Page 2 of All Superheroes Need PR
She rolls her eyes, a little blush dotting the tops of her cheeks. Humble, Margerie dislikes receiving compliments almost as much as I do. I know that she’s uncomfortable anytime articles mention her as the face of the company—not because she’s a trans woman, which is often the source of a lot of mind-numbingly dumb controversy, but because she actually is the nicest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing and wants me to take credit for some of my ideas when I’d rather not take credit for any of them.
I like the anonymity of being behind the scenes, even if I did found The Riot Creative. It’s a bit of an irony, my brother Charlie once pointed out, that I hate being in the public eye even though I run a public-facing media company. But marketing and branding are about so much more than PR. I’ve always liked the creativity of it, the problem-solving side of it, and I like making good people and products shine.
Though I suppose the Pyro doesn’t need much help in the shine department, considering the terrifying scope of his powers ... I shudder.
“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, Madame President.” Margerie grips my shoulder and rubs the center of my back through my basic navy blazer. “And I promise we’ve prepared everything as best we can. We just need to make it through today, like we’ve practiced. Then you can go back to being the mysterious genius behind the most successful boutique marketing firm in all of North America, and I can go back to taking credit for all of your genius.”
She winks. I snort out a short laugh.
She and I both glance at the team scattered about the room, getting all the packets and snacks laid out and fretting over the projector for the thousandth time, and I can’t help the swell of pride I feel watching them, the comfort I feel with them. I take another breath, hold it, and sigh. “I know no one thinks this is real, but I think we can get this contract.”
“That’s the spirit.” She beams. “If today goes well—which it will—we’ll get the extended long-term contract to manage the Pyro’s PR, which will feed our children’s children’s children. So don’t go doubting us now, after all we did to get here.”
I nudge her hip with mine. “You don’t even want kids.”
“Damn straight. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to use my kids’ kids’ kids’ money to buy a yacht and retire at thirty-eight.”
“If you retire at thirty-eight, I will knife you.”
Margerie’s laugh booms through the room, loud enough to turn heads. It wrenches an unwilling, choked laugh out of me, and several other members of my team start laughing too, even though they have no idea what we’re talking about. Margerie’s laugh has that effect.
“Come on, let’s go reorganize the packets for the thirtieth time while we wait for his late ass to show up.”
“Let me check the presentation again ...”
“No ... you already did that four hundred times over coffee this morning. Let’s do the packets. Also, you never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Whether or not you’re scared.”
“Of him? Of meeting one of the Forty-Eight?” I ask, genuinely confused.
She rolls her eyes, and her perfect mermaid waves shift elegantly around her shoulders; she’s the spitting image of Ariel. I have long, voluminous curls that are the same length as Margerie’s but lack all the civility of hers. “Of course.”
I blink again, still unsure if we’re speaking the same language. A small spike of embarrassment I don’t usually feel around Margerie shoots up the back of my neck as I try to make sense of what she’s said. “Oh. No?”
“No?” She smiles and follows me as I make a second round around the table, pushing packets around and carefully making sure everything is even and equidistant. Pen, packet, pencil—it’s all in a perfect line, all thirteen places around the table. I force myself to stop when Margerie suggests that the breakfast spread could use a little sprucing. “So you’re really not scared? Not even a little bit?”
“What would I have to be scared about?”
“I’ve never met one of the Forty-Eight in person, and I know you haven’t either. And it’s not like we’re meeting Taranis either,” she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the papers on the table and the most prominent recentLondon Championsheadline. “This guy is kind of supposed to be the worst.”
“Not theworst, just ... unknown ...”
“Idle.”
“Allegedly ...”
“And when he does get involved, it’s to blow up shit that’s kind of important.”
“Never without cause.”
“Yes, it’sbecausehe’s the worst. He blew up the historic Old Sundale Bank.”
“He was only twenty-one ...”
“He still blew it up!”
