Chapter 29 Verity
TWENTY-NINE
Verity
I can’t believe we pulled this together so quickly.
Over the last two weeks, Monk has been in the studio with the musicians recording songs for today’s Savoy number.
We haven’t been in the same place since the showing at Hollywood Forever.
We walked down memory lane that night, and not just watching the movie.
We talked things through in a way we haven’t before.
When he asked about my “hard time,” I was this close to telling him everything.
My monumental meltdown in the fine arts building, the cops, the hospital stay.
The diagnosis. But even though we’ve made progress, I’m not sure I can fully trust him with that yet.
Enough of that. Today is about work, and what we’ve accomplished together. We continued coordinating the elements needed for the Slim Gaillard cameo and spotlight. Fortunately, Canon loved the idea but left the execution completely to us.
And we were off.
Technically, I don’t have to be on set today, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Seeing the history I love so much come to life, a cast and crew full of Black and brown folks, and this story unfolding in a way that is even more extraordinary than I could have imagined—I don’t want to be anywhere else.
We’ve been shooting this dance number for two days.
It’s one of the biggest of the entire film.
After today, we break for Thanksgiving and can get some rest. But right now everyone’s on edge.
God bless Neevah. Lucia, our choreographer, is a tyrant, and almost as bad as Canon when it comes to getting every single thing right.
She has worked that girl and the other dancers past the bone.
Canon, Jill, and Kenneth, the assistant director, huddle around a table at the other end of the tent, prepping for the scene.
Inevitably, the band breaks out their instruments and begin to play while we wait.
I watch on the monitors as the actors and even some of the crew gravitate toward the Savoy’s bandstand.
A trumpet player keeps pushing Monk toward the piano, but he laughingly waves him off.
Eventually he acquiesces and takes the bench.
I used to love seeing Monk with other musicians.
He’s at ease in a way that speaks of the connectedness and community he feels with musicians as an extension of what he feels for music itself.
Monk’s fingers fly over the keys, innate confidence squares his shoulders, and most tellingly, awe settles on the faces of those gathered around.
Especially the women.
Ladies, I get it.
The man is fine just breathing, but put an instrument or a mic in his hand, and it’s just unfair.
One of the scantily clad dancers boldly sits beside him on the bench, and he flicks her a distracted smile, never missing a beat.
He’s so caught up in the tune, in the synergy of the band, the melding of the sounds, he seems unaware that the beautiful woman is sending signals that he could get it.
A surge of possessiveness surprises me. It’s misplaced and unfair and unreasonable. I have no claim to Monk.
Still, something twists in my gut when the dancer runs her hand up and down his back, caresses his nape.
Pushy bitch.
“No,” I chide under my breath. “You don’t get to do this, Verity.”
“Talking to yourself?” The question from Canon jolts me.
“No!” I shake my head a little too vehemently. My response is over the top, but once you’ve actually been in a mental institution and labeled unstable because… well, you are unstable… you become sensitive about people thinking you’re crazy.
“Well you’re talking to somebody,” Canon laughs, and walks to his director’s chair. “Glad you’re here to see this. Your Slim cameo idea was such a great add.”
My eyes wander back to the screen. Monk offers the dancer a polite smile, but nothing about his body language encourages her, and when he stands from the piano and walks away, disappointment colors her pretty face. He says a few words to the band and walks offscreen.
A few minutes later, he enters video village and chats with Canon and then searches the tent for a place to sit. I train my eyes on the monitor when he takes the seat beside me.
“This is gonna be good,” he says. “Neevah and the dancers look great, and so does Clyde. Teamwork, huh?”
He extends his fist for a bump, and after an almost imperceptible pause, I touch my fist to his.
“Teamwork,” I agree.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He reaches over and brushes his knuckle over the back of my hand, where it rests on my bare leg.
The touch so startles me, I jerk, half expecting my skirt to spontaneously burst into flame, my skin feels so hot where he touched me.
When he doesn’t move his hand, I side-eye him.
He’s not smiling. Not frowning. Just observing my response, like a flame test—tossing things my way and watching, waiting to see how brightly I might burn.
I flick my gaze up to meet his searching, unblinking stare.
He used to tell me he loved watching me in a group because I couldn’t disguise how I wanted him.
He would find ways to caress my leg, or tangle his fingers in the curls at the base of my neck, or if he was really bold, under a table, slip his fingers beneath my skirt and into my panties.
I shift in my seat so that his hand falls away, and he smiles faintly as if I’ve passed a test. Or maybe I’ve failed. I’m not sure, but I believe he got the response he wanted.
“Quiet on the set,” Kenneth calls, and the sudden hush ushers in a new tension. Canon is hoping this is the last take. Everyone’s tired and ready to go home for the holiday, but we all want it to be perfect.
“Action!”
Clyde is pitch-perfect as Slim, banging the keys with the backs of his hands, his elbows, even his feet. Monk watches every second with a hawk’s eye. He is as obsessive as Canon in many ways, but unlike his longtime friend, he usually softens it.
After so many takes, you’d think the dancers might be flagging, but Neevah soars and spins with the same energy and grace as she did when they began.
With the brightly colored costumes and the mass of dancers, it’s like a parade.
Perfectly orchestrated. The last note rings out and the dancers hold their positions.
“Cut!” Kenneth yells.
The set explodes with cheers and relieved laughter. They know they nailed it. The joy and exuberance spills into the tent, and we’re on our feet, too. Applauding and laughing, high-fiving and hugging each other.
“Incredible!” Monk says, grabbing me and pulling me close.
Flush together, our bodies stiffen and we still, even as the noise and mayhem continues to erupt all around us.
His hands tighten at my waist and bring me closer until there’s room for nothing between us, not even the past. His fingers splay over my hips and his head dips, his breath quickening in my ear and matching my harried heartbeats.
