Cover Reveal: Reel by Kennedy Ryan | Hollywood Renaissance Book 1
REEL BY KENNEDY RYAN
Reel, Kennedy Ryan’s new breathtaking standalone
romance set in the glamorous world of film and theater, is coming June 8th, and
we have the beautiful cover and your first look!
Award-Winning Wall Street Journal Bestselling author Kennedy Ryan launches a brand new series with a Hollywood tale of wild ambition, artistic obsession, and unrelenting love.
One moment in the spotlight.
I never imagined he would watch in the audience that night.
Canon Holt.
Famous film director.
Fascinating. Talented. Fine.
Before I could catch my breath, everything
changed.
I went from backstage Broadway to center stage
Hollywood.
From being unknown, to my name, Neevah Saint, on
everyone’s lips.
Canon casts me in a star-studded Harlem
Renaissance biopic, catapulting me into another stratosphere.
But stars shine brightest in the dead of night.
Forbidden attraction, scandal and
circumstances beyond my control
jeopardize my dream.
Could this one shot—the role of a lifetime, the love of a lifetime—cost me everything?
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Keep reading for the very first excerpt from Reel!
When the show
reaches its climax, at the very end, the song pries the final note from my
diaphragm, pulls it from my throat and suspends it—leaves it throbbing in the
air. The theater goes quiet for the space of a breath held by 800 people and
then explodes.
Applause.
The relief is
knee-weakening. I literally have to grab John, the lead actor's arm for
support. He doesn’t miss a beat, pulling me into his side and squeezing.
“Bravo,” he
whispers, a broad, genuine smile spread across his face. The last song made me
cry, and my face, still wet from those tears, splits into a wide, disbelieving
grin.
I did it. I
survived my first Broadway performance.
The lights drop
and we rush backstage, a cacophony of laughter and chatter filling the hidden
passageways. When the curtain call begins, the cast return to the stage in
small waves, the applause building as the principals take their bows.
And then it’s my
turn. On legs still shaky, I leave the safety of the wings, the long skirt of
my costume belling out around me. I take center stage. The applause crescendos,
approval vibrating through my bones and jolting my soul. Someone thrusts
flowers into my arms and the sweet smell wafts around me. Every sense, every
molecule of my being strains, opens, stretches to absorb this small slice of
triumph. I can’t breathe deeply enough. The air comes in shallow sips, and I’m
dizzy. The world spins like a top, a kaleidoscope of colors and light and sound
that threatens to overwhelm me. The whirl of it makes me giddy, and I laugh.
Eyes welling with tears, I laugh.
These are the
moments a lifetime in the making. We toil in the shadows of our dreams. In the
alleys of preparation and hard work where it’s dark and nothing’s promised. For
years, we cling by a thread of hope and imagination, dedicating our lives to a
pursuit with no guarantees.
But tonight, if
only for tonight, it’s all worth it.
I’m still floating
when Takira bursts into the dressing room.
“Neevah!” she
screams, throwing her arms around me and rocking me back and forth. “You did
it. You chewed that performance up and spat it out. You hear me?”
I laugh and return
her squeeze, new tears trailing down my cheeks.
“Thank you.” I
pull back to peer into my friend’s face. “I can’t believe it.”
“Well, believe it.
You served notice.” She snaps her fingers and grins. “Neevah Saint is here.”
“Now to do it
seven more times.” I laugh and start taking pins from the wig, which is as hot
as a herd of sheep on my head.
“Oh, you got it, unless
Elise hears how amazing you were and cuts her vacation short.”
“Not happening.
She was ready for a break, but she’d never missed a show.”
I strip off the
costume and stand in only panties, unselfconscious. Modesty is one of the first
things to go in this business. I’ve undressed hurriedly in a roomful of actors
and dancers in smaller shows where there was a dressing room, so we get real communal real fast.
I tug on skinny
jeans with a tight-fitting orange sweater, and layer it with a brown leather jacket,
scarf, boots. I wipe away the heavy stage makeup. It feels like my skin can
breathe for the first time in hours. I assume there will be some fans at the
stage door, even if it’s just a few. They’ll have to get the real Neevah
because I don’t want anything more than a slick of lip gloss and a bit of
mascara. A brown, orange and green plaid newsboy cap covering the neat cornrows
I wore under my wig is all I’m doing for hair. Slim oversized gold hoops in my
ears finish the look.
“Ready?” I ask
Takira, hefting a slouchy bag on my shoulder.
“Let’s do this.
Hopefully your adoring fans won’t take all night, ’cause your girl is
starving.”
