Never: A MM, Opposites Attract, Fairy Tale Retelling Romance (The Pennymaker Tales Book 4)

by Tara Lain

  “Sweet Jesus, I’m so nervous.” Laila glanced toward Wen as they carried the last of the presentation boards to the conference room.

  Wen shrugged. “He either likes it or he doesn’t.” Man, didn’t he sound grown up? His stomach was eating itself from the inside. Of course, lying awake all night thinking up things he wished he’d said to Peter didn’t help much.

  Wen bumped open the door with his butt and carried the boards to the easels at the front of the room. They could have put the whole thing into digital, but he wanted the images of the painting and the people to remain constant while the ad itself changed.

  Arnie and Mark already sat at the conference table checking their phones, and they looked up at Wen. Arnie said, “They’re going to be here in five minutes.”

  “We’re ready.”

  Arnie focused back at his screen and muttered, “I doubt if anything could be ready for these idiots.” Interestingly, Arnie hadn’t seen the ad. He said he wanted to be fresh so he could get the client’s point of view. Right. Arnie wanted distance and the ability to say he had nothing to do with any future failures.

  Wen glanced at Mark Allworth, but the CEO stayed neutral-faced. He had seen the ad, pronounced it “interesting and creative,” and exited the conference room after telling Wen it was his baby to present. Talk about being left to hang in the breeze.

  Brock adjusted the projector in the middle of the table, and Wen checked his laptop.

  The intercom buzzed and the receptionist announced, “Mr. Henderson and his party are here.”

  Mark stood. “I’ll get him.” He strode out of the big room, and Laila and the art director, Mickey, both glanced at Wen with saucer eyes.

  Nobody spoke until Mark walked back in, saying over his shoulder to Henderson, “We appreciate this opportunity.”

  Henderson came in with three of his people. One of the women, Sherry Morell, had been with him last time. Sherry looked somewhere between bored and irritated. Great way to start.

  The peanut butter people all sat at the conference table in a line.

  Mark smiled his best CEO smile. “I’m going to leave this in the hands of Wendell Darling, who’s marshaled his team to take some risks and give you a new look, Graham. At the least, I hope you’ll give him points for, uh, guts.”

  Arnie gave a soft snort.

  Henderson flashed a small frown, then returned his face to placidly interested.

  Wen walked to the front of the room. Here goes and what the fuck. “Comfort Foods has taken the next step in peanut butter. Not the heavily processed, additive-laden, sugar-packed substance of the traditional large manufacturers, but also not the easily separated, clumpy, dry, over-processed mess of the health food store. Comfort is actually providing a nourishing, fun, real food at a reasonable price—just for a new generation.” He whipped the cover off the huge board with the photos of the Lost Boys and Tink.

  Henderson’s eyes widened at the photomontage, but he didn’t say anything.

  Wen took a deep breath and nodded at Brock, who turned on the projection system. Wen clicked the video.

  The Lost Boys’ music started, the refrain with the little thread of melancholy. The picture faded up on Peter’s painting. Wen heard a soft intake of breath from someone in the Comfort Foods group.

  A parasol popped into the picture, followed by Tink dressed in her pink leggings, green tutu skirt, and black leather jacket. She leaned away from the parasol as if wind were pulling her. Then one by one the pieces of the painting animated as the Boys danced into the moving art. Wingman twirled on a peanut butter sandwich that morphed into a cloud while Map leaped into the cloud and came out chewing. Comets sailed and galaxies realigned. Peter’s voice soared over the magical montage, proclaiming that happiness looks a lot like you. The whole piece culminated in a whirling dervish of sound, color, and delight and then ended with Peter, his face turned to the side, flying above Samu’s head as the theme simplified and slowed until he sailed off from Samu’s arm, flying on his own into the heart of the universe. The music stilled and the camera held on the painting as the parasol closed. The caption faded in. Rethink everything. Comfort Peanut Butter.

  Wen pulled the cover from Peter’s painting and stood silently.

  Henderson stared at the art. Sherry Morell’s expression was unreadable—but it sure as fuck wasn’t bored.

