“The news rarely reports on drug overdoses,” Ryan replies. But his eyes are still glued to the screen. He appears to be thinking. “Not unless there’s something about it that makes it newsworthy. They love a good scare story. Remember that case of the guy who did bath salts and tried to eat people’s faces?”
“Okay . . . well, they reported on this one. And it was at the Zebra. So, I’m guessing it happened after we left.” I’m already opening my iPad up. Instead of going to my usual Twitter and Reddit feeds, I do a specific Google search. None of the mainstream news outlets picked the story up, but a local paper has a small blurb about it.
“Private party attendee found dead in lounge parking lot.” The date on the piece was yesterday, so I hadn’t missed it being in the news. It hadn’t been reported until today.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I say, scrolling through the rest of the article. “It just states that police were called after someone checked the car in the morning, and that no foul play was suspected after they confirmed a drug overdose. I guess it was sort of business as usual until the coroner discovered it was a designer drug they hadn’t seen before.” The same picture used in the news lurks at the bottom of the page with a brief description of Louis.
“Hmm,” Ryan says, still staring blankly at the screen. It’s like he’s not even listening.
“It’s sad,” I say again. Drug overdose. My mind flashes directly to the strung-out guy at the party. And then the face of the dead man clicks into place too. The young queen out on the dance floor who had looked so, so drunk. “I think I saw him. What if it was those drugs from the party?” What if I’d seen the guy who sold that poor kid the drugs that killed him?
Ryan’s gaze focuses on me, sharp and intent. “What do you mean?”
“There was this guy peddling pills at the party. He ran into me, tried to sell me some. I turned him down—obviously—but my guess is that he found someone who didn’t.” I motion to the screen. “It’s just sad that this is what drugs do to people.”
“Agreed,” Ryan says, eyes back on the TV.
The news shows that today’s weather looks like a good day for my bike; I have to get going now if I’m going to make it to work on time. Looks like my coffee habit is going to have to sit out a day again. I down the rest of my juice and head out of the kitchen. “Truthfully, if it’s the pills I saw, they looked homemade. Just like Mom used to make. Yum yum. Who knows what was in them?”
Ryan doesn’t laugh at my halfhearted joke.
“Okay, welp, have a good day,” I say, heading for my room. Tough crowd.
Speaking of, I know I should be thinking about work this morning, but as I grab my shoes and bag and head out the front door, I just can’t shake the mental picture of the young queen out on the dance floor. If I’m right, and that queen was Louis, then a call to Lawrence is warranted to make sure he doesn’t need a shoulder to lean on.
“Great, thank you, Tejshwara, for the update on our sales figures,” Casey Junior says from his relaxed position in the deep leather chair at the head of the conference table.
Tej sits just to the left of Casey, across from Lelani. I’m farther down the table, near the back of the room—mostly because I went to the bathroom to try and tame my fading-lilac mane into some semblance of a polished executive style. No one at the office ever cares that my hair is colored—I love that about my workplace—but I try to draw the line at looking like a ragamuffin. I make a mental note that I need a color, because while I’m #grayhairdontcare, I don’t like to let it go too long.
Casey nods to Lelani in some prearranged signal, and she stands to address the room. “We also have a new team member to introduce. I’d like to welcome Paige DiGregorio; she’ll be assisting on art for The Hooded Falcon part time. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when MG is here at the office, at least for a bit, so that she and MG can work as a team.”
The large double door at the back of the room gives a creak, and we all turn dramatically to watch the entrance of our newest bunkmate.
Paige rolls into the room, and I hear someone suck in a breath to my right. The chair is a surprise for those of us in the room, but Paige seems to expect the reaction and her face remains carefully neutral.
Blonde hair, icy eyes, fierce blue eyeliner, and damn, that girl is wearing sequined, fingerless gloves. Any person who wears sequins on their first day is an automatic friend of mine.
“Hello, everyone,” she says, rolling to a stop at the end of the table and waving.
Silence.
