Passionate Premiere

by Deborah Fletcher Mello

  “Pray tell, how did you manage to have two dates for the Oscars?”

  Dahlia shrugged. “Congratulations to you, too,” she said, meeting the woman’s gaze.

  Leslie laughed. “Congratulations! It was an Oscar landslide! You don’t see that every year.”

  Dahlia laughed with her. “Next time we’re sweeping Visual Effects and Best Original Screenplay, too. Mark my words!” she said as she opened the paper to the front page and stared.

  The headline read “Oscar’s Golden Girl” and featured three images: Dahlia standing alone page center, a shot of her and Drake Houston to the left and another of her and Owen Kestner to the right. The tabloids were having a field day thinking she had left Drake standing at the Academy door while she’d partied the night away with Owen. She shook her head as she took a sip of her morning drink.

  “Did you sleep with him?” Leslie asked, dropping into the seat in front of the large desk.

  “Him who?”

  “Whichever man you left with,” Leslie said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I left with Owen, but he went home with his good friend Charles,” Dahlia said, peering over the top of her coffee cup. “His very good friend,” she emphasized, hinting at the relationship that had already been gossiped about in hushed whispers.

  Wide-eyed, Leslie shook her head and chuckled. “Hush yo’ mouth!”

  “So did you sleep with the other one?” Leslie continued.

  “I never sleep with any of them. That’s why I have such a problem when I want to get rid of them. Most men think if they can’t bed you on their timetable, then your virtue is something they suddenly need to conquer.”

  Her friend laughed. “Since you mentioned it, Drake called for you,” she said. “Something about doing dinner this week if you’re available.”

  “See!” Dahlia exclaimed. “They just won’t go away.”

  Leslie laughed as she tossed a stack of folders onto Dahlia’s desk. “You have back-to-back appointments starting at eleven o’clock. First, there’s a conference call with the casting agency, then lunch with the Bresdan Arts Foundation to discuss financing and then the interview with Oprah and her people. From there you have a photo shoot for People magazine, an hour with your personal trainer and then dinner with the studio execs,” Leslie concluded as she tapped one last notation into Dahlia’s smartphone.

  She passed the device to her friend. “Your alarms are all set on vibrate. Stay on schedule and you should be done for the day by nine but by latest ten o’clock tonight. And don’t forget to call your aunt Minnie and wish her a happy birthday.”

  Dahlia chuckled softly. “See, when would I actually have time to sleep with a man if you didn’t put it on my schedule?”

  “So, I need to schedule some quality alone time with Drake so you can get you some?”

  “Uh, no!”

  “Owen?”

  “Uh, double no!”

  Leslie laughed with her. “Well, we need to schedule something and soon because you can’t keep tossing these boys away like you do your shoes.”

  “I never toss my shoes away. I love my shoes.”

  “But you only wear them three, maybe four times. I can’t remember the last time a man lasted that long with you.”

  “My shoes don’t get in my way. A man usually will.”

  “Well, every woman needs herself a DOC,” Leslie said, her eyebrows lifted, her expression humorous. “We need to find you one, maybe even two.”

  Dahlia looked momentarily confused. “What is a DOC?” she questioned, her own eyebrows raised in query.

  Leslie laughed. “DOC...dick-on-command!” she said.

  The two women giggled until tears were raining from their eyes.

  Leslie gestured for her to get a move on it. “There is a car downstairs waiting for you. The driver has your itinerary and will be at your beck and call until he drops you at your front door tonight. Take the conference call on your way to the restaurant.”

  Dahlia blew out a deep sigh as she headed in the direction of the door. Leslie called her name just as her hand reached for the knob.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m really proud of you, Dahlia. You really done good, girl!”

  Dahlia met her friend’s bright smile with one of her own. “We done good, girl! ’Cause I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

  * * *

  Disconnecting the conference call, Dahlia took a quick moment to close her eyes and reflect. The limousine was stuck tire-deep in a line of midday traffic, crawling at a snail’s pace toward her afternoon appointment. Her day was just getting started and already she was wishing that it could be over. But a breather wasn’t going to propel her career skyward. Only hard work would make this year’s awards program seem like practice for what she hoped to accomplish in the next few years.

  Making movies wasn’t easy, and Dahlia predicted that because of her sentimental connection to the project, making her next movie would prove to be the biggest challenge of her career. With most of the preproduction tasks already in the works, she still had a lengthy list of things that needed to be accomplished.

  The script for her next project was all her, written the year she’d graduated from film school. She’d been fine-tuning it ever since, determined to create a work of sheer perfection if such a thing were possible. With her award-winning night, she wanted to ensure that the studios would be well on board, and she had her fingers crossed that her scheduled dinner with the executives would be their green light on the project.

  If the studio approved, financing was a given. But Dahlia already had a plan B in place, just in case, knowing that in the film industry nothing was ever as easy as it seemed. And with a multimillion-dollar budget at risk, Dahlia was determined to make the film work. The director was a given, as well, because no one but Dahlia was going to control this film’s artistic and dramatic aspects.