  Mark cleared his throat, and Arnie gave a soft snort.

  Mark said, “So you can see our people have had a little—“

  Henderson held up a hand. “Who painted that?”

  Wen swallowed. “The artist has asked to remain anonymous, but I assure you we have all necessary releases.”

  “Anonymous?” He frowned.

  “Yes, sir. That was actually a condition of the contract.”

  “And the models?”

  “Are from the band that was singing. They’re called the Lost Boys.”

  “Where in the hell did you come up with this?”

  Arnie gave a nasty little chuckle, and Henderson shot him a look.

  What the fuck? Strong and wrong. “I saw a sample of the artist’s work and knew it was the right look to create an entirely new brand identity for Comfort.”

  “And if we needed another painting from this artist, we could get it?”

  Wen felt his mouth open, and he forced it closed then said. “Yes, I’m sure we could.” He hoped like hell.

  A smile started at one corner of Henderson’s mouth as it spread like the peanut butter he manufactured. “This is the most original, captivating, and working idea I’ve seen—ever.”

  Mark threw his hands up. “There you have it. We knew you’d resonate to this unique approach, Graham. We feel the team has done an amazing job under Arnie’s watchful eye. This was a chance for them to really show their stuff to their leader.”

  Arnie sat back. “We’re delighted you like it, Graham. Do you want to come down to Mark’s office and discuss next steps?” He carefully looked nowhere near Wen.

  Henderson frowned just a little. His eyes flicked to Wen, then back to Arnie and Mark. “No, I’d like to see it again.”

  How can you feel like you’ve been hugged and run over by a truck at the same time? So is the deal that I get to keep my job if I give up credit for the ad to Arnie? Biting the edge of his tongue, Wen pushed the Play button.

  Henderson stared at the screen while everyone else in the room stared at him. When it was done, he leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “There are going to be some damned disappointed agencies.” He looked up at Wen. “This is brilliant. Beyond brilliant. You’ve given me a whole new identity for my brand. The only issue will be the anonymity of the artist. We need this person to participate, because I want to capitalize on this look for everything we do. New packaging. New merchandise. Hell, there could be a spinoff motion picture in this somewhere.” He looked around and waved a hand. “So get this painter on board, because I’m ready to commit to an entirely new campaign.”

  Mark’s whole face lit up like a neon sign saying Mercedes Benz on sale for $25, today only. Arnie, however, glanced at Wen with pure hate.

  Wen tried to focus on the celebratory I’m keeping my job dinner he’d brought home to share with the kids. Chinese. John dug into moo shu vegetables while Michaela chewed cashew chicken, but Wen had barely taken a bite since his damned phone kept buzzing with messages from the office. Neither Arnie not Mark knew the first thing about the ads—but they wanted to pretend to Henderson they were on top of it. Did it piss him off? Oh yeah. Enough to tell them to shove his job up their advertising asses? Maybe not.

  John dished chicken onto his plate, chewed, and talked at once. “So the peanut butter guy really liked the ad, right?”

  Wen looked up from his phone. “Yeah. I guess he had to turn down two other agencies that were in the finals so he could go with us. That even included Wellington, and they’re considered the best in the business.” He was just bragging.

  “That’s
so cool.” He gave Wen a high five.

  Michaela asked, “What did he like best?”

  “The painting, I think. But he really liked all of it. He didn’t tell us to change anything. In fact, he wants more.”

  “More?” She raised a brow.

  “Yeah. More ads in the campaign, plus maybe new packaging for the product to tie it in. They’ll probably wait to test the concept before going that far.”

  “Does that mean more art?”

  Wen glanced at her and then away. “They want that, yes. But maybe we can just do close-ups on different parts of the painting we have.”

  Her brows dove down until they rested right above her big eyes. “Didn’t you promise Peter you’d keep everything secret?”

  “Yes, but it’s possible he could do another painting or two without coming out from behind the curtain.”

  John nodded. “I bet he’d paint more. So how come he’s not here? I mean, it’s his celebration too. Shouldn’t you call him and ask him over?”