We’re still
laughing, and I’m so preoccupied with my empty stomach, I’m completely
unprepared for the crowd at the stage door. Are they here for John? For some
principal player because surely they’re not all here for the understudy.
“Neevah!” a young
girl, maybe ten or eleven, calls. “Can you sign this?”
She thrusts a pen
and a Splendor playbill toward me.
She glows, her smooth brown cheeks rounded with a wide grin. Her eyes shine
with . . . pride?
“Oh, sure,” I
mumble dazedly, taking the pen and signing my name.
She’s the first in
a long line of girls, all shapes and colors and ages, saying what it meant to
see me onstage. Mothers whispering how impactful it was for their Black and
brown daughters to be in the audience tonight. The impact is on me; what could feel like a weight or
burden or responsibility feels like a warm embrace. Feels like strong arms
encircling me. Supporting me. The first time I saw someone who looked like me
onstage, it planted a seed inside of me. It whispered a dream.
That could be you.
It makes me
emotional to think I might have done that for any of these girls tonight, and I
spend the next twenty minutes scribbling my name on playbills through a film of
tears.
“Neevah!” a deep
male voice calls from the back of the now-thinning crowd.
I squint at the
tall man, frowning until I place him.
“Wright!” I take a
few steps and he meets me halfway, giving me a tight hug. “Oh, my God. You were
here tonight?”
“Was I here?” When
he pulls back, a warm smile creases his handsome face. “You blew it out of the
water. I knew you were good, but damn.”
Laughter spills
out of me and I don’t think this night could get more perfect. I randomly met
Wright Bellamy a few weeks back at a gig when he subbed for the pianist, giving
the audience more than they bargained for with such a famous musician tickling
the ivories that night.
“Thank you.” I
step away and shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, huddling in the
leather jacket against the chill of an October night. “I was nervous as hell.”
“Didn’t show. Your
voice is spectacular. I knew that from the gig we did, but I had no idea you
were that good. Wow. Glad I saw your
post on Instagram or I would’ve missed it.”
I’m stone-still,
shocked that he came tonight specifically to see me perform. “I’m so glad you
made it. You’re still in LA, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m
here for some stuff. Heading back home in a few days.”
Takira walks up,
linking her arm through mine. “Girl, if we don’t get some food,” she whispers.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
I turn back to Wright. “Takira, this is Wright Bellamy. Wright, my friend
Takira.”
“Nice to meet
you,” Takira says. “You got any food on you? I’m about to eat your hat.”
As usual, Takira
never meets a stranger and has us laughing right away.
“We’re actually
headed to Glass House Tavern,” I tell Wright. “Come if you want. It’s a group
of us from the show. Just some of the cast celebrating, but you’re welcome. We
can catch up.”
A small frown
dents between his thick brows and he glances over his shoulder.
“I mean, no
pressure obviously,” I rush to assure him. This is one of the biggest names in
music, and here I go, inviting him to dinner with a group of strangers.
“No, it sounds
cool,” he says, looking back to us. “Lemme check with my boy. Can he come?”
I glance over his
shoulder and spot a tall man turned away from us, his broad shoulders and back
straining a wool blazer, a hoodie pulled up to cover his head and face in the
cold. His hands burrow into the pockets of his blazer and he’s nodding like
he’s talking to himself.
“He’s on the
phone,” Wright explains. “But lemme see if he wants to roll.”
He steps away
toward the man and Takira immediately squeezes my hand and squeals.
“Neeve.” Her eyes
are wide and bright. Mouth dropped open. “That’s Wright Bellamy.”
“I know. He’s cool
as a fan.”
“You know him?
How—”
“We’re in,” Wright
says, stepping back up beside us. “He’s finishing a call, but we’re ready. Lead
the way.”
It’s just a few
blocks, and the three of us chat about the show and what Wright’s been doing in
New York. All the while his friend’s deep voice rumbles a few paces behind. I
don’t want to be rude or nosy and look back, but the rich timbre, his towering
height, his face obscured by the hoodie—I’m intrigued. He hangs back on the
sidewalk, still on his call, when we enter the restaurant.
Our friends
already have a table and a shout goes up, congratulating me on popping my White
Way cherry. My three understudy buddies came. John’s here, too, and one other
principal. A few from the stage crew. Our little troupe has become a family
and, as if eight shows a week isn’t enough time together, we gather and eat
every chance we get.
“You’re not paying
tonight,” John says, holding out the seat beside him. “And drinks are on me.”
“Awwww.” I plop
into the chair and drop my bag to the floor. “You’re so sweet. You don’t have
to do that.”
