing people think is realistic these days.”

  Logan let out a sigh. “Yeah… I can’t disagree with that. But I’m also really tired of seeing it, reading it, hearing it, all that. The world is fucked up enough – I wanna see somebody win for once. I mean, not that I’m trying to tell you how to tell the story, because you’re doing a great job of it on your own, but… I don’t know. I just think you should tell the story however it comes. There are people that are going to hate it either way, so it may as well make you feel good about what you created, you know?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I think you’re right. We’ll see what happens. I’m on episode six now.”

  “Wow! You wrote two more last night?”

  “Probably would’ve gotten through another if Elodie hadn’t come in and interrupted. She made me realize it was late as fuck, so I had to crash.”

  Logan’s eyes widened in understanding. “And that’s why you were still in bed when I arrived. You were up late writing.”

  “Something like that.”

  Truthfully, it was a combination of shit, none of which I felt like talking to her about. She’d already made it clear she wasn’t down for what I really wanted to do with her, so I let the conversation drop so I could eat, and then we got to work.

  Me, writing the show.

  Logan, reaching out to the directors and writers that would help me turn what I’d written into something better.

  Idling time was over.

  7

  Logan

  He couldn’t get through that last episode.

  It was killing him, which was killing me, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  He didn’t have any objections to outside input on the show – in fact, he welcomed the feedback.

  Or would, once it was done.

  Whatever tweaks or adjustments needed to be made, to make ODS wonderful, there wasn’t a single question in my mind that he wouldn’t be able to receive it, to accept the spirit of collaboration.

  But before it ever got to that point, Pierre had that one requirement that was kicking his ass now. Even if it was a mess, even if it was going to be ripped down to th
e studs to be refurbished into greatness… he had to be the one to lay down that foundation.

  There was no rush.

  He could take his sweet time.

  I just… wished he wouldn’t be so devastatingly fine while it was happening.

  He wasn’t always this appealing – attractive, sure. Pierre was, undoubtedly, that.

  There was, however, something about the brooding, tortured artist mode he’d slipped into that was really making it hard for me to remain professional.

  I… kinda wanted to offer to ride all his problems away.

  Thank God you know better though, right?

  Yes.

  Of course.

  I prided myself on professionalism – in a role like the one I’d carved out, my reputation was my bread and butter. I didn’t want to be known for providing those kinds of services to my clients.

  I just… really wanted to lay his head on my titties and rub his back and tell him everything was going to be alright.

  “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or something?” I offered instead, keeping my completely inappropriate thoughts to myself as Pierre looked up from where he’d been staring at a blank screen for the last few hours.

  I’d been busy working out contracts, putting together casting calls and other things like that, preparing for when things could move forward. Once he was done, we’d be able to hit the ground running with rewrites and storyboarding, scouting locations, casting talent. I couldn’t – and wouldn’t – just sit around all day watching him write, when I could work out the other details, things that hadn’t yet even crossed his mind.

  It was the cornerstone of my job.

  “What?” he asked, pulling off the headphones that had become a constant fixture, either over his ears around his neck, ready for duty at a moment’s notice.

  “I asked if you wanted me to make you a cup of tea or something – before I leave,” I added, calling his attention to the time. “It’s after five.”

  His eyes went wide, dropping to his watch to confirm my words before scratching his head. “Damn. The day got away from me.”

  “Happens to all of us sometimes,” I smiled. “I can go chamomile if you wanna relax, maybe a matcha if you want a boost of energy…”