Page 83 of Just Dare Me
“Danny, you see how that jacket just hangs over your arm like that? Limp dick. That’s you. Ow!” Elle has jerked on my hair for the last time. I snatch the brush and chuck it into the abandoned street.
A dog barks. Muppet races out of the alley to fetch the brush. Jay trails behind. “Good boy. Slobber on it, chew it up. Shayne’s done with it. She has to be, or heads will roll.”
“That woman sent you out here, didn’t she?”
“Can you blame her? This is the biggest press conference in the history of…history.”
“Ugh. Fine.” I turn to Elle. “Am I done?”
Her response is to raise a can of texture spray in my face and unleash half its contents. I spin away, hacking and gagging.
“Fashion ispain,” she grunts while chopping me right in the stomach, doubling me over as air rushes from my lungs. “Now, up! Spring up, snap your head back!”
I throw my head back with a desperate inhale of breath, and I would have chopped her right back if both men hadn’t reacted with a simultaneous “Woooow.”
“Babe,” Jay breathes, admiring me. “Bombshell.”
My hair hangs perfectly to one side, full of amazing, bouncy curls. Grinning with satisfaction, Elle rests her hands on her hips. “Now you’re done.” Then she salutes. “Director Davies.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
Before going in, I turn back at the side door to take confidence from Jay’s adoring grin. Well, I should’ve known to quit while I was ahead, because he and Russo, in perfect harmony, salute and say, “Director Davies.”
It’s not hard to find Nora inside. She’s surrounded by concentric circles of people. The outside circle is her harem of men, now doubling as security. In black suits and sunglasses, they look like Secret Service agents. Terrance grins. I know exactly what he’s thinking.
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Yeah, right. He waits until I’m one step past him, and then he says it. “Director Davies.”
I clench my teeth, but there’s no time to go back and slap him. I pass through the next ring of people: PR specialists, making last-second adjustments to their plans, shouting reminders toward the inner circle of what to say and whatnotto say on live TV.
The inner circle is makeup and wardrobe, a half-dozen busybodies swarming around their queen bee: Nora Jacobs. They’ve gone for a corporate but fashionable style that was no doubt the result of extensive market research. Her pantsuit is professional but not prudish, her straightened hair and subtle makeup beautiful, but not glamorous. The overall look is merely a heightened version of Nora’s natural self—authoritative and adorable at the same time.
I give her an exaggerated salute. “Director Jacobs.”
Her shoulders slump. “Don’t call me that.”
The frantic producer woman, raising shouts ofhallelujahto spot both me and Nora together, claims us for herself. We follow her through the Guardian building’s famous art deco halls. Bright, colorful tiles create bold geometric patterns up thirty-foot walls and across domed ceilings. Stained glass windows color the sunlight. The Guardian building is full of banking offices, but feels more like a church, which is how it got its nickname: The Cathedral of Finance.
“Why do you get to dress normal?” Nora complains. “I had all my clothes and makeup picked out for me by a committee.”
“What, they didn’t tell you the plan? My job is to be the screwup, so everyone knows you’re the real director.”
“No, stop it.”
“Seriously! My strict instructions were to pick my nose on camera, and if any reporters ask me a question, I’m just gonna fart.”
The producer stops, the blood draining from her face. “You willnot.”
When Nora and I burst out laughing, she sighs with relief, but quickly shushes us. “You hear that? We’re on.”
I hear it. On the other side of a huge black curtain draped across the banking hall, Charlotte’s voice carries from a microphone. There’s a low hum of crowd noises—shuffling papers, squeaking seats, the clicking of cameras, an occasional cough.
The producer leads us to a part down the middle of the curtain. She directs us to stand on twoX’s marked with tape on the floor. “You wait here for your cue. You do not move off those marks until then, understand? Now remember, this is meant to be quick, just a first introduction.”
“Thank goodness,” Nora says, gripping my hand. Her fingers are trembling.
“We’re giving you a minute, maybe two, tops,” the lady continues. “You go out, you smile, you take one or two questions, and you give short,vagueanswers. When I give the signal, you will then say…?”