  Now they were casting, and confirmation had come that Golden Globe winner Zahara Ginolfi has signed on for the lead female role. Dahlia smiled, nodding her head ever so slightly. Once she found the perfect male lead, the rest would be easy as pie. The casting director already had a prospect in mind, a man Dahlia was scheduled to meet the following week.

  Dahlia knew that finding the perfect locations, budgeting and signing on the production team and crew, in addition to a host of other chores, were already in the works and would fall into place when she needed them to. She had faith and a fire in the pit of her stomach to make it happen no matter what sacrifices she might have to make. And Dahlia was used to making sacrifices—the greatest forfeitures occurred in her personal life.

  There was no time for a relationship with anyone who was anxious for her attention. So Dahlia refused to allow herself to get close to any man who might be a distraction or demanding of her time. And despite what people thought—the tabloids had dubbed her the “love ’em and leave ’em wildflower”—she didn’t have herself a DOC, no man that she kept around for convenience or otherwise. Folks didn’t even begin to have a clue about Dahlia’s love life. Because Dahlia had yet to find love, and when she did, she couldn’t imagine herself being so casual about it.

  The driver pulled the car in front of Osteria Mozza Restaurant. Opening her eyes, Dahlia took a deep breath of air. Taking a quick glance into her compact mirror, she dabbed at her nose with the powder puff. With her game face on she headed inside, ready to talk a few thousand dimes out of a few thousand rocks.

  Chapter 3

  Guy took one last lap around the enclosed track. Dwight Brooks, his personal trainer, waited with a stopwatch at the finish line. Dwight had spent the past three hours putting him through his paces, and Guy was past ready to be done.

  Guy came to an abrupt stop in front of his friend, bending forward at the waist, his palms pressed against h
is upper thighs as he fought to catch his breath. Dwight slapped him heartily on his back.

  “Nice! That was one of your best times,” he said, jotting notes into a small notebook he’d pulled from his back pocket.

  Guy nodded, inhaling deeply. He stood upright, his hands moving to the line of his hips. “Thanks, but it feels like you have me training for a marathon and not a movie.”

  “Same difference,” Dwight answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Guy chuckled. “I hear you,” he said as the two moved in the direction of the locker room.

  “So, what time is your audition?” Dwight asked, eyeing the watch on his wrist.

  “Soon. I have just enough time to shower and change.”

  “This one’s big, huh?”

  “Big enough,” Guy said as he unlocked the metal enclosure that housed his personal possessions. “I’m auditioning for Dahlia Morrow,” he pronounced, lifting his gym bag from inside the locker.

  “Sweet!”

  “Yes, I hear she is,” Guy said, a smirk pulling at his full lips.

  Dwight laughed. “And I presume the part is, as well?”

  Guy laughed with him. “It’s a great role, actually. I loved the script,” he said. “I’m thinking it’s destiny, too, because I was just telling my family that I wanted to meet her. Apparently, she and my sister-in-law are old friends. So, I’m thinking it’s fate in action that I mention her name and now I’m auditioning for her.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Dwight agreed. He extended a closed hand in Guy’s direction, and the two men bumped fists. “I’ve got to run. Good luck with your audition,” he said. With a slight wink of his eye, he added, “And the woman. I will see you tomorrow, same time.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Guy responded as he headed in the direction of the showers. “But go easy on a brother next time.”

  “Yeah, like that’s going to happen. I have a reputation to maintain, too, you know!”

  Guy waved goodbye, chuckling heartily as he watched his friend exit the gym.

  Stripping out of his sports clothes, Guy stepped into a warm shower, allowing the spray of water to cascade over his face and down his broad chest. As he lathered his deep caramel–complexioned skin with a spice-scented body wash, the thick suds painted his naked form with a luxurious froth. His muscles had finally begun to relax beneath the rise of the warm mist, and he savored the sensations, stretching the tightness out of each sinew.

  He heaved a deep sigh. He had only been half kidding when he’d said that fate was directing his footsteps. His agent’s early morning call had come as a complete surprise. Both of them had been stunned that the casting agent for Dahlia Morrow’s next film had requested he meet with the lady herself without asking him for a screen test.

  Despite his own A-list status in the industry and a long list of blockbuster movies under his belt, he was still occasionally made to jump through hoops for leading men roles in movies that he didn’t actively pursue or have a hand in producing. And despite the many leading men roles out there, the selection for black males was still a bit slim. But filmmakers like Dahlia Morrow were attempting to change the dynamics, and some sort of cosmic fate was bringing the two of them together.

  Stepping out of the shower, he reached for an oversize white towel, swiping at the dampness against his skin. Thirty minutes later he was dressed and headed out to meet providence, hopeful that Dahlia Morrow, and kismet, were about to grace him with favor.

  * * *

  Although it had already been a very long day, Dahlia couldn’t help feeling like the rest of it was going to be well worth her efforts. But as she disconnected her cell phone, turning the ringer to vibrate, she couldn’t hide the frustration that painted her expression. Finding funding for her movie was proving to be the bane of her existence; the studios had been a huge disappointment to her. Despite its accolades and having grossed over fifty million dollars in box office receipts, Victory’s Daughter was still considered “underperforming” by industry standards, and that fact had potential investors for her next film all too ready to tell her no.

