When the Vibe Is Right, page 6
“What? Like Rihanna?”
“Basically.” Hazel pulled out her phone, found what she needed, and showed it to me. “She performs cover songs on YouTube.” On screen, a girl with dip-dyed black-blue hair and perfectly applied winged eyeliner leaned closer to a microphone. The opening notes of “Love on the Brain” started to play.
“Chris used to date her?” I asked.
“They met through Brandon,” Hazel said miserably. “Look at her. She’s pretty, older, taller, way more interesting than me. And she’s smart too, studying to be a lawyer. She posted a photo of her bookshelf and it’s all textbooks and Man Booker and Pulitzer Prize–winning doorstops.”
“Hazel, you’re pretty and smart. And you read doorstops as well.” I wasn’t seeing the problem here.
“Not like her,” Hazel muttered, swiping the app off the screen. “She probably laughs at romance novels too.”
“Too?” Suspicion snuck up on me. “Did Chris say something about you writing romance?” He wouldn’t dare, would he?
“No,” Hazel said. “Because he doesn’t know that I do.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. Hazel wrote all the time. On everything.
Actually, no. Now that I thought about it, she hadn’t been writing on her arms for a while.
Did she stop because of Chris?
Hazel picked at the quilting of the duvet. “A few weeks back, he asked me what I was reading. When I told him it was a romance book, his immediate reaction was—oh, like Fifty Shades of Grey? Then he laughed.” She pulled the duvet over her face, embarrassed. “How could I tell him I wrote romance too after that?”
“This happened a few weeks ago? And you still wanted to date him?”
“It seemed like a small flaw in an otherwise perfect person.”
“Maybe you should stop calling him perfect. No one is perfect. And if you’re serious about him, you’re going to have to tell him about your writing eventually.”
“Not if I use a pseudonym when I publish,” she said. “I could keep it secret. Like a second life.”
“That sounds like borrowing trouble,” I said, standing up. My attention turned to the photo of the masqueraders on my wall again, and I felt a sharp tug of shame. “The article wasn’t that bad, right? Like, I really didn’t know a reporter was listening. I don’t want to cause problems for Uncle.”
“I’m sure he knows that you were just trying to help.” Hazel waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just an article. No one will care. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Except it wasn’t.
It turned out someone had cared. We’d find out how much a few days later.
Aunty Gloria was the reason we’d gone to the community center that morning. She’d insisted that Friday was the day to send Hazel’s car for detailing and offered to drop us to school herself. On the way there, she’d answered the distressed call from my uncle. Without a second thought, she adjusted our route to meet him at the community center.
Uncle Russell hadn’t been happy she’d brought us along. But his objections faded into faint background noise as I took in the ruined costumes on the floor. The hall had been thoroughly trashed—graffiti on the walls, decorations torn, potted plants overturned.
This was all my fault.
“What do you want to do now?” Melissa asked, her anxious tone slipping through my haze.
I walked past one of the custodians tasked with sweeping and scooping and scrubbing the walls. A familiar shock of blue and silver caught my attention. I bent to pick it up. It was the tattered and twisted remains of the blue heron headpiece. The room could be fixed, but these costumes could not.
“Don’t you have backups?” Aunty Gloria asked.
“For some,” Uncle Russell said. “Not all.”
“Some of the materials needed to be imported in bulk,” Melissa said. “They haven’t come in yet.” She let out a groan. “It’s going to be hell calling all the guests. And the vendors. We’re not getting a refund for canceling this late.”
“We can’t cancel,” I insisted, surprising even myself. The launch was an important promotional event. Even more than that—it was tradition. We couldn’t not do it.
“We can work on replacements—”
Even before I’d finished talking my uncle was shaking his head. “No. We don’t have time.”
“We can set out the costumes that we do have and use the concept art in place of the others.”
“No—”
“It can work,” I insisted. “I’ll help. I can skip school today.”
“No!” Uncle Russell said. “Beatrice, enough. I am not setting out rushed costumes and concept art. It’s not professional. The best we can do is cancel and apologize and pray that that’s enough to save face.”
I snapped my mouth shut.
Beatrice? No one called me that. The formality of it cut right through me.
