Chapter 27 Verity #2
Tall, with dark hair, blue eyes, and too-white smile, he presses one shoulder into the wall I’m slumped against, his heated stare roving over my body in the fitted dress, lingering on the skin exposed by the low-cut bodice.
I squint at him, taking in his athletic build in well-tailored slacks and sports coat.
He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t be sure.
“Um, thanks,” I reply cautiously. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
The too-white smile dies and he straightens, his expression outraged.
“Are you serious?” He scowls.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, injecting as much sincerity into the apology as I can. “I meet a lot of people and—”
“And I guess you fuck a lot of people?” he snaps, his tone turning nasty. “You fuck so many guys, you forget their faces?”
“Actually, I usually prefer fucking girls, so not that many men make the cut. For me to not remember you when there are so few…” I shrug and sip my ginger ale. “You don’t happen to have a very small dick, do you?”
“Bitch,” he snarls. “I don’t care if you won ten Golden Globes, you don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’d be fine not talking to you at all. You’re the one who came over here like I’m supposed to recognize your dick on sight.”
“Your pussy wasn’t that good anyway.”
If I’m having this much trouble placing him, I was either drunk or manic when we slept together—possibly both. I rarely drink, so I’m guessing it was the former, and manic, I’m a spectacular lay.
“Now I know you lying.” I bark out a laugh. “You must not know good pussy when you get it. Fuck off.”
He takes a step forward that would be menacing if I found insecure limp-dicked narcissists even vaguely intimidating. “If you think—”
“Hey,” someone interjects from behind me. “She said fuck off.”
I freeze because I’d know that voice whispering in a tornado.
I turn and meet Monk’s gaze. There’s no humor.
No anger. Just cool indifference when he looks at me.
A warning when he shifts his eyes to Mr. Forgettable Dick.
The stranger I apparently slept with finally gets the message and stalks off, grumbling under his breath as he’s swallowed by the crowd of well-dressed partygoers.
“You’ve probably ruined him for all Black women,” Monk deadpans.
“Sisters everywhere should thank me.”
“Do you really not remember sleeping with him?” Monk leans a shoulder against the wall, assessing me with fresh eyes. Or maybe judging me with old ones.
“No,” I answer honestly without further explanation. Let him think I’m a whore. He wouldn’t believe me if I tried to convince him otherwise. “I’ll take his word for it.”
He nods and shrugs as if it’s none of his business. As if I’m none of his business, which I’m not. Some girl he dated for a few months in college and who cheated on him. Why would he care?
He glances in the direction of the guy who just lumbered off. “Still breaking hearts I see.”
“I don’t break hearts. No one gets that close.”
His eyes shift back to me, probing and somber.
I did. I can almost see the words curling in a cloud over his head.
“What’d you think of the movie?” he asks, tipping his chin to acknowledge someone who waves at him across the room.
“It’s great. One of my friends from film school wrote the script. Wanted to support her.” I study him curiously. “What about you? You write a song or something for the score?”
“Nah. Actually a girl I used to date is in it. We’re still cool and she invited me. Same. Wanted to support.”
Of course I know he’s dated other people.
He’s not the kind of famous where all the details of his private life are documented by the tabloids, but occasionally I’ve seen him at awards shows or events on TV, in magazines, with someone on his arm.
I’ve always tried to ignore the tiny nick to my heart it causes, but tonight, confronted with the reality of him moving on when had things been different… had I been different…
“That’s great,” I say, studying my bare feet, unsure where to go from here.
Things used to be so easy between us. The few times we’ve seen each other since our breakup, we’ve snapped and snarled.
I’m not sure how to negotiate this dynamic now that it isn’t intimacy or enmity, but some uncharted in-between.
“So you did finish film school when you got out here, huh?” he asks, filling the silence I wasn’t sure what to do with.
“I did, yeah. I won my fellowship, which paid for a lot when I first came, but I did all kinds of stuff to support myself while I was in my starving artist phase.”
“Oh yeah? What was your favorite job?”
“I did a stint as a hand model.” I chuckle, spreading my fingers.
He grabs my hand, holding it up to the light as if inspecting.
“I can see that.” He smiles faintly, but when our eyes catch, he doesn’t let go.
It was nothing for me to hold his hand when we were dating.
We touched each other compulsively, constantly, like it might be stripped from us if we didn’t take full advantage of every moment we were within reach.
Now his hand, so much larger than mine, swallows my fingers whole, and a lick of flame spreads from the point where our skin connects to my entire body.
He and I wordlessly stare at our joined hands.
He traces the faint scars like vines on my wrist and arm, a question in his eyes.
I hold my breath, braced for him to ask how I got them, about the tattoo, about what happened.
“Monk, there you are!” a beautiful woman squeals, bounding over with a smile.
I gratefully watch her approach, relieved and unsure what I would have said, had Monk asked about my scars.
The woman is nearly as tall as Monk in her heels, her body slim and willowy.
Auburn extensions pour over her shoulders and back.
Her skin is a gorgeous shade of deep mahogany.