  But the box office wasn’t a true measure of the film’s worth. Nor did it speak to the film as art or the merit of her next venture. So telling Dahlia no only served to make her want to prove them all wrong, moving her to consider investing her own money into the project. A prospect her attorneys, financial advisers and friends were adamantly against.

  Doing what she loved shouldn’t be so hard, she mused. But Hollywood was ruled by a patriarchy with black women existing only along the sidelines of the industry. Although perceived as a liberal, diverse space that welcomed creativity and difference, the film industry was still overwhelmingly white and male—a good ol’ boys club in full control. It made it difficult at best for Dahlia to do what she loved.

  Despite women making films for more than one hundred years, Kathryn Bigelow had been the first woman to win an Academy Award for directing, taking home the prize. Dahlia was the first woman of color to claim the honor and, at the age of twenty-eight, also the youngest filmmaker, male or female, to be honored. But women filmmakers of any race or age had yet to experience the same levels of success as their male counterparts, and Dahlia was intent on changing that. Wanting more than anything to just tell good stories, she had to be diligent and persistent and, like every black woman who was making films, she had to be resilient.

  Dahlia took a sip of her bottled springwater, tapping heavily against the tabletop with the pen that rested between her fingers. She glanced down at the diamond-encrusted watch that adorned her slim wrist. She’d arrived early for her casting, and she still had a few minutes before the actor she was meeting was due to arrive.

  The casting agency had scheduled this appointment. If she’d been able, Dahlia would have canceled without giving it a second thought. But she needed to stay on schedule, and staying on schedule meant finding a male lead and locking him into contract as quickly as possible. So canceling hadn’t been a real option for her.

  Dahlia looked down at the IMDB résumé the casting agency had faxed over to her. She was meeting one of Hollywood’s golden boys, the infamous Guy Boudreaux. His professional résumé was a plethora of some very big box office successes; his recent portrayal of the new James Bond authenticated a career that would surely go down in the history books. Having spent the past evening watching two of his independent films, Dahlia could not deny the man’s talent. His ability to capture the essence of his characters and breathe life into them surpassed his youthful twenty-eight years and made him exactly what Dahlia was looking for in her male lead.

  A commotion at the restaurant’s entrance drew her attention. She looked up to see Guy Boudreaux as he was accosted by an eager female fan. He stopped to sign an autograph, and there was no missing his welcoming demeanor as he posed for a picture with a family of five, chatting with the group as if they were old friends.

  Dahlia’s eyes widened with interest. Guy Boudreaux was imposing in stature, standing just over six feet tall. Dressed in a black silk suit and white dress shirt opened at the collar, he was quite the male specimen. His chest was broad, flanked by wide shoulders. His legs were long, and the slacks he wore nicely complemented the hard, full curves of a very high backside. His complexion was dark caramel with the faintest undertone of buttercream, warm and delectable as it stretched taut over clearly defined muscles. A crown of black dreadlocks hung past his shoulders, and just a hint of facial hair, the beginnings of a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, complemented his chiseled facial features. He was a Greek Adonis with an artistic aura, his look a nice blend of bohemian flair and classic styling. It was clear that he wore his confidence like a neon blanket draped over his torso, bright and abundant. The man was handsome beyond words, and Dahlia felt her breath catch in her throat as he crossed the room in her direction.

  “Ms. Morrow,
Guy Boudreaux,” he said as he extended a large hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Dahlia lifted her gaze to meet his, feeling overwhelmingly starstruck as words failed her. She nodded as he clasped her hand beneath his, shaking it firmly. His palm was silky smooth as it glided over hers like a sensual kiss.

  “May I sit down?” Guy asked, amusement crossing his expression, her hand still trapped beneath his.

  Dahlia took a deep breath as she nodded her head, slowly pulling her hand from his. Her fingers tingled, the sensation sweeping like wildfire through her body. It was intense and disturbing, and she tried to stall the feelings by clasping both of her hands together in her lap. “Excuse me,” she said, clearing her throat. “Of course, have a seat, Mr. Boudreaux.”

  She eyed him keenly as he slid into the leather-covered booth beside her.

  “Please, call me Guy. I hope I’m not late,” he said, his gaze still locked with hers, a brilliant smile of pearl-white teeth beaming at her.

  She shook her head, desperate to clear the cloud that had mysteriously consumed her. “No, you’re right on time actually,” she finally answered. “And it’s definitely a pleasure to meet you. Your reputation has preceded you.”

  “Yours, as well,” Guy said with a light chuckle. “Congratulations on your recent victory.”

  Dahlia smiled sweetly. “Thank you. I hope you know that I’m looking to do that again with this new project.”

  Guy gestured ever so slightly with his head, a warm smile filling his face. “I’m thinking that won’t be a problem. It’s a great story, the script is on point and with me as the lead character, it can’t help but be a success,” he said teasingly.

  Dahlia chuckled warmly. “So, tell me what you really think,” she said.

  “Seriously, this project has great potential, and I think I’d be a wonderful asset to your vision. But if I can ask you one question?”