Uncle Russell’s chest fell with a heavy sigh. His tone softened, but his stony expression remained. “You and Hazel should be at school.” He threw Aunty Gloria a pointed look. “Melissa, come on. We’ve got a lot of calls to make.”
“You know this was the Kingstons, right?” I blurted as he started to leave. “It’s Prince. This is him getting back at me.”
“You don’t know that,” Uncle Russell said.
“I do. This is his retaliation for the article. He feels like I messed up his launch so he’s doing the same to us.”
If I hadn’t gone to the party—if I hadn’t insulted their costumes and publicly embarrassed their band, then none of this would’ve happened.
“Come on, Tess.” Aunty Gloria wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Russell is right. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
She led me out of the hall, Hazel trailing behind.
I couldn’t say what happened in school that day. Most of the time, all I could do was sit and pretend to listen, breathing through the heavy block of ice lodged in my chest.
We had a mock exam in French, and I’d handed in the paper with most of the sections empty. Not because I didn’t know the answers, but because I’d zoned out midway through. By the time I returned to the moment, time was up. Class dismissed.
Prince had to be behind this. I knew it in my bones. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
“Hello?” Brandon stood on the other side of my desk, waving a hand in front of my face. “Anyone home?”
“What?” I glanced around, confused by the new faces filtering into the classroom.
“It’s seventh period,” he said. “Last I checked, you’re not in Accounting.”
Shoot. I reached for my bag. My class had ended and another was starting.
“No need to rush,” Brandon said. “Mr. Brathwaite is always late anyway. And it looked like you were doing some deep thinking there.”
“Not today, Brandon.” I shoved my books into my backpack and zipped it shut. “I’m not in the mood.”
His brows raised. “Did you have a bad night? Conscience bothering you over that article? What did they call you—a spirited little lady? When I read that, I couldn’t help but think, well, that’s one way to put it.”
“My conscience?” I asked, fuming at his choice of words. “You want to talk about my conscience. You’re the one working for a snake.” I shoved my chair back and stood. “The article was an accident. I didn’t plan that. What he did was malicious with intent.”
Brandon folded his arms. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your boss and how he wrecked our venue the night before our band launch. He trashed the whole place and destroyed—” I stopped, breathing through a wave of emotion. “Destroyed all our costumes.”
“Prince did what?” Brandon dropped his arms. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Who else would it be?” I slid out from behind the desk. “And the worst part is, my silly article won’t affect Royalty’s sales at all. Not even a blip. But Grandeur . . .” I bit my lip and shook my head. “What he did might’ve ruined our whole year.”
“How do you know it was him?” Brandon asked, following me out of the classroom. “Prince is an asshole, no question. But what you’re talking about is criminal.”
“Yeah, it is. And you work for someone like that, so what does that say about you? How’s your conscience?” I asked, then backed away without waiting for an answer.
Seven
The sales numbers for the first week came in. They weren’t good.
We got quite a bit of backlash for canceling the party at the last moment. Responses ranged from irritated understanding to straight vitriol. A few guests, who didn’t get the update, even showed up at the venue expecting a party, only to be turned away.
It didn’t help that Uncle Russell wouldn’t explain what happened. He said he didn’t see the point. If it were me, I’d have been pointing fingers at the culprit, solid proof or not.
The atmosphere in the house was thick with tension, Uncle Russell perpetually moody, Melissa in the pantry up to three times a day. And yet, the full extent of the damage didn’t quite hit me until I overheard Uncle Russell and Aunty Gloria talking about it.
It was a late night. I’d been up working on my literature project, and I’d come downstairs to the kitchen for some water.
“—call some people?” Aunty Gloria was saying. “See if I can drum up some interest?”
“No,” Uncle Russell said. “Besides, who would want to tie themselves to a sinking ship. Grandeur hasn’t made a profit in three years. We can’t go on like this.”
I froze behind the doorway, numb and listening.
“If we don’t at least break even this year,” he said, “we can’t afford a next one.”
“You mean shutting it down?” Aunty Gloria asked him. “Are you ready for that?”
“I don’t know. But a man can only swim against the current for so long before he’s tired. And I am.”
He couldn’t mean that, right?
This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be.
After that, I returned to my room and settled in for a night of fitful sleep. I dreamed of long-necked birds, great big waves, and vicious currents dragging me underwater.
Help came the next morning from the most unexpected source.
