Canon
“I feellike we’ve been driving through the set of Deliverance for two hours.”
Verity has been saying things like that for the last ten exits or so. Not that we’ve seen many exits. I’ve heard of back roads, but this route through Alabama seems to be behind the back roads, a stretch of nothing but rural landscape punctuated by the occasional house hungover from another era.
Neevah whistles Deliverance’s famous dueling banjo tune from the back seat, and Verity aims a grin over her shoulder at her. I can already tell the two of them will be trouble.
“When can we stop?” Neevah asks, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I need to pee.”
“You have the bladder of a beetle.” I try to sharpen the words, but they come out half-amused. Neevah seems to have that effect on me. “We just stopped for your bathroom break.”
“Excuse me for staying hydrated.”
“Hydrated? More like waterlogged.”
“I think two hours is a perfectly reasonable time between pisses,” Verity interjects.
“Thank you.” Neevah pokes her tongue out at me and giggles.
I’m glad Verity came with us on this trip since she’ll write the script. Not to mention, it’s not a good idea to be alone with Neevah for this long. It wouldn’t look right, and after the Primal debacle no one seems prepared to let me forget, the last thing I need is anyone thinking I’m romantically involved with my actress.
Camille was an aberration. Crafty enough to figure out exactly the kind of woman who could make me break my rules. Chameleon enough to fool me into thinking she was the answer. A great actress, she could pretend to be that kind of woman, but couldn’t sustain the charade. I realized too late she wasn’t who I thought she was.
She could never be.
To be honest, I don’t know if the woman I thought she was even exists.
“Oooooh!” Neevah points frantically to a building not much better than a hut with two gas pumps. “We can stop here.”
“You want to sit on a toilet in this place?” I ask.
“I need to pee, and I won’t sit on it. Duh. I hover.”
“I don’t need that visual.” I pull into the gas station’s gravel lot. “Be quick.”
The back door flies open and Neevah dashes off, disappearing into the hovel-ish structure.
“I like her,” Verity says, smiling. “She’ll be fun to work with.”
“What about Monk? You still okay working with him?”
The amusement on her face burns to ash, a frown kindling between her thick brows. Verity is striking with the rich undertones of her smooth skin and the jet-colored hair adorning her shoulders in two fat, silky braids. She’s smart as all get out and has a dreamer’s soul. Monk was probably a goner as soon as he laid eyes on her.
“I told you the first time you asked I’ll be fine,” she mutters through tight lips, folding her arms across her chest and staring out the window. “I can’t speak for Monk. I barely know him anymore.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Golden Globes a few years ago.” Her shrug dismisses the incident or him or both.
“I don’t actually care if you two hate each other with a passion, or if you fuck the first chance you get.”
Her head snaps around, her eyes slits of outrage.
“Keep your shit out of my movie,” I tell her, my face set in stone. “I don’t need personal history messing up my project.”
“And did you have this little talk with him, or just the woman in this scenario?”
“Of course I did. I might be an asshole, but I’m not a misogynist. The most talented, capable people I’ve worked with have been women. A woman needs to write Dessi’s story, and I think that woman is you, but I also think the score of this movie is trapped in Monk’s head. Setting aside whatever beef you guys have, you know the man’s a genius.”