Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Bloody, brilliant, daft, cheeky, chuff, smashing, bee’s knees…
I was busy working out the difference between taking the piss and being pissed when Seb returned with cocktails. A martini for me, Scotch for him.
“Thank you. Cheers, mate.”
“You’re welcome.” He slid into the booth across from me and raised his glass in a toast.
I sipped my martini and pondered which Britishisms to lay on him first. Maybe something about Shakespeare or the queen or—I narrowed my gaze quizzically. “Are you all right? You look a bit of a bodge.”
Seb quirked a brow midsip. “A bodge?”
Oh. Wrong word. Shit.
“Uh, I meant dodgy or just…off. Maybe a shade paler than normal.” I gestured to the chandelier overhead. “It’s probably the light.”
He chuckled. “A little overkill, eh? Crystal is Matteo’s idea of high elegance. I counted the chandeliers once. There are twenty-seven in this tiny bar alone. And his property in Vegas has three times as many.”
“Chandeliers are a right proper do in Vegas,” I replied. I was obviously screwing something up. Seb looked more confused than ever. “I mean, they’re popular.”
“Not necessarily, but they work in Vegas. The gaudier the better,” he commented. “That makes sense. Studies indicate that consumers are willing to spend big bucks for flash and the feel of exclusivity. Even if it’s just a tease.”
I took another sip and smiled. “Like in the movies.”
“Exactly. My best-grossing films involve wild adventures and crazy plot lines, but they all contain at least one compelling element relatable to everyone. The rest is an illusion. Like these chandeliers.” Seb pointed at the fixture above. “Matteo wants us to think his overpriced alcohol is worth it because it feels special to sit under glittering lights in a swanky part of town. One chandelier wouldn’t be memorable, but twenty-seven…that sticks with you. More so when the booze is top shelf and the service is impeccable.”
“So it’s all about marketing.”
“Yep. You have to grab the public’s attention. You gotta sell. Doesn’t matter how amazing your product is if you don’t have an audience. You know that saying, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’? I call bullshit. The reality is, you have to make an impression.”
I resisted the urge to cite myself as Exhibit A: out of work actor trying to make an impression. No sense in getting out over my skis now. I inclined my head and took another sip of my martini.
“Aye. Bloody well right you are.”
Seb smiled. “And this is where you come in.”
“Oh?”
“I want to start working on a new marketing angle and the zinger for The Last Drop. Your accent caught my attention.”
“Marketing?” Fuck. I didn’t know anything about marketing.
“Yeah, you were the stuntman for one of the bad guys whose boss ultimately joins forces with a killer in the next film. You’re a metaphorical bridge between the movies, and since you’re from the UK, you might be able to offer some inspiration.”
“Uh…okay. Just out of curiosity, have you sent out a casting call for the next film?” I asked, shamelessly dropping a mega hint with all the finesse of a kid hopping on one foot with his hand in the air, yelling, “Pick me, pick me!”
Seb didn’t seem to notice. He shrugged as he shook the ice in his glass.
“Not yet. That’ll probably happen late summer, early fall. I keep out of that part. Like I said, I’m more concerned with marketing and preproduction research for now.”
“And I’m part of the research?” Uh-oh.
“You could be. I like to come up with quirky side characters and cultural blasts to grab the viewer’s attention. For instance, in Snake Ink, Baxter busts a drug cartel operating out of LA. He meets a punk chick with a bad-news ex-boyfriend who happens to be a guitarist in a band. Did you see that movie?”
“Yeah, it was awesome,” I gushed. I wasn’t blowing smoke up his ass. It really was great. It was edgy, fast-paced, and humorous at times. I think it had been nominated for an Academy Award for editing and sound effects, but don’t quote me.
“Thanks. Get this…the girl, the ex, the band—they were all based on actual people, and to some degree, they inspired the story.”
“I read something about that,” I commented.
Seb frowned briefly, then squinted hard as if mentally erasing an old memory before continuing. “The movie had already been filmed, edited, and was ready to roll. But the real-life train wreck in motion inspired the marketing. We killed it at the box office. Snake Ink is my biggest blockbuster to date. I realized I was on to something on the promotional front. Tying in a facet of reality made the public curious. Everyone wants to be a voyeur. We want a front-row seat to other people’s successes and failures so we can cheer them on or sympathize with their loss. We want to relate to something we don’t think will ever touch us.”