No Man's Land

By Riley Smith

Combining vibrant characters and a lively community, Riley E. Smith’s No Man’s Land is an adorable and uplifting tale of how opposites attract.

Scrappy introvert Molly Rabone is finally a successful Hollywood screenwriter. With one smash hit under her belt, she’s busy writing her next big blockbuster. Or she would be if it weren't for her massive case of writer’s block. With impatient producers and her agent breathing down her neck, Molly only has one month left to create another award-winning script. The only thing keeping her sane under all the pressure is the charming atmosphere of the small coffee shop, No Man's Land, and the beautiful barista with tattoos who always makes Molly the perfect cup of coffee.

Sofia Flores takes pride in the coffee shop she suddenly inherited after her parents’ early passing. Sofia is determined to find a way to make ends meet on the handful of local and loyal customers, even as the rent rises and her margins grow leaner and leaner. But when Sofia’s landlord tries to intimidate her into selling the shop during business hours, Molly jumps up to try and save the last hope she has of finishing her script. Strong-willed and sentimental, Sofia is not willing to accept charity, even though Molly is willing to leverage her connections and cash to save the shop. But if Molly agrees to keep the local community center stage, Sofia is begrudgingly willing to accept some help from Molly. But as new feelings blossom, Sofia bristles at how much Hollywood Molly brings into town.

With an impending deadline looming ever closer and still unable to finish her script, Molly wonders if she’s about to lose more than just her career and No Man’s Land if she can’t pull herself together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094415383

Riley Smith

N/A

Book preview

Prologue: Molly

Hollywood magic. Molly Rabone always read about it or saw it on the big screen. But now she was in it, walking arm in arm with Christine Derron, the biggest romance star of the twenty-first century, while photographers screamed out compliments and begged for a smile.

Molly almost couldn’t stand the flashing lights, coupled with the waving and pulsing of the crowd pushing toward the velvet ropes. It was delirious, like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, except she and the stars walking down the red carpet were the big event. It was crazy to think that this time two years ago, Molly had had to insist and prod and plead her way into a meeting with a legitimate screenwriter’s agent.

She felt like Cinderella. She’d been broke, about to be evicted, when she threw every last bit of spirit left in her toward her dream. If it didn’t work, she’d have to leave Hollywood forever and get a job that her accounting degree actually applied to.

But miracle of miracles: the agent had bit. What surprised Molly even more, producers bought the project.

Everything after that felt like a hazy, beautiful dream, including getting let on set to advise during filming. She had lunch with Oscar-nominated actresses while helping them work through their character motivation. Offers to represent her on future projects swarmed her phone lines, even agents who hadn’t given her the time of day a couple months before.

One nice perk of being a screenwriter: you got the exorbitant Hollywood pay without the pesky attention of the paparazzi. Usually, they didn’t care who was behind the pencil; they were only interested in the faces on-screen.

But on the night of the premiere, under the wing of megastar Christine Derron, Molly was getting the most attention she’d ever received in her life. She felt like a princess walking with a queen.

Christine dazzled in a low-back forest-green silk gown with diamonds encircling her waist and wrists. Molly couldn’t bring herself to go for diamond anything, but she was glad she’d rented an expensive gown and splurged on her first and only pair of Loubitins. The red bottoms were her glass slippers — they made her feel like she, possibly, belonged here.

As they neared the end of the red carpet runway, Christine squeezed her arm and said, How are you holding up? She smiled her perfectly symmetrical smile with all the patience and understanding of a saint.

Molly said, I think I’ve dissolved into a puddle of adrenaline.

Christine laughed and navigated Molly toward the pose boards where they’d stop to take more pictures. She admitted, The first time is always a lot. Second time, you’ll feel much better.

Molly chuckled. Thanks for the confidence in me. I hope there will be a second time. After all, an actress could ride her popularity into another movie. Molly would have to pump out another script if she wanted to relive this.

Christine helped her pose for the photographers, giving her whispered suggestions on the most flattering way to stand. Then she said, And most importantly, don’t forget to enjoy yourself! Smile. All this beautiful chaos is for you.

Christine gestured at the flashing lights, the beautiful people, the screaming fans… All assembled for the premiere of the movie Molly wrote. Involuntarily, Molly’s face lit up with a huge, genuine grin.

They left the photographers and made their way toward the entrance. Finally, Molly would see the final version of her movie, the one that would go out to the public. Christine looked a little less excited, although her smile never faltered.

Great, now to go watch myself talk for two hours. Christine said it with a joking tone, but Molly was surprised to see she was being genuine.

Christine explained, Listen, do you like the sound of your own voice? Nobody does, even actors.

My voice doesn’t bother me. Then again, I have nothing to feel guilty about, a smooth, silky voice said from behind them.

Christine and Molly looked over their shoulders at Christine’s costar, Eve Wane. Eve had been a child star, pumped through the system and ground up, but after rehab and psychotherapy, she’d come back as an adult with a firm acting vision.

She usually only took parts in indie or art house films. Molly had been incredibly surprised when she’d signed on for We Painted the Room Blue, Molly’s picture — it was not Molly’s choice of title, although she was told the screenwriter never got to pick the final title. Molly had called it Why I Still Want to Kill You, which her agent insisted was not a proper romance title.

Eve was not a nice person. She didn’t need to be — it was part of her mystique as a moody method actress.

She said to Christine, But I see what you mean. Watching you pretend to be gay for two hours is probably going to curdle my stomach.

Christine rolled her eyes, never dropping her smile for the cameras. Really, Eve? You’re going to be nasty on the night of the premiere? You tried to get me replaced. It didn’t work. Let it go. Why’d you even agree to do the movie, if you hate me so much?

