I've Got This

by Louisa Masters

  Win. Things are finally going my way. “Fantastic. Okay, let’s get back to it. We’ll review tomorrow at eight, and hopefully everything will go right between now and then.”

  Dimi heads back to his desk, and I log on to my laptop for the first time today. The first thing I see is a message from Grant.

  Heard about your fubar. Let me know if you need me to carry anything.

  I can’t help but smile. Grant is one of the other ADs, and probably the colleague I’m closest to—in fact, I think you could say we’re friends. He got promoted to the job after the last AD—the one who fucked up earlier this year—got kicked out. He should probably have had the job to begin with when it opened a year ago, but the gossip Dimi found out for me was that HR opted for the other guy because they were worried having two gay ADs would “send a message.”

  I know. Completely fucked, right? The other guy was just as qualified, and although his employment record wasn’t quite as stellar as Grant’s, he’d been at JU longer, so officially there was no cause to question his promotion. You know, until he completely dropped the ball, screwed the pooch, or whatever other lame cliché you want to use. The unofficial reason Grant didn’t get the job is especially stupid because JU has always had a really great diversity policy—after all, our recently deceased founder, Edwin Joy, was a gay black man. He didn’t come out until late in life, but he always made damn sure that his company was as inclusive as he could make it.

  Grant’s a genuinely good guy—case in point, today is his first day back after two weeks’ vacation, and the last thing he needs to be doing is taking on any crap from my district.

  Actually, on that note….

  I pick up my phone and call him.

  “Hey.” He answers immediately. “You need a drink yet?”

  “Hell yeah, but I’m holding off until I get home.” I chuckle. Truth is, I’m kind of scared to have a drink, just in case something else goes wrong. I need to be in full possession of my faculties right now. “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks. I thought things were crazy in my office after being away, but then I heard about yours, and suddenly it seemed like a spa retreat in here.” Someone murmurs in the background. “Derek, can I call you back?”

  “No need—I just wanted to ask if you’ve seen your events and marketing plan for next year yet. They had the meeting while you were out, didn’t they?” I remember that because Grant complained several times about evarketing’s lack of flexibility to schedule the meeting. In the end, he reluctantly agreed to let his team handle it, subject to his final approval, of course.

  “Not yet—I’m probably taking it home with me tonight. Or I’ll get to it tomorrow. Why?” There’s a note of dread in his voice. He knows what’s coming. This is not the kind of thing I’d just casually call to ask him.

  “Bump it up the list, buddy, because you’re going to want to call Toby and Elise once you start reading it.”

  He groans, thanks me, and says he’ll call later in the week. Before I disconnect, I hear him telling someone to push back his next meeting.

  Right. What’s next?

  IT’S AFTER six before I’ve cleared my desk enough to head over to the park. I’m just telling Gina to leave—total workaholic, that woman, would probably stay all night if I didn’t chase her out—when Toby comes around the corner.

  “Derek, you got a minute?” He looks kind of sheepish.

  “Sure, walk with me. I gotta get to the park. Gina, I mean now, not ‘in a minute,’” I tell her sternly. She grins, but I know she’ll head home.

  Toby and I start walking toward the main door to the parking lot. It’s not a short walk because this building is only three floors but has to house all the administrative and support staff needed for JU—which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is a fuckton.

  “I just want to apologize,” he starts, and my estimation of him rises again. It takes guts to be up-front about being wrong. “You were right about the plan. The truth is, we got so caught up in the dramas earlier this year”—no need to say which dramas; I’ve just had a murder and a massive staffing crisis on the same day, but that still can’t compare to having to close a park—“and the plans slipped off the priority list. By the time we got back to them, we were running way late and… well, you know.”

  “Yeah.” I make sure to sound sympathetic. I think Toby’s an idiot for letting that happen, but fact is, people can make mistakes, and I’m going to need to work with him in future. I need him to not hate my guts. “I know how quickly things can spiral out of control.” Cue self-deprecating laugh. “And, buddy, you know I wish I hadn’t had to be such a dick today, but….” I let it trail off, because I don’t need to reiterate how utterly crap the plan was.

  “No,” he says firmly, “you were completely right to call us on it. Ken would never have approved it, and if Grant had been here for his meeting, we would have already been revising before you even heard about it.” Another sheepish look. “He saw it this afternoon, and his reaction was almost identical to yours. It was real quiet in his team’s offices too.”

  I can imagine. Not only did his team tentatively okay that plan, they failed to raise any concerns with him. If something like that had gone to my team while I was on vacay, I would expect them to call me ASAP, no matter where I was—Aruba, Africa, or the moon.

  “Well, it’s done now. You guys are gonna have a tough enough time trying to come up with a new plan this week without me making you rehash it. Let’s put it behind us,” I say firmly. “I appreciate that you took the time to apologize, though.”

  He flashes me a smile as we reach the elevator lobby. Normally I’d take the stairs—it’s only two flights, and every time I use them is a couple minutes less doing cardio at the gym—but taking stairs two at a time is not conducive to conversation.

  “So why are you headed to the park?” Toby asks. “Not another problem?” He hits the call button for the elevator.

