Page 6

“Oh shit,” I whisper.

“Vanny!” Elena shouts, more surprised, I think, than anything. I never curse.

“You know the president of Cambodia ?” Luca’s mouth hangs open.

I stand up from my seat in an awkward tangle of limbs, and David has to lean over and grab my arm to keep me from face-planting. I mumble a quick thanks, swat Luca on the back of the head as I round the table, and dust off my clothing. Who am I kidding? I’m wearing my goddamn pajamas. The ones from Tía Luisa with Mickey Mouse’s face printed on the bottoms and Minnie Mouse’s demented face handsewn on the front of the long-sleeve T-shirt. The ears stick out and flop around where my boobs are.

I could have changed. I have plenty of old clothes here from college, but when Elena came into my room this morning and took a flyswatter to my forehead until I got up and got downstairs in time for breakfast, I wasn’t exactly thinking of how I’d be presenting myself to potential clients—least of all the one who’d just fired me.

My stomach lurches up into my throat as I stagger over to the window seat, and my brothers immediately crowd in behind me, throwing pillows and elbows to make space at the glass.

“Shit, that really is the president!” Mani hisses.

“Mani!” Elena shouts. “?Cinco dólares, por favor!”

“He’s not the president of Cambodia. He’s Thai, and he’s the president of the COE.” My heart joins my stomach up in my mouth, barely contained by my rattling teeth as I peel the curtains back and see the massive car sitting there in my parents’ driveway. “How did they get past the gate?” I glance over my shoulder to see my dad standing there, gun on his shoulder. He shrugs it.

“I opened it. Should I not have?”

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Vanny!” Elena cries out.

“I’ll pay her fees,” Charlie grunts, grabbing the back of my pajama shirt and dragging me away from the window. “Vanny, you wanna talk to him or you want us to run him off?”

“President or not, we can take him,” David helpfully shouts.

“Fuck yeah! I got another lacrosse stick!” Luca interjects.

Meanwhile, behind me I hear Elena say, “I’m going to be able to buy a yacht with this money before we finish breakfast ...”

“What are you waiting for, hermanita?” Mani pokes me in the ribs, making me buckle. “Go talk to him!”

“Did he seem p—angry?” I ask my dad as I push through the wall of my brothers and head to the entryway, wiping my sweaty palms on my pj’s.

Dad shakes his head and gives me a shrug with his shotgun-wielding shoulder. He follows me to the door. “Nope.”

I grunt. My dad is not a man of many words and has the emotional depth of a cucumber, which is why I’m so surprised when he gives me a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the head before he opens the door for me. “You got this, sweetheart. Whatever it is.”

I smile up at him, and suddenly my stupid outfit and my bacon-scented hair don’t feel so important. I take a breath, this one deeper than the last one was, less shaky, and remember: What’s the worst Mr. Singkham can do to me? Fire me again?

I step out onto the low porch, a surprisingly warm breeze rolling in from the driveway where Mr. Singkham stands in front of a parked black SUV. He steps away from it when he sees me and, to his credit, masks his momentary shock at my presentation with a bright smile and a small wave. I pretend not to notice the way he completes a quick scan of my outfit before returning his gaze to my face, his expression one of utmost professionalism.

I don’t bother with my favorite nervous gesture: trying to smooth down my clothing. If I do, it’ll just make Minnie’s ears flop around at best and, at worst, draw more attention to the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Instead, I actually manage to use the few parts of my brain that weren’t obliterated by day red the day before to focus on my breathing techniques. Five counts in, five-count hold, five-count release. I manage two cycles before Mr. Singkham and I come close enough to shake hands, though we don’t.

“Mr. Singkham, I wasn’t expecting you,” I say stupidly, my voice a little hoarse. Of course I wasn’t expecting him. I’m in my Minnie pajamas!

Mr. Singkham glances over my shoulder, and I know he’s looking at the kitchen window where my brothers are eavesdropping. David claims he can read lips—he can’t—but I don’t doubt they’ll all be clustered there trying their best. My lips twitch. I don’t mind them watching, really. I’m braver with them there.

My trust in them wasn’t instantaneous. When I moved into the house, I was terrified. My caseworker hadn’t cared that I was a thirteen-year-old girl alone in a house with four boys, two of whom were older than me. It took me almost six weeks before I realized that they might not be interested in hurting me—they mostly ignored me—and three months after that to be sure of it.

Charlie was already in high school, Mani was just four, and Luca hadn’t been born yet, but Vinny, David, and I were at the same middle school. I didn’t have any friends, but a group of nice girls started inviting me to lunch. They didn’t make me talk or ask me personal questions. They didn’t make fun of my hair or the fact that I was a foster kid. They just ... let me be and included me.

