“Michael-Grace, I was up half the night worried I needed to come check on you,” Matteo admonishes. “I know you’re resourceful, and I didn’t hear any calls come into dispatch to your address, so I didn’t. But after the conversation we had at the station, I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t worry about your safety.”
Ryan’s eyebrow quirks up in curiosity before I finally get the speakerphone button pressed and hold the phone back to my ear. I wave him off. Matteo said no one could know about what he’d told me, and that includes Ryan, unfortunately.
“Look, I really am sorry. I had so much work to do last night, I just plain forgot to call you back. I promise I’m fine. In fact, I’m headed out the door right now for a meeting; maybe we can get together later?”
Matteo lets out a sigh. “My turn to beg off for work. Can we make it Friday? I could bring over some soup and salad, we can watch another one of those ridiculous shows you love.”
“Sure—” I start, but then something wiggles in the back of my brain. Friday after work. Paige. “Oh . . . actually, yes to Friday but ixnay on the soup and aladsay. I’m having a work party.”
There’s silence on the end of the line.
Which I deserve because I never have uttered those words together in all the time Matteo has known me. “We hired a new girl, and I want her to get to know the team better. And I should ask Daniel to come too, since he’s a part of the team. Paige is pretty cool . . . Plus, she sews, and I want to pick her brain about that.”
Matteo seems to be attempting to form words. “Ah, that’s all rather unexpected, but it sounds wonderful. I hope you have a good time.”
“What, aren’t you coming?”
“Am I invited?” There’s an edge to his voice that I don’t recognize.
“I told you yes for Friday night. Of course I want you here if I’m hosting a party. Can you get off work? I know the case is crazy right now.”
When he answers, his voice is a little softer. “Yes, I think so. I wouldn’t miss you actually hosting a work party.”
The man knows me well, and I snort. “I know. And I’m actually almost excited about it.” Truth be told, I feel a little like a thirteen-year-old hosting a birthday party. I just hope, now that I’ve committed, that people will come. I glance at Ryan’s watch since he’s still standing in the doorway. “Hey, I gotta run to work. I’ll call you later? I’m still looking through the comics for . . . those things,” I hedge, trying hard not to meet Ryan’s gaze. “I’ll call you if I find something.”
We disconnect, and I hand the phone back to Ryan. “Thanks.”
“A party?” he asks, eyebrow still raised.
“Yeah, can you make it?” Crap. Would that mean I’d have to invite Lelani? Somehow, I picture her being a buzzkill at a work function.
He hesitates. “I think I have something Friday night. I’ll let you know if I can make it. Doesn’t L have a show, though?”
I shrug and push Ryan out into the hallway, closing the door on my precious mess. “No, not this week. Speaking of, what were you doing for him? Do you know where he is? He’s not answering my texts.” It rankles that Ryan has been in contact with L when I haven’t.
“Dropping off a check,” Ryan answers promptly. Almost too promptly, like he’s been rehearsing. “For the space to rent for the float construction.”
“At eleven thirty?”
Ryan shrugs. “They asked for the payment before midnight; I don’t know L’s bank logins to do an e-transfer.”
I squint one eye at him and open my mouth to question him further, but he beats me to the punch.
“I don’t think he’ll be gone much longer, though. He said he’d be coming home soon.”
That shut me up in a hurry. “Did he say if he found anything?”
Ryan seems bored with the conversation now and glances at his watch again. “He didn’t say specifically, but I’d guess not. Hey, it’s time to get going to work if you’re going to make it. Do you want me to unchain your bike for you?”
Ugh. Thank God for short hair, I don’t have time for a shower. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I dash into the downstairs bathroom and scrub the mascara out from under my eyes. I swipe a handful of pomade through my short locks, noting that the color has faded even more. I’m about to be a member of the #grayhairdontcare club; I need an intervention soon, or I’ll be rocking an off-white pompadour.
