The Final Frame Read online

  THE FINAL FRAME

  HARMONY REED

  Copyright © 2023 by Sterling & Stone

  All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  A Quick Favor…

  About the Author

  Also By Harmony Reed

  Chapter One

  BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A CAR HE’S JUST STOLEN

  She wasn’t listening.

  She never listened.

  Cameron tried again anyway.

  “Life itself is meaningless. But art creates meaning by bringing events into focus. Art is the closest we can come to perfection.”

  “Save it for your Oscar speech,” Emily teased as she lowered her window for the security guard and handed over their IDs. She was his agent; telling Cameron to shut up was part of her job.

  He usually gave zero fucks about producer meetings, and wished he could tell his nerves to shut the hell up. They went his way or they didn’t, and they usually did, whether he wanted them to or not.

  But Cameron had been waiting years for this specific meeting.

  “Just the two of you?” asked the guard, peeking past Emily.

  She nodded. “Cameron Parrish and Emily Egerton, here to see Marshall Jeffries.”

  The guard swiped a couple of times on her tablet, then nodded and raised the boom. After maneuvering them into the lot’s second-to-last available spot, she turned to Cameron. “You’re sure you want to take the risk?”

  “Are you going to keep asking me that?” It irritated him more than he wanted it to. Every time she said it, he heard I don’t think you can pull this off. “Isn’t every movie a really big risk?”

  He opened the car door and got out, hoping that would kill the conversation.

  It didn’t. “I just want to protect what we’ve built.”

  What I’ve built, Cameron wanted to say. But that wasn’t exactly fair. He never would’ve gotten his first directing gig if she hadn’t fought so hard for him.

  So he stayed silent until they stepped off the elevator and entered the reception area of Jeffries’ office suite — hallowed ground for someone like Cameron.

  A bright-eyed twenty-something with bangs and French tips greeted them. “Emily and Cameron, right? Can I get you a bottle of water?”

  “No thanks.” Cameron shook his head with a polite smile.

  “Two, please,” Emily said.

  The assistant stepped through a door behind her desk, then Emily turned to Cameron. “Always take the water. It gives you something to do with your hands.”

  “Why are you talking to me like I’ve never pitched before?”

  “Because you’ve never pitched to someone like Jeffries.”

  Before Cameron could ask what that was supposed to mean, the producer’s assistant returned with water, then ushered them down a short, Zen-themed hallway to Jeffries’ office, whispering, “I love your work,” to Cameron before she opened the door for them. “Especially Namaste.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, with a smile he wished could be wider.

  Even if they liked his movies, no one loved a Cameron Parrish flick. Thin plots cobbled together by a studio exec and his B-team of writers. Cheap sets. Spectacular action sequences audiences loved because Cameron hired excellent stuntmen and pushed them to try things they’d never done. Viewers admired him and studios hated him for refusing to lean on AI-generated shots like everyone else. He didn’t use AI-enhancement at all. Every second of every stunt in a Cameron Parrish film was real. These days that made him an artisan, even while he handcrafted schlock.

  His movies weren’t meant to be blockbusters; they were made to open big, or at least big enough, then make enough on streaming rights to keep the investors happy. Critics, too. They loved to savage his work, no matter how beautifully shot it might be. If they knew how much rewriting he did to turn what the studio gave him into a passable story, they’d … who was Cameron kidding? They’d still compete for the honor of stabbing him in the back with the wittiest verbal blade they could possibly whet.

  He longed to make something for the ages. Something fathers and sons would share, not just on opening weekend or when the movie made its way to streaming, but more than once, and maybe even as tradition.

  “Emily, so good to see you,” Jeffries said as Cameron followed her into the similarly Zen-themed office, a room of pale beiges and soft creams accented with pale wood furniture. A wall fountain at the far end and sumi-e paintings both looked like antiques. A tree in the corner looked shockingly real, even though it couldn’t have been, making the entire room appear to blush in its cherry blossom hue.

  All it needed was a Japanese businessman lounging on the couch with his mistress, and a couple of tattooed Yakuza about to burst in and threaten to reveal his terrible secret.

  A secret that Cameron didn’t have to figure out, because after this meeting, he would never have to make another cheesy action flick again.

  Jeffries gave him the warmest handshake he’d ever had on a cold meeting like this one, then said, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”

  He had? “The feeling is mutual. It’s an honor.”

  “I loved Namaste. Big fan.”

  Cameron believed Jeffries could be a fan, but not that he actually was. Not based on the movies he’d made so far. “That’s very kind.”

