Masks (Out of the Box Book 9) (6 page)

“The banker’s name is Mr. Penny,” Clarice said, walking very uptight and professional. Her cheekbones were high, her skin a dark chocolate shade, her eyes filled with constant worry. She was a damned good person to have in your corner, Jamie reflected. “So get your laughs out before you go in.”

Jamie stopped. “Why would I laugh about—oh, Penny, and he’s a banker. Yuk yuk, got it.” She adjusted her blouse, brushing at the big dust spot down the left shoulder where she’d dropped it while stripping down to her costume. “Anything else?”

“What happened to you?” Clarice said, trying to help rub her shoulder clean but spreading the dust around instead. “You look like you fell under a float at the St. Patrick’s Day parade.”

“Kyra and I had a big blowup this morning,” Jamie said, brushing herself off where her pants had similarly picked up dirt from casting them aside in a hurry.

“Blowout,” Clarice corrected, and when Jamie looked at her questioningly, Clarice said, “because blowup makes it sound like it might have had something to do with a doll.”

Jamie peered at her in confusion. “What?”

“Never mind.” Clarice shook her head, back to business. “Mr. Penny, remember his name. And no—”

“Laughs, yeah, I got it,” Jamie said, and then opened the door to her office and breezed in. “Hello, Mr. Penny, I am so sorry for being late—”

Jamie stopped just inside the door, because the man waiting for her wasn’t entirely what she was expecting. She’d figured old, balding maybe, in a fancy suit.

So when a handsome young man wearing a shirt with the top button undone rose to greet her with a smile on his face, she wondered why Clarice hadn’t mentioned that little detail in her briefing about names and stifling laughter. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Barton,” Mr. Penny said, extending a hand that Jamie shook after only a moment’s delay.

“Thank you for waiting,” Jamie said, a little sheepishly, as she eased behind her desk. There was clutter everywhere, just like on her dining room table at home. She vaguely recalled the days before she opened the business as being perhaps slightly less cluttered, but it felt like there had always been stuff lingering in every space she could cram it in. “So … um …”

“Right,” Mr. Penny said, brushing a little overhanging brownish-blond hair off his forehead as he spoke. “I have the extension paperwork here that you filed, and there are a few areas of concern for us …”

Jamie paused, swallowed hard, and felt like her chair had just dropped her a solid inch without warning. She checked, but no, it was still in the same place; it was her stomach that had dropped. “I know that the last thing you probably want to hear from people you’ve lent money to is that they need more time and more money, but …”

“It’s not our favorite thing to hear,” Penny said, looking a little distracted, a pen poised over a clipboard that had materialized in his hand, “but when a small business is expanding quickly, it’s not unusual.” He looked up and she saw green, green eyes. And that smile … “Looking over your numbers, I see some positive signs. Your growth in revenue over the last five years is impressive. Your margins are the sticking point.”

“They’ve been a little hampered, I know,” Jamie said, pushing her own blonde hair back behind her ear. “I’ve had to hire more people than I anticipated to keep up with the demand.”

“Have you thought about outsourcing?” Penny asked, looking at the papers.

“Uhm, I—I would really rather keep the products made locally,” Jamie said, feeling as though Captain Frost had just blown a breath of cold wind down her back. “We were founded on Staten Island, and the idea of shutting things down here, I mean—I employ forty-eight people—”

“Sure,” Mr. Penny said, and he started to drum his pen on the clipboard. “But there are opportunities to manufacture your designs for a lot less cost overseas, which means you could … well, actually make money within the next few months.”

“I just … I can’t do that, Mr. Penny,” Jamie said. She felt like screaming in her own head; not only was this fairly handsome man asking her to do something she desperately did not want to do, but he was doing it so politely she felt bad for refusing. “I know these people and I can’t … look them in the eye and put them out of a job.”

“Well,” Penny said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His motion gave Jamie a clear look at his legs, which seemed pretty muscular under the khaki pants. She forced her eyes back up to his. “If you have to close your doors, you’re going to have to do that anyway, but there are other options we could look at to expand the margins before embracing such a … drastic measure. But you’re essentially butting up against the wall for growth. If you add any more people, your expenses are going to soar to the point where you’ll either have to raise your prices considerably or you’ll need to shut down.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “We can probably bridge you with at least some of the loan you’ve asked for. Your credit’s still good, and we’ve backed you thus far, and we do have high hopes things are going to take off for you, but … speaking frankly, just between you and me … if you can’t get your margins up, and soon, you’re going to continue running this business as nearly a non-profit.” He shrugged. “Which would be fine, if that’s what you were registered to do. But you’re not. It’s a for-profit company, and if you don’t turn a profit …” He made a face, all filled with sympathy. “Then it becomes a very expensive hobby in which you lose money and time and … well, years of your life. I’d hate to see that happen.”

Jamie just sat there, listening, feeling like a frog was stuck in her throat. She knew that everything he said was true, with one additional twist of guilt:
If I wasn’t Gravity Gal—ugh, that name—I could be doing more around here to make things take off. Like I was before …

She forced a polite smile. “You … had some other ideas for helping to make us profitable?”

