Page 1 of Thicker Than Water

1

Reece

The first thing I notice are her hands. They’re fine boned and small with short nails that are painted bright red. They’re not elegant hands. But they’re beautiful. Hands whose character has been shaped by use. They look capable and strong.

And, apparently, they are. Those hands wrote the book that has taken the country by storm. Throw Away the Key has been sitting at the number one spot on The New York Times Best Seller list for almost thirty weeks. It’s being hailed as the book of the year. And all of this from a first-time author, who self-published her book, initially. Those hands have my respect.

As does the rest of her.

She hasn’t done a single television interview since the book gained national prominence. Her pen name L. Vega and her bio, which refers to her in the first person, don’t indicate whether she’s a woman or a man. Honestly, I hadn’t cared either way.

Until I saw her.

Now, that I know she’s a woman, it’s all I can think about. She’s beyond beautiful.

She’s tiny. She can’t be more than a couple of inches above five feet tall. And every single part of her in perfect proportion. Her dark hair tumbles in seemingly perpetual waves, spilling over her shoulders and hanging almost to her waist in the back. Her full lips are painted in the same vivid red as her nails. Otherwise, she is completely devoid of makeup.

In this town where people dress to impress, she appears to have made practically no effort at all. She’s not even wearing a suit. Her jeans have more holes than fabric, her white shirt sits off one shoulder and falls short of reaching her belly button. All that caramel, smooth skin is a feast for my eyes, almost daring me not to look.

Her beauty, her appeal is all effortless. She has what we, in this business, call presence. She’s captivating and I already know that she’s going to sell this film for us. When we put her in front of a camera, the public will eat her up. Add that to her obvious talent and clear ambition, and I can tell this woman’s a winner.

She’s sitting across from me, her beautiful face placid. It’s like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She shouldn’t. When it comes to her book and the movie studios vying for the options, it’s definitely a seller’s market. The film belongs at Artemis Film and I’m prepared to do what it takes to make that happen.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to us, Ms. Vega. I know you’ve been approached by several other studios about your book,” Zev says in his trademark, brisk, no nonsense tone. He’s my President of Development and normally he’d be running this meeting without me present. But I don’t trust him not to fuck this up.

He’s not interested in turning Lucía Vega’s book into a film. He thinks it’s a waste of time and money. Normally his opinion is worth its weight in gold. But, not today.

I’ve got a good feeling about this book. The timing and the story are perfect. It’s a topic that’s on a lot of people’s minds. If it’s not, it should be. This film is going to win us awards and make a shitload of money. So, I’m here to make sure we get this done.

“We were surprised to get your call,” her agent, Sol Kline, responds. Sol is one of the country’s biggest literary agents. He knows everyone, understands the ins and outs of this business, and can smell bullshit a mile off. The fact that he is her agent tells me that they aren’t surprised at all. He only seeks out and represents very successful writers.

“I was surprised to be making it,” Zev says, with a chuckle that fails to mask his disdain. “But Mr. Carras insisted.”

I cut an ire-filled glance at him before I interject. I lean forward and look at her directly for the first time.

“Yes, I did insist. I read your book. It’s great. I believe it’s a story that needs to be adapted into film so that we can reach an even wider audience. I’m going to be stepping into the role Zev would normally play on this project and will oversee it myself.”

The room is silent at my declaration. I’ve surprised everyone. Including myself. I feel Zev’s eyes bore into me, but ignore him. Sol tips his head to the side, studying me. I don’t give him more than a passing glance as I train my gaze on Lucía.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” I ask her, looking only at her. Speaking only to her. When our eyes meet, I can see things in her expression that I didn’t before. Her wide, rich brown eyes give me a glimpse into her thoughts. She’s excited, but wary. Hopeful, but unsure. Whatever she sees in my expression makes her eyes widen with surprise.

She blinks hard and when she opens her eyes, the surprise is gone, the calm enigmatic expression back in place.

“Yes, I do,” she answers. Her voice is deep—almost smoky—and surprisingly soft. She tips her head to the side. Her hair falls with the motion, and it caresses her bare shoulder leaving a ripple of gooseflesh in its wake. I force my eyes back to her face and my mind back to the conversation. I clear my throat.

“So, then you know that I’ve spent years involved in activism on this issue. Trying to raise awareness, to get people talking and thinking and to get lawmakers to take action. Your book has done, in a matter of months, what I’ve spent a decade trying to achieve.” She flushes and I can’t tell if it’s in pride or embarrassment. But it lends her an air of innocence that’s unexpected and charming.

“It shouldn’t surprise you that I am chasing the option rights for this book so stridently. I want to take this story and put it in front of an even wider audience than you’ve reached already.”

Her book, Throw Away the Key is told from the point of view of a young girl, named Azalia. She belongs to a class of people who have entered this country illegally as minors, typically with parents and not of their own volition. They earned the moniker of DREAMERs from an acronym for a piece of legislation that’s currently rotting in committee in the United States Congress. The Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors (DREAM) Act would give the millions

of people who meet the criteria, a path to permanent and legal residency status in this country.

In reading the book, the reader gets to walk in Azalia’s shoes as she navigates life with this cloud of being undocumented over her head. The book is a work of fiction; yet her characters’ struggles are real. I’ve heard real stories like the ones she tells. I’ve seen them with my own two eyes. I’ve lived them.

She regards me, her darks eyes catch the light and are lit with so many dimensions of brown color, they glitter. I return her regard and raise my eyebrows, prompting her to respond. She shifts to look at Sol and then back to me. Her eyes are still calm, but I can see her throat working before she speaks.

“I appreciate your passion, Mr. Carras, but I’m just not sure . . .”

When her voice trails off, I take the opportunity to cut to the chase. “Ms. Vega, let’s not waste each other’s time. Tell me what it would take for you to say yes,” I say to her, making sure that my intent shows on my face.

I find myself, for the first time in my professional life, completely uninterested in the idea of driving a hard bargain. I want this so badly, that I know I’m going to give her whatever she asks for. So, I cut to the chase.

She folds her arms across her chest, her chin juts forward slightly. “Tell me what you loved about the story. Which specific scene really struck you?”

It’s my turn to blink. I’m taken aback that she’s testing me. Clearly, she doesn’t believe I’ve read it.

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