  “I’m serious. I admire your eye for the perfect shot, same as everyone else, but your films have something to them. Buried too deep beneath the glossy action for critics to notice. But it’s always there, especially with Namaste.”

  “Thank you.” He should say something else, but what? Cameron had plenty of quips ready for the critics, but it had been years since someone had commented on anything other than the flashy aesthetic that made the films his. “I’d really like to bring that something to the surface.”

  A flash of movement in the corner of his eye — Emily crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. Was that a signal?

  Had he said the wrong thing?

  He unscrewed his bottle, took a long sip of water, then said, “You’re an uber-producer. You love making movies, but you love making money even more. I have a project I think is perfect for you, even though Emily disagrees.”

  Emily flicked something off of her slacks, the only sign she might be annoyed that he’d just thrown her under the bus. “I don’t disa—”

  “She thinks I should stick with the N
amaste franchise.” Hopefully she’d forgive him later, but Cameron’s gut told him that total honesty was the way to this man’s heart and mind. “I feel like the timing is right for me to make a change, and if you agree that the project is worthwhile, Fire Marshall Films is the ideal home.”

  “Why do you think Cameron should stick with the franchise?” Jeffries asked Emily, even though they all knew the answer was money.

  “Timing,” she replied with no hesitation. “He spent the first five years of his career making streamers so he could build up enough of a reputation to land a decent budget, and the ten after that establishing his brand.”

  “Which is why the timing is perfect,” Cameron cut in.

  “Which is why the timing feels dangerous to me. You’re on top right now. You have a style that others are copying—”

  “Which means it’s time to try something different.”

  “—and people are waiting for the next Namaste. It makes more sense to finish that trilogy. Make Bitter Nirvana before you start something new.”

  “Unless I change my aesthetic entirely, the third Namaste will look derivative. Like I’m copying all the people who’ve started copying me.”

  Cameron glanced at Jeffries. He got it, didn’t he?

  No way to tell from the man’s amused expression.

  Shit, was this what Emily had meant about never having pitched to someone like him before? Had Cameron already blown it?

  Or had Emily blown it for him, knowing that without this specific producer’s support, he’d have no other choice than to make more movies like Namaste?

  He couldn’t get enough air. Something was crushing his chest. It would kill him to lose this chance, but this meeting was already off the rails. The right damage control now might mean he could return alone and try again.

  Cameron turned to Jeffries, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, we’re wasting your time.”

  “Not at all.” Jeffries looked like he was loving every minute. “I agree with Emily.”

  She set this up. Convinced Jeffries to help her twist my arm.

  He should have gone around her. Found an agent who believed in his vision.

  But who else would back him on making anything other than the action flicks that made him famous?

  “It seems ludicrous for you to do anything other than Bitter Nirvana right now. Everyone knows it’s going to get made, and you need to be behind the camera. Or they’ll replace you with Anderson Wyatt.”

  “Fuck that guy.” Cameron couldn’t help it.

  “It’s the sincerest form of flattery,” Jeffries said.

  “Fuck that guy,” he repeated. “Did you see Nunchucks? He rips off everything about my style, and he rips off my stories. He’s always in my rearview, behind the wheel of a car he’s just stolen.”

  “Yet you seem perfectly willing to let him take your franchise away from you.”

  Fuck him that they were having this conversation with Jeffries, instead of the conversation he’d wanted to have. And fuck Emily for putting him in this position.

  “It’s not my franchise,” Cameron replied. “Those movies make me a hack.”

  “Absolutely not,” Jeffries said. “Anderson Wyatt is a hack. A good one. I’m not gonna lie and tell you I don’t like the guy. He knows who he is and what he makes. He’s happy with it. Thinks he has the best job on Earth.”

  “He’s smug,” Cameron said. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Once or twice.” Four times. Wyatt had been completely unrepentant about the fact that he’d aped his every move. Acted like Cameron was his fucking mentor.

  He’d given Wyatt a few choice pieces of advice that the man couldn’t, anatomically speaking, actually take.

  “Sincerest form of flattery,” Jeffries repeated. Then, “Tell me about The Fountain of Truth.”

  Cameron might have thought something was wrong if it wasn’t so obviously right. He was hot and cold in unison. Clammy skin and a bitter taste in his cotton mouth. His tongue felt wooden. But that was just fear of ruining the pitch.

  “For years I’ve been wanting to tap into our universal sense of—”

  “Not why you want to make it, Cameron. What kind of story will people pay to see?”

  Had Emily smirked, or had he imagined it?

  Cameron wasn’t about to let her skepticism ruin his chance to make a film that would shame the critics who’d been panning him for years.