“Uh . . .” I stopped on the threshold of the living room. No matter how many times I blinked, the scene in front of me remained: Aunty Gloria on one end of the couch, Brandon sitting on the other. Both of them drinking from the “good” teacups that Aunty Gloria brought out only for special occasions.
“I see what you mean,” Brandon said, after taking a sip. “It’s the ginger. It’s like a punch in the face. Really wakes you up.”
“Exactly,” Aunty Gloria said. “I swapped out coffee for this and never looked back. One of the members of my meditation group recommended it.” She set her cup down. “I’ve been trying to get my family to join our group for ages. But every time I bring it up, they zone out, which is ironic—”
“Aunty Gloria.” I found my voice. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to invite them inside.” I approached the couch, pointing to Brandon. “We’ll need holy water to get him out now.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” Aunty Gloria asked.
“She’s insinuating I’m a vampire, Aunty,” Brandon explained. “It’s a joke. Just something we do.” He smiled at me. “Not her best, though. She must still be sleepy.”
Hazel entered from the kitchen. “Oh, good. You’re awake. Brandon’s here.”
“Yes. I noticed. Thank you, Hazel.” I returned my attention to the interloper. “Why are you here?”
He took one last long sip, set the empty cup down, and stood. “I actually came to talk to you.”
“Me?”
Aunty Gloria laughed. “You two can talk in here.” She stood and gathered the cups. “Brandon, let me know if you change your mind about joining our meditation group. You’d be surprised who’s involved. We’ve even got young people like yourself.”
“I’ll think about it, Aunty,” he said. “Thank you for the tea and for answering my questions. And let me say, we miss seeing you on TV every night. The man they’ve got filling in has nothing on you.”
Aunty Gloria laughed, waving off his flattery. “Hazel, come. Grab that plate for me.”
Hazel did as she was told, and the pair left the living room.
Brandon and I stared at each other. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single reason he should be here, much less why he’d want to talk to me.
“Surprised to see me?” he asked.
“Surprise is definitely one of the emotions involved.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. He stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled over to the shelves. To my irritation, he started inspecting the various framed photos that adorned them. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked nervous.
He pointed at one of the photos. “Is that you and Hazel?”
“Yes.” I didn’t have to look to know which one he meant. Hazel and I had been about four when it was taken. My arm slung around her shoulder, the both of us in matching floral dresses, our hair adorned with multi-colored baubles.
He moved on to the photo of Uncle Russell and Aunty Gloria’s wedding, the both of them in profile as they grinned at each other. “Your uncle with hair. That’s so . . .”
“Wrong?” I supplied, having thought something similar myself. Uncle Russell was bald. Had been since I could remember. Anything else didn’t compute.
“Yes. Exactly.” He did a double-take and backed up. “And who’s this?” He picked up the frame to get a better look. “Is this your parents? Wow.”
I crossed the room to join him. Somehow, I knew he’d notice that one. To be fair, it did stand out. My parents, in their early twenties, glittering in fiery-red and gold Grandeur costumes. The camera focused on them, amid a sea of other masquerade players, their youth and beauty and joy forever captured in that moment, exactly the way I wanted to remember them.
“Talk about couple goals,” he said.
I snorted. Not really. But they did work really hard to make people think they were. I snatched the frame from him and returned it to the shelf. “Why are you here, Brandon?”
He let out a small laugh and retreated to the couch. “This is very hard for me to say. So give me a second.” He perched on the armrest, drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “You were right.”
“I’m sorry—what?” I leaned forward, cupping my ear. “I think I misheard you. Can you say that again?”
“No,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Can you at least tell me why I was right?”
“Do you remember a recent conversation we had? The one where you implied that I was a soulless, greedy bastard.”
“Implied? I mean, I may not have used those exact words, but—”
“Yes, yes.” He folded his arms. “Well, that same afternoon, I had to stop by the Royalty offices to pick something up. While there, I started chatting with some of the admin staff. They mentioned how nice it was that Prince didn’t stick around for their weekly after-work lime. Usually, he and his friends turn up, make a mess, and harass everyone.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” I said.
“Right? But this part will. That office lime was the same night your venue got trashed. And for the first time since Prince started working at Royalty, he didn’t turn up.”
