Screenwriter’s Shield (Alden Security #5)

1. Ezrah

Ezrah

1

Igrit my teeth to bite back the rage boiling up my throat. It’s all I could do to keep from screaming while yet another well-coifed man in an overpriced suit some stylist picked out for him who'd never written anything in his life sat on the other side of the table and shook his head with a sigh as if he was the one who was inconvenienced.

As if he was the one whose dreams were being crushed.

“Sorry kid," he sat the folder I'd given him down with another sigh. "I just don’t think we’re a good fit for your script. We’ve got a few assistant writer positions open. Why don’t you apply for one of those? Get some experience, clean the script up a bit and we can talk?”

I take a deep breath, begging my hands not to shake as I shut my laptop with a slightly aggressive click.

How many times had I heard the same words? It didn’t matter how many credits I had to my name, some guy in a suit knew how to tell a story better than I did.

It won’t sell, they said.

I don't understand who your target audience is?

There’s no market for love stories without a happy ending.

Can we at least change the genre?

Like love ever had a happy ending. There were two options, either one person leaves or one dies. Love always ends with people hurting each other. It was the sad truth about human nature no one wanted to acknowledge. You had to be a fool to expect to be any different.

I shake my head. The spiral could wait until I was safely behind closed doors. “Thank you for your time, but I’ll keep my story as is,” I slide the laptop back into my briefcase and slouch from the room.

"Don't be rash," I hear him calling after me.

I freeze in the doorway.

"You've got a promising future ahead of you. You've got real talent. That's not the problem, you just need a little polish. Someone to work with you. Sign on to one of our other projects. You make a few edits and we can talk again in a few months."

I scowl at the wall. "If you looked at my portfolio, you'd see I've had several junior positions before. I don't need another one. What I need is a chance."

He sighs again. It was beginning to seem like some kind of deliberate acting choice. "Sorry kid. I just don't think you're ready, but don't give up, yeah?"

"Not planning on it," I narrowly resist the urge to stomp on my way out. As if he was so important his rejection alone could crush my dreams.

Out on the street, I pause, leaning against the wall. The thought of heading home just to work on another sitcom episode or clean up lines on some slasher flick made my skin feel tight and clammy. After a few minutes of debate, I opt to head to my favorite coffee shop, if only to delay going home for a little while longer.

“Good to see you, Ezrah,” the woman behind the counter grins at me like I’m an old friend. “I was wondering when you’d be in today. Do you want your usual?”

"Hey Dani, you know me so well." I nod, handing over my card.

I move to wait with the others at the end of the counter. Glancing at their faces I feel my own dramatic sigh bubbling up in my chest. This is LA. Everyone’s got a dream, but it isn't a fairy tale. No magic candymaker is waiting to hand out golden tickets to the worthy. It’s a colosseum, pitting one against the other, trying to prove your work was worth even a second of their time

A minute later I snapped out of my depressing thoughts as my name was called.

“Thanks, Sam," I say as the other barrista hands me an iced white mocha with extra whipped cream and a cinnamon muffin.

"Have a good day. See you again tomorrow.”

I shoot them a smile and then grab a seat, pulling out my laptop.

I stare at the familiar words on my screen, unable to decide if they are a wondrous creation or a horrible abomination. I shake my head. I can’t let the suits get to me. I’ve been around long enough to know how love works.

I’ve fallen victim to it myself more times than I care to admit. I mean, it was once but that's still too many.

I’m not here to tell sugary sweet lies wrapped up with nice little bows. My stories exist to tell the truth, and I don’t care what anyone says. On some level, people want to hear the truth.

I skimmed it over again, licking at the whipped cream where it peeked through the top of the lid before sipping my drink.

It wasn’t a fairy tale, but an honest love story, detailing the life of a woman meeting the man of her dreams only to watch the monster underneath come out.

In the end, she realizes she only has two choices, live, and possibly die alone, or learn to live with what she’s given.

One day, while he’s away at work assuming she’s quietly playing housewife, she makes a clean break and never looks back.

Most of the studios who were willing to consider the story wanted to add a confrontation between her and the man. Others wanted to see her get some kind of vengeance. Even more wanted a clearer picture of her life after she left, but that wasn’t how life worked and it wasn't the point of the story.

When things inevitably went wrong the best you could hope for was a clean break. As for what happens after, well, as long as you're alive it's a win.

I set my cup down with a bit more force than necessary. I don’t understand. It’s a summer blockbuster waiting to happen.

I spend a few hours making minor edits and tweaks before I glance at my watch.

Sighing, I close my baby and get to work on the jobs that pay the bills. They aren't fun for me. I don't have a passion for writing rom-coms, but I like having a steady income and they pay well.

Like, really well.

Once I've done another four hours of work and gone through a second iced white mocha, I lean back with a yawn. I glance around before shutting my laptop, sliding it into my bag, and getting to my feet. It’s only a matter of time before someone snatches up my real masterpiece. I know my worth and the worth of my art. I just have to keep trying.

When I can't avoid it any longer, I fall into my blue compact car and head home. I could afford something nicer, but what’s the point? This is LA, all that matters is that my car is comfortable to be stuck in traffic in, as I am for over 20 minutes on the way home.

