Page 118 of One Last Verse

I glanced at my phone. “We still have six more hours to go until the doors open.”

“You’re here.” He shrugged. “Levi’s here. Ash-man’s here.”

“Is that what my brother wants to be called now?” I rolled my eyes.

“Everyone needs a cool name.” Carlos shook his head and continued to snap photos.

I pulled up the planner app on my phone and verified all the tables. My heart raced.It was happening!After months of driving myself and everyone around me, including my mother, crazy, our hard work was finally paying off. Today felt like a dream. I just wasn’t sure whether it was a dream come true or a nightmare.

Were people going to like the film? Were critics going to slam us?

Tucking my phone into the front pocket of my fitted dress slacks, I crossed the lobby and walked outside. Carlos followed.

We made our way over to the sidewalk and stood for a silent moment staring at the massive film poster above the marquee, a black and white image of Isabella in her chair shot from behind against a shimmering, smoky background. An old dynamic microphone was erect on the opposite side of the frame. It’d taken Carlos almost five hours to get the angle and the lighting right. Haunting and exquisite, the photo made a statement. Hanging high above the affluent and trendy area of Sunset Boulevard, it challenged the entire industry. It challenged the minds and the eyes of people in luxurious cars taking this road every day.

“My best fucking work,” Carlos said quietly, knocking my shoulder.

“It is,” I agreed. “A picture is worth a thousand words, right?”

“This one is, Cassy.” He spun around and stepped back into the barricaded area. His camera flashed.

I raised my hand to block my face, but it was too late.

“Come on, you can’t take photos of me without permission,” I teased.

“Don’t worry. You look awesome.” He winked and hurried inside.

All the caffeine I’d consumed earlier made me jittery and I imagined others could probably tell by the tremor in my hands and the shake in my voice, but my brain was as sharp as ever.

Gazing back up at the poster, I soaked in the invisible power of the artistic rebellion it represented. The memories of our last week’s rehearsal flashed through my mind. At nineteen, Isabella had everything thousands of other artists spent years perfecting—stage presence, amazing voice, dark charisma. She was destined for greatness and I wasn’t going to let anyone take that greatness away from her.

Emotions tightened my throat. Certain stories had that effect on me. Stories about people who dared to keep going. Even when the odds weren’t in their favor. Isabella’s was the one that had to be heard. Raw, honest, real. A journey that deserved every ounce of attention it was getting and more.

Lately, I’d been wondering if Frank and Isabella had come into my life at the same time for a reason, if these two choices were given to me to help me decide which road to take and how to spend the rest of my life. With a man who’d given up or surrounded by people who didn’t accept failure as an option. It was a tie between love or an opportunity to make a difference, and the inability to have both hurt too much. In the end, I knew I’d made the right call. I’d chosen wisely. I’d stapled the holes in my broken heart and had picked a person who needed me more, a person I strived to become.

The wall of approaching whispers snapped me out of my daze. In my peripheral, I noted a group of teens. Eyes starstruck, phones flung in the air, they looked harmless, but my gut told me to run. So I did. I charged for the door and hid away from the wannabe paparazzi in the lobby.

Isabella and her team arrived later in the afternoon. She had two back-to-back interviews at two and three fifteen, a soundcheck at four thirty, then makeup and hair. The doors were scheduled to open at six, the screening itself was set for seven. After that, a thirty-minute live set and a Q&A session with the producers and artists would take place. I was part of the panel and the idea of other people, specifically the press, asking questions unsettled me.

By five, the crowd outside the theater had grown to apocalyptic proportions. The Jay Brodie PR team was going for a kill with this campaign, but I never would’ve imagined that this many would actually show up.

I watched bits and pieces of the soundcheck from the lobby while trying to verify last-minute additions to the guest list with Linda.

“You need to take a break,” she whispered, her palm covering the screen of my iPad. “Did you have lunch?”

“Yes.” I reached for the clipboard she was holding.An iced coffee and a handful of almonds isn’t going to cut it, girlfriend,my stomach bellowed. When she gripped it tight, I asked, “Can I see that again?”

Linda didn’t budge. “I know this film is your baby and you want to make sure tonight is perfect, but you need to relax.” She jerked the clipboard away. “Please go upstairs and take a break. We have a long night ahead of us. My girls will handle the red carpet attendees and all the press check-ins. It’s not your job. You’re the producer. Your job is done. Now you get to sit back and watch.”

Producer.The word hung in the air between us, exotic and glamorous.

“If someone had told me eight months ago that I was going to give birth to a nonprofit documentary, I would’ve laughed in that person’s face.”

“Oh, dear.” A cunning smile touched Linda’s lips. “Life tends to throw us all sorts of opportunities. I danced ballet for six years until one day, a new door opened. I took a leap of faith and never looked back. There’s nothing else I’d rather do than what I’m doing right now.” She motioned at the people behind the glass doors.

Linda’s confession shocked me. She was wearing a knee-length pencil skirt and a suit jacket, not exactly artsy attire.

“Ballet? Really?” I tried to imagine L.A.’s biggest PR shark in a tutu, doing pliés and pirouettes. The image was downright disturbing. “You never told me.”

---