“I knew it,” I said. My mind whirled with anger and vindication.
“Wait, wait. Don’t jump ahead. All that proves is that he wasn’t at the lime. He and his lackeys could’ve been wreaking havoc somewhere else. But it is suspicious.”
I dropped onto the loveseat. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
“It might be. Which is why I asked around some more. I tried to find out where he was that night.” He grimaced. “I guess I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing at first. Then Prince started asking me questions. About you. About us. About how you got into the party.”
“And you said . . . ?”
He gave me a dry look. “I didn’t rat out Chris, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I didn’t say that you did.” I might’ve thought it. But I didn’t say it.
“Sure,” he said. “Anyway, later that same day, my latest video for them got mysteriously flagged. They used that to claim I’d breached our contract, and they ended our sponsorship agreement.”
Well, damn. “Can they do that?”
“Apparently,” he said. “It’s clearly bullshit, but what can I do? And the worst part is they don’t have to pay me what I’m owed because of it.”
“Well, that sucks, but I’m not sure why you’re here telling me about it.”
“It’s because—” He broke off, his lips pressed into a thin line. He watched me for a moment, his brow furrowed under the weight of some decision. Then, with a sharp exhale, he seemed to give in. “I want you to convince your uncle to hire me.”
“Oh, really?” I folded my arms. After he’d basically handed our rivals their best year ever, he wanted to switch sides? “What makes you think we’d want you?”
“Do you know what people’s first reaction is to hearing about Grandeur?”
“Awe? Respect? Admiration?”
“More like—oh, they’re still around?”
“That’s not true.”
“It is and you know it. Almost all promotions are done online these days, and your band’s social media game is weak. I can help with that.”
“Why? Out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Yes. And for a fee.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Of course.”
“And for revenge,” he added. “Prince can’t be allowed to get away with this.”
“I see. Not that I’m against what you’re suggesting, but how would you do that? You can’t turn Grandeur into a big band like Royalty.”
“Give me some credit. I’m well aware of the limitations. But in my experience, you don’t have to surpass your enemies to annoy them. Just thriving is often enough.”
“In your experience?” I slid him a side-eye, trying to work out if that was some veiled reference to our relationship.
“Basically.” Hazel pulled out her phone, found what she needed, and showed it to me. “She performs cover songs on YouTube.” On screen, a girl with dip-dyed black-blue hair and perfectly applied winged eyeliner leaned closer to a microphone. The opening notes of “Love on the Brain” started to play.
“Chris used to date her?” I asked.
“They met through Brandon,” Hazel said miserably. “Look at her. She’s pretty, older, taller, way more interesting than me. And she’s smart too, studying to be a lawyer. She posted a photo of her bookshelf and it’s all textbooks and Man Booker and Pulitzer Prize–winning doorstops.”
“Hazel, you’re pretty and smart. And you read doorstops as well.” I wasn’t seeing the problem here.
“Not like her,” Hazel muttered, swiping the app off the screen. “She probably laughs at romance novels too.”
“Too?” Suspicion snuck up on me. “Did Chris say something about you writing romance?” He wouldn’t dare, would he?
“No,” Hazel said. “Because he doesn’t know that I do.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. Hazel wrote all the time. On everything.
Actually, no. Now that I thought about it, she hadn’t been writing on her arms for a while.
Did she stop because of Chris?
Hazel picked at the quilting of the duvet. “A few weeks back, he asked me what I was reading. When I told him it was a romance book, his immediate reaction was—oh, like Fifty Shades of Grey? Then he laughed.” She pulled the duvet over her face, embarrassed. “How could I tell him I wrote romance too after that?”
“This happened a few weeks ago? And you still wanted to date him?”
“It seemed like a small flaw in an otherwise perfect person.”
“Maybe you should stop calling him perfect. No one is perfect. And if you’re serious about him, you’re going to have to tell him about your writing eventually.”
“Not if I use a pseudonym when I publish,” she said. “I could keep it secret. Like a second life.”
“That sounds like borrowing trouble,” I said, standing up. My attention turned to the photo of the masqueraders on my wall again, and I felt a sharp tug of shame. “The article wasn’t that bad, right? Like, I really didn’t know a reporter was listening. I don’t want to cause problems for Uncle.”
