❝ I don't want you to be anything but Devon Emmet. ❞
◯
Devon's back was killing him. Having spent the night tossing and turning on the hard-edged, thousand-dollar sofa that occupied Janet's living room, it was safe to say that his bones were stiff and croaked. Devon would've thought that a piece of furniture costing that much money would've guaranteed comfort. But no, his twisted spine begged to differ.
The person that did not give a shit about his sore muscles, was also the person that banished him to the couch. Janet. She was giving him the silent treatment, quickly ignoring Devon's apologies and pleads for forgiveness, because Devon knew that in order to gain forgiveness from her stubborn-self, he needed to reveal the truth.
They were a couple, they shared everything. He shouldn't have been afraid to confess his truths to her, but alas, Devon's consciousness was getting in the way of things. He needed to spare her from the worry, about the photos, about Hilary's audacious attempts to flirt with him. To Devon Emmet, he had to fix everything. That was his job, his unashamed duty was to clean up every mess, even if it ruined him in the process.
When Devon phoned TJ about his fight with Janet—expectingly—Devon's small, hyper-active friend did not take his side. No, quite the opposite in fact. TJ spent the past half hour scolding Devon on his foolishness, and promptly reminding him that he 'better not fuck this thing up', because, and he quotes, 'Janet Jackson is the best thing that's ever happened to a nigga from Harlem'.
Even now, as Devon rigidly walked up the steps, a script tucked up his arm and his features crinkling from soreness, he didn't even notice how stupid he looked. It was painful being in the doghouse.
"Hey Devon!" Devon craned his head, watching as John Singleton sped-walked up to his side. Devon would've smiled, if not for the painful sensation of his bones densely rubbing together. John and Devon had a scheduled meeting with the executives at Columbia Pictures, a huge movie production studio that funded some of the biggest films known to man.
And now, they would both pitch the film Breakthrough to these producers, to convince them to promote and fund this project and give it the platform it truly deserves. Devon might've hated public speaking, but when it came to the movie, he felt confident. The film was everything. It was a rare story, a magical one, and he was certain that it would change history. If these producers don't take it, they would be missing out big time.
"What's wrong?" John asked, his voice breaking through Devon's train of thought. "I'm just a 'lil sore," the dancer replied, gritting his teeth.
"Okay, you ready?" John said, pumping with excitement. Devon glanced towards the man, baring a bright smile in response. The two of them were dressed in smart-causal clothes, dressed suitably for the formal meeting. While John wore a trendy suit, a fedora and glasses, Devon threw on a dress shirt, the nicest pants that he owned and an expensive watch. It felt weird being without his signature cap or trusted sneakers, but for now, it'd have to do.
