he fought to catch his breath. Dwight slapped him heartily on his back.
“Nice! That was one of your best times,” he said, jotting notes into a small notebook he’d pulled from his back pocket.
Guy nodded, inhaling deeply. He stood upright, his hands moving to the line of his hips. “Thanks, but it feels like you have me training for a marathon and not a movie.”
“Same difference,” Dwight answered with a shrug of his shoulders.
Guy chuckled. “I hear you,” he said as the two moved in the direction of the locker room.
“So, what time is your audition?” Dwight asked, eyeing the watch on his wrist.
“Soon. I have just enough time to shower and change.”
“This one’s big, huh?”
“Big enough,” Guy said as he unlocked the metal enclosure that housed his personal possessions. “I’m auditioning for Dahlia Morrow,” he pronounced, lifting his gym bag from inside the locker.
“Sweet!”
“Yes, I hear she is,” Guy said, a smirk pulling at his full lips.
Dwight laughed. “And I presume the part is, as well?”
Guy laughed with him. “It’s a great role, actually. I loved the script,” he said. “I’m thinking it’s destiny, too, because I was just telling my family that I wanted to meet her. Apparently, she and my sister-in-law are old friends. So, I’m thinking it’s fate in action that I mention her name and now I’m auditioning for her.”
“I’m sure it is,” Dwight agreed. He extended a closed hand in Guy’s direction, and the two men bumped fists. “I’ve got to run. Good luck with your audition,” he said. With a slight wink of his eye, he added, “And the woman. I will see you tomorrow, same time.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Guy responded as he headed in the direction of the showers. “But go easy on a brother next time.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen. I have a reputation to maintain, too, you know!”
Guy waved goodbye, chuckling heartily as he watched his friend exit the gym.
Stripping out of his sports clothes, Guy stepped into a warm shower, allowing the spray of water to cascade over his face and down his broad chest. As he lathered his deep caramel–complexioned skin with a spice-scented body wash, the thick suds painted his naked form with a luxurious froth. His muscles had finally begun to relax beneath the rise of the warm mist, and he savored the sensations, stretching the tightness out of each sinew.
He heaved a deep sigh. He had only been half kidding when he’d said that fate was directing his footsteps. His agent’s early morning call had come as a complete surprise. Both of them had been stunned that the casting agent for Dahlia Morrow’s next film had requested he meet with the lady herself without asking him for a screen test.
Despite his own A-list status in the industry and a long list of blockbuster movies under his belt, he was still occasionally made to jump through hoops for leading men roles in movies that he didn’t actively pursue or have a hand in producing. And despite the many leading men roles out there, the selection for black males was still a bit slim. But filmmakers like Dahlia Morrow were attempting to change the dynamics, and some sort of cosmic fate was bringing the two of them together.
Stepping out of the shower, he reached for an oversize white towel, swiping at the dampness against his skin. Thirty minutes later he was dressed and headed out to meet providence, hopeful that Dahlia Morrow, and kismet, were about to grace him with favor.
* * *
Although it had already been a very long day, Dahlia couldn’t help feeling like the rest of it was going to be well worth her efforts. But as she disconnected her cell phone, turning the ringer to vibrate, she couldn’t hide the frustration that painted her expression. Finding funding for her movie was proving to be the bane of her existence; the studios had been a huge disappointment to her. Despite its accolades and having grossed over fifty million dollars in box office receipts, Victory’s Daughter was still considered “underperforming” by industry standards, and that fact had potential investors for her next film all too ready to tell her no.
But the box office wasn’t a true measure of the film’s worth. Nor did it speak to the film as art or the merit of her next venture. So telling Dahlia no only served to make her want to prove them all wrong, moving her to consider investing her own money into the project. A prospect her attorneys, financial advisers and friends were adamantly against.
Doing what she loved shouldn’t be so hard, she mused. But Hollywood was ruled by a patriarchy with black women existing only along the sidelines of the industry. Although perceived as a liberal, diverse space that welcomed creativity and difference, the film industry was still overwhelmingly white and male—a good ol’ boys club in full control. It made it difficult at best for Dahlia to do what she loved.
Despite women making films for more than one hundred years, Kathryn Bigelow had been the first woman to win an Academy Award for directing, taking home the prize. Dahlia was the first woman of color to claim the honor and, at the age of twenty-eight, also the youngest filmmaker, male or female, to be honored. But women filmmakers of any race or age had yet to experience the same levels of success as their male counterparts, and Dahlia was intent on changing that. Wanting more than anything to just tell good stories, she had to be diligent and persistent and, like every black woman who was making films, she had to be resilient.
Dahlia took a sip of her bottled springwater, tapping heavily against the tabletop with the pen that rested between her fingers. She glanced down at the diamond-encrusted watch that adorned her slim wrist. She’d arrived early for her casting, and she still had a few minutes before the actor she was meeting was due to arrive.
The casting agency had scheduled this appointment. If she’d been able, Dahlia would have canceled without giving it a second thought. But she needed to stay on schedule, and staying on schedule meant finding a male lead and locking him into contract as quickly as possible. So canceling hadn’t been a real option for her.
Dahlia looked down at the IMDB résumé the casting agency had faxed over to her. She was meeting one of Hollywood’s golden boys, the infamous Guy Boudreaux. His professional résumé was a plethora of some very big box office successes; his recent portrayal of the new James Bond authenticated a career that would surely go down in the history books. Having spent the past evening watching two of his independent films, Dahlia could not deny the man’s talent. His ability to capture the essence of his characters and breathe life into them surpassed his youthful twenty-eight years and made him exactly what Dahlia was looking for in her male lead.
A commotion at the restaurant’s entrance drew her attention. She looked up to see Guy Boudreaux as he was accosted by an eager female fan. He stopped to sign an autograph, and there was no missing his welcoming demeanor as he posed for a picture with a family of five, chatting with the group as if they were old friends.
Dahlia’s eyes widened with interest. Guy Boudreaux was imposing in stature, standing just over six feet tall. Dressed in a black silk suit and white dress shirt opened at the collar, he was quite the male specimen. His chest was broad, flanked by wide shoulders. His legs were long, and the slacks he wore nicely complemented the hard, full curves of a very high backside. His complexion was dark caramel with the faintest undertone of buttercream, warm and delectable as it stretched taut over clearly
