Pierre was… a hard man to read.
Which was kinda baffling, considering that in my experience, “hard to read” and “man” weren’t things that really… went together.
Maybe confusing was a better way to phrase it.
Yeah.
That was more like it.
Good thing it wasn’t up to me to figure his ass out.
I just had to help him bring this show to fruition.
“If I show this to you… it’s just between us, right?” he asked, finally lifting the top on the custom-painted laptop he’d kept in arms reach since walking into this office.
We’d spent the last couple hours working through some of the checklists I’d created – mostly him naming the people he wanted in certain key roles on the production team, thinking through potential settings that WAWG may not already have a set built out for, and coming up with a ballpark for the budget. All of that was really supposed to come after the script was done though, for the series at large.
I smiled at him, trying to ease the very clear anxiety he had about the whole thing, which I still didn’t understand – not when he had the blessing of an incredible talent like Nick Davison already. “Yes. Legally, as a matter of fact,” I assured him. “My contract includes certain non-disclosures, so you’ll never have to worry about my divulging any of your personal or professional information to press, or competitors, or anyone else. And even if it wasn’t in the contract, I have a personal policy against telling other people’s business. Barring the omission of some violent crime, anything you divulge is safe with me.”
“That’s a lot of words to say yes.”
He was seated at the desk now – the desk, chair, and computer I’d chosen yesterday and had delivered hella early, before he arrived – and looked… laughably out of place, honestly. If I had to guess, his preferred workspace would end up being the lounge area – I’d curated that space, too.
When we met, he’d been completely dressed down, and looked good. For the lunch disaster, he’d been in a designer suit, probably to please the fashionable Mrs. Perry-Foster… and he looked good. Now, he was casual – nice tee shirt, nice jeans, fresh sneakers… and he looked good.
Just not like he should be behind a desk.
Which was probably the source of some of the angst and attitude he was giving me.
From my place on the other side of the desk, I crossed my legs, giving him a shrug. “I like to cover all bases, so yes – I can be wordy sometimes. I’ll be more concise once we’ve settled into a rhythm with each other.”
He reclined back in his chair, head propped against his hand, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, staring.
So I stared right back.
And then, once that got old, I shook my head, sitting forward to tell him, “As much as I’m enjoying the staring contest, I think there are better ways to utilize our time. You implied you were about to show me something…”
“Me? I did? I said that?” he asked, pressing a hand to his chest as I laughed.
“Yeah, you. You did,” I confirmed, pointing at the laptop. “Stop playing and come on with it. The more you tell me, the more I can help.”
Pierre sighed, and closed his eyes, giving me an opportunity for even more inappropriate studying. He was inked, beautifully, just on one side, from his wrist to the side of his neck. The sleeve was a mixture of film reels and clapperboards, palm trees and spotlights. Notably, a rendering of the Hollywood hills and the infamous sign, and – probably most intriguing – two marquees, inscribed with names.
His father, and grandfather.
I could see the edges of another one, but that one was hidden by his sleeve.
The night we met, I’d been too otherwise occupied to give any attention to the details of Pierre – or maybe I just hadn’t cared to.
It hadn’t mattered.
“So,” he spoke suddenly, his eyes popping open. The corners of his full lips curved at the realization that I’d been staring. “Between navigating the stresses of a demanding, alcoholic father, the unrealized dreams of his late mother, and his own undiscovered ambitions, Jason Parks has to decide what kind of man he wants to be. Without losing himself in the illusory glamour of Vegas nightlife. One Day Sober is… an exploration of one man’s toxic relationship with the looming expectations of his family’s legacy.”
I waited to be sure he was done speaking before I nodded, letting my lips spread into a grin. “If I read that in a press release, I’d be dying to binge watch, and tweet about every frame,” I told him. “But I made it clear already in the restaurant that I thought it sounded great.”
Pierre shrugged. “Anybody can come up with a logline that gets people to hit play. Sounding good and it actually being good… those are different things.”
“Well yeah, but… you have me on your side, right? And I don’t miss,” I declared, making him chuckle. “We will get whoever needs to be on board with this project, and it will be completely successful, and it will launch you into the fucking stratosphere… right up there with the legends like your father, and your grandfather.”