I felt really stupid for not realizing that Vinny was dating one of the girls’ older sisters and had set the whole thing up. And a few weeks after that, I realized that they weren’t just uninterested in harming me; they actually maybe even wanted to help me.

A group of basketball players took turns asking me to the winter dance as a joke, and Vinny and David beat the crap out of them, and Charlie beat up one of the guys’ older brothers. They all got suspended for three days. And then I knew that they weren’t just interested in helping me as a pity case, but maybe even liked me, when Elena and William didn’t punish them for getting suspended. Instead, they pulled me out of school on their suspension days and took the whole family on a trip to Florida to celebrate.

And finally, I realized they might even love me when, two months later, Elena quietly sat me down and offered me adoption paperwork. She gave me every assurance in the world that they’d do their best to do right by me but that she wouldn’t dare try to pressure me into it, that I could remain a foster and they would try to find me a family I liked better, if it came to that.

That was the same moment that I realized I might have even loved them back.

Staring at Mr. Singkham now, I let the overwhelming presence of my family hold me up like a buttress and cross my arms tightly over my chest. I inhale and exhale with slow, measured breaths.

“Ms. Theriot, I offer my deepest apologies for bothering you on a Saturday.”

I wait, unsure if this is the type of sentence that requires a response. When he doesn’t say more but watches me expectantly, I stutter, “I, um ... yes?”

He exhales roughly, the wind tousling his perfect hair. It looks less gelled today than it did yesterday, and even though he’s wearing a tie, it’s a little off, the tail sticking out longer than the front bit. Is Mr. Singkham ... disheveled? “Thank you for coming outside to speak with me. What I’m about to share with you is in the utmost confidence. In that vein, I must request that any camera system your family might have here be disengaged.”

I jerk my thumb back toward the house. “My dad—he, uh, has a shotgun.”

The dusting of Mr. Singkham’s eyebrows rise, causing creases in his otherwise flawless forehead. “Pardon me?”

“Sorry, I meant that he has a shotgun instead of a security system. He doesn’t use cameras.”

“Oh. Well then.” Mr. Singkham glances back at my house again. “That’s excellent,” he says, but very unconvincingly, closing the distance between us another half step. The air is sticky with summer’s approaching warmth. I focus on that feeling, on the strange reminder it brings of the Pyro—of Mr. Casteel—and the way he’d felt just like this approaching me in the boardroom and then at the bar, like the promise of summer ... before dropping winter’s axe over my head.

I know my body language isn’t inviting when he glances down at my crossed arms, my slippered feet angled away from him, and stops his advance. He swallows. Swallows. Like he’s ... nervous. Oh no.

“Wh-what happened?” I gasp.

“Happened? Oh, you misunderstand, Ms. Theriot. I don’t come here today to rehash any of the unpleasantness from Friday—yesterday,” he blurts, as if having lost track of time. “Frankly, I come on a much ... friendlier mission than that.”

Friendly? I don’t dare say the word aloud. I just keep my head cocked and my face twisted up as I try desperately to understand what the fuck is going on. My brain is still sluggish, using fingernails and sheer grit to claw its way up a mountain of coherency. Is he ... speaking English right now?

Mr. Singkham licks his lips, checks his tie, and when he looks at me next, his shoulders sag ... he just looks defeated. “Ms. Theriot, the nature of my request is, frankly, an embarrassing one, and no matter its outcome, I must ask that nothing I say to you here be shared outside of my confidence.” It’s a bold ask. The day red has long since drained from my system, which means I’m not nearly drunk enough to ignore the profoundly inappropriate nature of his request. Anything that we previously discussed was protected by the NDAs in our previous—now voided—contract, but he and I have no more contracts left between us. My team and I left his offices yesterday with hands empty and tails tucked.

“If this is a contractual question,” I say, swallowing hard, “I’m going to have to ask us to move this meeting to my offices where Jem—where my legal team can review ...”

He takes a step toward me and places a hand over the lapel of his royal-blue suit. I counter by taking a step back and don’t miss the way his front teeth bite together. Nerves sweep my body. The tension is unbearable. “This is extremely uncomfortable, Ms. Theriot, but the concerns I have with ... I don’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position, but I came to speak not with The Riot Creative but with you . Personally .”

I frown. Me? I point at my chest.

Mr. Singkham nods. “Mr. Casteel has come to me with an unusual proposal.”

I feel my facial muscles perform cartwheels and backflips, a circus all unto their own. “He’s ... reconsidering working with the COE?”

“Do I have your word, Ms. Theriot? That you will not broadcast what I say next?” He glances shiftily to the side.

I really hate to agree, but I also recognize that there isn’t a contract between us. He can ask me not to say anything, but he can’t bind me to it, which means right now he’s not actually asking for my confidence. He’s asking for my trust. Nerves and a profound sense of curiosity combine to form my next sentence. Just a word: “Yes.”