Next, it’s a stop in my room to sniff-test clothes, and I settle on my “I’ll send a fully armed battalion to remind you of my love” Hamilton T-shirt, off-white linen blazer, slightly rumpled red tweed pedal pushers—the rumple won’t matter after a bike ride anyhow—and red ballet flats.
No time for breakfast or coffee, so I stuff my sketchbook into my bag and head out the door.
“I thought you might need this,” Ryan says, greeting me at the door with a steaming travel mug.
I sniff, and my hand whips out.
“It’s just black with cream. None of your fancy stuff.”
“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” I joke before reaching out and hugging him, the cup sandwiched firmly between us. It reminds me of all I need to catch up with him about. “I feel like I’ve been so underwater with work lately, I know I’ve been a crummy friend. Let’s catch up soon, okay?”
Ryan gives a hollow laugh. “I think we’ve all got a lot going on; no biggie.”
I look up at his face before heading to my bike. “Video game stuff?”
Ryan makes a noncommittal shrug that I take to mean, “That and other stuff.”
“Should we carb-load and gossip like schoolgirls this weekend?”
“Deal,” Ryan says with a smile.
I buckle my helmet on, glad I didn’t spend any more time on my hair, and head off to work.
“Ah, MG, come in.”
I’ve arrived at Genius Comics not two minutes early for my meeting with Lelani, and as I walk in her door, I hastily drop my bike helmet into the nearest potted plant and fluff my hair. Plenty of time to worry about how I look after the meeting.
I follow Lelani into her office, fighting the urge to select one thing to move while I’m here, just to see if she notices that her complete and ultimate order is upset. The leather desk blotter is literally perfectly centered in the middle of the glossy black desk with two silver pens sitting atop a red folder to its right side.
Does the woman do any real work for this company? Who has two pens and a folder on their desk, unless they’re a West Elm advertisement? Definitely no one I know. If she could see my creative nest, she’d probably poop kittens.
“I have to say,” she continues as if she doesn’t notice my perusal of her office, “I’m surprised by your proposal for your small project.”
I sink into the chair opposite her desk. It’s rounded in the back and glossy black like the desk, with a seriously comfortable cushion on it.
“This is silk,” I state before I can stop myself. I know my fabrics, and I’m more than a little impressed that anyone at Genius has anything in their office that’s silk. Lelani is peering at me in a positively unreadable way, so I refocus. “Er, but we’re here to talk about my project and not your chair cushions.”
“Indeed,” she says, her face still giving no hint at what she’s thinking. Then something softens around her eyes, and she leans forward a bit, elbows resting on the edge of her desk. She manages to look both conversational and proper. I have no idea how she does it. “Tell me a bit about it. It’s not what I . . . expected, given your track record for passion projects.”
I consider bullshitting her—talking about how I’m taking a stand, using this as a satire platform. How I’ve carefully crafted my idea to appeal to the very market I feel needs changing. Instead, as I stare into her steady gaze, I decide it’s time to be real.
“I panicked. I literally said the first thing that popped into my head.”
Some measure of respect and then satisfaction flashe
s across her face. “Ah. I surmised as much. It lacked your typical style and particular brand of . . . forgive the pun, genius.” She sits back in her chair and studies me for a moment like she can see through me. There’s something predatory there too, like she’s a feline, waiting to pounce on me if I make a wrong move.
“I’ve since come up with something else,” I offer. “If that’s okay. I know Mr. Casey approved the other idea but . . .”
Interest kindles in her eyes. “Please, by all means share if you feel able.”
“Okay, well, I fell asleep sewing last night—that’s not important. Other than to say, it’s sort of like all the pieces of my life sort of melded together into this idea. It’s really a personal project idea.” That last statement takes even me by surprise because I find it to be absolutely true. And suddenly it’s like standing in Lelani’s office in my underwear. This idea isn’t just any idea. It popped in my head fully formed. It already exists. It’s all the things and people I love, all rolled into one. This is my project. I feel it in my bones; this comic and I are meant for each other.
