Page 16 of All Superheroes Need PR
“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 themguaranteed.”
“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 includeallof your long-term proposal ideasandto 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 youpersonally.”
“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 staffto 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 youpersonally. 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 Ipersonallymanage 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. Therearen’tany 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?”