When I feel him pressed hard into my belly, my knees go weak and I grip his forearms. The evidence of his arousal is more than I can literally stand, and I slump a little onto his chest, my head lowered to draw in his scent.
He doesn’t wear the same cologne as before, but that natural essence his skin carries, the one I used to sniff my sheets in search of, hasn’t changed.
It’s still addictive and I have to force myself to step back and out of his arms.
We’re not touching anymore, but the few inches separating us create this magnetic field, and it takes all my willpower not to wrap myself around him; not to lean into the heat, into the hold he still has on me.
Our eyes lock, and I have never felt so fucked by a look.
It makes me feel empty and I shift on my feet, so aware of him the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“That was fantastic!” Jill says, slipping into the space between us and embracing Monk. “Loved every bit of it.”
He returns Jill’s hug, but over her shoulder, his eyes never stray from mine, that stare hot and unwavering. My feet are cemented to this spot and I can’t make myself move. Body still tingling from his touch, panties wet at the mere thought of him.
“Great job,” Canon says, patting my shoulder and finally jolting me into motion. “That Slim cameo really sets up the ‘Floogie’ number perfectly, Verity.”
“Thank you for listening and being open to the idea,” I manage to get out, though my tongue feels too big to articulate my thoughts.
The jubilation goes on. We leave video village tent to celebrate with the cast and crew.
There’s food and when Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up” starts playing, some even dance, because how can you get a group of Black folks together and not dance when that song hits?
You’d think this was a wrap party instead of the prelude to Thanksgiving break, but we’ve put in as much effort these last few weeks as most crews do for an entire project. We deserve to blow off some steam.
“That was one of the most terrific scenes I’ve ever shot,” Canon says, addressing everyone as we form a loose circle around our Savoy ballroom. “I’m proud of all of you. You’ve worked harder and have been better than even I expected. And you know how high my expectations are.”
Amusement trickles through the crowd, the atmosphere loose now, with one of the most difficult sequences behind us.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Canon continues. “Go home. Enjoy your time off. Happy Thanksgiving.”
The crowd begins to disperse, everyone eager to get off set and start their holiday because before we know it, we’ll be right back here grinding again. I call out my goodbyes, gripping my bag, and trying not to be obvious as I scan the group for Monk’s face.
I’m headed off set, walking one of the streets lined with fabricated stoops and buildings, when someone grabs my wrist and pulls me into a narrow alleyway.
I tug, resisting until I make out the familiar broad shoulders and the proud set of Monk’s head in the shadows.
He looks back for a quick second, and the flare of desire in his eyes stokes an answering response in me.
We don’t speak, and we only walk for thirty seconds or so, but my body protests the delay.
Every molecule screams NOW. The echo of our footsteps and our heavy breaths are the only sounds in the world, as everything else fades, like we’ve lifted off into outer space and Earth, with all its concerns and other inhabitants, lies far below.
Like we’ve left everything, even our complicated, painful past, behind.
When we reach our destination, it takes a moment for my lust-addled brain to compute where we are. Dessi and Tilda’s apartment. I don’t get to ask what we’re doing here. Monk pulls me into him by the waist, his hands spanning my back.
“If you don’t want me to kiss you,” he pants, his breath ragged over my lips, “say that shit now.”
I don’t waste time pondering the wisdom of this, or playing coy or wondering if I’ll regret it.
I know I will. This can only end badly, but I want it to begin again.
I want it so bad I’m trembling when I tip up on my toes and clutch his head, bringing him down until our lips slam together and open.
As soon as our tongues slip, slide, tangle, I whimper.
It’s our first kiss in almost twelve years, and I know for him, this is just lust. Mere animal attraction so strong, he’s set his reservations and my transgressions aside to pursue it, but something I’ve been barely holding together since the last time he kissed me breaks.
It shatters and I can’t deny the way this feels like home, that he feels like something I never should have lost or left.
But I didn’t leave him.
I didn’t have a choice.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears so they won’t fall. I roll my hips into him so he knows he doesn’t have to ask. I’m a hot, slick yes.
“Jesus, Vee,” he groans into the kiss. His hands trace down my back and over my hips to push under my skirt.
He squeezes my ass and I dig my nails into his back.
Walking us backward to Dessi’s bed, he eases me down and settles between my legs.
I spread for him, no hesitation. My body throbs with a rhythm I never forgot, but didn’t realize I still knew.
The kiss is all lips and teeth and craving.
Wet and hot and desperate. He pushes my skirt up and slides his finger into my underwear, finding my clit unerringly.
I jerk out of the kiss to gasp and toss my head back to the pillow.
“Monk.” I roll into his touch. “I need… I can’t…”
“I know, baby.” He pushes my T-shirt up and pulls the cups of my bra down. “I got you.”
The tandem touch of his fingers between my legs and his mouth at my breast scatters all thoughts. I couldn’t string together three words to stop him if I wanted to, but I do not want to.
The orgasm rolls through me without warning, taking me by surprise and taking me under. A wave so intense, lights flicker behind my eyes and my head swims. My whole body goes stiff as the pleasure ravages me. My arms drop limply to my sides and my head flops into the soft linen of the pillow.
He leaves kisses along the sensitive skin inside my thighs, then scoots back to sit at the far end of the bed, knees pulled up and hugged by his elbows. His breathing is harsh and his erection bulges in his pants.
“Why’d you stop?” I practically slur, dragging myself up and crawling toward him. “Let me.”
I reach for his belt, but his hand covers mine and he tips up my chin until our eyes meet. His are still drunk with lust, but sobriety slowly invades the small room. He says the words I was really hoping we could skip.
“I stopped because we need to talk.”