Page 21 of All Superheroes Need PR
“I’ll try.” He nods once, and my gaze swims over his extended forearm, shrouded in pilled black fabric. He needs a makeover, and ... he agreed to one, I guess. All because I agreed to work with him. I don’t understand it, and yet I tentatively take this peace offering for what it is—at least, for what Ihopehe means for it to be—the flimsiest of olive branches.
I say, “I’ll try, too, Mr. Casteel. But like I told you at the bar, and as you can probably tell, I’m not really the one who usually does the talking in these meetings.”
His hand is big and warm and dry and fully envelops mine. It feels so personal, having my hand held like this. I actually ... can’t remember the last time anyone held my hand, and I don’t free my fingers as quickly as I should. That said, he also doesn’t release me but applies an even greater pressure.
As he continues to hold my hand and stare at me, his lips tilt down into an uncomfortable grimace. “You never have to talk to anybody in this building—or anywhere else—ever again, Vanessa, but I expect my wife to talk to me and, when she does, to call me Roland, not Mr. Casteel.”
“Your wife?” I glance around, feeling deeply uncomfortable holding his hand like this knowing he has a wife. How did that not come up in our research? “You have a wife?”
He freezes. “Yes.You.Or did you not understand the terms of our deal?”
My jaw unhinges, and my eyes flutter, and my knees go weak, and Mr. Casteel curses as he lunges to catch me.
And as I faint for the second time in that same boardroom, truly giving the classic Fay Wray a run for her money, I think back on that mockingly simple contract laughing at me from Mr. Singkham’s fancy suit jacket pocket and the feeling I’d had that I had missed something. Because it would seem that I had missed something big.
Chapter SixVanessa
“This is so inappropriate,” I squeeze out in a tiny, tinny tone, one that Mr. Casteel—Roland—immediately talks over.
“This is what I wanted. I thought that was really fuck—really clear.” He shoots me a side-eye from where he’s seated in the uncomfortable leather chair neighboring mine. Up on the thirtieth floor now in Mr. Singkham’s private office, Mr. Singkham sits across the table from us. Jem sits on my right on a leather ottoman from the equally unpleasant-looking leather sectional against the far wall, a laptop open on her knees, an angry expression pulling her small features into the center of her face, making her look like she’s about to explode.
Meanwhile, I’ve been reduced to a puddle of melted knees. All I can do is watch Mr. Singkham and hope that he can resolve this reasonably ...
“Mr. Casteel, the COE was under the impression that, per your written request, Ms. Theriot was to come on board as your manager—”
“You’re a liar, Prasit. I was really fucking clear.” He leans back in his seat, and both of his clenched fists erupt in flame as he grips the leather. It instantly singes, the brown turning black.
Mr. Singkham squirms. He makes a farting sound whenever he moves, which I wish would cut the tension but doesn’t. He glances atJem as if paranoid, which he has every right to be, adjusts his tie, and clears his throat. “Can we speak off the record?”
“No,” Jem barks.
“Jem,” I hiss and nod. “Yes, I think this all is probably just a big misunderstanding.”
“In a sense,” Mr. Singkham says at the same time Mr. Casteel says, “I told you what I wanted. You’re begging me to light this goddamn building on fire ...”
“There’s no need for theatrics, Mr. Casteel. We did speak, Ms. Theriot and I, and she agreed to your conditions. She asked not to have her skills utilized in the capacity of your PA and further stipulated which of the tasks we might have seen as being managed by one individual, but Ms. Theriot, you did not mention your opposition to the Lois Lane clause ...”
“But ...” I say breathily.
Mr. Singkham speaks over me. “And Mr. Casteel, while Ms. Theriot may take on the role of Lois Lane, the proposal clearly lists this as a superficial PR position, posing as your girlfriend to help boost your PR image and make you more relatable, sure, but moreover this is a public speaking role. Did you not read the brief? Because while the COE may be in the business of building heroes, we are not in the business of mail-order brides.”
Mr. Casteel doesn’t respond. Instead, the fire in his fists goes out, but not the one in his eyes, which are a bright orange; I can literally see the illusion of flames dancing where pupils and irises should be. He glances at me, and something small happens then. Something ... thatwoundsme.
A dusting of deep pink strokes the tops of his brilliant brown cheeks.
He’sembarrassed.
I understand embarrassment. I understand its sick, crushing weight, and I feel it bleeding from his skin like a fatal wound, and I slip and slide around in it. I’m going to drown in it.
I clutch the arms of my seat and picture Ann Darrow in the arms of an embarrassed King Kong. I cringe. He doesn’t get embarrassed. Superman doesn’t get embarrassed. The Pyro—the Wyvern—doesn’t get embarrassed. He’s a hero. And I can’t be the one responsible for bringing him down like this.
He opens his mouth, and though smoke curls out into the space between us, no words follow it.
Meanwhile, I’m clenched together so tightly that I burst. “I ... what ... maybe we can ... I can ...I’ll Take The Lois Lane Contract.” My voice is way louder than I mean for it to be, and the entire room falls silent. I clear my throat and wrestle my tone down until it’s barely above a whisper. “We’ll just ... I just ... don’t want to do the public speaking ...”
“You don’t have to,” Mr. Casteel says at the same time Jem balks, “That’s the main role of Lois Lane as we wrote her. Plus, you’ll have to move in together eventually, or no one in the public eye will believe y’all are—or were ever—really dating. You’re really okay with that?”
Oh my God, no. I’m not. I’m definitely not. Though I have no idea what I’m going to say next, I open my mouth to speak but am spared from it when the sirens start blaring and the bright red-and-white emergency lights start to flash.