“Then I will begin by offering my deepest apologies. His behavior and that of my team was not representative of our values at the COE. And, with that in mind, I must ask if you would now, at present, be open to reconsidering your working relationship with the COE and Mr. Casteel.”

“I don’t ... understand. He told me to leave the room and then berated me at the bar when he ran into me.”

“He didn’t run into you, Ms. Theriot. He followed you there. It had been his intention to put this proposition to you directly, it would seem, but when that didn’t ... work out,” he says, floundering, “he came to me.”

“Came ... to you? When?” The sky is overcast today, but it’s still overly bright, making me feel like I’m squinting against an eclipse as I stare up at Mr. Singkham, trying to piece together the puzzle of his words. And every piece is an edge. There are no corners. All understanding I thought I’d successfully mined for has dispersed in the wind like the seeds of a dandelion.

“The middle of the night, directly after leaving your family home. He demanded that I put together a new contract. It’s what my team has been working on all morning. He wanted to incorporate your ideas—all of your ideas—into the contract. He wanted them guaranteed .”

“Our ideas?” I feel like a parrot, repeating every third thing he’s saying while forgetting the other two.

“Ms. Theriot, Mr. Casteel woke me up at two forty-five this morning at my own home to declare that he was accepting the COE contract with the added amendments to include all of your long-term proposal ideas and to ensure that you remain on the project for the entirety of the ten-year duration. I was dressed not entirely dissimilarly to how you are dressed now, though I do wish my pajamas had a bit more flare.” He smiles a little, glancing down at my Minnie Mouse ears.

“That’s ... that’s ... I’m sorry, Mr. Singkham, but if I may be so blunt—that’s insane.”

He laughs, and I feel my own cheeks twitch in a smile as he says, “Yes. My thoughts precisely. But he made his position clear. He wants you to work with him for the next ten years. In return, he’ll become a hero, he’ll don the cape, he’ll accept the Lois Lane clause, as you outlined in your design portfolio—he’ll even trim his beard and trade his sweatpants for spandex.”

I shake my head, feeling flattered, feeling nauseous, and feeling ... suspicious too. Something about this isn’t right. “But I ... I’m nothing without my team. I mean, I’m head of a firm. If his expectation is to hire me without The Riot Creative, then that won’t work.”

“No, of course not. His push was more to guarantee that you would be on his contract as part of The Riot Creative’s acceptance of the long-term bid. That you would be his case manager, his agent, and that any other one-on-one line items that should come out of your rebrand packet will be handled by you personally .”

“Personally ...” I start, needing serious clarification on that, but he doesn’t let me interrupt and raises his tone just slightly enough to speak over me.

“And if you can agree to this contractually, I can ensure that your firm will neither fold nor falter while you hold a contract with the COE. We will do whatever we can to support The Riot Creative, whether it be with expanded office space, direct seconding of our staff to your team while you scale—your team is currently twenty-two full-time staff, correct?”

I nod, flustered by the abrupt direction the conversation has taken. “Uh, yes. Yes, twenty-two.”

“And you lack an in-house design department?”

“We have three graphic designers, but they work in digital and 2D media. The mock-ups we did of the uniform, for example, those we had to have a clothing designer consult on.”

Mr. Singkham nods, and there’s something different in his demeanor. Something more relaxed, like ... he knows he’s got me even though I haven’t come to that conclusion yet. Though ... haven’t I? He had me the moment he stepped out of his car.

“Most of the Champions have marketing teams of at least forty, though some of the larger brands like Taranis’s are nearly a hundred.”

“A hundred?” I almost choke.

“He has over a hundred brand endorsements and brings in a lot of money for the COE. If I told you how much ...” He lets his voice trail off to an awkward chuckle, and I do something I never do: I try to make a joke.

“You’d have to kill me?”

He stares into my eyes, blinks, and the laugh that then bursts out of him makes me physically jump. He laughs for a good thirty seconds, almost scarily, before coming toward me, wiping tears from his eyes. He clasps my right hand in both of his, and as he blinks and nods, he looks older, reminding me of my granddad. My bio grandpa. And it’s probably, possibly, because I’m thinking of that old man, that kind man who once came to see me before his daughter threw him out—the one who died two years later, before I ever really got to meet him—that I soften. And maybe it’s that softness that causes my vision to blur.

Because when he says, “Wonderful. I hope this means you’ll consider signing on with us, despite our rocky start?” I agree.

I agree even though I have this strange, unpleasant feeling in the back of my mind that I’m missing something.

“That’s wonderful,” he says, finally releasing my hand.

“I ... I’ll need time to talk to my team and work out a new proposal ...”