I look to my left and to my right. Every single pair of eyes in the room is set to “goggle,” and you have to wonder if anyone has ever seen a person in a wheelchair before.
Lelani is the only one aside from me who seems to just take Paige’s appearance in stride, though she obviously had a heads-up, given she conducted the interview. “Paige joins us from San Diego; she’s a graduate of the Art Institute and did work with Pixar until her move to LA. Anything I missed?”
Impressive résumé. We pivot as one, our chairs squeaking, to peer at Paige again.
She seems unaffected by the examination. “Nope, that about covers it. I’m excited to be working for Genius.”
Casey Junior coughs, and several of the executives shuffle some papers in response. “Welcome, Paige. All right, then. We’ll move on to our green-light meeting. We’ve got Hooded Falcon business . . . Andy, why don’t you fill us in first, and then Michael can report on the movie.”
While Andy presents our story line for the next issue, I feel Paige’s eyes on me. I turn and offer a small friendly smile, but it’s met with cool acknowledgment instead of a returned smile. Her ice-blue eyes are lined with the neatest cat eyeliner—L would adore this girl.
Casey’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Michael, please share with the team about your involvement with the movie team.”
I swivel my chair back to center, where I find everyone else at the table looking at me. As I rise to give my report, I note that Paige’s eyebrows rise. She’d been staring expectantly at Kyle, seated to my right. It’s not unexpected—my boss insists on calling me Michael. It’s either call me that or admit that he thought I was a man when he first agreed to interview me off my résumé. He makes a point of leaving off the “Grace” and never calls me MG. Not even Ms. Martin. Michael—every bat time, every bat channel.
I fill the room in on the meetings planned for the week and promise to give a full report back for the next executive meeting. It feels nice to have this unique responsibility.
“Okay, moving on,” Casey Junior intones, shuffling his papers. “New project proposals.”
My heart starts to beat a little faster. The feeling of “all is right in the Universe” evaporates immediately.
“Andy, why don’t you give us an overview, and we can look specifically at Kyle and Michael’s proposals since their series are wrapping up this season.”
Andy shoots me a look. He has no idea what I’m presenting. Heck, I have less than a full idea of what I’m presenting. My heart hammers inside my chest now. This is so far away from the woman I was six months ago at Genius. When I worked hard to “stick it to the man” by being perfectly prepared in every way. Now I’ve got too much going on. Not for the first time I briefly wonder if deciding to pursue my passion for fashion and costume design—to have everything—was the wrong choice. I listen as Andy presents the overview of the smaller projects that are rolling right now. And then everyone is looking at me.
“Michael?” Casey prompts, and I swallow. How am I going to get out of this? I haven’t actually prepared anything. Nothing. Nada . . .
“Space monkeys versus robots.” The words are out before I can stop them.
“Space . . . monkeys?” Casey asks, meaty brows pulled down over his eyes.
“Chimpanzees,” I clarify. I guess if this is the hill my brain has picked, I am going to die on it.
Kyle and Simon look as if someone stuffed live goldfish in their mout
hs, and Lelani frowns at me in an uncharacteristic break from her typical serene polish. I brace for the torrent of disappointment sure to follow my stupid proclamation.
“Elaborate,” Casey Junior says.
My eyes fly open. Elaborate?
“Er . . . ,” I stammer, fishing around in my brain for something. Anything. Go-go-gadget imagination. “It would be a smart satire of all the smash-and-bang comics out right now. Ray guns, spaceships, galactic duels. But tongue-in-cheek, so playing off tropes and acknowledging it. That sort of thing.” I pray to all the old gods and new that somehow he’ll move on and not ask any more detailed questions. Usually I have sketches, story lines.
Casey Junior considers me at great length over the glossy top of the table. It takes everything in me to maintain eye contact. Here it comes; I see the words forming in his eyes before they reach his lips: Michael, you’ve lost your touch. Schedule a private meeting with me to discuss your future at this company.
“I like it.”
