by Lily Cahill
"Some people don't deserve a chance," she said.
"What would have happened if someone said that about you?" Kay asked. "Would you be here, making your own movie right now?"
Laila was trying to come up with a retort when Kay's phone rang.
"It's Greenlight," Kay said. "This better not be bad news, Lay. I'm warning you." Kay lifted the phone to her ear. "Kay Hennessy speaking."
Laila cringed inwardly. A call directly from the studio was never a good thing. She hoped she hadn't overstepped her bounds last night. If they wanted to, Greenlight could shutter their production whenever they chose. And the studio usually communicated their needs through the executive producer, which in their case was Elliott, so this call must be important. What if she had pushed Elliott too far? What if he'd decided to quit? She thought him leaving would make her happy. But to her surprise, it didn't. In fact, the idea made her a little sad.
Kay's eyes went wide and she seemed to grow paler. Shit.
"Mmm-hmm. Yes," Kay said. "Thank you. I understand."
Kay hung up.
"What'd they say?" Laila asked with dread.
"Girl, do you have a magical vagina or something?"
"Excuse me?"
"Apparently, Elliott Regan pulled in every favor he had this morning. The studio just doubled our budget."
Laila sat up in her chair. "Wait, what?"
"Doubled. As in two times. As in twice the money we had yesterday."
"Don't mess with me, Kay."
"I'm not."
Laila felt like she had to ask again. It couldn't be real. "The studio just called and gave you more money? That's impossible."
"I just spoke to the accountant himself. Rumor is, Elliott called three actors who were in negotiations for their next picture with Greenlight and organized some sort of a strike. They wouldn't sign until Greenlight increased our budget."
"You're kidding me, right? Like, this is a joke?"
"I don't think so, Lay. I think it's real."
Laila fell back in her chair, dumbstruck. "Well paint me blue and call me Papa Smurf."
"You know what this means, right?" Kay asked.
Laila shook her head. She was still too astounded by the news.
"It means you owe the man an apology."
#
Laila left the office trailer feeling a little bit more than a little mixed up. It felt as though she was inside a snow globe, and someone had just picked up her whole world, shaken it around, and set her back upright again. Why had Elliott done that? It made absolutely no sense. She'd been nothing but hard on him since they'd met.
She sighed. Kay was right; she owed him an apology. And Laila hated apologizing.
She headed toward his trailer and saw him bound out of it as she turned the corner.
"Laila!" he called, then jogged over to her with a grin.
"Hi," she said. "I just--I just heard the news. I'm, well ... I'm sorry about what I said last night. I didn't mean to be so hard on you."
"You were right. I was being a total shit," he said.
Laila scanned his eyes for a hint of sarcasm or superiority or anything like it. All she could see was sincerity.
Elliott continued. "I'm the one who owes you an apology. I was half-assing it. Maybe I've been half-assing it for a while now. But I read your script last night and I ...," his words trailed off.
Laila waited with bated breath, suddenly realizing that his opinion mattered to her. She didn't know why, and she certainly didn't like it, but it did.
"It was, by far, one of the best screenplays I've ever read."
Laila felt like someone had just given her a huge hug.
"That moment when Honey thinks Bess might be the murderer? After she spoke to the sheriff and he turns them against each other? I nearly had a heart attack. I mean, they could have killed each other right there. I've never felt so much tension in my life, and it's not even on screen yet."
"Thank you," she said, suddenly at a loss for words.
"And when Bess saves her life? I mean, that one line--'You want to share my sandwich?' It was just so ... it said something, but without saying it, you know?"
"I mean, I hoped it would land like that. But you never know."
"It did. It totally did." He put his hands on her shoulders, warm and strong. "You're a genius, Laila. You really are. I'm sorry I didn't take the time to see that earlier."
Laila liked the way his hands felt. She had the oddest instinct to take one step closer--the one step that still separated them--and slide her hands up that broad, muscular chest. What was she thinking? God, how easily she could be swayed by a single compliment. She was ridiculous. She shifted away from him, and he dropped his hands.
"I want you to make the film you want to make, Laila," he said. "I'm serious. This film deserves to be made right. So if there's anything you need, anything, I want you to come straight to me and I will figure out a way to make it happen, understand?"
Laila didn't even know what to say. But somehow, the words came. "You've already done so much. I'm incredibly ... I'm grateful, Elliott. I underestimated you."
"Maybe I'm no artist, not like you. But this orchestration thing? It's what I do. And I'm good at it. Let me help you, okay?"
"Okay," Laila said. She took a deep breath. "Maybe there's a lot we don't know about each other."
"I'd like to change that," Elliott said. "If you'll give me one more chance? Let me take you out. For real this time."
"Okay." The word was out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider it.
Elliott clapped his hands together. "Thank you. You won't regret it."
They settled on a date--that Friday--and then Laila walked away fast, before she had a chance to talk herself out of it.
Chapter Seven
Elliott
The rest of the week passed by in a flurry of activity. There was so much to do, and Elliott wanted to be involved at every step. The production schedule had to be completely rearranged, which meant renegotiating location agreements and contracts for talent and crew. There were new crew members to hire and new equipment to be ordered. And then there was the matter of finding new accommodations for everyone.