  “Nah, I just want to check on things, make sure it’s all running as smoothly as I’ve been told—mostly just be visible to the staff. Plus, I may have told one of the fill-in performers that I’d check in.” Shit. What the hell made me mention that?

  “Oh?” The elevator arrives, and in the fluorescent glare of the lights as we step in, Toby’s eyes gleam. “Something there?”

  I force a laugh. “Hardly. The guy hated my guts.”

  Silence. I glance over to see surprise on Toby’s face.

  “He hated you?” he asks finally. “I didn’t think anyone could hate you. I mean, this afternoon I wanted to smack you in the face and poison your coffee, but I still didn’t hate you.”

  I take that in, make a mental note not to accept coffee from Toby anytime soon, and shrug. “Well, the second we were introduced, he was all attitude. Dimi says Pete’s reports about him were all glowing, and nobody else seemed to have problems with him, so….” It’s even more depressing when I spell it out like that. Some random guy I never met couldn’t wait to get away from me.

  “What’s his name?” Toby’s nose is almost twitching, he’s that keen for the gossip. Oh well, I’ll throw him a bone. Who cares, anyway? Maybe it will make people like me more if they think someone hates me against all reason.

  “Trav Jones.” Shit, did I say that too fast? Should I have hesitated, maybe pretended I didn’t remember?

  Toby gasps. Actually gasps.

  “Trav Jones? You have Trav Jones performing at Planet Joy in some hokey kids’ show?”

  The elevator doors open, but I hesitate. I know I haven’t lived in New York for ten years, but I still get up there occasionally, and I try to keep up with all the latest Broadway hoopla. After all, we eventually get all the hit shows in the village, so if I don’t know what’s taking Broadway by storm, how will I know what I need to see? And so if Trav is so noteworthy, why haven’t I heard of him before?

  “Do you know him?” I ask. Shit, has living in backwoods Georgia totally disconnected me from the world I used to
know?

  “Not personally,” Toby admitted, “but I’ve been meaning to go over and introduce myself since I heard he was coming with Day Dot from New York. A few of the shows he’s been in have come down here, but he’s never traveled with them. He’s… he’s one of the backbones of Broadway.”

  Wow. I mean really, wow. That’s a hell of a statement, considering the range of amazingly talented actors and dancers on Broadway, and even more so since Trav didn’t look to me to be older than twenty-five.

  “I haven’t heard of him,” I admit, feeling completely lacking. “I thought I knew of everyone who’s been in a starring role in a decent show during the past thirty years.” Yes, I’ve been geeking out over theater since I was that young.

  We’re just standing in the lobby now, the few people who are still around just flowing around us as we talk. I have to get to the park, but I’m not missing this insight into the guy who hates my guts.

  “He hasn’t been in a starring role.” Toby drops that bombshell as if it was nothing, as if he hadn’t just called the guy one of the backbones of Broadway.

  Right. I don’t have time to stand around chatting so Toby can drip-feed me information and get his own gossip fodder.

  I flash a smile. “I guess I need to get up to New York again soon, catch up on what’s happening. Oh well, I gotta get going—I’ll talk to you later, yeah, Toby?” I’m striding away before he can even answer, tossing a wave over my shoulder.

  My car is right near the door, so I barely have time to get my phone out of my pocket and open the web browser app before I reach it. I type in Trav’s name, adding “Broadway” for good measure, hit Search, and then toss my phone on the passenger seat and start the engine.

  I’m not looking until I get to the park.

  I back out of my parking spot and head toward the lot exit.

  I’m not.

  There’s no traffic coming, so I pull onto the road and head in the direction of the park.

  I’m really not.

  I get maybe halfway there before I cave.

  Okay, it’s a little less than halfway. I’ve driven this road enough times to know exactly where the halfway point is, and I haven’t reached it yet. But I can’t wait any longer. I pull over, put the car in park, and snatch up my phone. Technically there’s no stopping anywhere on the complex roads, so I only have a little while before security comes to move me along.

  Wow. Trav’s got more hits than I would have expected for someone who’s never had a starring role. Several are links to articles about shows he’s been in, but there are also a bunch of entertainment sites, and what looks like a fan site.

  I click into a site for a reputable New York media outlet specializing in theater. It leads me to an article called “Behind the Scenes with Trav Jones,” and I skim avidly. It’s actually an interesting piece, giving a basic profile (he’s twenty-seven, so I wasn’t too far off with his age), talking briefly about his upbringing and education (he’s actually a New York native, like me), before going on to discuss the roles he’s been in.

  None of them are starring. They’re all support roles… but good ones. Meaty ones. Interesting sidekicks. Funny best friends. The villain’s wisecracking henchman who turns good in the end. And from the notations beside each role, he’s been critically acclaimed—as much as supporting actors on Broadway are. He’s even been nominated twice for a Tony for Best Featured Actor in a Musical.

  There is a short Q&A section where Trav and the journalist talk about the roles he liked best and his ambitions for the future. Trav was fairly generic there, saying he wants to portray a wide variety of characters and explore all the flexibility Broadway has to offer.