I blink. What?
Casey misses my surprise, though, and starts to shuffle through his papers again, already on to the next agenda item. “This one is something I can see taking off.”
And then it hits me. Of course he can—I first had the idea because I was bemoaning mainstream comics. It’s robots, monkeys, space, and ray guns. Okay, fine, those sound awesome independently. But those are the sorts of things that drive me crazy working on the new Hooded Falcon. There’s only action, no heart. Panic rises in my chest. Now I have another personal project—one I haven’t thought through at all—and it doesn’t even fulfill my goal to reach a different market. At least I’d slid the satire thing in there—maybe this could work. Maybe. Or I’d be drawing space monkeys for years to come, because Murphy’s Law says that this will be the first project of mine to be long-lived.
Casey glances up at me one last time and offers a rare . . . I won’t say smile, but a lift of the corners of his mouth. It doesn’t do much to improve his “bald and large pro wrestler in a suit” bearing. “Usually your ideas are more touchy-feely; it’s nice to see you stepping outside your comfort zone. Well done.”
Touchy-feely? Excuse me? Comfort zone? What the hell now? He thinks that just because I care about the world and I’m a woman, my ideas are touchy-feely?
Lelani and I connect gazes approximately point three seconds before my mind implodes and something comes out of my mouth that will terminate my employment here. He can take that warped “attagirl” and stick it right where the sun don’t shi—
“I think what Mr. Casey is trying to say”—Lelani must sense the impending detonation, or the impending lawsuit—“is that we appreciate that you always have an eye toward innovation and progressing our industry into new markets. And that this project is different from your previous projects, but no less a possible vehicle for social change or the furthering of our business. I can assure you we admire our employees who are so flexible in their creative endeavors.”
Dead silence in the room—everyone is quiet, now having figured out that Casey Junior has taken a severe misstep in his language. Probably waiting for the show, since I’m not exactly known for my ability to contain my less-than-proper thoughts in the boardroom.
“Er. Yes. Yes, I mean that.” Casey throws Lelani a grateful look, and she matches it with a steely one of her own. Just because she’s bailed his ass out of this one, it doesn’t mean she didn’t pick up on the sexist slight. My previous projects—though aimed toward a female readership—were less than “touchy-feely,” and I like action as much as the next guy.
And yet, after Lelani’s compliment—no matter the reason she had to give it—my mouth clicks shut and my inner laser beams power down. How does she do that? Her cool demeanor and words, even though I know they’re meant to de-escalate, soothe the beast inside. I’m now resolved to making this little slip-up work for me. I’ll make these monkeys “touchy-feely social-justice warrior” if it’s the death of me and wrap them in space-opera flashbang. That’s what it’s about, right? Lelani said it herself. I’m not a one-trick pony. I can take anything and make it mine . . . including, apparently, space monkeys.
The meeting moves on, and I hardly pay attention. My brain is already stressing about this new project. Beside me, Paige is studying me like a riddle. And not one she particularly enjoys. I offer her a small smile again. Nothing.
When the meeting wraps up, everyone shuffles for the door, and I’m surprised that no one stops to talk further with Paige. She tosses her folder of meeting materials into her lap and spins to follow Kyle out the door, but I stop her.
“I just wanted to introduce myself; it’s nice to have another woman here.” I can’t help it; I’m excited our numbers are increasing.
Paige turns slightly back to study me again. “I heard your name in the meeting. Michael, right?” She doesn’t seem overly excited that I’m following her out the door and into the elevator lobby.
“Michael-Grace, but seriously don’t call me that. MG, please.”
“MG,” she confirms. “Pronouns?”
I blink. “Er, ‘she’ works fine for me. You?” I’ve never actually been asked that before at work, though it’s a common question at Lawrence’s shows.
“She/Her.” Paige hesitates. “With a name like Michael . . . well, I figured I’d check.”
Touché. “Well, it was really thoughtful of you. Are you on your way to the office?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Yep.”