But Elliott found he enjoyed the work. It had been years since he'd been so hands-on during a production and he loved it. Every time he signed a check, it made him just a little bit happier. He knew it would go to good use. Laila would make every cent show up on screen.
During the week he also made it a point to pay attention. He knew the next time he took Laila out may be his last chance. If he messed up as bad as he had last time, she would have every reason not to give him yet another chance. And so he watched her, and he listened. He learned that Laila and the film's producer, Kay, were good friends, and he asked Kay every question he could to make sure that this time, he was fully prepared.
When Friday rolled around, Elliott was a bundle of nerves. Last time he had been overly confident. This time he was anything but. He drove his own car this time--a rental that cost for a full week what he'd paid for that limo on a single night.
She was ready when he knocked on her door--a large Victorian house nestled on the hillside that he'd rented for her and Kay to share for the duration of the production. The rest of the crew were similarly situated. If he'd learned one thing about Laila, it was that if her crew didn't have something, she didn't want it either.
Elliott smiled wide when he saw her face. Tonight, she had dressed more casually and so had he. They were both in jeans, though Laila had a way of filling out hers that made them seem like they'd been made especially for her. He felt a stirring that had nothing to do with his bear.
"Hi," she said, smiling. God, he loved that smile. And he loved being at least part of the reason for it.
"Right this way, m'lady," he said, motioning to the rental.
"Did you seriously just call me m'lady?" Laila asked, laughing.
"Would you prefer something else? My liege? My queen?"
"Laila will do just fine, thank you."
"Fair enough," he said.
They got inside and drove a short distance to a local barbecue place he'd heard about. Apparently, it was where all the locals ate, which was always a good sign. He'd tested it out earlier in the week to be sure the service was up to par. The place was small but clean, and very cozy. And the food was incredible.
"Now this is what I'm talking about," Laila said when she sat down. "How did you know barbecue was my favorite?"
"Kay told me. I had to bribe her with a bag of Cheetos."
"That girl loves her junk food," Laila laughed.
The waiter brought them two beers and Elliott raised his in a toast. "To a fresh start," he said.
Laila clinked his glass. "To a fresh start."
"So, Laila Marks, tell me everything there is to know about you. How'd you get into filmmaking?"
"I just always loved movies. I'd watch my favorites over and over as a kid, then recruit all my friends to recreate the scenes in my backyard."
"I can just imagine," Elliott beamed. And he could. He could easily see a miniature Laila bossing all the neighborhood kids around until they said the lines to The Goonies just right.
"It was just an old camcorder, but it was the most fun I ever had. I knew it was what I wanted to do my whole life."
"Where did you go to school?"
"NYU. Tisch. I loved it there."
"And you've been doing shorts until now?"
"Yeah. I picked up some side work here and there--PA'd on a bunch of stuff in LA for three years after I graduated. But it wasn't going anywhere. So I moved back home where it was cheaper and saved money to make my own stuff."
"Did you like it in LA?" Elliott asked as their food arrived at the table. He dug in to his short ribs, mashed potatoes, and macaroni with a vigor. Laila dug in too, talking between bites.
"Kind of. I liked the city enough, I guess. And I didn't mind the work. But I couldn't move up to save my life. That first year, I didn't even get paid for my film work. My parents helped, but most of the time I had to wait tables at night so I could work on set during the day. Then when I did start getting paid, it was barely enough to cover my rent."
"It's a hard business," Elliott said.
"Yes. And I don't intend to waste my opportunity."
"You won't. You're not. I don't think you could if you tried. You've got what it takes, Laila. I'm serious. I've been watching the dailies, and they're good. Like, really good."
"You have to say that. You're the executive producer. It's your job."
"I'm not saying it out of obligation. I swear. You've got talent. Real talent. And that's rare. Especially in combination with your writing. For most people, it's one or the other. But you've got both. Your eye for composition is amazing."
"Well, I'm glad you think so. That's very kind."
She seemed to squirm in her chair a bit at the compliment, which probably meant she still thought he was blowing smoke up her ass.
"I have a reputation for calling hits, Laila. It's what I do. Half of box office success comes from attaching yourself to the right project. And this film? It's smart. It's got the makings of an indie darling for sure, but there's enough suspense and action and heart to keep even an average watcher engaged. It's a spoonful of sugar."
"It's what?" Laila laughed.
"You know, it helps the medicine go down. You're saying something important, but it never feels like a lesson because we're so damned entertained."
"Thank you. That's really ...," Laila looked him in the eye. "That's really nice to hear."
"You deserve it," Elliott said.
"So how about you? How'd you get into the business?"
"It was kind of a mess, actually. I wasn't exactly a focused student growing up."
"You don't say," Laila laughed.
"I know, hard to believe, right? But somehow in college it just clicked. I went to UCLA hoping for a party school, and ended up finding something I loved."
"Were you a film major?"
