Page 34 of The Dirty Version

The Sweetwater Film Festival’s fete of Ram Braverman’s Big Gun took place at an historic bougainvillea-covered Spanish-revival castillo in Coral Gables, within a mojito-muddling wrist-flick of the surging, star-swept Florida sea.

From the backseat of the car-and-driver gifted along with Astrid Dalton’s VIP pass, Tash soaked in the winding drive lined by uplit frangipani.

She hoped the venue’s romance would soothe her podcast bruises.

She hoped Caleb had convinced the studio to revise its notes on Episode Nine.

She hoped he’d be waiting for her by the party’s entrance; as he’d predicted, two days apart had been a long time.

And he appeared like a hipster Gatsby, in white-blazered shoulders and navy trousers, a pocket square in the same blue highlighting the glint in his tortoiseshell-framed eyes.

Mid-century Cuban horns crooned as Caleb helped Tash from the car, taking a moment to appreciate her gauzy gown and stilettos.

The sky smudged above them like fine cigar smoke.

They passed under ornamental balconies that waited for the woo of sweet nothings from below.

Beyond a fountained inner courtyard, a celebrity step-and-repeat marked the grand entrance to a ballroom, flanked by billboard-size glassed posters from Big Gun and paparazzi-style camera crews softballing inane questions at the party’s guest list.

Surprisingly, Caleb steered Tash in a different direction.

“Before we have to be professional.” He led her to the twinkling shelter of a topiary-fenced side patio.

A jazz band played somewhere not far off, trombone and double bass, and Caleb stepped into the hidden plaza’s painted-tile center, sweeping Tash into the high school samba he once mentioned. His palm went to her lower back. He tucked her hand against his heart.

They swayed as tres guitar strummed, and fluted terra-cotta water features burbled, and sculpted hedges threw shadows on their private candlelight.

“I hated the way I left your place the other night,” Caleb whispered against the floating pluck of strings. “I wanted to remind you that you like me when we’re not wrangling about your adaptation.”

In her heels, Tash’s temple touched his cheek. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.” His smile grazed her skin. “And I like you, even when you’re riled up.”

Her unease began to settle. She pulled back slightly to examine him. “Why?”

He held her in place, shrugging white-blazered self-possession. “I don’t know, I think it’s kind of hot. You bodily inhabit your convictions.” He raised rakish eyebrows. “It speaks to me.”

Guitar chords thrummed between them. “Oh.” Tash said it slyly, like discovering a scandal. “You like my female monster.”

Caleb owned the charge. “Maybe. Since I know what’s behind those fangs.”

Tash hid his sweetness away, to savor later; other men had been scared off. She skirted her brimming feelings. “You like the baring.” Another favorite from their Episode Five work: “The will-they-or-won’t-they tension.”

Caleb’s laugh came on a whisper. “Tash. I’m pretty sure they will.”

“No, I get it—a childhood in a burlesque bar. You imprinted on ‘The Tease.’”

“Are you done yet?”

She smiled up at him. “That’s the female lens, though. For real, what I was going for in the book—all the sexy stuff that isn’t explicit. The lead-up.” She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m making fun of you, but you have good taste. ‘Before’ is the best part.”

“I mildly disagree.” He took a moment. “What about the ‘after’?”

Tash thought, trying to lighten a heavy answer: “Historically? That part hasn’t gone that great for me.”

Caleb stopped swaying. “Come out to California.” Direct, as ever. “Before your semester starts. I’ll find you inauthentic chai, and we’ll walk Iggy to the farmers’ market from my boho-modern home in Silver Lake. We won’t write a single line of blocking.”

A picture formed, Tash’s longing for it luminous and right-there.

“Would I get to meet your father? Maybe see that tool belt Ilsa went on about?” She said it only to prevent herself from grabbing her phone and booking a ticket immediately, from dragging him to a taxi and heading for the plane.

“Would you control yourself around him?” Caleb tugged her closer, an assurance they’d be late to any meet-the-parent lunch.

Fragility dazzled in Tash’s rib cage. “I promise nothing.”

He cut through her shield of banter. “Just say yes, Tash.” Sincere and solid. “I have my own opinions about ‘after.’”

His candor went to her head. It burst into her locked room of secret wishes, splinters flying everywhere. Other decisions rushed in to clamor—whether she would teach in the fall, whether she should try to write another novel, whether she could manage the unfinished business of The Colony .

The urge to silence all the questioning was overwhelming. “Okay. Yes.”