From the way the smile on his face dropped… maybe I’d said the wrong thing?
I mean… he had to know I would look him up – had to know what I’d find when I did. And really, I hadn’t found much about Pierre himself since he had a reputation for reclusive behavior – probably why Nubia had made that moody artist comment about him. His little sister, Elodie, was much more visible, much more comfortable with the Hollywood royalty spotlight. Their father had been responsible for some major Black hit films, and before that, their grandfather.
Him stepping into a role as showrunner was practically preordained – he had a whole ass legacy.
But… maybe that was exactly the problem.
“So is the description all I get or are you going to let me read it?” I asked, trying to pivot the conversation back to the vibe we’d had a moment ago, where he felt comfortable giving me… anything.
To answer, he pushed the laptop in my direction, which made me hike a brow.
“You… want me to read it right now? Like in front of you?”
His eyes went wide, like he hadn’t realized what he was implying by pushing the computer at me. “I’d rather eat that sofa over there than sit here and watch you read my shit,” he laughed. “I… I’ll send it to you. What I have so far, that is.”
“So far? Meaning… unfinished?”
He nodded.
“Okay, that’s not the biggest deal I guess. How many episodes are you thinking? Would this be an ongoing series, with a bunch of seasons, or are you aiming for something more along the lines of a limited series?”
His eyes closed again, both hands on his head this time, and he didn’t bother opening them to answer. “I like completion. And certainty. So… limited series. Ten episodes. That gives me seven more to land the plane,” he rationalized, opening his eyes now to meet my gaze. “I really fuck with the idea of… just telling a tight story, fleshing it all out, and being done. Getting it right and not fucking it up after trying to draw it out.”
“Very wise of you,” I told him, nodding my agreement. “And I appreciate the decisiveness as well. But… it sounds to me like you’ve got some writing to do, so we can call it a day here, if you’d like. I know I’ve thrown a lot at you at once, so I understand if you need some time to process.”
“Oh… I kinda thought you’d be around all day,” he spoke up, standing at the same time I did.
I shrugged. “I could be, if you needed me here for something. Or we could break now and come back together later in the afternoon to iron some things out – I have a to-do list based on some of the things we’ve done already. I can tackle some of those and give you an update. And,” I added, “Hopefully this isn’t adding too much to think about, but don’t forget, my services aren’t limited to just the necessary work for the show. As I understand it, your home here in Vegas isn’t – or wasn’t – full time. So if you need help getting that in order, hiring staff, figuring out your favorite grocery store in the area… all that. It’s in my purview.”
“So… if you’re spending all your time getting my shit together for me, when do you have time for your own?” he asked, catching me off guard.
“Um… I have hours,” I explained. “Usually in a twelve-hour shift – five in the morning to five in the afternoon. But, if there’s some sort of urgent request, or last-minute thing, I do encourage my clients to feel comfortable reaching out, with the understanding that I may or may not be available. Like anyone else though, I arrange my personal life around my career.”
He stared for a moment, then finally nodded. “I see. Well… I think I’m going to go with that first option you laid out – let’s call it done for today, so I can process all this.”
Returning his nod, I moved to the cabinet to grab my bag. “Of course. We can meet at the same time tomo—”
“Later. Please,” he said, making me laugh.
“Okay. Later. Mid-morning?”
He frowned. “What is that?”
“Ten.”
“Let’s say lunch. At my house… if that’s okay?”
“We can work wherever you’re most comfortable,” I assured, backing toward the door. “I’ll get the details from you.”
Like you don’t already have the address.
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“And… you’ll send me the scripts, right?”
He blew out a sigh, pushing his hands in his pockets. “I… yes. I guess I have to, huh?”
“Yes, you do,” I agreed, with my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow, at noon sharp.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgement, and I started to head out, only pausing when he spoke again.
“Ay, Logan!”
“Yes?” I asked, peeking my head back in the door.
“I see the value, shorty.”
Unbidden, a huge grin spread over my face, and I nodded.
“Told you.”