  “Uh, no. He’ll know since he’ll get more money. Him and the Lost Boys.”

  John froze his fork hand halfway to his mouth and stared at Wen. “Peter doesn’t care about money. You know that.”

  Peter doesn’t care about a lot of things—including me. “Peter should care about money since he has to pay rent and eat and survive. Hell, he could go to art school and make something of himself if he’d just focus on things that matter.”

  John slammed his fork down. “What do you mean? Peter’s already someone. He’s a great artist and the lead singer of the Lost Boys! Peter doesn’t have to care about stupid stuff like other people.”

  Wen gritted his teeth. “That stupid stuff puts food in your mouth, John!”

  John gasped, and Michaela stared at him wide-eyed.

  Shit! It was just normal hero worship. “I’m sorry. I know how much you like Peter. I like him too. But the world doesn’t run on Peter’s values. Somebody has to pay the bills.” Peter’s voice calling Wen an old man bounced around in his brain. “Finish your dinner. I brought frozen yogurt.”

  John’s wide blue eyes blinked hard. “I don’t want any, thank you. I’m going to bed.” He pushed back his chair, stood, and marched toward the bedroom.

  Wen half wanted to shake him and half to hug him. John did not turn down dessert, and he never went to bed at 8:00 p.m. without a fight.

  Michaela put a hand on his arm. “Let him go. He really loves Peter and the Boys. I think they remind him of Mom.”

  He frowned. “And why is that a good thing?”

  “Wen, you suffered because of how she was. Me too, sometimes. But to John, she was like a tropical bird or something. She was funny and fun and larger than life, and she gave him presents.”

  “When she wasn’t leaving him alone to play with matches.” He clamped his jaw to keep from screaming.

  “But he never got hurt because you were there to protect him. He only remembers the good stuff, and he misses it.”

  “I know.” He shook his head. “But I hate to see him make a hero out of—” He wiped a hand over his curls. “—you know.”

  “Irresponsible people. Yes, I know. You never get to be his hero because you’re the one who takes care of him. But he loves you more than anyone, Wen.”

  Funny, it didn’t feel like it. “I like Peter too.”

  She smiled and patted his arm. “I know. I’m sorry he’s let you down.”

  He glanced up at her. “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged. “Makes sense. You two are as so different, you’re bound to disappoint each other.”

  Wow. Could he trade that assessment for some alternate facts?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peter powered through the door of Neverland. Late for rehearsal. He’d felt like someone kicked him and stepped on his puppy ever since he ran out of Wen’s two nights before. Jesus, can’t live with him. Can’t kill him. It’d be so much easier if Peter could just forget the asshole, but—yeah, but. But Wen lit Peter up like a Times Square sign—his curiosity, his passion for beauty and truth, his trustworthiness and reliability.

  A lot of that also drove Peter nuts.

  Ahead of him on the stage, the Lost Boys’ instruments were set up, but no Boys. What the hell?

  He rounded a table. Wait. The Boys and Tink were all squatting or kneeling on the floor. Peter started to jog. As he got closer, he could hear them.

  “Come on, Dudish, open your eyes. You can’t go to sleep.”

  “Give him more water.”

  “I’m going to kill that asshole.”

  Peter stopped beside the group and looked down at Dudish lying with his beautiful head in Samu’s lap. Out. Of. It. “What the fuck happened?”

  Wingman looked up with a vicious glare. “You know what happened.”

  Peter gritted his teeth, turned on his heel, and stalked toward Smee’s office. He knocked.

  “Come in.”

  He wanted to kick the damned door, the walls, and Smee, but for one thing, he wasn’t alone, and for another, more flies with honey and all that shit. Peter hung on the doorframe. “Hi. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Oh, hello, Peter.” Smee smiled like Peter was at least his nephew. Asshole. He turned to his guest. “This is the singer for our phenomenal club band, the Lost Boys. Peter Panachek, meet Carstairs Pennymaker.”

  The man turned in his chair, then stood. Most of the partiers at Neverland set new records in wild and eccentric, but this guy outdid them all. No more than an inch or two over five feet, the tiny man wore a red-and-green plaid suit with a black-and-white checked vest, a floral tie, and a carnation in his buttonhole. On his head perched a hat that would likely have been called a fedora.