Someone had to keep it honest, Eve retorted. She looked right at Molly with a sneer. I’ve never seen a writer cave to a director so many times in so many ways. What artistic integrity.

Christine whispered with a great big smile, leaning in toward Eve like they were the best of friends, "I get that your image is ‘edgy,’ you Goth bitch, but I’m America’s Sweetheart, and I don’t feel like being your next feud in People Magazine. Find somebody else to bully besides me and Molly, before you really piss me off. Then she leaned back and laughed with a bright, tinkling tone, saying loudly, Eve, you are so funny! You’re such a character."

Christine grabbed Molly, who was more than ready to enter a total immersion into the fantasy world that had sprung from her words. But before they could stomp off triumphantly, Eve had one more nasty thing to whisper in Molly’s ear.

Lesbian romance is way hot right now, Eve said sarcastically. Otherwise, nobody would’ve even looked at your little script. When the fad’s passed you by, what are you going to have to write about?

Molly and Christine entered the theater, which smelled of perfume and popcorn in an intoxicating yet familiar mixture. But Molly couldn’t match Christine’s big smiles anymore.

She’d plunged into her heart and tore out her greatest love story to write this film. Did Molly have anything left to offer?

She shook off that melancholy thought, and decided, At least, for tonight, I will enjoy myself. And she did. But the echoing doubt at the back of her head didn’t get any quieter.

Chapter 1: Molly

One year later

Molly tried to focus at home. You’d think, with a luxury apartment that included a private library, an office, and a writing den, she’d be able to write.

Not the case.

When she was at home, she felt like the echoing, empty space of the large rooms, devoid of people, sapped her energy. It was hard enough to stay awake, much less write about love and heartache.

She had an easier time writing in cafés. Sure, part of it was ostentation. It made her feel like Hemingway in Paris to sit with a coffee and watch the world go by out a window as she crafted a world of her own on the page.

But mostly, it was the noise. She needed noise and activity to keep her awake while she wrote, and her inspiration had always come from real people, not the inside of her own mind.

She hopped out of the slightly more expensive rideshare (she hadn’t gotten around to buying a car yet, so she used an app to call Lincoln Town Cars and other fancy, long black cars with leather seats and nice smells) onto the uneven concrete in front of her favorite café.

The name was hand-painted on the glass window in the front of the shop: No Man’s Land. The paint was red, with orange lining and vibrant yellow, pink, and white flowers popping out of the top of the words. It was a pretty testament to what can grow when man doesn’t interfere. Or it was just some nice flowers.

The door was gnarled wood and stuck on the hinge if you didn’t pull hard enough when opening it. Molly yanked the door open and enjoyed the scent of the place taking over her senses. Warmly baked goods with punches of cinnamon and bitter dark chocolate combined with the earthy, warming smell of roasted coffee beans.

But the best thing about the place: all around the shop, every spare shelf and side table was covered in old books.

That was the true interpretation of the name of the shop, at least in Molly’s heart. It wasn’t a coffee shop for humans. It was a shop for books, and the humans were kindly allowed to visit.

The books were incredibly varied. Sometimes Molly saw classics, but most of the books were old paperbacks, many with written notes inside in Spanish or other languages from the previous owners. There were cookbooks, history books published fifty years ago, poetry chapbooks students printed and left in the shop, everything you wouldn’t find in the usual book shop.

It was in a strange part of East LA. The neighborhood was getting more popular, with more coffee shops and hipster stores with art or vintage clothes moving in. But the trade-off was that places like this shop or the Mexican restaurant next door were becoming few and far between. The scent of old wood and rickety furniture was being exchanged for polished silver surfaces and coffee tables designed by local artists, usually people who moved here from the Midwest to be bohemian.

Like Molly herself. The irony hit her as she got in the short line for her mocha with soy milk and bagel.

Bagels were a new addition to the menu, which had previously only had Hispanic snacks and desserts. Come to think of it, Molly noticed less and less Spanish on the signs in the neighborhood every time she visited.

Molly surveyed the shop. Some days the couches and bar seating were pretty crowded, but usually the shop was nearly empty, which Molly liked. Just enough noise and activity to help her focus, but not so much she felt overwhelmed.

There was a seat by the window that Molly coveted. It was a private table where you had the perfect view of the street outside and the rest of the café.

The seat was right up against the wall in the very corner of the shop, and the table was too small for anyone to ask to sit with you. You could people-watch safely to your heart’s content, carefully hemmed in by books. You had to squeeze by a bookshelf to even get to the seat.

Plus, there was an outlet to keep her laptop charged. Molly hadn’t found any spot in all of Los Angeles that was more perfectly situated. It was the best spot for writing. Today, it was blessedly empty.

Molly was desperate. She’d started and thrown out maybe fifty script concepts at this point. To make matters worse, she kept waffling and circling back to ideas she’d already rejected, which made her more insecure when she threw them out again.

As of today, she had one month to deliver to her agent and the producers eagerly awaiting her next big hit. They’d already signed a director and were in talks for the stars, and she didn’t even have a concept yet. It made her anxiety spike every time she thought about it.

Where the hell had the year disappeared? Some parts had been swallowed by feverish activity that got canned by her agent, who told her she could do better. Other months had been devoured by paralyzing depression.

Today, she wasn’t even going to try to work on the script. She was going to write observations, jotting down thoughts and bits of dialogue she snapped out of her

Reviews for No Man's Land

[Carol Foutts · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This story was fun to read because it feels authentic. It was easy to visualize the main characters as well as the other people in their community through their realistic conversations and their genuine concern for one another’s troubles. This was a clever, interesting, and upbeat story I highly recommend.