  But it’s the last few paragraphs that interest me the most. The journalist gives a short editorial on Trav:

  To many who haunt Broadway’s every premiere, Trav Jones is a familiar figure. I know I’ve seen him in many shows, and every time he has delivered a performance beyond what could be expected of the role. At the beginning of his career, I and my friends told each other, “This guy is going places.” We fully expected to see his name in lights within a few short years. So why hasn’t it happened yet?

  It’s not due to lack of opportunity. Though it’s not a widely known fact, Jones has turned down, at the time of this article, three offers for leading roles—that I can confirm. The actual number is rumored among Broadway insiders to be more than double that. Why, we ask, would an actor not want to be a Broadway star? Jones isn’t saying. In fact, when I asked, he smiled and changed the subject.

  Whatever the reason, while it has denied us the pleasure of seeing Jones bring his special brilliance to a starring role, it does ensure great reviews for several otherwise lackluster shows.

  I stare at my phone, completely bewildered. Seriously? The guy’s been offered leading roles on Broadway and turned them down? I wonder briefly what the roles were, but that’s not important. This guy is a real conundrum.

  I’m just clicking into the fan site when someone taps on my window. It’s security. I roll it down.

  “Sorry, sir, you can’t— Oh, hi, Mr. Bryer. I didn’t realize it was you. Um….” The young security guy looks nervous. He’s not supposed to let anyone park on these roads, but he clearly doesn’t want to tell me I have to move.

  I smile at him. “You can call me Derek. Don’t worry, I’m going—I know I shouldn’t have stopped.”

  His return smile is relieved. “If you have to check a text or something”—he nods to the phone in my hand—“I guess another minute won’t hurt.”

  Shaking my head, I toss the phone back on the passenger seat. “Nope, it’s all good. I’ve got to get to the park anyway. You have a nice night.”

  He steps back from my car. “Will do, sir. You too.”

  I give him a minute to start walking back to his car, and then pull out onto the road. I still don’t know why Trav Jones hates me, but I now know that in addition to being extremely attractive and (according to other people) a really great guy, he’s supremely talented.

  And there’s something odd going on with him.

  Chapter Five

  Trav

  I HAVE to admit, this job is kind of fun.

  The role lacks the sophistication of anything I’ve done before (well, in my professional career, anyway. There are some self-written amateur roles in performances I put on with my cousins when we were kids that might compare), but since it’s pretty much a ninety-minute animated feature film chopped up and rearranged into a thirty-minute stage show, I can’t really complain. It’s an intense thirty minutes, but the audience is always great—the kids totally get into it. And then I have an hour to chill before the next performance. I’ve done four already today, and one more is left before I finish for the day.

  Can’t complain, really.

  I deliver my next line and follow it up with a camp flourish, which isn’t technically part of the choreography, and an ad-lib. The kids seem to love it, based on the cheers and laughter from the audience. The guy playing the lead, who’s one of the staff performers, gives me a wry look, but plays off the improv. I’m nearly distracted at one point by something going on in the wings but force myself to stay focused. Whatever it is, it can wait until after the show.

  Soon we’re taking our final bows, and then running into the wings while the curtain comes down and the amphitheater starts to clear. I’ve got big plans to get some food before the next show—just a salad or something, since I have to dance again soon, but I can’t wait any longer to eat.

  It’s a real shock to see Golden Boy waiting backstage. There’s already a crowd forming around him, staff and fill-in performers and crew who want just a second of his attention, just a moment to bask in his radiance.

  Ease off, Trav. Deep breaths.

  I need to be professional. I’ve worked with people who make me anxious before; hell, show business is full of people with buckets of charisma and giant egos and little to actually back them up. I can schmooze an
d fake smile with the best of them—well, mostly. I can definitely put on a show of liking this guy for the less than twenty-four hours remaining until I never have to see him again. Especially since we’re unlikely to run into each other again during those hours. He’s an assistant director, right? That sounds important. He’s probably got tons of other shit to be doing instead of hanging around here.

  Right. So why’s he hanging around here? Oh crap, is this my fault? Is he here because I wasn’t suitably worshipful?

  Jesus, Trav, you’re an actor. Why couldn’t you act impressed by him?

  I quickly shimmy out of my costume and hand it over to the wardrobe people. They’ll do a check for anything that needs to be repaired before the next show, but it should be fine. Then, in my street clothes, still in full makeup—it’s not worth taking it off and reapplying between each show, so we just get touched up—I head in the direction of the backstage door. It leads directly into the staff-only area of the park (and wasn’t it a kick to get to see that) where I can go to the cafeteria for some food.

  “Trav!”

  Crap. So close. At least it isn’t Golden Boy. I turn to face Parker, who’s playing the lead pirate in our little extravaganza.

  “Hi, Parker. What’s up? I was just going to get a snack.”

  Parker smiles at me, all glossy black hair and sparkling brown eyes. He’s a total hottie, and perfect for the lead role—he’s also one of the few staff actors here today who is supposed to be here, one of the lucky ones who didn’t get sick. “I just wanted to ask what made you think of adding that bit just now,” he says.

  Uh-oh. Am I in trouble? There can be a lot of sensitivity about newcomers adding different flavors to existing roles, and I really don’t want to step on any toes.