The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(5)
The last remark hits home, and he nods slowly, wheels turning the logic of it over in his mind.
I hold the door to the conference room open. With one more look at me, he tucks his notebook in his pocket, grabs his cup, and exits the room.
“Can I call you with any additional—”
“Email only. I don’t do phone calls,” I cut him off, holding up the business card I snagged off the conference room counter.
His eyebrows raise.
“Interrupts my creative flow,” I state cryptically, ushering him out the door to reception.
Like a pack of hyenas, the guys in the office watch him leave. One makes a wolf whistle. I can’t see who, or I’d already be using the rubber-band gun at my desk. “Shut up,” I say to the room at large. “I left something at the coffee shop yesterday. He was returning it.” I don’t address the fact that I’m not holding anything except my coffee and slink to my seat.
But then I smile. Officer Herbal Tea didn’t just bring me coffee; he brought me something even better. An idea.
CHAPTER 3
The smell of chemicals stings my nose as the chair swivels to face the mirror, and Lawrence’s gorgeous dark face comes into view. I take a deep breath and let it back out, willing all the tension, all the stress and baggage I tend to carry around, out of my body. I have T minus three days to the green-light meeting that will make or break my promotion. I can’t seem to stop seeing superheroes in every shadow. I’m obsessed with the news, hoping to catch a glimpse of a certain cop in the follow-up drug-bust stories.
“If loving the smell of hair dye in the morning is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” I say.
Lawrence makes a cluck of approval and runs his fingers through my short locks, finger-combing a part for the foils. “Don’t I know it, girl.” He stretches the word out extra long in a way that’s habit, even when he’s not in costume. “How’s work?”
I open one eye against the scalp massage. “Pass. Next topic, please.”
“That good?”
“It’s not bad. I at least made my deadline for sketches for our internal review. But work just gets me all . . .” I wiggle my head back and forth, unable to articulate how extra draining my job has been lately. “I’m hoping to get that promotion, and I think Casey Junior is going to announce it next week . . . but I’ve really got to nail my presentation at the exec meeting so the whole board can see that I’m the better choice. And, of course, Andy gets to approve my ideas for the executive green light—that historical reboot thing I told you about last week—and he doesn’t like it. He said I could present it as is if I wanted but that he’d offer suggestions to change it if I was interested.” I throw my hands up. “He doesn’t even get what I’m saying half the time. I hate that he’s my team leader and that we’re both up for the same job.” Lawrence was the first to get an earful when I found out months ago that both Andy and I had applied for the newly created art director position within Genius. I’d been giddy at the prospect of finally getting to be Andy’s boss—the team directors would periodically have to answer to the art director. I’d be an executive at Genius, and finally people would have to take me seriously. I’d thought it was perfect . . . until I found out that Andy’s seemingly lost sense of ambition had reared its ugly head and that he’d applied for the position too. Since then I’ve been paranoid that Andy is out to sabotage my ideas, just so he can appear the better candidate.
“Being fierce all the time takes its toll on you, honey.”
“Preach, sister.”
Lawrence steps away to mix the dye at the mirrored station in front of the chair.
I sigh, already missing his hands. “Seriously, L, you need to teach Trog how to give me scalp massages, and I’ll never need another date as long as he lives.”
Lawrence raises a penciled eyebrow. They’re not as dramatic as when he is in full drag, but they’re more than you’d expect a six-foot guy with a boxer’s build to have. “Should the next topic be dating?”
My mind goes directly to Detective Kildaire’s hazel eyes. “Hard pass.”
A rumble of thunder outside shakes the windows to the tiny shop. I’m glad I called Ryan to see if he could pick me and the bike up in my car. Nothing’s worse than getting your hair done and instantly having it ruined by acid rain. I’d been trying to get in to see L for a few weeks, but L’s business has been going through the roof in the year since he was on Drag Race. RuPaul herself offered to help Lawrence franchise, but he still likes his quiet, slightly run-down shop, taking one customer at a time. He says it’s him and that sometimes queens like to feel at home instead of like they’re performing.
“How about religion?” Lawrence asks.
I raise my eyebrow right back at him.
He slathers the gel in my hair, wraps it with foil, and chuckles. “Politics? Or if you prefer the arts, I can practice my opening number on you.” He bounces from foot to foot, aggressively humming something that reeks of Broadway. “You need to start making my new costume, you know. I’m thinking gold lamé anything. I don’t care if those other bitches think it’s outdated.”
I laugh. I can never stay grumpy around Lawrence. He may be my singular most favorite human being on this planet. “I have some ideas I’m working on. Are you sure you’re okay bartering colors for costumes? I feel like I’m getting the better end of this deal.”