I whip open the door and am immediately met with a wave of humidity. The sun breaks through a heavy mist, and it feels and smells like an urban jungle. I can hear a soft drizzle falling on the large broad leaves of the plants near the curb. I swear and swiftly turn around. I can’t risk my pages, carefully placed in my bag the night before, getting wet. The messenger bag is waterproof, supposedly, but I’m not keen to put it to the test for an entire bike ride this morning. Not only that, but my hair would never survive. Bedhead can be masked. Drenched hair, not so much.
I reach inside the door, snag my keys, and hurry to my brown 1990-something Ford Aspire. “Come on, baby. Come on, baby.”
I crank the key twice and am rewarded with the rich perfume of a flooded line but also the sputtering of the engine coming to life.
“One of these days I’m going to have to replace you.” I pet the wheel as I pull out onto Santa Bonita Avenue and speed toward the freeway. That purchase has to wait until I pay off my college loans. Until then, it’s the Hurtling Turd, as I affectionately call the Ford. I just can’t warrant spending money on a car when I use my bike 90 percent of the year.
I’m lucky in avoiding too much gridlock, probably because everyone else is already at work. The car screeches into a parking spot outside my building—literally. I have to push the accelerator while I’m braking, or the engine dies. And that’s when it starts raining.
I’m trying to gather up all my meeting prep and dash into the building, while pulling out my ID under the tiny canopy, when my phone vibrates and my cup of coffee topples off the top of the stack. I look down and see the splatter of my breakfast like a body laid out on the concrete.
“Dammit!” I yell, but there’s nothing to do but heft open the door and get my bag and self in out of the downpour. I all but fall into the front entrance, where I find the group of executives I’m supposed to be meeting. They look polished. I look like Tinkerbell went through a car wash. Fan-frickin-tastic.
“There you are, MG! This meeting was supposed to start seven minutes ago.” It’s Andy, and he looks alarmed at my late arrival. Or maybe alarmed at my arrival in general, given my soaked and coffee-splattered appearance.
He’s managed to tame his flyaway long curls and wears a suit jacket. He looks like a polished supervisor should, ready to present our team’s work. I’m never late. I’m never anything but polished and together. Especially for a meeting with the main executives of Genius. It’s what I do. It’s who I am at work. Show no weakness, give no quarter, prove women are up to all tasks, not just getting coffee.
Except this morning.
I’m at a loss to explain myself with the truth, not without going into the lunatic theory of a real-life vigilante superhero or a thirty-year-old journal keeping me awake at night. I start to mutter something pithy about the rain and my prints and make my way through the open conference room door.
“Honey, you left your coffee in the car,” a voice cuts me off mid-explanation. Already the executives are looking over my shoulder at the door behind me.
Andy’s face registers shock, then something like . . . glee? “Oh. Oh. Hello again.”
I whirl around because I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m going to find a tall, dark, and handsome tea drinker behind me.
“You—” I sputter, unable to form words. I’m infuriated he’s witnessing my bedraggled situation and at the same time mortified to find I’m almost glad to see him. My gladness slips into nerves, eyes darting to where Simon and Kyle stand. Has Matteo somehow figured out that I’ve kept my suspicions about them a secret? Has he found out that I’m in possession of copies from a secret notebook? Maybe I’m under arrest. I do not love the slightly sexy daydream that plays out in my head entertaining that thought. I’m obviously delusional, paranoid, and desperately in need of my morning coffee. I try again to speak. “You—”
“Are too sweet. Yes, I know. Have a good day at work, pumpkin.” He throws me a look that says he’s apologetic about cutting me off, but then, to add insult to injury, he gives Andy a conspirator’s smile. “I’m sorry she’s late. Completely my fault.”
The peanut gallery . . . no, my bosses titter.
Andy seems at a loss for words. “Um, yes, well, collect your things for the meeting, MG, and we’ll see you inside.” He hesitates, then winks at me. The group of executives, led by Casey Junior, heads toward the boardroom amid laughing and storytelling at my expense. My reputation is burning up and crashing to the surface like the USS Enterprise on Veridian III.
