The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(6)
“Girl, my tips went up fifty percent wearing your stuff. Plus, when you’re a world-famous designer, I’ll sell mine for millions.”
I nod and close my eyes, thinking about this possible promotion and how it smooths the way for me to do more costume creation for both movies and video games. For years I’ve been doodling my own takes on all the Genius characters. Flashy new revamps of their costumes. Sketches for cosplay adaptions. At first I thought it was my way of fleshing out my writing. But lately . . . well, I’ve been dreaming of doing it for work too, without the writing. Despite my distaste for following “traditional” stereotypes, I can’t help loving costuming. The colors, the fabrics, even the sewing itself. It slowly turned from an augmentation of my “real career” to something I privately think of as my true calling. It’s why I secretly applied to a fashion design competition specifically targeted at nerds, part of San Diego Comic-Con. I’m curious if I’m any good measured against “real” costume designers. But if I get this promotion, I’ll get to have my cake and eat it too . . . I won’t have to prove anyone right by quitting my job as the only female comic book writer at Genius to go design clothes. I’ll be able to mold and shape my job into something I want. Plus, I’d be Andy’s boss, and I’d finally win the long-standing stalemate of the difference of our ideas.
My eyes pop back open a minute later. “Actually! Speaking of politics, did you see that Edward Casey is planning a huge charity auction for the thirtieth anniversary of The Hooded Falcon? It’s all over the Twittersphere today. It’s going to take place at San Diego Comic-Con!” As much as I dislike the man, he does a lot for the fans of Genius, and this charity auction promises to hold some of the most monumental THF memorabilia that exists. I nearly rub my hands together in greed and issue maniacal villain laughter. At least one item will be mine.
“Mmmm.” Lawrence makes a noncommittal noise and spins my chair to the side. It’s not like Lawrence to clam up, and I turn my head, trying to see his face. I get one huge hand over each ear to hold me still for my trouble.
“You brought up politics,” I grumble.
“I didn’t know about the anniversary.”
“Um, hello, I’ve been talking about it for months. In fact, I’ve told you three times about the gala you’re attending with me. My boss says dates are required. I RSVP’d. I need you. Come on, come be my date, celebrate a comic that used to be awesome, and make my boss happy.”
Lawrence pulls a face.
The only work events I can ever drag Lawrence to are ones involving The Hooded Falcon or ones with copious amounts of free food. This one would have both; it should be a slam dunk.
“So you don’t want to be my date, or you don’t want to make my boss happy?”
Complete silence from Lawrence.
“Come on, L. I know I make him sound awful, but he’s not that bad. I know; I’ll introduce you. Maybe he’ll give us some insider knowledge about what’s being auctioned.”
The sour look on his face when I suggest introducing him goes beyond the typical bored-sympathetic look he wears when I rant about the patriarchy at work. I’ve told Lawrence stories about how I’ve been asked at every meeting for a year to take notes like a secretary or get coffee for the team. I know he doesn’t love that Casey Junior can’t seem to remember I like to be called MG and insists on calling me Michael. And he’s always clammed up, but for years now I’ve just assumed he doesn’t want to interrupt. That he is being a BFF by listening to me vent without judgment. This is the first time I’ve had the idea that maybe he’s been clamming up about something and not just being supportive. But Lawrence is largely an “accept everyone as they are” kind of guy. He was once sabotaged onstage by another queen and proceeded to not only finish his act but use the ruined costume to his advantage—sincerely thanking the other queen afterward for helping raise his game. There’s not a hateful bone in his body, so the slightly bitter look on his face takes me by surprise.
Lawrence is still silent, so I reach out and spin myself around. “I’ve already assumed you’d be my date. You or Ryan always come with me to stuff; it’s too late to back out now.” I study his face, which hasn’t lost its look of pure distaste. “So it’s my boss? You actively dislike my boss? I always thought you were just being supportively antisocial so I didn’t feel awkward. L, you don’t dislike anyone. Well, except that no-good Cleopatra Foxy.”
“There’s only room for one Queen of Egypt, and that’s Latifah Nile,” he says, followed by a characteristic hair flick, sans wig. “Now. If you’ll face front so I don’t wreck this mess.” He turns me forward and pulls another foil. He’s silent a long moment, like he’s chewing on his words, then hesitantly offers an explanation. It’s like a dam is breaking and these words have been stored up, waiting to come out. “I’ll come, but don’t introduce us. We’ve already met. He’s always been a bit of an ass, so no, I don’t like him. And he’s not wild about me.” L’s mouth snaps shut, and he’s got an “Oh shit, the cat is out of the bag” expression that makes me widen my eyes.
It takes a moment for Lawrence’s words to register in my brain. Everything in my heart screeches to a halt. The way he said “we’ve already met” went beyond “we ran into each other at the artichoke dip at the Christmas party.” There was a depth and a complexity there that spoke of true knowing. Which is beyond my comprehension since I’ve known L for years without him divulging that he knew my boss outside of my work.