But it puts me in a position of vulnerability with this project. I care, which is something I vowed long ago not to do too much of in this industry. Hero Girls being the perfect example of this: a comic that hit all the notes for me. Girl cast. Amazing costumes. Social justice bent to the action and plot lines. And yet . . . not enough people wanted it. So, it’s on to the next project, the next idea. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Except I don’t know that I could not care if this project got the axe.
It’s as if Lelani can read my every thought. Her dark eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Okay, tell me about your vision. I assume this has to do with the Golden Arrow case? I’m not sure how much we could publish and keep from upsetting the police, but truthfully I think it might make a fantastic comic.”
I gape at her. Truthfully, I hadn’t even thought of an outright Golden Arrow adaptation, and I kind of want to kick myself. Would that be too meta? A comic based on a real-life vigilante based on a comic? It’s borderline, well, genius. “Yes, well . . . not really. It has some of those elements, but I think the bulk of it is based on Lawrence.”
Lelani blinks. “Lawrence?”
“Yeah, I was thinking of the tagline ‘Drag by Night, Vigilante Hero by Later Night.’”
“A . . . drag queen superhero?” There’s no outright judgment; she’s tasting the idea as she says it out loud. Offering the idea to an ethereal panel of judges I can’t see.
“Well, I was thinking through this case how much the queens see in the way of crimes and social justice issues. Drugs, beatings, racial profiling, social intolerance. It would be like Queen Eye for the Straight World, if you’d like. But think of how beautiful this comic could be. The colors. The costumes, the capes. Not to mention the humor!”
Lelani’s mouth quirks up in an uncharacteristic smile. “You are nothing if not surprising, Michael-Grace.”
I decide to take it as a compliment. “Thank you.”
She sits back and draws in a long breath. “Have you pitched this to Andy?”
“No, not yet. I only just came up with it.” I’m pretty sure she’s about to smack down my idea. The more we talk about it, the more ludicrous it seems that she’d go for it. This is completely outside of Genius’s box.
“Well, I like it. I think we should pitch it to Mr. Casey and see what he says.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
She shrugs. “Especially if you roll some of the Golden Arrow vigilante stuff in . . . it’s timely. It’s different. ‘Different’ is good sometimes. Do you have sketches?”
I show her the quickly rendered frame that had lingered in my imagination after my dream.
She looks it over and hands it back with an emphatic nod. “Keep working on it; we’ll need some finished panels to show Casey. Now”—she checks her watch, then pulls a slim tablet notebook out of the folder on her desk—“I’m glad we had a chance to talk about your project, but I have a meeting with the Dubai rights subsidiary committee.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I head back out the door but stop short and turn to look over my shoulder. I kinda can’t believe I’m going to do this, but what the hell. “And thanks for listening about my new project. I appreciate it.”
“It’s what I’m here for. You’re talented, Michael-Grace. It’s not hard. Sometimes you just need direction.”
Lelani is the best mentor I’ve ever had. And not just because she’s a woman—I’ve had countless terrible bosses over my lifetime of both genders. Lelani believes in calling me on my bullshit and pushing me to do better, to be better. At my job as a writer and a contributor for Genius. But also, for my career. She does it without being overly familiar or gal-pal about it—something that is at once both unnerving and refreshing. She would—and probably does—give the same sort of critical and perfectly directed critique to anyone on her team. It’s crazy to picture the working world this way, where I’m seen as an individual with interests and a platform that just happens to be female, rather than as a “female comic book artist.”
I hesitate at the doorway again, and she raises a brow at me in perfect query.
I brace internally, shoving the part of me that is afraid to have Matteo and Lelani in the same room together right over my internal cliff. “I’m having a party for work people on Friday night. To help welcome Paige to the team. You should come. I mean, well, if you can—you’re invited.”
Her eyebrow doesn’t drop, but the corner of her mouth turns up. “Thank you for the invite. I believe I may have another engagement, but I’ll talk to Ryan and see if we can change our plans.”
