“I have.” Evan stands. “I’m going to the little boys’ room. Be right back.”
“So I was on the set of this music video,” Monk says.
“Half his stories start this way,” Canon interrupts. “In case you’re wondering.”
I laugh, enjoying the dynamic of their friendship.
“It was a video for a song I co-wrote.” Monk grimaces. “Not my proudest moment.”
“Tell it all,” Canon says. “If you’re gonna tell it.”
“It was ‘Grind Up On Me, Girl,’” Monk admits, his smile chagrined.
“Ew,” Arietta murmurs. “You wrote that?”
“Co-wrote, thank you very much.” Monk tips his head toward Canon. “And guess who directed the video?”
“No way!” I screech before I remember not to be rude. “You did that?”
“In my defense,” Canon says, his full lips spread in a self-deprecating smile, “I was twenty-two years old and had bills to pay. A Grand Jury prize does not pay your rent.”
“Seriously?” Arietta asks. “I can’t imagine you struggling after all the accolades you got for The Magic Hour.”
“Hype is not money,” Canon says, sobering. “And buzz doesn’t keep the lights on. Truth be told, I took all those prizes and awards for a documentary, and it was great, but nobody was beating my door down. It’s a haul for anyone in Hollywood, but a young brother like myself fifteen years ago? Man, I was grateful when they asked me to direct the video for that cheesy song Monk wrote.”
“Alright now,” Monk protests. “I can talk shit about my songs. You can’t.”
“Bruh, it was bad.” Canon laughs. “I think it’s not your tits, but your wits was my favorite line, and by favorite, I mean made me cringe the most.”
Monk almost spits out his drink. “I said I co-wrote. I do not take responsibility for that line and begged them not to keep it. Don’t you put that on me, motherfucker.”
“You did win a Soul Train award for it,” Canon says.
“So did you, though I at least showed up to accept mine.”
“By then I was making another documentary.” Canon takes a long swallow of his Macallan. “I was in South America during that awards show. I meant no disrespect. Hell, I may have gotten more mileage out of the Soul Train award than I did from Sundance in some ways. I just had to be more discriminating about what I accepted.”
“What part of South America?” Arietta asks. “My neck of the woods?”
“Not Venezuela, no. I’ve never been there actually. It was Brazil.”
So that’s the accent I hear, and it accounts for her beautiful coloring. “You’re from Venezuela?” I ask.
“Yes.” She waves her hand to encompass the rooftop. “Thus The V. When my father arrived in America, his business associates called him the Venezuelan. He bristled at first, but then embraced it and has turned it into a brand, The V.”
“The hotel is amazing,” I tell her. “I’m glad Graham booked me here. Can’t wait to meet her.”
“She’d be here tonight, but had a family commitment. You’ll meet her soon. She keeps the ship running,” Evan says, taking a seat and joining us at the table again. “Speaking of running, I’m on empty. Can we order some actual food?”
“Agreed,” Canon says. “That event had nothing to eat and I need more than this drink.”
He slips his suit jacket off and hangs it on the back of his seat. This man’s shoulders and the width of his chest . . . damn. The silvery-blue open collar against the rich hue of his skin is criminal. Some imp inside my head, conspiring with my vagina, obviously, telegraphs an image of me biting into the corded muscle of his throat. When my eyes roam farther up, I meet his gaze, my breath catching. Him watching me watching him. Mortified, I grab one of the menus, using it as a shield while I grapple for my composure.
I’m a professional.
I can sit at a table with the sexiest, most brilliant man I’ve ever encountered without lusting all over him.
I think I can.