“I’m sure he knows that you were just trying to help.” Hazel waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just an article. No one will care. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Except it wasn’t.
It turned out someone had cared. We’d find out how much a few days later.
Aunty Gloria was the reason we’d gone to the community center that morning. She’d insisted that Friday was the day to send Hazel’s car for detailing and offered to drop us to school herself. On the way there, she’d answered the distressed call from my uncle. Without a second thought, she adjusted our route to meet him at the community center.
Uncle Russell hadn’t been happy she’d brought us along. But his objections faded into faint background noise as I took in the ruined costumes on the floor. The hall had been thoroughly trashed—graffiti on the walls, decorations torn, potted plants overturned.
This was all my fault.
“What do you want to do now?” Melissa asked, her anxious tone slipping through my haze.
I walked past one of the custodians tasked with sweeping and scooping and scrubbing the walls. A familiar shock of blue and silver caught my attention. I bent to pick it up. It was the tattered and twisted remains of the blue heron headpiece. The room could be fixed, but these costumes could not.
“Don’t you have backups?” Aunty Gloria asked.
“For some,” Uncle Russell said. “Not all.”
“Some of the materials needed to be imported in bulk,” Melissa said. “They haven’t come in yet.” She let out a groan. “It’s going to be hell calling all the guests. And the vendors. We’re not getting a refund for canceling this late.”
“We can’t cancel,” I insisted, surprising even myself. The launch was an important promotional event. Even more than that—it was tradition. We couldn’t not do it.
“We can work on replacements—”
Even before I’d finished talking my uncle was shaking his head. “No. We don’t have time.”
“We can set out the costumes that we do have and use the concept art in place of the others.”
“No—”
“It can work,” I insisted. “I’ll help. I can skip school today.”
“No!” Uncle Russell said. “Beatrice, enough. I am not setting out rushed costumes and concept art. It’s not professional. The best we can do is cancel and apologize and pray that that’s enough to save face.”
I snapped my mouth shut.
Beatrice? No one called me that. The formality of it cut right through me.
Uncle Russell’s chest fell with a heavy sigh. His tone softened, but his stony expression remained. “You and Hazel should be at school.” He threw Aunty Gloria a pointed look. “Melissa, come on. We’ve got a lot of calls to make.”
“You know this was the Kingstons, right?” I blurted as he started to leave. “It’s Prince. This is him getting back at me.”
“You don’t know that,” Uncle Russell said.
“I do. This is his retaliation for the article. He feels like I messed up his launch so he’s doing the same to us.”
If I hadn’t gone to the party—if I hadn’t insulted their costumes and publicly embarrassed their band, then none of this would’ve happened.
“Come on, Tess.” Aunty Gloria wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Russell is right. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
She led me out of the hall, Hazel trailing behind.
I couldn’t say what happened in school that day. Most of the time, all I could do was sit and pretend to listen, breathing through the heavy block of ice lodged in my chest.
We had a mock exam in French, and I’d handed in the paper with most of the sections empty. Not because I didn’t know the answers, but because I’d zoned out midway through. By the time I returned to the moment, time was up. Class dismissed.
Prince had to be behind this. I knew it in my bones. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
“Hello?” Brandon stood on the other side of my desk, waving a hand in front of my face. “Anyone home?”
“What?” I glanced around, confused by the new faces filtering into the classroom.
“It’s seventh period,” he said. “Last I checked, you’re not in Accounting.”
Shoot. I reached for my bag. My class had ended and another was starting.
“No need to rush,” Brandon said. “Mr. Brathwaite is always late anyway. And it looked like you were doing some deep thinking there.”
“Not today, Brandon.” I shoved my books into my backpack and zipped it shut. “I’m not in the mood.”
His brows raised. “Did you have a bad night? Conscience bothering you over that article? What did they call you—a spirited little lady? When I read that, I couldn’t help but think, well, that’s one way to put it.”
“My conscience?” I asked, fuming at his choice of words. “You want to talk about my conscience. You’re the one working for a snake.” I shoved my chair back and stood. “The article was an accident. I didn’t plan that. What he did was malicious with intent.”
Brandon folded his arms. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your boss and how he wrecked our venue the night before our band launch. He trashed the whole place and destroyed—” I stopped, breathing through a wave of emotion. “Destroyed all our costumes.”