I offer a small smile in return and attempt to convince myself as I head to my desk that I hope she comes.
CHAPTER 22
“Thank you for bringing the artichoke dip!” I yell out the front door as Kyle and Nina make their way down the walk and toward Kyle’s car.
Nina waves in acknowledgment, and I close the door behind me with a sigh. This is why I never hostess. Hostessing is exhausting. The smells of pizza and artichoke dip still waft from my kitchen, though the shuffle and clanging coming from that room suggest that Matteo is cleaning up, bless him.
“Thank you so much for hosting this party,” Paige says, wheeling from the living room and into the hallway with me.
“Hey, anyone who sides with me about the best comic book movie adaptations is welcome anytime.”
“Thor: Ragnarok forever,” she agrees solemnly.
I smile.
“Although . . . I don’t agree with you on the biggest travesty in adaptation.”
I cover my heart, pretending to take a mortal wound. We’d had a rousing conversation following our viewing of several key Marvel movies leading up to Infinity War as only a group of comic nerds could have.
I groan. “Don’t tell me you side with Tej on that one.”
“The gaffes in Ant-Man defy the physics set forward in the comics,” she says with a shake of her head.
“You obviously just need more convincing.” I say. “Captain America’s whole shield—his powers got changed. Biggest travesty, comics aren’t about real physics. Be that as it may, now that all the menfolk are cleaning up the dishes, come into my sewing parlor for brandy and cigars.” Her chair fills up the doorway, but it’s enough for me to pull up a chair from my desk and show her my work.
She tosses me a look.
“Okay, no brandy or cigars, but there are sewing machines and colored pencils.”
“You had me at sewing machines,” Paige agrees.
I’m surprised when thirty minutes of geeking out about Project Runway flies by like thirty seconds. Paige is easy to talk to and shares so many interests, I have a hard time not making her a friendship bracelet on the spot.
“I do need to go,” she says eventually, after laughing with me over my ridiculous sketches for the chimpanzee comic.
“Oh, okay.” I feel sad that she’s leaving but underst
and as the hour is getting late. I have the insane urge to continue my “thirteen-year-old hosting a party” fantasy and ask her if she wants to pop popcorn and stay for a sleepover.
Matteo meets us at the kitchen entrance. “Are you headed out?”
“Yeah,” Paige yawns. “I’m beat. It’s been a good week but a lot, you know?”
I nod. I know.
“Thanks for inviting me. Our team is pretty nice. Kyle and Nina are cute. Almost gag-worthy, but cute. And Simon is . . . enthusiastic. About everything.”
I giggle, which draws a look of astonishment from Matteo. Man, I’m really channeling this thirteen-year-old, whoever she is. Certainly not thirteen-year-old me, because I’d have been holed up in my room to escape my parents and read comics. I had watched as Simon danced around his obvious growing crush on Paige, mostly by talking alternatingly about LARPing, then deciding that wasn’t cool enough and switching to workout stuff . . . which led to talking about LARPing, and around and around he went.
“He’s sweet. And single.” Look at me. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. “You know, if you’re into the short nerdy boy thing.”
Paige shrugs, but I think I see her smile. It’s hard to read her body language, so I let it go. “So, I’ll see you Monday!”
“Sounds good.” She rolls to the patio door and I unlock it for her—I learned the hard way that my front porch was inaccessible for her, but she assured me that she’s gone in and out of patios for years for that very reason. I’m humbled by the amount of grace she gives the rest of us, bumbling about to accommodate what should be normal. It’s no wonder she’s hard to read sometimes.
I flick on the exterior lights and wave as she rolls around the corner toward the street where she’s parked her van.
As soon as I hear it pull away, I turn the light back off but continue to stare out into the little greenbelt that backs our row of houses.
“What are you thinking about?” Matteo’s voice breaks into my reverie.
I sigh and dunk another glass into the sink. “About how neither Ryan nor Lawrence were here. It’s odd to have a party without either of my best friends. I miss them.”
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 22