I already helped Wayne record his iconic song, "Backstreet Lady": https://soundcloud.com/egregious/backstreet-lady-by-tennessee
Now he thinks I'm some kind of media genius. I got a package in the mail from him, a manuscript with a post-it note affixed to the top page. It read, "This is a surefire hit TV movie story based on my song. Dialogue and action are ready to go—just produce it, write the scenes, and we’re off to the races. Get me on the tube, by the cement pond in Hollywood! Let’s see what we can get going here, maybe a little money if I can get off ground level, I’d appreciate that a lot, you know. —T.W.
Backstreet Lady by Tennessee Wayne
The neon flickers above the alleyway, painting Amara’s sharp cheekbones in angry pink and gold as she leans against the brick wall like trouble incarnate. She doesn’t wait for him to speak—never does.
“Back street pay,” she murmurs, fingers tapping the peeling paint. “You know the rules.” Her voice is sweet with a razor edge, and the man across from her swallows hard. He came for something real, something raw, something that wouldn’t fit neatly on a polished postcard, and reality has a price.
Liam steps closer, the neon buzzing in his ears, the scent of cheap aftershave and hot pavement clinging to him like a second skin. His hand twitches toward his wallet—too eager, too hopeful—and she laughs, a sideways blade of a sound. “Not here for charity,” she purrs, brushing her thumb along his wrist as she plucks the bills from his grip. The neon paints her collarbone violet.
“You want real?” she says. “Then act like it.” Her smirk catches the flickering light, sharp as a knife, and she leans just enough that the air hums between them. “Hey there, stranger,” she says, voice sliding into a dangerous whisper, that tease of a threat that keeps him unsteady. “Amara here. And let me tell you, you’re stepping into more than shadows tonight.”
A laugh, dark as the space between buildings, escapes her. “Hope you brought more than just cash.” Liam swallows. He’s never met a woman like her, and he’s not sure he wants to, yet the alley pulls him in anyway. His hand finds her hip, a bold move in a city that never blinks.
“I don’t chase,” he says. “I take.” The words sound rough in his own ears, but she only tilts her head, amused, waiting for the dance she’s done a hundred times before.
“Action?” she whispers, sharp, teasing. “I am the storm. You ready to see how it rains?” The neon stripes them both in alternating pink and gold as they circle, a slow-motion duel of pulse and breath. Her fingers tap his chest, tracing invisible lines that somehow map all the ways this could go wrong—or spectacularly right.
“Wild, unforgettable, maybe even a little dangerous,” she says, and he can’t tell if she’s promising or warning. “All you gotta do is show up, sugar.” He exhales, leaning in just a hair too close, tasting the salt of the air around her. The alley smells of spilled whiskey, damp concrete, and the city that never gives second chances. He knows the stakes are high. He knows he’s short on cash, short on luck, short on everything that matters—but somehow he’s too deep to turn back now. Her smirk softens just enough to let a shred of honesty in.
“Back street pay for back street ways,” she says, stepping back, eyes sharp and measuring. No tabs, no rainchecks. She grinds the crumpled bills under her heel. “Walk away now? Don’t bother coming back.” And just like that, the air in the alley grows colder, heavier with debts and unsaid truths.
Next Scene
Cut to Genevieve in her loft, heels clicking across the polished floor, silk robe catching the amber glow of the skyline. She presses her fingertips to the glass, watching the city pulse below, and finally says, “You smell like pavement.” The subtext is clear: who were you with?
Liam stands there, twitching fingers and racing heart, feeling small in her perfection. The tablet gleams in her manicured hands, showing a hotel in Le Marais, a balcony strung with fairy lights, Eiffel Tower twinkling. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t beg. She just shows him what the world expects him to deliver, the world he can’t quite reach. He stammers, excuses spilling out, desperate lies about work and mergers, the kind of crap that never convinces anyone but himself. She taps the tablet like a metronome, calm, sharp, unyielding.
“Paris was supposed to be our golden hour,” she says, heels clicking, voice brittle. “Uptown pay for uptown ways, darling. If you can’t swing the flight, then what are you swinging these days?”
[The montage cuts like a jump-cut in a late-night thriller: alley to loft, cash being handed over, tablets glowing with impossible dreams.]
Liam’s eyes flick between them, chest tight, stomach knotted, trapped in a city that asks more than he has to give. “I give you my money,” he whispers to the street, to the night, to the bridge beneath him. “But it was never enough. Not for her sunshine, not for her pearls. Just scraps left for me.”
Amara softens, just a flicker, a ghost of warmth beneath the neon. Her thumb traces his cheek. “Turns out you give me sunshine and honey. Who knew?” And for a heartbeat, the world tilts. The neon hum fades behind them as they step into the predawn glow, arms loosely tangled—not out of obligation, but a quieter, unnamed truth.
Next Scene
Genevieve’s diamond catches the chandelier light, the apex of everything Liam has tried and failed to deliver. He trades what little he can: pawned watches, borrowed charm, empty promises, all for her smile, calibrated to perfection for the crowd. Her praise is measured, polite, eyes always moving ahead, tallying the next proof. He exhales, the weight in his chest finally heavier than any bill or stone.
Final Scene
And then the quiet moments: a clean apartment, an aloe vera catching afternoon light, laundry folded while the radio hums, calendar reminders buzzing softly in the background, old contacts still lingering in his phone. No one owes him anything, no one is counting. Just him, moving through the world that will never stop asking, never stop wanting, never stop keeping score. And for once, he feels like he’s not completely bankrupt—inside, at least. ---
The End
OK, there we have it. I'm not really a TV-producer-type, I'm more of a music-producer-type. Anybody out there want to take a shot at this?