"At first I was a business major. Then I picked up a film minor with a producing focus."
"You never wanted to make films of your own?"
Elliott laughed. "I tried. Once. But don't ask. That thing is never seeing the light of day."
"Oh, come on. That sounds like something I have to see."
"Not a chance in hell. Let's just say I quickly discovered I was better at the business side of things. I could see talent, but I didn't have an ounce of it on my own. But I guess that's the exciting part to me. Really. It's all about taking risks and making judgment calls. I see talent and I try to connect the people who have it. Then support them enough to make their vision a reality. I'm a gambler really, but I bet on people. I love it."
"I've never heard anyone talk about studio work that way," Laila said. "Usually it's just about money. It's kind of refreshing."
"Thank you for saying that," Elliott said.
He looked down at the table and realized her hand was only inches away from his. He reached out and took it. Her skin was so soft, even softer than he'd imagined. Elliott caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. Delightfully, she let him.
"Anything else I can get for you two?" the waiter interrupted, holding their check.
Elliott turned to Laila. "I don't feel like going home yet. Do you?"
"Not at all," she said.
Elliott turned back to the waiter. "Where's a good place to get drinks around here?"
"Sorry, sir. But you're in Kentucky and it's nearly nine. Everything's closing up for the night if it's not closed already." The waiter laughed as he handed Elliott's card back to him. "We do most of our drinking at home."
Then the waiter left, leaving them in a bit of an awkward silence.
"I do have a bar at my place," Elliott said. "You're welcome to stop by if you like."
Laila seemed to hesitate for a second.
"No pressure, of course. I just ... I don't want to say goodnight yet." It wasn't a lie or a ploy. For the first time he could remember, he actually wanted to just spend time with a woman.
"Me neither," Laila said. "Let's go."
#
Elliott opened the door to his cabin, which was sort of a misnomer. It was owned by a wealthy couple from Atlanta who used it as their vacation home and had built it to their specifications. The place was more modern than most of the surrounding architecture. It was small in comparison to Elliott's place back home, but the feel was the same: clean lines, warm woods, and fresh colors. Contemporary but not cold.
He led Laila toward the bar. It was positioned near a wall of pure glass that looked out onto the forest below, a wide stream running practically right underneath them.
"What's your poison?" he asked.
"Old fashioned?"
"Coming right up."
He mixed the drink then brought it to where she was sitting on the couch, staring out the window at the beautiful panoramic scenery lit softly by the moon glowing above.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so," she said, taking the drink from his hand.
He stared out the window with her, a bit taken aback by her reaction. He really thought they'd been hitting it off. At least he had felt that way. So why was she closing herself off to him again? Maybe this was yet another major misjudgment on his part.
Then he glanced back at her and noticed she was downing her drink in one go.
"Whoa, there, captain," he laughed. "Save some for the rest of us."
But she didn't slow down. She finished it and set it down on the end table beside her.
Then she leaned through the space between them and placed her lips on his. He was so shocked he nearly dropped his glass. But the shock passed and the allure of her drew him in fast.
He set his glass aside and delved into her kiss, exploring her mouth with his tongue. God, she tasted incredible. Like sweet, ripe blackberries picked fresh from the bush.
Her hands were on his shirt buttons and he felt a roar in his chest, felt the need to consume her taking over. She seemed to respond to his need with the deepening of her kiss. Her tongue tangled with his and he almost couldn't stand it.
He came up for air. "God, Laila. I've wanted you so bad."
"I've wanted you too," she said, practically panting as she loosed the final buttons and pulled his shirt down over his shoulders, revealing his fitted tee underneath. It seemed she didn't just want to kiss him. She wanted more, and so did he.
Elliott stopped her. "Are you sure about this? I don't want things to be weird between us. I can't have that." As much as he wanted her, he couldn't handle the idea of trading even one night for not being able to talk to her the next day, and the next, and every day after that.
"I'm a grown up. It won't be weird," she said, moving to straddle him.
"You promise?"
"Stop talking, Yogi," she said as she tugged his undershirt up and over his head.
He knew when to shut up.
"Damn," she breathed as she looked at him, chest bared. "I mean, damn."
His heart thumped wildly as she dragged her palms down his chest and kissed his neck. And that wasn't the only part of his body that was exited. His cock pressed against his jeans, begging for him to claim his mate.
He couldn't hold himself together any longer. There was no more room in his mind for careful consideration. He let his instincts take over.
He pulled her shirt over her head. Thank God there weren't any buttons, or he'd have ripped them off. Her breasts were large and round and full, cupped inside a lacy purple bra. He could clearly see her pert nipples straining against the sheer fabric, and it drove him wild.
"Fuck," he groaned.
He dropped his mouth and licked her through the fabric as he wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer to him. She moaned in response, and his cock got even harder. He wanted to feel every inch of her, he wanted to taste every inch with his tongue.
He unfastened her bra and it slipped down her shoulders. If he'd thought she was hot in the bra, the sight of her without it was even hotter. He brushed his fingers lightly against her and her dark nipples puckered against his touch. He had to taste them. Had to.