Finally, I pull into the driveway of my small, dark blue, two-bedroom, two-bath house. I can't decide if I’m proud or disappointed by the life I’ve built since I moved here. In any other town, it wouldn’t have been much, but in LA it was the best I could hope for if I didn’t want to sell a kidney, and I don’t need any bigger for just me and old Beatrice.

It's not even like I entertain. It’s usually just the two of us drinking coffee and watching old TV shows.

Halfway up the professionally manicured stone steps, I stop and frown. Against the dark brown of my door, the stark white envelope draws my attention like a beacon. A shiver of trepidation runs down my spine. Glancing around, there’s no one nearby. No sign of who could have left it. I grab the envelope and head inside.

I tug off my shoes while Beatrice watches from her perch on the polished coffee table, flat green eyes gazing at me with disapproval before jumping off and strutting away, thick tail firmly in the air, swishing in irritation. Her patchy calico fur looks like someone spilled an ice cream sundae on her and didn't bother to wash it off.

Unable to put it off any longer, I sink down on the firm leather sofa and open the plain white envelope. I try to convince myself it’s probably just a book club or something hunting for new recruits.

The handwriting inside makes my heart drop like a stone and my blood freeze over.

My sweet sugar muffin,

The force on 'my' indented the page so much it was a wonder it didn't tear. My white-knuckle grip on the page isn't helping matters.

It’s been too long since I last laid eyes on your sweet face. Years now you've been gone, and I've missed you so much. I think what hurt the most was that you didn't even say goodbye. It was cruel the way you left me. Lesser men would have given up on our love. I almost did it myself.

The only thing that gave me hope was when I saw you didn't pack a bag. I knew that meant you couldn’t stay gone forever.

But you could have made it easier to find you, baby. Guess that’s half the fun for you isn’t it? Making me hunt you down and drag you back. Making me prove my love and dedication to you. You always did like your little games, and that’s fine. I can play along, but this one has gone on long enough.

And make no mistake, I have found you. I thought about waiting for you, on your, soon our, doorstep but it’s too fucking hot for that shit.

You couldn’t have hidden somewhere colder like Alaska or Minnesota? It's like you weren't even thinking of me when you got this place, but that’s okay. Once we’re together again, it's not like we need to stay here. We can sell this dump and get a real house somewhere in the countryside.

You'd like that, wouldn't you? A little cottage for just us, away from the world. Too secluded for your little games.

But there will be plenty of time to talk about that when I have you again.

See you again real soon

Your beloved

Allen

My shaking hands drop the paper and it flutters innocently to the floor, so unlike the hand grenade that has been thrown at me for the sheer purpose of blowing up my life.

He’s coming for me. I need to hide. I need to get out of here. To get someplace safe. I need to run.

Stumbling into the bedroom, I throw a suitcase on the bed, ruining my perfect hospital corners in the process. I throw open my closet, the door slamming against the wall with a crash. I reach in blindly, haphazardly throwing whatever my hands touch first into the waiting bag.

I’ll get a hotel room tonight, and book a flight first thing in the morning.

I need to go somewhere where my writing would still be relevant.

Chicago?

That could work if I wanted to get into novels or journalism.

No, I'd worked too hard on scriptwriting.

Maybe New York.

New York could work.

A disgruntled meow sounds from under the bed, before Beatrice sees fit to show herself, if only to sit on top of my bag.

"Come on. I have to pack," I tell her as sternly as I dare.

She stares me down, eyes narrowed, ears back, calling out my cowardice with harsh judgment.

I shake my head. “You don’t know what he can do. We aren’t safe here.”

She flicks an ear.

"If he makes me go back I don't even know if he'll let me keep you. Do you want to be on the street again? I know I don't."

Her already flat eyes narrow into a cold glare.

I glare back. “It’ll be different in New York. It's filled with people. It's all the way across the country. He won't be able to find us there.”

I try to move her plump body only to be met by a vicious growl. She gave my hand a warning bat with one claw.

“OW!” I draw back, frowning down at the single puncture wound, ripped open by me pulling away. A small amount of blood trickles from the cut. “Alright! Alright, fine.” I sink to the floor, adrenaline wearing off and leaving me numb, cold, and shaking. “Yeah, he’d come for us again, but it would buy me time to- to come up with something better right?" I ramble to my unsympathetic cat. "It took him over five years this time. Maybe next time it'll be ten. Besides it's not like I’m leaving much behind here anyway. A handful of junior and one-off episode writer jobs. I'll be able to work remotely at least for a while. Maybe I can even branch out and write for the stage? It's not what I wanted but I can adapt. Stage shows can get away with things movies can't. Maybe they'd be more open to telling my story.”

She blinks at me wordlessly, tail swishing with indignation.

My head hits the wall with a soft thunk. “Who are we kidding? There’s never going to be a better plan and those couple of jobs took everything I had to get a paw in the door! And we’ve got another chance to pitch True Love's Ending next week. We can’t just leave that all behind, can we?” I shake my head, pulling out my phone. “There has to be another way.”

A name floats through my mind. Alden Security.

It’s worth a shot. Due to my rather minimalist lifestyle, I had more than a little bit of money stashed away from previous jobs. They’d made the news protecting an LGBT shelter in the LA area somewhere, I’d seen the stories. I do a quick google search for their number, tell Beatrice to cross her paws, and dial. Beatrice just glares at me as I hold my breath for an answer.