“Prince did what?” Brandon dropped his arms. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Who else would it be?” I slid out from behind the desk. “And the worst part is, my silly article won’t affect Royalty’s sales at all. Not even a blip. But Grandeur . . .” I bit my lip and shook my head. “What he did might’ve ruined our whole year.”
“How do you know it was him?” Brandon asked, following me out of the classroom. “Prince is an asshole, no question. But what you’re talking about is criminal.”
“Yeah, it is. And you work for someone like that, so what does that say about you? How’s your conscience?” I asked, then backed away without waiting for an answer.
Seven
The sales numbers for the first week came in. They weren’t good.
We got quite a bit of backlash for canceling the party at the last moment. Responses ranged from irritated understanding to straight vitriol. A few guests, who didn’t get the update, even showed up at the venue expecting a party, only to be turned away.
It didn’t help that Uncle Russell wouldn’t explain what happened. He said he didn’t see the point. If it were me, I’d have been pointing fingers at the culprit, solid proof or not.
The atmosphere in the house was thick with tension, Uncle Russell perpetually moody, Melissa in the pantry up to three times a day. And yet, the full extent of the damage didn’t quite hit me until I overheard Uncle Russell and Aunty Gloria talking about it.
It was a late night. I’d been up working on my literature project, and I’d come downstairs to the kitchen for some water.
“—call some people?” Aunty Gloria was saying. “See if I can drum up some interest?”
“No,” Uncle Russell said. “Besides, who would want to tie themselves to a sinking ship. Grandeur hasn’t made a profit in three years. We can’t go on like this.”
I froze behind the doorway, numb and listening.
“If we don’t at least break even this year,” he said, “we can’t afford a next one.”
“You mean shutting it down?” Aunty Gloria asked him. “Are you ready for that?”
“I don’t know. But a man can only swim against the current for so long before he’s tired. And I am.”
He couldn’t mean that, right?
This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be.
After that, I returned to my room and settled in for a night of fitful sleep. I dreamed of long-necked birds, great big waves, and vicious currents dragging me underwater.
Help came the next morning from the most unexpected source.
“Uh . . .” I stopped on the threshold of the living room. No matter how many times I blinked, the scene in front of me remained: Aunty Gloria on one end of the couch, Brandon sitting on the other. Both of them drinking from the “good” teacups that Aunty Gloria brought out only for special occasions.
“I see what you mean,” Brandon said, after taking a sip. “It’s the ginger. It’s like a punch in the face. Really wakes you up.”
“Exactly,” Aunty Gloria said. “I swapped out coffee for this and never looked back. One of the members of my meditation group recommended it.” She set her cup down. “I’ve been trying to get my family to join our group for ages. But every time I bring it up, they zone out, which is ironic—”
“Aunty Gloria.” I found my voice. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to invite them inside.” I approached the couch, pointing to Brandon. “We’ll need holy water to get him out now.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” Aunty Gloria asked.
“She’s insinuating I’m a vampire, Aunty,” Brandon explained. “It’s a joke. Just something we do.” He smiled at me. “Not her best, though. She must still be sleepy.”
Hazel entered from the kitchen. “Oh, good. You’re awake. Brandon’s here.”
“Yes. I noticed. Thank you, Hazel.” I returned my attention to the interloper. “Why are you here?”
He took one last long sip, set the empty cup down, and stood. “I actually came to talk to you.”
“Me?”
Aunty Gloria laughed. “You two can talk in here.” She stood and gathered the cups. “Brandon, let me know if you change your mind about joining our meditation group. You’d be surprised who’s involved. We’ve even got young people like yourself.”
“I’ll think about it, Aunty,” he said. “Thank you for the tea and for answering my questions. And let me say, we miss seeing you on TV every night. The man they’ve got filling in has nothing on you.”
Aunty Gloria laughed, waving off his flattery. “Hazel, come. Grab that plate for me.”
Hazel did as she was told, and the pair left the living room.
Brandon and I stared at each other. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single reason he should be here, much less why he’d want to talk to me.
“Surprised to see me?” he asked.
“Surprise is definitely one of the emotions involved.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. He stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled over to the shelves. To my irritation, he started inspecting the various framed photos that adorned them. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked nervous.