“Your team can have the week to work out a new proposal for the long-term contract for The Riot Creative, but I cannot leave your driveway without a yes from you personally . And without a signature.” He pulls a paper and a pen out of his inner jacket pocket and hands me the crude sketch of an offer so hastily drafted it has typos— typos —but I still get the gist. Ten-year gig working for the Pyro, he becomes a Champion in exchange. The Pyro accepts all of the PR and marketing ideas outlined in the initial presentation my team put together, so long as I personally manage the one-on-one tasks.

I know the presentation by heart. I wrote most of it myself. I came up with half of the ideas—mostly at three a.m., sitting upright in bed, typing haphazard notes that I was really excited about on my phone. There aren’t any one-on-one tasks. Everything is a team effort, even managing his social media. “A single well-curated social media account is the work of three people ...” I hear myself mumble as I skim the brief, shoddy contract.

Mr. Singkham shrugs casually. Far, far too casually. “And you’ll have assistance with that, of course.”

“But ... then what am I doing that’s not with my team?”

“Some of the other ideas in your presentation were what I believe Mr. Casteel was referring to. Liaising with the COE, for example, acting as his representative with brands. That kind of thing—though, of course, I am not the expert.” He gives me a smile that should feel reassuring but doesn’t.

I nod and continue reading aloud. “Salary and details to be fixed at a later date?” I say, frowning as I read the words.

“The Pyro’s PR budget is $180 million, Ms. Theriot. That’s salaries and ad spend. Your hardware budget and office space rentals are included under a different line item. I trust that from that pot, you’ll be able to carve out a nice salary for yourself as both head of his PR management and his personal representative, no?”

One hundred and what? I think I black out for a moment. That’s ... huge. Huge. The largest ad budget I’ve ever worked on was $2 million. One hundred and eighty ... I shake my head, trying to snap out of it, and when I come to, that icy cold feeling of suspicion licks at my heels even as I take the pen he holds toward me.

I can’t help but look at Mr. Singkham’s signature in the blank space below the crude contract. Harsh scribbles. What surprises me is the signature below that. Large but neat, Mr. Casteel’s signature takes up more than its fair share of space, but it’s beautiful really. Making a decision that would have had my first boss, a wonderful South African woman who taught me everything I know about marketing and running a business today, sobbing into a handkerchief, I sign below Mr. Casteel’s name. Roland Casteel. My mind flashes to last night. He told me to call him Roland—or did I drunkenly hallucinate that?

“He’s, um ... I have some social anxiety, Mr. Singkham.” And PTSD. Mild to moderate PTSD is how past doctors have classified it, but nothing about the way I feel when confronted with violence feels mild or moderate to me. “If Mr. Casteel is serious about this, he’s going to have to learn to work with me too.”

“Mr. Casteel has been made aware that his attitude in our last business meeting won’t be tolerated. I would like to have your team back in the office Wednesday to sign the final papers for the official contract between our two companies. The Pyro will be but a cool ember when you meet with him then, Ms. Theriot. He has assured me.”

I watch him tuck the papers I just signed away in his inside jacket pocket and whisper, “No.”

“No?”

I blink. “Sorry. Wednesday works for our team, Mr. Singkham. I was just already thinking ahead of myself to the name.”

“The name? His name? The Pyro?”

“Yes. Along with his gruff attitude, that’s the first thing my team and I would like to get rid of.”

“What name did you have in mind?” He smiles broadly, looking far too much like the cat who caught the canary, making that tension in my stomach tighten.

As I explain to him some of the ideas my team and I came up with, I can all but feel that paper burning a hole through his pocket, mocking me. I’m missing something.

But I know my proposal, and I read the contract; I negotiate contracts in my sleep. It can’t be anything serious—that really affects me. And that’s what I tell myself, and my parents and my brothers when I go back inside after Mr. Singkham leaves, and they pop a bottle of bubbly to celebrate me—even if Vinny and Charlie and, well, all of them are still holding a deep, deep grudge against the Pyro for the events of the previous evening.

That’s what I repeat to myself as I make my way back to my town house in the city, crawl into my bed, and stare at the ceiling.

But the one question that wakes me up three hours later, shivering with cold sweat? The one that I realize only now I should have demanded Mr. Singkham answer on the spot in my parents’ driveway?

From the first moment he saw me, Mr. Casteel acted like I shat in his soup and ripped the heads off his dolls—like we’d been two members of rival families in a lifetime that came before—and now he wants to work with me closely for a decade?

Nuh-uh. No way. This is a dumb, dumb idea. Because if my team was sure that he was a villain deep in his heart, then I just signed on to personally do the bad guy’s PR.

The amount of expletives I shout into my pillow as I try and fail to fall asleep are enough to overflow Elena’s jar.

All I can do now is pray that my stomach settles, that my team was wrong, and that our meeting this week with Mr. Casteel the Champion goes smoothly.