My fury from my morning implodes—detonation starting in T minus two seconds. OHT called me honey. In front of my boss. And pumpkin. And what the hell, also insinuated again that he and I are dating. No. More than dating. My mouth flaps open and shut. There are literally so many words I want to spew, they’re stuck in the back of my throat. This man has cut me off for the last time. “The hell are you doing coming into my work?”
Matteo leans in while I wind up for the pitch and gives me a hug. His lips graze the sensitive spot just under my earlobe as he mutters, “You and I need to talk. It’s important. I did try to call you.”
I shove him backward. “I don’t answer my phone, and you didn’t need to make my bosses think I was late because we were . . . you know,” I hiss back.
Matteo thinks a moment, and I can tell he’s replaying the conversation in his head. The skin around his collar grows blotchy. “Okay. Maybe I could have chosen better words—much better words. I didn’t mean to undermine you. I’m sorry. I don’t usually have to contact our consultants like this, but it’s time sensitive. I brought a peace offering?” He hands me a steaming-hot paper cup. I smell cinnamon. Damn this man and his knowledge of my weakness. My hand reaches out and takes the cup automatically. “If it’s okay, I’ll pick you up for lunch? We can talk then.”
“No.”
“I really think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”
I hesitate. And finally nod my head. Then he gives me a wink and squeezes my elbow before amping up his voice. The man could be a damn actor. “Go get ’em, tiger.” He gives Simon and Kyle a mock salute and walks back out the door.
Kyle and Simon have matching grins spreading across their faces. I am now the butt of every joke I never wanted to be a part of.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” I snap. And damn if I don’t hear one of them laugh as I bolt down the hallway to the elevator.
Once the jokes die down, the meeting starts out well enough. Kyle, Simon, Andy, and I present green-light ideas for the smaller comic series we write individually. My pet project, Hero Girls, is the bestselling girls’ comic book on the market. Unfortunately for me, comics aimed directly at tween girls make up the lower portion of the sales chart, a fact Edward Casey Junior brings up twice during my eloquent, insult-free speech. I’ve practiced my approach tirelessly. I’m not going to screw up this time; I’m as complimentary and politically correct as I can manage—the very epitome of what an art director at a major company should be. My presentation turns into a conversation about reducing my time on Hero Girls in favor of Kyle’s more lucrative project while I lobby that the only way girls’ comics will gain market share is to present more of them with relevant social topics. In the end, my brilliant idea for an offshoot limited-run graphic novel about origin stories is completely shot down. I avoided using the word “douchenozzle,” which was on the tip of my tongue, and I deserve a damn Tony for that performance. But this is what being a leader is, right? Sure, sometimes I get a tad combative about my ideas because I’m passionate, but this morning it can hardly be considered my fault. Yet I refrained. I won this round . . . well, not really won but avoided catastrophe. And the next part of the meeting is what will make it or break it for me. I’ve groomed the Hooded Falcon idea just for Casey, and I am sure he is going to love my historic reboot.
I tuck the Hero Girls pages back into my folder, deflated but not surprised. Casey Junior has hated Hero Girls since the beginning. The on
ly reason he lets me keep working on it is the interest Netflix has in a possible TV spin-off. I leaf through the pages and catch sight of the Hooded Falcon sketch. It’s gritty, loose in all the right ways. It shows action, and it uses many of the vintage stylings for text and action tags. It’s the perfect cross of the modern hero and all that makes vintage comics popular. My heart lifts again. This is the idea I had while talking to Matteo, and my gut says that it’s going to put me on the board.