He pointed at one of the photos. “Is that you and Hazel?”
“Yes.” I didn’t have to look to know which one he meant. Hazel and I had been about four when it was taken. My arm slung around her shoulder, the both of us in matching floral dresses, our hair adorned with multi-colored baubles.
He moved on to the photo of Uncle Russell and Aunty Gloria’s wedding, the both of them in profile as they grinned at each other. “Your uncle with hair. That’s so . . .”
“Wrong?” I supplied, having thought something similar myself. Uncle Russell was bald. Had been since I could remember. Anything else didn’t compute.
“Yes. Exactly.” He did a double-take and backed up. “And who’s this?” He picked up the frame to get a better look. “Is this your parents? Wow.”
I crossed the room to join him. Somehow, I knew he’d notice that one. To be fair, it did stand out. My parents, in their early twenties, glittering in fiery-red and gold Grandeur costumes. The camera focused on them, amid a sea of other masquerade players, their youth and beauty and joy forever captured in that moment, exactly the way I wanted to remember them.
“Talk about couple goals,” he said.
I snorted. Not really. But they did work really hard to make people think they were. I snatched the frame from him and returned it to the shelf. “Why are you here, Brandon?”
He let out a small laugh and retreated to the couch. “This is very hard for me to say. So give me a second.” He perched on the armrest, drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “You were right.”
“I’m sorry—what?” I leaned forward, cupping my ear. “I think I misheard you. Can you say that again?”
“No,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Can you at least tell me why I was right?”
“Do you remember a recent conversation we had? The one where you implied that I was a soulless, greedy bastard.”
“Implied? I mean, I may not have used those exact words, but—”
“Yes, yes.” He folded his arms. “Well, that same afternoon, I had to stop by the Royalty offices to pick something up. While there, I started chatting with some of the admin staff. They mentioned how nice it was that Prince didn’t stick around for their weekly after-work lime. Usually, he and his friends turn up, make a mess, and harass everyone.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” I said.
“Right? But this part will. That office lime was the same night your venue got trashed. And for the first time since Prince started working at Royalty, he didn’t turn up.”
“I knew it,” I said. My mind whirled with anger and vindication.
“Wait, wait. Don’t jump ahead. All that proves is that he wasn’t at the lime. He and his lackeys could’ve been wreaking havoc somewhere else. But it is suspicious.”
I dropped onto the loveseat. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
“It might be. Which is why I asked around some more. I tried to find out where he was that night.” He grimaced. “I guess I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing at first. Then Prince started asking me questions. About you. About us. About how you got into the party.”
“And you said . . . ?”
He gave me a dry look. “I didn’t rat out Chris, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I didn’t say that you did.” I might’ve thought it. But I didn’t say it.
“Sure,” he said. “Anyway, later that same day, my latest video for them got mysteriously flagged. They used that to claim I’d breached our contract, and they ended our sponsorship agreement.”
Well, damn. “Can they do that?”
“Apparently,” he said. “It’s clearly bullshit, but what can I do? And the worst part is they don’t have to pay me what I’m owed because of it.”
“Well, that sucks, but I’m not sure why you’re here telling me about it.”
“It’s because—” He broke off, his lips pressed into a thin line. He watched me for a moment, his brow furrowed under the weight of some decision. Then, with a sharp exhale, he seemed to give in. “I want you to convince your uncle to hire me.”
“Oh, really?” I folded my arms. After he’d basically handed our rivals their best year ever, he wanted to switch sides? “What makes you think we’d want you?”
“Do you know what people’s first reaction is to hearing about Grandeur?”
“Awe? Respect? Admiration?”
“More like—oh, they’re still around?”
“That’s not true.”
“It is and you know it. Almost all promotions are done online these days, and your band’s social media game is weak. I can help with that.”
“Why? Out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Yes. And for a fee.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Of course.”
“And for revenge,” he added. “Prince can’t be allowed to get away with this.”
“I see. Not that I’m against what you’re suggesting, but how would you do that? You can’t turn Grandeur into a big band like Royalty.”
“Give me some credit. I’m well aware of the limitations. But in my experience, you don’t have to surpass your enemies to annoy them. Just thriving is often enough.”
“In your experience?” I slid him a side-eye, trying to work out if that was some veiled reference to our relationship.