  “Of course.” How could he be sweating when his hands were so cold they were practically numb? “It’s Hangover meets Life of Pi. A group of college friends reunite for a camping trip in the Dominican Republic twenty years later, and they drink from an ancient fountain whose waters force them all to tell the truth. We learn how each of them altered the course of the others’ lives, and for the worse. All while they’re being chased through the jungle by drug runners.”

  “So … it’s about secrets and lies?” Jeffries asked.

  “Not exactly, but yes,” Cameron laughed, warming up but still working to regain his composure. He’d practiced this pitch so many times, but still his heart raced, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, as if reluctant to shape the words.

  “It’s more about the stories we tell ourselves. I don’t just mean the obvious ones, about how we look, or how we think others might see us. But the deeper stories, the ones we tell ourselves to excuse our behavior. No one ever wants to be the bad guy in his own story, right? No one ever thinks of themselves as the villain.”

  “Some people do,” Jeffries disagreed.

  “Fair enough.” Cameron nodded. “But most people don’t. If they’re the good guys in their stories, they can get away with some pretty awful things, right? As long as they can justify what they’ve done, not to the world but to themselves. To disavow the consequences.”

  Cameron paused to make sure Jeffries was paying attention. He absolutely was.

  “If we excuse our actions, maybe we can escape the shadows of our worst decisions. We’ve seen this type of story done on a large scale before. Films that humanize history’s villains. Mongol from two-thousand-whatever was great. Last year’s Adolf probably took it too far.”

  “That should never have been made,” Emily cut in, shaking her head.

  “Never again,” Jeffries added.

  “We’ve also seen this movie done on a small scale. Indie dramas love their antihero. But Fountain is neither of those things. It’s the kind of film that’s never been made.”

  “You’re thinking of shooting on film?” Jeffries asked.

  “It’s an expression,” Emily answered.

  “Fountain has the balls of an indie and the spectacle of a tentpole. It’s a story that’s about story itself.”

  “Tentpole?” Jeffries repeated.

  “It’s the kind of movie the Oscars will love.”

  “Maybe,” Jeffries shrugged, “but you can’t bankroll a film on that.”

  “Fair. But it’s also the kind of movie that can become a classic.”

  “You can’t predict that. There’s no cell on the spreadsheet for classic.”

  Emily had told Cameron almost the exact same thing. But he’d expected the great Marshall Jeffries to get his vision immediately. If Jeffries couldn’t see its brilliance, would anyone?

  Cameron ignored the stabbing pain in his temples and tried again.

  “The stories we tell ourselves define our existence. They’re how we understand the relationship between who we are and who we could become. Descartes said I think, therefore I am, but I don’t think you are until you’ve told your first story.”

  Jeffries finally stopped nodding. “So just to be clear, you want a shit ton of money to make an art film.”

  “No, not exactly.” Cameron felt like he was going to vomit. “A tentpole film with the depth of an art f—”

  “Let me stop you there,” Jeffries interrupted. “You’ve built a name for yourself. Why throw that all away on such a massive gambl
e?”

  Great, Jeffries too. Cameron hated explaining this part most of all. It felt like begging.

  “Everyone is assuming this will damage my career. That I’ll be a flop. But I believe in this project. I believe it will show everyone my true value as a director.”

  “Your name might be a liability on a film like Fountain. People open their wallets to see your single-take action scenes, and they’ll be expecting more of the same. Where is the room in your passion project for the thing that makes you bankable?”

  “It’ll still have single-take shots, and everything else audiences love, and that I do best. Only the context will change.”

  “No one’s asking for it to change,” Jeffries said.

  “That’s what I keep telling him,” Emily added unnecessarily.

  “We’ll have to sell audiences on it. I get that. But it’s not like no one has ever made a transition from action to high-budget art. Nolan made Inception after—”

  “You’re not Nolan.” Jeffries somehow made the comment sound almost kind, or at least, not like an insult.

  “Maybe I could be.”

  “Maybe.” Another shrug. “But it seems to me like wrapping your trilogy would be the best next move.”

  “It’s not my trilogy.” Why couldn’t anyone seem to get that?

  Jeffries grunted and smiled. “You said you’ve been thinking about this for years. Why now?”

  “And speak clearly,” Emily said. “I’m hoping I’ll get it this time.”

  “I’ve been trying to ignore this idea and focus on my career. But I’ve been dreaming for years.” Cameron tried to swallow, but his tongue was so dry, it stuck to the roof of his mouth. “When it was time to sign on for Bitter Nirvana, I just couldn’t do it.”