by Dylan Allen
I want to live free. Just like my neighbors in Los Feliz; enjoying the small pleasures of life without worrying that doing so would mean my undocumented status could be discovered. I’ve been considering how to make that a reality. One option is to voluntarily depart. It would mean waiting three years before I could apply to return. But, if I’m deported before I can leave on my own, part of the penalty would be a ten-year wait before I could apply.
I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave the country I call home. But, for the chance to become a real member of the orchestra that gives Los Feliz the sound of freedom, I’m willing to try.
3
Reece
It’s Sunday night and my father is on a tear. He just finished reading Lucía’s contract and he’s livid.
“Reece, this makes no fucking sense. Why are you giving her so much control? She’s written one book. One!”
His palm slaps the table and I stifle a sigh. I expected this. Prepared for it, even. But that doesn’t make it any less aggravating. He wouldn’t talk to Zev like this. But he’s my boss and my father, and I’ve just learned that conversations like these come with the territory.
“It’s one of the most important books I’ve ever read,” I say simply.
“Important?” he sputters like the word tastes terrible on his tongue. “It doesn’t have any action. It doesn’t have any sex. It’s fucking Young Adult fiction, Reece,” he says.
My father is the most powerful man in this business. He’s the head of the world’s largest entertainment conglomerate. He hasn’t gotten there because he has bad instincts. But, even he doesn’t understand the motion picture industry the way I do.
He knows it; it’s why he made me President of Artemis Film.
I know the adaptation will be a stretch for us. I admit that some of my motives are personal. But I wouldn’t be risking the studio’s reputation, or money, based solely on my need for absolution.
I know that this could bring our studio our first acting, directing and screenwriting awards. We’re going to win Oscars with this film. The marketing I’ve planned is going to make it a box office success.
“Dad, she wrote the story. She wants to write the screenplay. She wants to make sure the actors we cast are close to her vision. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“She’s asking for a lot of money. What’s her justification?” he demands.
“Because she can. She’s an international bestseller, holding nominations for the Orange Prize for Fiction, The Man Booker Prize, and the National Book Award,” I respond, trying to keep my voice level, but I know my temper is showing.
My mother, Diana, breezes into my father’s study.
“I can hear you from the front foyer,” she says to both of us, her tone disapproving.
She pats my father on the shoulder and perches on the edge of his desk.
“Darling, you’re wasting your breath. He’s already signed the contract. Isn’t that right?”
Her eyes cut to me and she doesn’t disguise her annoyance. I bristle.
“Yes, I have. Legal reviewed it. They didn’t find anything unenforceable. They gave me their formal opinion. I signed it and sent it over this morning. I added a few stipulations, but I don’t think they’ll be deal breakers for her,” I respond and try not to swallow hard. My mother isn’t someone I like tangling with when it comes to business.
Diana Carras runs the entire organization’s operations with an iron fist. She and my father met while they were both MBA students at Wharton. She’s worked for Artemis for thirty-five years and they are always on the same page. Except when it comes to me.
My father is supportive of my passion about immigration. He’s the son of a Greek immigrant. He’s the first generation of Carras’ born in America. So, he understands, somewhat, how important this is. My mother on the other hand, doesn’t think she has any skin in the game. Her sole concern is how it affects the studio.
“Reece, we promoted you to the head of the studio because we trust you. You’ve proven yourself to be an excellent leader. I just wish you’d talked to us about it a little before you committed yourself to this project.” She comes to stand next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I look down at her, her light blue eyes, shrewd as ever as she talks to me. “I’ve heard the buzz about this book, so I understand why so many studios want it. Given the issues it raises, I understand why you do. I know you believe this film will do well. So, go ahead. But after the script is written, you’ve got to bring it before the committee, just like everyone else does, and let them decide whether or not it’s got the green light.”
“We’ll support you, son. However we can,” my father interjects.
My father saying this helps ease the knots that I had inside of me during this entire conversation.
“Of course he has our support,” my mother snaps at him. “We’re all allowed one fuck up, and this film will have one of the smallest budgets we’ve ever worked with, so if it doesn’t do well, the board won’t be calling for your head,” my mother says as she pulls out her to phone and starts reading email.
“Thanks, Mom. Glad you believe in this,” I mumble not hiding my sarcasm. I can’t wait to prove her wrong.
“Look, Reece—” my dad starts but my phone buzzes and I grab it from the table where it’s resting. One glance at the screen, has me out of my seat and pacing my dad’s study. I’ve been waiting for this call all day.
“Sol, talk to me,” I say as soon as I accept his call.
“She said no.” He cuts straight to the point. I stop in my tracks.
“How? We gave her everything she wanted.” My voice is raised and my parents look up from their respective devices at the same time. I turn my back to them and walk to the large bay window that overlooks their rear garden.
“You added somethings she didn’t like, Reece,” Sol returns calmly.
“For fuck’s sake. No one writes an entire screenplay alone. She needs a team,” I hiss into the phone, trying to deprive my audience of a performance.
“That’s not it. Listen, take out the language about Malibu and I think she’ll be on board,” he says.
