Page 2 of Good Enough

Kai hauled her backpack up onto the conference table with a loud thunk, pulled her laptop out of the bag, opened it, plugged in the stick, and proceeded to pull up her files.

As she was rustling through her backpack for the proposal document, she looked up to see Waters staring at her bag. Handing him the flexi-binder with the treatment, she glanced at it again, trying to view it as he probably did. “Yeah. I call it the ‘Backpack of Death.’ If it doesn’t break my back, it will take out someone or something else.” Shrugging with a lack of concern, she focused back on her screen, clicked on the folder labeled Stormfront, and proceeded to open several files so that she could flip from tab to tab as needed.

Waters used a remote to pull up her desktop on the large telescreen behind the head of the table.

“Stormfront. Is that the name of the film?” God asked. His speech lost a little of its clarity as he worked around something in his mouth.

“It’s a working title. We never save files on computers or refer to films by the actual title to protect it from paparazzi.”

“In other words, the film has its own alias,” God surmised.

Kai shrugged, then remembered he couldn’t see her.

At least, I don’t think he can. Perhaps there are cameras?

She surveyed the room, and when he spoke, she swore she could hear a smirk in his voice. “Yes, I can see you, Ms. Serrano.”

“Okay, that’s not at all creepy,” she muttered under her breath.

“So, tell me what my company can do for you,” God pushed.

She glanced up at Waters, but his face was blank as he intently watched her.

If he’s this gorgeous while on automaton mode, a smile would probably be licensed to kill.

She turned her face back to her computer screen. “I’m looking for a Navy SEAL consultant for a film I’m directing. I had someone lined up, Kent ‘Ka-Bar’ Leech, but apparently, he will unexpectedly be in the field longer than planned. He suggested Tribe as a place to find a suitable replacement.”

There was silence from the man over the speaker and G.I. Joe across from her. She noticed the latter was staring at a point just over her shoulder, but as soon as he caught her glance, he refocused on her.

God prompted, “And you know I have SEALs working for me because…”

“Kent wouldn’t waste my time suggesting I contact you if you couldn’t help me. Is there a problem here?” she asked.

“We don’t do movie consults,” Waters replied.

“So I gathered from Kent, but he said it was worth trying since I’m now in a bind time-wise.”

She heard crunching over the speaker as God pulverized whatever he had in his mouth.

“Why do you need a consultant?” he asked. The last word sounded like it was in air quotes.

Gathering herself, Kai put back on her director persona. “Stormfront is an action film depicting a team of Navy SEALs who are sent on a mission into Central America to rescue an ambassador and his daughter from a hostage situation in El Salvador. Cliché, I know, but that’s why I need assistance. I need someone with actual SEAL training skills and knowledge so that I can turn this testosterone-heavy, error-filled writing into award-winning entertainment.”

“You have issues with testosterone?” God barked.

“If I were filming some sort of black leather, homoerotic, motorcycle mafia feature, no,” she snarked back.

“SEAL missions are highly classified,” Waters injected. “As are the means by which they do their jobs.”

She nodded. “Being a SEAL himself, Kent was going to help me with what we could and could not have, while still making the story ring true by helping us work around something the Navy wouldn’t want shown to the world. I won't settle for ‘mostly true.’” She interlaced her fingers in front of her and leaned on the tabletop with her forearms. “Now I’m forced to find an alternative since he’s on assignment.”

“Trying to avoid the critics' scathing reviews on accuracy?” She could hear the sneer in God’s voice.

Motherfucker is baiting me! Okay. I’ll play, asshat.

Narrowing her eyes and scrunching her nose, she glared at the starfish. “What I care about, Mr. I-Named-Myself-After-A-Deity, is actual SEALs and other Navy servicewomen and men complaining about yet another Hollywood director trying to make a fuck-ton of money by using romanticized, inaccurate portrayals of who they are and what they do. What I don’t give a flying fuck about is what the critics say.”

Silence on the other end of the speaker stretched for several moments. She tried to focus on the starfish rather than looking up at Waters, but despite her better judgment, she felt drawn to whatever his reaction would be to her little tirade. She risked a look up at the man. He still had no expression on his face as he stared her down.

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