  Carstairs Pennymaker extended a hand. “Delightful, my dear. Delightful. Peter Pan—achek, indeed. I shall have to hear you sing.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Who was this guy?

  “What can I do for you, Peter?” Smee folded his hands paternally.

  Peter tried to control the frown and failed. Try to make this matter to Smee. “Uh, Dudish won’t be singing again tonight—” A crease popped in the middle of Smee’s forehead, and Peter held up a hand. “—for the usual damned reason. I’m sorry, but you have to get this, uh, situation under control.”

  Smee glanced toward Pennymaker and back at Peter. “Well, yes. I’ll make that a priority, Peter.”

  Funny. Smee seemed to care about Pennymaker’s opinion. It made Peter itch. No strangers. Especially not ones interested in him. “Thanks.”

  “But you’ll be singing, correct?”

  “Yes, but you know I don’t sing as well as Dudish on the ballads.”

  Smee looked at Pennymaker. “One of our lead singers is extraordinary, but he has a bit of an, uh, allergy problem.”

  Right, he’s allergic to uppers and downers. Peter crossed his arms.

  Smee waved a hand. “But the girls do love him. Of course, they love Peter too.”

  Peter exhaled loudly. “In my case it’s misplaced, but we need Dudish, and somebody has to get a handle on his damned, uh, allergies.” He nodded at Pennymaker. “Good to meet you.” He turned and stomped out, rounded the corner in the hall, and ran straight into Hooker. “Oh!”

  “Easy does it, pretty baby. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “To rehearse.” He set his jaw. “I have to do all the singing tonight since Dudish is totally fucking out of it.” He glanced at Hooker, then looked away. Shit, it pissed him off he couldn’t hold the man’s eyes.

  Hooker raised his curved brows. “Some people have no self-control.”

  “Yeah, and some people take advantage of it.”

  Hooker pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m a businessman, Peter. Besides, if I wasn’t available to Dudish, he’d just find someone else to sell him the product he wants, and that could be substantially worse.”

  He wanted to scream “But it would be so much harder!” He didn’t. He just nodded once and walked
away.

  Scary was scary.

  He walked back toward the stage, where most of the guys were now gathering, but Peter could feel Hooker’s eyes on his back.

  A door to the lobby opened, and Ratface, one of the bouncers, stuck his head in. “Hey, Peter. I got something I think belongs to you.”

  Peter stopped and looked back. “Oh? What?”

  Ratface pulled his arm forward through the door—dragging John. What the hell?

  “He says he’s a friend of yours.”

  “Uh, yeah, he is.” Peter hurried toward where John stood half suspended from Ratface’s big hand. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Peter.”

  “Let him go, RF, I’ll take care of him.”

  “Okay, Peter, but get him out of here way before we open. He’s not legal.”

  “Got it.” Peter took John’s arm and led him toward where the Boys were tuning their instruments and kibitzing on the stage. He pushed John into a seat at one of the tables and sat beside him. “How did you get here?”

  John grinned. “Walked.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

  “I came after.”

  “Why? What are you doing here?”

  The grin flipped, and he scowled. “I came to tell you that the peanut butter guy loved your painting, and Wen kept his job, and it’s going to be a big success.”

  “Okay, well, there are phones.” Peter smiled to make it not so harsh.

  John bounded to his feet and threw his hands in the air. “But Wen has your number, and he won’t use it. And I thought you should know. It’s your painting! Heck, you saved Wen’s job. It’s going to be huge!”

  Peter laughed until the silky, icy voice came from over his shoulder. “What’s going to be huge? And who, may I ask, have we here?”

  John looked up, and his indignant face faded into—suspicion? Fright?

  Triple gold-plated shit! Peter affixed a calm and friendly expression on his face and turned to Hooker. “Hi, Vadon. This is my friend John. I invited him to stop by and see the rehearsal after school.”

  Hooker smiled. Yeah, shark’s teeth. “Did they check his ID?”