It’s still drizzling outside, and I fight to keep my mind on the meeting. It’s the kind of day when I like to curl up and daydream plot ideas or sketch costumes, but this morning’s encounter with Matteo has me rattled. I keep thinking about his voice in my ear instead of focusing on the single most important meeting I’ve had in a long time. It’s unlike me. Instead, I fill my head with possible story lines for my historic reboot. Maybe I’ll pitch a few to show Casey Junior just how prepared I am. To show him how dedicated I am. My mind runs down a rabbit trail of stories, and I scribble madly on the side of my notes, nearly cackling with personal pleasure at the sheer genius I’m channeling at the moment.
It takes a moment of silence around the table to draw my attention back to Andy. He’s stopped talking, and everyone is staring expectantly at me. My brain flies into overdrive, and I try to piece together the last words I heard.
“I agree,” I say as firmly as I can. Authority is good in an art director, right?
Edward Casey Junior sits forward and steeples his fingers on the table. “I’m glad you agree with Andy’s proposition that you go first. So would you like to present your ideas for The Hooded Falcon, or would you like us to come back to you?”
Thor’s hammer. I mentally shake myself and gather my professionalism around me like a cape. I can do this. Small bobble. Back on the horse, or the speeder bike, or whatever. “Yes, of course.” There. Perfect delivery. Professional. Not at all apologetic like I’ve been daydreaming.
I flick copies of the panel I drew last night across the table. Andy catches sight of the panel and shoots me a look. This is the idea he didn’t like. I do, though, and if I’m going to be art director, I have to learn to take risks. Champion my own cause. March to my own drummer.
“The current direction of The Hooded Falcon differs from where the comic started, what originally made it popular. I’m proposing a historic reboot. A story line that would take us back to the roots of The Hooded Falcon, away from the c—” I stop myself short of calling what we’ve been currently writing crap. “—current story line with the alien overlord and back to social justice. We can reawaken the love people had for the first series, especially those that have stopped reading the comic because it’s so different. I want to bring back an old story line but in a unique way, using current crimes to copycat the Falcon’s iconic battles.”
Edward Casey Junior frowns, shifts in his seat, then tucks the panel into his notes. It’s a death knell. “I don’t see how that would tie in with the current story line.”
Ah. I prepared for this. “It wouldn’t have to be in canon. It could be a time to use a special issue—”
Casey Junior waves his hand, not even hearing me out. “I want to keep continuity, especially with the video game coming out.” He looks at me, his gaze inscrutable. “Someone up for an art director position would need to think globally about marketing, product branding, and momentum.”
Was that a dig at my proposal or my application for promotion? Or both? Dammit, I was prepared for this, and he didn’t even listen to me. Everything I rehearsed, the story lines I brainstormed. All wasted.
There’s a rustling of paper as the other executives follow suit and tuck my beautiful rendering of a modern Hooded Falcon into the notes from the meeting. I’ve been dismissed. Color me Batman in Knightfall. I’m fighting the good fight but getting my rear end handed to me. How does this keep happening? My ideas are good, dammit.
“But—”
Casey Junior has already moved on and looks at Andy expectantly. Instead of moving ahead and presenting his own green-light proposal, though, Andy glances down at my drawing.
“Retro is in these days,” Andy starts, as if he knows anything about what is “in these days.” The guy thinks Hawaiian shirts are the height of fashion. “Everyone is into reboots. Star Trek, Sherlock, Batman. We’d be missing out if we didn’t capitalize on what’s popular.”
I snort. Hadn’t I just said that? Sure, I said we needed to move away from the current story line, but what I meant was adding a retro flair. That was obvious when I said historic reboot. Historic equals retro. Retro is popular.
I expect the same rebuff, but Casey Junior nods thoughtfully at Andy.
Andy sees the nod and continues, patently avoiding eye contact with me. “Jumping off MG’s idea, what if we did a reboot celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of The Hooded Falcon? A limited-run graphic novel. It wouldn’t have to be in the main story line. Something fun like the Falcon solving the same kind of crimes from the original series. Get people thinking about the good old days of comics—nostalgia? It would tie in perfectly with the anniversary, and we could keep continuity in the canon for the video game.”