I balk.
“That’s her problem? Sol, you need to advise your client. You know that no one else is going to give her so much and ask so little in return.”
I hear his exasperated exhale. “I’ll talk to her, Reece. But, let me just warn you right now. You better not be doing this because you’re hoping something extra comes along with her book. That girl has been through enough. If it even starts to feel like you’re doing this because you think you’re going to add her to your harem, I’ll make sure that she walks.”
I see red. Yes, the author is beautiful, but I also read the fucking book—most of it anyway. That story needs to be told and I need to be the one to make it happen.
“I’ve known you a long time, Sol. So, I’m going to ignore that insult. Talk to your client. Get her to say yes. Then, call me back.”
I disconnect the call and sit down.
I look up to see my parents watching me, concern on both of their faces. My mother comes to where I’m standing and touches my arm.
“You should be grateful. Yes, it’s a good story, but it doesn’t make sense for the studio’s brand. I know you care about this topic, but it’s risky.”
Her gentle voice only annoys me because I know she’s happy this happened.
“Mother, every time we begin this process, we take a risk. The upside of those risks are usually just that we’re going to make a tremendous return on our investment. This project? We could do that and we could actually tell a story that matters.” I look between them. “I read the book. You should, too. You’ll see why it’s so special.”
“If you can’t get her to agree, none of that even matters,” my father says softly.
He’s absolutely right. “You’re right, Dad. Thanks for the advice,” I say as I stand up and stalk out of the room.
“What advice?” he ca
lls after me, but I don’t respond.
I’m not going to sit here and hope that Sol Kline can convince her. I grab my keys, jump into my car and head to Los Feliz. If she’s going to turn us down because of one clause that I actually thought she’d jump at, I need her to look me in the face and tell me why.
Not that it matters. I’m not taking no for an answer.
4
Lucía
Sunday night means The Walking Dead, shrimp tacos and margaritas. Tonight, I’ve doubled the tequila in my drink. I need it. Sol is pissed at me and I’m avoiding him. I know he thinks I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy, but I can’t accept the clause Artemis added. It would throw my life into total disarray. I’d have to rent a place in Malibu and I can’t afford that in addition to the rent at Jessica’s for three months, or however long I’d be there. Even if I could, getting someone to rent me a space once they learn I’m undocumented is next to impossible. So, I can’t.
I’m disappointed. Getting this close to the film actually happening made me realize how much I wanted it. And then there’s Reece. I haven’t stopped thinking about Reece since we met. I keep replaying his impassioned speech he made during our meeting. His eyes were so intense as he told me why this matters to him. I would have enjoyed working with him.
I assumed the reason he became head of the film studio was only due to the fact that his parents own it. But yesterday, I could see that he’s flexible and decisive at the same time. It’s rare to see those qualities in people who’ve had everything handed to them and haven’t had to compromise or sacrifice much.
I take a sip of my drink and wish Jessica were here instead of out on a date. I could use a little company and comfort tonight. I’m just piling the pico and guac on my taco when I see the headlights of a vehicle as it parks in front of our house. I barely register it because we live on a busy street. When our doorbell rings less than thirty seconds later, I almost jump out of my skin.
I already know it’s not for me. Sol and Jessica are the only friends I have who know where I live and Sol wouldn’t show up without calling. It must be one of Jessica’s guys who got their date night wrong. I contemplate not answering—I’m not in the mood to console one of her love-sick boyfriends—but the doorbell rings again and I know that the lights and the television make it obvious someone is home.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing one of my gauzy beach cover ups, but it’s decent enough. Reluctantly, I pause my show with a sigh, push off the couch and rush to the door. As I approach, I see a tall, obviously male silhouette through the door’s glass.
I swing the door open. “Jess isn’t—” I can’t control the squawk of surprise that escapes when I open it and see Reece Carras standing on the other side. He’s the last person I’d expected to see and for a minute I just stand and gape at him.
He’s dressed so differently from when I last saw him. In his office, he wore a suit, his hair styled off his face. Then, he’d looked every inch the young movie mogul-and that he is.
But tonight, he’s dressed in jeans, Chucks, a V-neck white T-shirt that clings to his muscular chest and reveals a tattoo that covers his entire right bicep. His tanned, muscled bicep. His five o’clock shadow is more like a light beard now and a dark lock of hair rests on his forehead.
His eyes are hooded and he’s looking me up and down in a way that makes me feel as if I’m standing in front of him naked. His gaze feels like the touch of a hand. I feel my nipples harden as his eyes sweep past them.
I cough and he brings his unfathomably dark eyes to my face. He doesn’t look the slightest bit chagrined when I scowl at him.
“Are you done?” I ask him, placing my hands on my hips.
“Well, I was just giving you a chance to finish,” he drawls and I blush.
I brush my hair with my fingers and straighten my dress before I step outside and pull the door closed behind me. “What are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” I cross my arms over my chest and plant my feet. I hate how defensive I sound, but I’ve been thrown completely off balance by his unexpected visit.