Silence descends, and we stare at the polished stainless-steel doors of the elevator. I glance down, and her gloves catch my attention again. They are lovely; I can tell from here that they’re handmade, or really high end. The cuffs look hand stitched.
Paige catches me looking, and her face sours.
“I hope I’m not overstepping here, but—”
“Go ahead and ask,” she sighs. Her tone is acerbic, and it catches me by surprise.
“Er . . . okay. Where did you get those gloves? They look handmade.”
It’s Paige’s turn to goggle at me like she’s never seen a girl with purple hair before. “What?”
“Your gloves,” I ask again, motioning to her hand. “The sequins. They’re amazing, and they look hand sewn.”
Paige laughs, a sudden lightness flooding her face. “That’s the question? About my gloves?”
“I sew. Design, really,” I say in defense. I hate getting laughed at. “I just—”
“No, it’s fine. Really refreshing, actually. I made them myself. I sew in the evenings.” She pauses and studies me again as the elevator dings. “Thanks.”
I let her enter the elevator first and then follow, pressing the button for our floor.
“So how long have you worked here?” she asks when the elevator doors close.
“Oh, about five years.”
“And Andy?”
“I think about eight. Simon and Kyle were here before me, and Tej was hired the same year. Lelani was just hired this year.”
“So, I guess you’re sorta the OG. Woman, I mean.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I offer her a small smile again. “It’s really good to have you here. It’s almost even numbers now on our team, and that’s unusual in this business.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure everyone’s happy about that.” Paige rolls her eyes.
“It’s almost like they fear it’s going to stop being a comic book company if the majority shifts. Like we’ll start publishing stories about tampons instead of comics.”
Paige snorts.
“Here’s the final question, though: Bat or Supe?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Batman. Is there even a question?”
“Hey now,” I say, wounded to my very core. “Superman is a social-justice warrior—”
Paige snorts again. “He’s a picture of patriarchal domineering. Damsel in distress. Pearls and vacuum cleaners.”
“Just because he’s a product of that time, doesn’t mean he buys in
to it . . . Okay, fine. He’s ridiculous sometimes. But I admire his moral fiber, and the golden age when a superhero was a superhero, you know? Batman is just . . .” I waggle my hand back and forth.
“Morally ambiguous? Yeah, but that’s what I love about him. He’s not afraid to let a little revenge get in the way of good crime-fighting. It makes such a better story.”
I could discuss this all day, and frequently have. “I’ll agree to disagree for now. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you are misled about the best superhero; what matters is, can you draw?”
The smile that flashes across her face is genuine, and blinding. “You bet your ass I can.”
I smile back as I disembark the elevator after her. “You’ll get along just fine here then. Kyle and Simon are cool. Andy’s a bit of a tool”—I wince at my flagrant abuse of my supervisor, but Paige just laughs—“er, but he’s nice enough.”
We pass reception, and just before we reach our portion of cubicles, Paige turns to me. “Thanks for being welcoming.”
“No problem, I’m not really doing anything for you I wouldn’t do for another team member, though. I’d warn anyone that Andy is sort of a tool . . .”
She makes another derisive noise. “Well, I appreciate that attitude. Not everyone is that . . . progressive. I didn’t really think about it before I left Pixar. I just wanted to do something new; I didn’t think about the interview process.”
I groan, sympathizing. “This industry is rough. Try doing it with a name like Michael.”
Her gaze flicks down to her chair and back up, and she raises an eyebrow in challenge.
Point taken. “Fair enough. All I’m saying is that I had a rough time, too, even though it was a few years ago. If mine was that tough, I can imagine yours was worse.” I ponder a moment. “Was it really that bad?”
“We’ll just say not many of them liked my . . . outfit.”
I sigh. “I keep thinking we’re making headway in this industry, and then sometimes I wonder.” I really want Paige to feel welcome. No, more than that, I want to talk to her about gloves and sewing, and super-fierce makeup. I want to be her friend for real.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 10