Her smile dims when she notices our hands still joined.
I disengage from Monk’s grip and stare at my bare feet and the shoes set neatly beside them.
“You were great.” He pulls her close, his affection for her obvious in his voice and indulgent smile.
“It was a small part,” she says, half-heartedly deflecting his praise.
Something is familiar about her, but I can’t quite…
“You were the cashier!” I blurt, genuine excitement making me momentarily forget her connection to Monk. “You were so good.”
“Oh, wow.” Her smile, uncertain at first, progresses to pleased. “Thank you. And you are…”
“Verity Hill,” Monk introduces smoothly. “Verity, Meekah Frank.”
“Ms. Hill!” Meekah’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m a huge fan of your work.”
“Thanks.” I cross my toes, still unaccustomed to people recognizing my name or knowing me from a can of beans.
“Verity and I were at Finley together,” Monk offers.
“Briefly,” I clarify. Why? Who knows.
“Right.” Monk’s brows lift and he twists his mouth into a cynical slant. “Briefly.”
An awkward silence follows his comment, but Desiree approaches before either of us has to say more.
Thank God.
She eyes Monk and Meekah speculatively, probably wondering which one of them I’m into.
“Sorry about that,” Desiree says. “Industry shit.”
“My agent wishes I did more of that,” I mumble, sipping the last of my ginger ale.
“Having seen you at parties,” Monk says, “I could tell her good luck with that.”
“Rude, but also valid.” I roll my eyes and find my manners. “Desiree, this is Monk Bellamy.”
“Of course,” Desiree replies. “An honor to meet you. Love your music.”
“And this is Meekah Frank,” I continue introductions. “Meekah is—”
“The cashier,” Desiree squeals. “Girl, you owned that scene.”
Meekah beams. “Thank you. It’s a great script.”
“Well, thank you,” Desiree replies and bats her lashes. “I wrote it.”
“You’re the writer?” Meekah asks. “That’s so cool.”
“You guys haven’t met?” I ask.
“I was never on set,” Desiree says. “Or involved in casting. I actually didn’t see the final cut till right before release!”
Monk and I fall silent as our friends connect over the movie they’re both here for. I focus really hard on not feeling the heat of his body on the wall beside me and on not breathing in the intoxicating alchemy of his cologne mixed with his… him.
This will be over soon. Desiree and I will leave to have a celebratory meal and drink, catch up on life. Monk will take Meekah somewhere. Maybe he’ll take her home. Good-night kiss on the porch? Put her through the mattress for old times’ sake?
“Isn’t that one of your favorite movies, Verity?”
I’m ripped from my private spiral when my name is called.
“Huh?” I search the three faces for any sign of what we’re discussing. “What?”
“Brown Sugar,” Desiree answers. “Meekah was saying it’s playing at Hollywood Forever. They don’t usually have movies this late in the year, but it’s like a one-time showing.”
“It’s always been weird to me,” Meekah comments with a little shudder. “Watching movies at a cemetery.”
“Brown Sugar is showing?” I ask, now fully tuning back in. “I actually might check that one out.”
I sense Monk’s peripheral scrutiny and turn to meet his eyes.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“Nothing.” He shrugs, an unguarded grin making him look like the Monk of years ago. “Just thinking about you watching that movie over and over again, mouthing every word.”
“Not every word.” I actually giggle. “Just that scene after Taye and Sanaa have sex, or as they called it, ‘getting busy.’”
“And also when Taye Diggs’s character catches his wife with Richard Lawson,” Monk says, giving the name the same inflection Taye did.
“‘My divorce!’” he and I quote at the same time, sharing a long look and a good laugh.
“Sooooooo,” Meekah says, eyeing us both closely. “I gather you like the movie, too, Monk.”
Monk shrugs, his amusement dimming. “Sentimental value, I guess.”
I lost count of how many times I made him watch that movie with me.
I saw us in those characters. The girl, a writer, and a guy in the music industry, striving to make their way.
Those Sunday afternoons in his apartment—listening to music, watching movies, with making love as the intermission—were some of the best of my life.
“You ready?” Desiree turns to me. “You promised we’d celebrate.”
“Of course.” I steady myself with a palm against the wall to slip my heels back on. “It’s your night, doll.”
I offer Meekah a polite smile. “And your night, too. Congratulations. You really did steal that scene.”
“Guess I’ll see you on set Monday,” Monk says.
“Wait.” Desiree gapes. “Are you doing the Canon Holt movie, too, Monk?”
“Yup.” He slips his elbow into the crook of Meekah’s.
“Really cool for you guys to be working together,” Desiree comments. “After all these years.”
After all these years.
The words replay in my head once we part ways with Monk and Meekah.
After I have dinner with my old friend. While I’m in bed, staring up at my ceiling and recalling the intoxicating scent that hung around Monk tonight, sandalwood and sentiment.
The jolt to my system when I’m around him; the shock of attraction—I can’t deny it’s still there.
After all these years.
So much has changed, but I’m beginning to accept that some things never do.