Canon
“This is a waste of time,”I tell Monk.
From Evan’s balcony, we watch a roomful of partygoers in costume.
“Hey, you might be the big-shot director,” Monk says.
“Might be? Brothah, I am.”
“But Graham knows how to keep up morale. The cast and crew have been working hard. Throwing this party was a great idea.”
Graham asked Evan and me about planning an 80s-themed party for Halloween, which Evan agreed to host here at his huge house stuffed into the side of a mountain overlooking LA. The view alone is impressive, much less the minimalist décor and sapphire-colored swimming pool. I think everyone from the cast and crew is here, most costumed with some nod to the era.
“If it’s such a good idea,” I say, “then why didn’t you dress up?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I don’t need parties to boost my morale. These spirits stay high.”
“You been by yourself brooding out on this balcony all night. If this is cheerful, I’d hate to see you down.”
I sip my Macallan and drink in the night air, refreshing after being inside with that crowd. Monk’s right. I’m in a mood. I don’t want to acknowledge to myself what’s causing it because that would mean acknowledging other things best left alone. Things that would distract me and just all-around not be a good look. Still, despite my best intentions, my gaze wanders back inside to Evan’s living room and finds Neevah. Every time I’ve seen her tonight she’s been dancing, but now she’s laughing with Trey, her hands animating whatever story she’s telling. One of the grips is trying to push up on her hairstylist, Takira. From the look she’s giving him, seems like he might be tapping that sooner rather than later.
“Everybody thinks they’re already fucking,” Monk says.
“I don’t know.” I set my drink on the balcony ledge and roll a cigar between my fingers. “Takira seems to be holding out a little while longer.”
“Not Takira. Neevah and Trey.”
My grip tightens around the cigar. I’m still and hot, like a wick trapped in the wax of a burning candle.
“What did you say?” I slow the words so Monk can have no trouble understanding them.
He looks away from me and to the crowd, his expression intent. I follow the direction of his stare.
Verity. Of course.
I snap my fingers in his face to regain his attention.
“Man, don’t be snapping at me.” Monk turns to me with a scowl. “I ain’t no damn dog.”
“How else do I get your attention,” I ask, tipping my head toward Verity, “when she’s around?”
“I ain’t thinking about that girl. She can do whatever she damn well pleases.”
The Monk doth protest too much.
“And I’m sure she will, but you mentioned something about Neevah and Trey.”
“Oh, yeah.” He looks back to the spot where Verity stood a moment ago, but she’s not there anymore. “They’re probably sleeping together.”
I don’t mean to harm the cigar, but it snaps in my hand.
“You alright there, Holt?” Monk’s alert stare shifts from my face to the crushed stogy.
“I’m cool.” I toss it over the balcony into the yawning canyon below.
“Oh, good. ’Cause for a minute there, I thought you might feel some type of way about Trey fucking our sweet ingénue.”