His eyes flare with annoyance. “Your address was in the paperwork you filled out to enter our office building. All of our visitors’ information gets scanned into my address book,” he returns evenly, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against one of the porch columns. “You know exactly why I’m here,” he snaps, all traces of humor disappearing from his dark eyes. I have to stop myself from gulping down the ball of nerves lodged in my throat. Suddenly I see the executive who runs his movie studio like a well-oiled machine. Someone who isn’t used to hearing no. He’s not here to flirt with me or make small talk.
“Don’t play coy, Lucía.” He pronounces my name the way a lot of Europeans do—with the c pronounced ch.
I correct him. “It’s Loo-seeah. I’m Mexican, not Italian. And I’m not playing coy.” I draw out the last syllable.
His left eyebrow quirks up and he smiles as if surprised. A dimple I didn’t noticed before appears in his right cheek. “Forgive the mispronunciation, Lucía.” He says my name correctly this time. He runs his fingers through his closely cropped dark hair and sighs. My eyes are drawn to his gorgeous mouth; fascinated at the way it purses on his exhale.
“Tell me why you said no,” he asks, his voice still demanding, but gentler this time.
My heart thuds against my chest so hard that I’m sure he can hear it. I glance down at my hands and try to gather my thoughts.
This man, who until yesterday, I’d only seen on television or in magazines is standing on my doorstep because he wants to make my book into a movie. It’s surreal and intimidating. My reason for saying no now feels very flimsy. I force myself to look at him and answer his question.
His handsome face is impassive, but his eyes are anything but. The urgency in them only heightens my anxiety. I clear my throat. “I thought Sol told you. I can’t move to Malibu for an undetermined amount of time. I pay rent here.”
He raises his eyebrows as if to say and? I sigh.
“I can’t leave my roommate high and dry. It doesn’t matter how much you pay me, I can’t afford to pay rent here and at some place in Malibu. I need to work a commutable distance from where I live.” I cross my arms, stick out my chin as I admit, “I don’t drive.”
He doesn’t hesitate when he responds. “‘That clause was not a random whim. Our Malibu office is where our screenwriting team always collaborates. Most of them live in Malibu or close by and it’s just always been an easy central place. The studio can provide your accommodation while you’re there.”
“You’d house me?” I say hesitantly. I didn’t expect that.
“Yes, if that’s what it takes.”
Shit. I don’t want to move to Malibu. It’s so far away from what I’ve come to think of as my home. I’ve never lived anywhere but this city. I feel safe here. Although, at times, my inability to leave makes me feel like a captive. A change of scenery might not be a bad thing. “I won’t work weekends; I’ll want to come home every Friday night.”
His eyes roll and he sighs. But he doesn’t miss a beat before responding. “You won’t be a prisoner. You can leave whenever you want. But you’ll need to build a writing schedule with your team and stick to it.” I don’t have any other excuses at this point and as if he knows it, he laughs. The rich, deep, triumphant sound washes over me, mingling with my anxiety, creating a feeling of trepidation that I can’t tamp down.
I feel cornered. I don’t know why, because what I want the most is finally within reach. I’m letting my fear keep me from grabbing a hold of it. Nothing in my life has ever been this easy. It’s all too good to be true. And that makes me very nervous.
I have one more thing to add. I take a deep breath and let it out.
“Sol’s warned me about how some of these things work. I’m not interested in sleeping with you, so if all of this is a ploy to make that happen, you’re wasting your time.”
He mumbles
something under his breath and stands up straight and he narrows his eyes at me in anger. “You’re the third person who’s suggested that I’m doing this to sleep with you.” His eyes flick over me again. “Yes, Ms. Vega, you’re very beautiful.” I’m grateful for the setting sun as I feel my entire body flush. “But I don’t need to spend millions of dollars to get a beautiful woman to sleep with me.” His dark, lushly lashed eyes rake over me. He grins sardonically and says, “Honestly, you’re not my type.” His frank eyes don’t leave mine and I can feel my chin jut out as I try to pretend that his words didn’t feel like a slap to my face. “No offense,” he adds, as an afterthought.
“Glad it’s mutual,” I scoff.
He runs a hand over his face. “Look, I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for. Stop making excuses. Come to Malibu. Write the screenplay. Let’s see if we can get past that.” He puts his sunglasses on. “You’ve made a lot of demands. I’ve met them all. It’s time for you to deliver.” He turns to walk down the steps. I watch his long, denim clad legs eating up my pavement. Just as he reaches his car—which looks like something from the future, all black and smoky gray—he looks over his shoulder at me. I haven’t moved. I’m not sure that I can. His sunglasses are shielding his eyes, but I can still feel them on me and I wish he would just leave.
“Let me know by tomorrow at noon,” he calls. Then he gives me a two-finger salute and pulls away.
I stand there for a few minutes feeling like such a fool. Of course I’m not his type. I don’t know what possessed me to say that. I step back inside and sit down. My taco is soggy and cold, and my margarita is no longer frozen.
I can’t waste food, so I force myself to eat everything and that just sours my mood even further. I decide The Walking Dead can wait and get ready for bed.