Page 3 of Wild for You
“How many followers did you say he has again?” I chime in as the wheels in my head start turning.
Laura flips through the deck until she finds what she’s looking for. “1.3 million followers. All organic within the last five years—”
“I believe we can all read the slide deck, Laura,” Sandra interrupts.
I feel a bubble of excitement in the pit of my stomach, and my fingers itch to pull out my phone and Google him myself, but I resist. There’s nothing Sandra hates more than seeing someone on their phone during a meeting. It’s a total oxymoron considering that’s most of our job, but it’s one of her pet peeves.
Laura takes a shaky breath before she continues. “We’ve also got the Thorstein sisters who’ve recently decided to split up their shares of their businesses. There will be a lot of handholding for the middle sister. We need to get her out and break away from her shy image. VIP parties, house tours, we need to appeal to a younger audience. Maybe we set her up with a B-level celebrity to get some coverage? Their mother is sick about the dispute and wants to make sure all the girls are on an equal playing field.”
I wipe my sweaty palms against my pants and blurt out, “I’ll take Willy,” before I think better of it and change my mind. It’s a risk, something completely out of my comfort zone, but with the limited information I have, I think I can spin this. This could be exactly what I need to show Sandra just how valuable I am here at Éclat.
Sandra’s eyes widen, then narrow as she searches my face for something only she can see. “Interesting. That’s quiteambitiousof you, isn’t it?”
I swallow the lodged lump in my throat, “I’m up for a challenge. Besides, if his sponsorships reflect his following, this could bring Éclat to the next level.” I steady my shoulders and hold eye contact.
“Great. It’s decided, then.” Sandra slaps her notebook closed. “Gwen will be onsite with Wombat Willy while Pantone takes Pheobe Thorstein.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up my hands as if I’m a watch guard directing traffic. “What do you mean when you sayonsite?”
Sandra scoffs. “Gwen, do I really need to give you a basic vocabulary lesson?” She grabs the clicker and scans through the slides. “It says right here in the agreement that the Public Relations Representative is needed in-person to help aid Wombat Willy during his next filming session in Costa Rica.” She tosses the clicker and stands, brushing non-existent lint off her jacket. “For someone so good at their job, you’re really off your game this morning.” She pulls her glasses down and peers over the top of them as if she’s staring straight into my soul. “I suggest you take this assignment seriously if you even want to be considered for the VP role in the fall. Meeting adjourned. Good luck, ladies!” Then she turns on her heel, leaving me wondering what I’ve just agreed to.
“Ooh, that doesn’t sound fun at all.” Pantone’s nasally voice pierces my already aching head. “Have fun with your assignment, though. Maybe you’ll embrace a whole new lifestyle and finally stop trying to be something you’re not.” She flicks the rogue coffee stain on my blouse. “I think you and the wild man may have more in common than you think.”
I grit my teeth, forcing a smile because VPs generally don’t punch their colleagues.It’s just a two-week assignment. I can do anything for two weeks, right?
CHAPTERTWO
Jack
“Ready, set, action!”Pedro, my film guy, calls from behind the camera, and I slowly inhale and exhale, calming my nerves. You’d think by now I’d be used to leading groups of rich pricks through the wilderness, but after doing this for five years, I still get a rush of nerves every single time. Rich men are the absolute worst, especially the trust fund college kids on spring break. They never fucking listen.
“Hey there, Dubbies! Welcome back to our live stream in the jungle of Costa Rica. Today I’m giving a tour to these interesting gents—” I gesture to the rowdy group of men behind me. This group’s particularly feral, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone snuck in drugs without my knowing. I sigh and roll my eyes, not caring in the least that I’m mocking my paying clients on a live stream.
I slap my hands together and press them to my lips, signaling for Pedro to focus the shot on me. “We’ve just spotted a Great Green Macaw in the tree behind me, and this is a super rare creature.” I point over my shoulder. “As you know, this is a survival channel, but it’s always cool to see rare endangered species in their natural environment. Come on, let’s get a closer look.”
Pedro follows me to the shoreline, and I call over the group of guys to come closer as I spew all the facts I know about the endangered bird. “Now, just a reminder, it is spring, which means you need to watch your step for any baby animals, especially the caimans, which are in the water here because when there’s a baby, there will almost always be a mama close behind.”
No sooner have the words left my mouth than I hear.
“Hey, watch this!” one of the douchebags announces as he grabs a stick and pokes a freshly laid nest of caiman eggs.
Oh, fuck.
“Stop! Those are—” I shout just as the protective mother caiman jumps from its camouflage in the water and locks its jaws around the guy’s arm … ripping it completely off as she falls back into the dirty water.
My heart falls into my stomach as I lunge into action, pushing everyone away from the nest and, more importantly, away from the arm-snatcher as the man’s bloody arm-nub shoots blood straight in my eyes like a water hose.
Panicking, I wipe the sticky hot liquid from my face only to find my camera lying on the ground with its red light blinking, indicating we are indeed still live. I squint my eyes, catching sight of Pedro running for the hills several hundred yards away.
“Fuck.” I grimace, trying my best to wipe the fresh blood from my face as I pick up the camera. “Sorry, guys.” Then I end the recording and yank off my belt to make a tourniquet.
* * *
“I don’t thinkI’ve ever seen so much blood in my life. I bet he’ll think twice next time someone tells him to leave the wildlife alone.” I take a sip of my beer and sit it down a bit harder than necessary, the harsh clank of the metal chair reverberating through the crowded tiki bar. My manager, Landon, flinches in response, momentarily distracting him from doomscrolling through his contact list.
He sighs rather than answering me.
I had to listen to his exaggerated moans and complaints about his stomach ulcer during the entire flight to Miami. He even told me that I made him nervous before we landed as if I’m some amateur pilot.