The patio sighed around them, then, a moonlight shift of paradigm. Havana claves knocked a new rosewood rhythm. Tash rushed not a single note of song.

Eventually, they moved toward the ballroom, where a red-carpet bottleneck forced them to stop and admire the corridor of posters from Big Gun .

Caleb kept his face blithely neutral, eyes on the billboard-size cannons. “How long do we need to stay here to get credit? Twenty minutes?”

Tash steadied her gaze on the same still from Braverman’s film warfare. “Seriously? You’re the one who wanted to come.”

Caleb inched them closer to the ballroom’s grand doors.

“True. But we’ve danced, and you said yes to California.

” He waited politely as an attendant checked their names off a list. “I’ve seen your dress.

Mission accomplished. Let’s go get naked and order pizza.

You can tell me about yesterday on the way. ”

Tash bypassed that last bit—she refused to let the memory of Leo ruin her just-recovered high. Instead, she focused on California and naked . “Go work the room, then. You have fifteen minutes. Find me when you’re ready.”

Inside, Tash noted Caleb’s cohort was far more polished than the ragtag Biscayne Coastal adjuncts she’d introduced him to at Manta Ray’s.

Baritone amor sounded from the bandstand instead of a jukebox; the high-ceilinged ballroom was heady with jacaranda instead of cheap tequila and keg sweat.

Bronzed, glorious mile-tall waifs and Miami stallions rubbed elbows with Braverman aficionados.

Through a moving maze of passed hors d’oeuvres, Tash spotted the guest of honor—just as the guest of honor spotted Tash.

From across the room, Ram raised a cordial pinky ring, acknowledging Tash’s presence with a civil nod.

She dipped her head in return, grateful not to have to fake enthusiasm for a more thorough greeting.

Grateful not to have his mirror held up directly to her face.

In the month since the piano bar, she’d gone from guarding her characters militantly to letting them strip naked on the sand, from dodging production company emails to sleeping with their sex designer.

From uptight to the dirty version—exactly as Braverman had asked.

It tied Tash in a knot: The work she’d done with Caleb felt elevated, and she knew they needed the studio to be pleased, but Braverman’s approval also gave Tash pause and made her doubt her instincts.

A brunette at Ram’s side took his arm for a question, her lowlighted curiosity having followed his gaze to Tash.

After he answered, the woman began to glide in Tash’s direction.

She wore an expensively embellished cutaway shift dress and terrific peep-toe pumps.

She held a double vodka rocks with a lime twist.

Tash knew this because the woman ordered another from a passing waiter, at the same time she stuck a toned arm out.

“I stopped adding tonic—carbonation is terrible for the gut. Regina Bond.” She shook Tash’s hand adroitly.

Tash smiled, noting neither the waiter nor this stranger had asked if Tash would also like a drink. “Tash Grover.”

The brunette sipped her vodka. “I know.” She tilted her head, waiting for Tash to catch on: “I head the Braverman streaming vertical. I’m loving your rewrites, by the way—you and Caleb have whipped up some great stuff.”

Tash could not make heads or tails of this; she couldn’t place her, and the woman’s expression was a shiny, smiling rock. “Caleb is a pleasure to work with.” He’d said the same thing about Tash in his comments to the Story Edit team.

Regina Bond stepped closer, her brow appearing to want to lift.

“Are you kidding? Caleb Rafferty is a fucking dish. I’d gladly write a book for him to translate into movement.

” She leered, as if she and Tash were girlfriends giggling in the corner, as if she’d calculated that an author of feminist fiction might find delight in a reverse locker room.

But Tash had only awkwardly frozen, her feelings about Caleb not lecherous and much too delicate to share.

Regina carried on heedlessly, going for managerial next: “No, really. Ram and I are lucky to have Caleb on the project. He takes four wildly different opinions and gets us all to agree. He’s a lion-tamer.”

Tash smiled wanly, close-lipped. She wondered if this woman meant to imply that Tash was a tamed lion. She wondered if she was taunting her—or just making random, vodka-tinged small talk.

“These days, agreement is key on a project like The Colony . Our production has to be seamless—budget is everything right now. That’s why what you two are doing is so important.

” Regina leaned in conspiratorially. “So, tell me. How’s that new ending coming?

Caleb’s playing hard-to-get about it, but I’m dying to know. ”

New ending.

It took a moment for Regina’s meaning to sink in; but when it did, Tash’s suspicions clicked perfectly into place.