“You were
fantastic,” John says, baby blue eyes sincere and smiling. “Let’s do it again
tomorrow.”
Takira is already
sitting beside me, so Wright takes the seat next to her.
“Hey,” he says to
Janie across the table. “Could you hold that seat beside you for my friend?
He’s wrapping up a call, but’ll be in soon.”
“Sure.” Janie
blushes. “I love your work, by the way. The score of Silent Midnight . . . gah.”
“Thank you. That
was a special project. Lots of fun,” Wright replies with a smile. “Now tell me
about the show.”
Wright’s a genius,
but he’s so unassuming and modest. A man as famous as he is could easily make
this conversation about him, let everyone at this table give his ego a real
nice hand job, but he doesn’t. He talks about our show, compliments the
performance, asks John about his process. I liked him when we did that
last-minute gig, and we’ve interacted some on social media since. My impression
of him holds up. He’s a good guy.
Not to state the
obvious, but also fine. Like fine fine.
He has this Boris
Kodjoe vibe. Real smooth. Kind of golden–brown. Clean-cut, close-cut. I can
objectively recognize his appeal, even though he’s not my type.
Not that I have a
type lately. I’m so deep in this dick drought I’m past the point of thirst.
At first I thought
it was merely the grind. Auditioning constantly, taking craft classes, doing
commercials and voiceover work to not just keep bills paid, but to save. This
business is feast or famine. I’m eating now, but I’ve been hungry before. Not
again. I’m thirty. Too old to still be living gig to gig and buying into that
starving artist thing. I need health insurance and regularly scheduled meals,
thank you very much. So yeah, the grind could account for my semi-disinterested
libido, but I suspect it’s more.
Maybe I’m disinterested.
I need a man who
doesn’t think that because he has a dick and I don’t that I should defer to
him—shrink my dreams down to a more manageable size. I’m cautious not only
about who I share my heart and body with, but I’m also protective of my dreams;
of my ambition. I won’t endanger my future for a man who can fuck. Though . . .
a man who can fuck? I wouldn’t turn it down, but it will take more than that to
pique my interest.
“What are you
getting?” Takira asks, leaning over to read my menu instead of hers. “Anything
here meet your high standards?”
My standards
aren’t that high. I’ve just cut out red meat and stopped drinking as much
alcohol. My health demands it.
“I’m thinking
about the salmon, but I—”
A chair scraping
across the floor catches my attention. Wright’s friend has finally come inside
to join us. The table shrinks immediately when he settles his imposing frame
into the seat beside Janie. He peels the hood away from his head and I bite off
a gasp.
It’s Canon Holt.
Like the Canon Holt.
The director I,
and probably every actress at this table and in this dining room, would
sacrifice a pinky toe to work with. Canon Holt is at my table sitting across
from me.
Takira’s
expression doesn’t register this massive earthquake of a revelation, but she
kicks me under the table and hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Did you
know?”
I pretend I need
to reach for something on the floor so I can whisper back, “Do you think I
would have kept my shit together this long if I knew?”
“True. True.”
Takira casually glances up from her menu and smiles in Canon’s general
direction, but he’s not looking at her. He’s studying his screen. He’s
apparently in an exclusive relationship with his phone, and no one at this
table tempts him to stray.
Which means I can
look at him.
Good. God.
He’s not that
handsome, but that’s irrelevant. Some might even call his features, examined on
their own, unremarkable.
They’d be wrong.
It’s a Maker’s
sleight of hand. Now God knew this man did not need lashes that long and thick,
a paradox against the hard, high slant of his cheekbones. Canon hasn’t looked
twice at anyone here as far as I can tell, but I’ve stolen enough glances to
know there’s a fathomlessness to his dark eyes that is arresting. His unsmiling
mouth is wide, the lips full in the blunt elegance of his face. A five o’clock
shadow licks the ridge of his jawline. There is a geometry to him—angles,
lines, edges—that disregards the individual parts and illuminates the
compelling sum.
WANT MORE REEL? Click here for the
rest >> www.thehollywoodrenaissanceseries.com/excerpt
Add Reel to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3upMOqY
Cover Designer: Lori Jackson Design
Photographer: Sophia Barrett Studios
Models: Jasmine Raiford and Ajayi Bodden
About Kennedy Ryan
Her Hoops Series (Long Shot, Block Shot and Hook Shot) and All the King's Men Series (The Kingmaker, The Rebel King and Queen Move) have been optioned for television.
An autism mom, Kennedy co-founded LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable initiative, and has appeared on Headline News, Montel Williams, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for autism families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.
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