What. The. Hell? That’s my idea. No, my ideas. The limited-run graphic novel from Hero Girls, mashed with my idea for the classic reboot and the copycat crimes. Mine, mine, mine. Sure, Andy somehow managed to make it sound flashier than I had in my presentation, but surely everyone at the table realizes that Andy just presented my idea again. The idea they’d just shot down. The idea he shot down last Friday. My mouth flaps open then closed. “Jump off MG’s idea” my ass. “Switched a few words and served it up” was more like it.
Casey doesn’t bat an eye. “I like that. We could market it as limited edition, crank up the price. It will appeal to our major market.” Casey Junior drums his fingers on the glass-topped table once, then bangs his hand down, making the glasses of water and coffee jump. “Done. Have your team move forward on it. Good thinking, Andrew.”
I can’t just let this pass. “Sir. I—” Half the heads swivel in my direction. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Accuse Andy of stealing my idea? Rail against them for giving Andy the time to respond to his criticism and not me?
Andy sees the look on my face and knows I’m about to out him. He also can probably read in my face that I’m gearing up to make a scene worthy of a comic book panel: KAPOW—MG slugs her newly minted nemesis across the table. I push myself out of my chair so fast, I startle the man next to me.
Andy’s Adam’s apple bobs frantically, panic etched on his face. “Thank you, sir,” he says, whipping his attention back to Casey Junior. “But it wasn’t just me. I mean, MG had the idea for the limited edition.”
He might have just saved his own sorry butt. I relax backward, just an inch, as he prepares to continue his confessional. Maybe Andy had just been trying to help me defend my project?
Casey Junior doesn’t let him finish, though. He waves his hand. “Spoken like a true director. Of course it’s a team effort, but it takes a special someone to take the individual strengths and ideas and put them into one cohesive plan for the product. It’s something an art director would do. Now, I hope one of your remaining team members has a good suggestion for the next arc for the current Falcon story line?”
“Team effort, yes. Exactly that,” Andy parrots back and gives me a small smile like that’s going to soothe my soul. The soul that at this very second is burning with such ferocity, the Human Torch would be jealous.
Not only has he stolen my ideas; he’s getting praised for stealing them. It also sounds suspiciously like he’s getting my promotion because of my ideas. It’s unacceptable. I won’t stand for it. I’ll stay after the meeting and talk to Casey Junior privately.
Kyle and Simon are sinking in their seats; they know I’m about to explode. They were privy to the conversation in our team meeting when Andy told me my idea was boring. Andy suggested we bring in one of the other superheroes for a team st
orytelling arc, like Superman versus Batman. Which would be great if that hadn’t been done by our competition three times last year.
In fact, that’s the very idea that Simon presents—which, of course, Casey eats up. Andy must be feeling pretty good about himself. Jerk. It fuels my fire just thinking about him getting promoted, and I don’t even listen to Kyle’s presentation. I’m too busy stocking up my defense arsenal in my head.
Casey Junior says he has an announcement, but when it’s not about the art director job, I quit listening again. Something about a new vice president of marketing. I look around as everyone else in the room rises with Casey. They’re all gathering into some sort of receiving line. We’ve never done this for a new VP before, but I’m okay with it. It means I can get to Casey Junior without seeming pushy or overbearing.
“I’d like you to meet Lelani Kalapuani, our new vice president of marketing. She’ll be attending the team meetings from now on and will be helping us select the art director.” Casey claps Andy on the shoulder in unofficial congratulations as he says this.
Fury nearly blinds me. I’m near him now, at the back of the group of executives gathered around the main door to the conference room. “Sir—”
Casey glances at his Apple watch, then up at me. “I have another meeting in here in five, Michael.”
I grit my teeth and push onward. Do or do not; there is no try. “Sir, I need to talk to you about the ideas I presented. It’s important.”
Casey sighs, and his gaze meets mine for the briefest of moments. “Yes, yes. I realize that I may have been a bit unfair in the meeting today.”
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 6