Page 86 of Just Dare Me
Chuckling, she cups the mic to her mouth and delivers the canned response from our rehearsals. “Our first priority will be to work with the various FUA offices in cities around the country to ensure a peaceful transition into the public eye. Time for just one more question, please. Last one. Yes, sir, go ahead.”
Okay, so get this. The last reporter to stand up—because of course this happens to me—is this smug-looking guy with an orange fake tan, a mouthful of oversize, over-polished veneers, and wearing—I shit you not—a Dodgers jersey. He says, “Brock Van Leuwen,Los Angeles Star.”
Immediately, I cut him off. “Whoah, whoah. Los Angeles? Who let you in here?”
“She’s kidding,” Nora says.
“I’m kidding,” I assure him. “But seriously, sit down. How about a reporter from Detroit?” Several hands raise.
Nora pushes my face away. “No. Sir, you go ahead. What’s your question?”
The Hollywood reporter sneers at me. “Actually, it’s about Detroit. The headquarters of other government agencies are located in close proximity to the nation’s capital. The FBI’s in Washington, D.C., and the CIA’s in neighboring—not to mentionhistoric—Virginia. Why, of all the incredible cities in this great country, would you choose Detroit?”
The blood freezes in my veins, then flashes to boiling hot. Before Nora can swoop in for a diplomatic answer, I cover the mic with both hands and hiss, “Oh, I got this. I’mdefinitelyfeeling that feeling.”
Nora’s eyes grow wide. “You…what? No.”
“Yes. It’s my calling.”
“Here? Are you kidding?”
“You know I never kid about my calling, Nora. And the calling isnow. I gotta give these people some religion. Look at these stained glass windows. This is a cathedral, isn’t it? So it’s time for church!”
She relents with a sigh. “Fine. Preach it, girl.”
I take full control of the podium, surveying the crowd as a preacher would assess the needs of her congregation. I see the entire city council seated in the front rows and half the Detroit police department standing in the wings. Plus, I know that a majority of the press is from Detroit. Yes, this will do.
I lean forward, practically eating the microphone, my voice booming loud and deep. “It’s true that there’s a lot of great cities in this country, all known for different things. You want politics and history, you go to the East Coast, sure. You want glitz and glamour, head out to LA. But if you want something more, something deeper—if you want to feel the heart and soul of this country, to put your finger on the pulse of America, then there’s only one place to go, and that’s Detroit.”
Calls ofAmen!from the city council, mixed with applause from the cops, gives me encouragement. And we all know the last thing I need in a situation like this is encouragement.
I raise my voice. “Or maybe you think America could have become famous for industry without a little thing calledcars?” Laughter erupts, along with more applause. Police officers whooping.
“Maybe you think America could have partied without the music of Motown?” An explosion of cheers. “Maybe you think America could ever champion equality without D-town’s diversity?” Oh boy, that one gets them fired up. I have to shout to be heard. “Oh, and I suppose you think American sports would be a gazillion-dollar industry without our Detroit Tigers?”
The noise dies down. Faces fall. Hands pause mid-clap.
I quickly recover. “Dammit, forget that one. The point is, this is what we do. When it comes to getting tough shit done, Detroit is, and has always been, the tip of the spear. And if anybody doubts us, there’s the door—don’t let our middle fingers hit you on the way out. They don’t call us the F.U. Agency for nothing.”
The place goes wild, on their feet, shouting, clapping. It’s mayhem. I want to literally drop the mic, but it’s attached to the podium, so I just kick the whole thing over and it breaks into three pieces. As I grab Nora’s hand and run offstage, she’s trying to stop laughing long enough to say her line: “Thank you…that’s all…for now!”
Nick meets us behind the curtain. “Too much?” I ask him.
“You tell me,” he says with a smirk, holding up his phone, which shows a live camera feed from club Underworld. It’s packed to full capacity, and the whole place is going bat-shit crazy, as though the New Year ball just dropped in Times Square.
Nora squeals, “We have to get over there!”
Spotting the red-faced producer woman stomping toward us, I pull Nora by the hand. “Great idea. Haul ass.”
It’s not hard to lose our angry tail in the crush of people trying to grab us. Reporters wanting interviews; government people wanting to “debrief” us; fans who somehow broke through security to get our autographs. Nora’s men push back the hordes, whisking us away to the back alley, where we’re joined by Mom, Mrs. Cody, Nolan, and Darby.
“Afterparty at Underworld!” Nora announces.
“And the after-after party at our wagon train,” Nolan says. “All-night bonfire. Everybody’s invited.”
My mouth drops open. “Really?”
“Ray made it official last night. Any friend of Shayne’s is granted free access to our territory. Come and go, as you please.”