“A few, yeah,” he said with a certain youthful energy. “If you look at this …” He was probably almost twenty years younger than she was, and Jamie closed her eyes for a second, trying to put aside dirty old lady thoughts about a much younger man in order to try and get her business back on track.

I wasn’t quite so happy a few hours later when I had to squeeze into the belly of a giant tin can that was going to be propelled through the sky by explosive jet fuel, but at least I got upgraded to first class. I found my seat by the window and stowed my carry-on bag, which had enough clothing to last me for a few days, plus a couple cycles of accidentally burning it off, a perpetual hazard of my job. I also had eight burner phones packed as well as some additional credit cards and a couple forms of ID, which probably made me look like a terrorist, but this was all standard traveling gear for me nowadays. Joining my new organization had made my life easier in most ways, but standing in line at security checkpoints while the TSA ran a wand over me was still a pain.

I was sitting in my seat, staring out the window at the workers tossing suitcases out of one of those luggage cars, when I heard someone step up next to me and start going through the standard traveler motions. Grunts and a low clearing of the throat told me this guy was about to hoist a carry-on bag up to put it in the overhead bin. He made kind of a big production of it, and I heard him say, “Excuse me,” to someone trying to get around him. He sounded way too peppy.

I kept my head riveted on the goings-on outside my window. I had some reading material for the flight, which was two hours from Minneapolis-St. Paul to LaGuardia in New York. I could have made the jump myself in about an hour or less if the stupid FAA hadn’t revoked my cross-country flight privileges when I left government service. I kept telling myself I had to take the good with the bad, but fortunately New York had given me blanket clearance to fly subsonic all over the state. I doubted I’d need to jet up to Poughkeepsie for any reason, but it was nice to have the option. Luckily Minnesota had already granted me the right of flight in-state, but I didn’t exercise it as much as I had before because I didn’t want to piss them off and risk them revoking it.

“Excuse me,” the guy next to me said as he grunted his way into his seat. He hadn’t touched or disturbed me, which made me wonder why he was excusing himself. I turned around and confirmed what I’d already suspected when I’d caught a glance at him out of the corner of my eye: he was a salesman, and he likely wanted to network or connect or something. I could tell by his grin.

“You are excused,” I said and turned back to the window. I cursed myself for even saying that much a moment later when he took it as a license to engage.

“Heck of a summer so far, isn’t it?” he asked, peppy, peppy and more peppy. I wondered idly if he’d guzzled ten Five Hour Energy shots before getting on the plane or if this was just his natural state.

“It’s all right,” I said, trying to skirt the line between being rude and giving him an opening. I’d had a great summer so far, not that he needed to know that.

“Hard to believe it’ll be Labor Day in a couple weeks,” he said with a low, fake chuckle. “It’s all gone so fast. We’ll be up to our eyeballs in snow here in just a few short months!”

“True statement,” I said, and turned to look at the guy. I held in a big sigh and watched as his eyes got big as he recognized me.

“You’re her!” he said, his enthusiasm impossibly bumping up a few levels. And I thought he’d already reached his ceiling.

This happened a lot; people were perpetually recognizing me, but then they couldn’t remember my name or called me by someone else’s. One time someone—some beautiful someone, who I will love forever—thought I was Anne Hathaway. That made my day, because I’ve looked in the mirror, and Anne Hathaway’s figure I do not have.

“I’m her,” I said, my own enthusiasm muted somewhat by the fact that this shit was old. Like, super old. Like Janus old.

“Did you see that thing that happened in New York this morning?” he asked, like I was just jetting to the Empire State for shits and giggles and maybe
Hamilton
. He lowered his voice like it was scandalous. “Things are getting crazy there, aren’t they? Two heroes now, just running through the streets all lawless—”

“New York City still has laws,” I said, shrugging. One of them was that I couldn’t bring a gun into their city, which annoyed me to no end because it forced me to rely on shooting bursts of flame at anyone who engaged me at a distance. They were a lot more likely to survive 9mm bullets, frankly, but whatever, I didn’t make the laws and I didn’t get to ignore them anymore, either.

“But, I mean, these people are vigilantes, aren’t they?” he asked, leaning in, which I found even more annoying. His breath smelled of spearmint Tic Tacs, and I feel about spearmint like Taylor Swift feels about Katy Perry.

“They’re giving the NYPD a helping hand,” I said, subtly backing off without making a horrid face. “I suspect if the city of New York decided it really didn’t want citizens helping them out, they’d make them stop.” At the point of a gun, probably, but it’d get done.

“Hmm,” he said, nodding, like I’d given him something to really think about. I could see by his eyes that he was just trying to formulate the next thing he was going to say, though. “I’ve watched some of your exploits, and I gotta say …” he chuckled again, like this was all part of one hilarious joke we were in on together, “your job is so dangerous—putting yourself out there fighting all these bad guys.” He shuddered, like it was twenty degrees in the airplane or something, and giggled like a little boy. “It sounds like the worst job in the world to me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Worse than manscaper?”

That caught him off guard, and he scratched self-consciously at his chest in such a manner that I mentally cringed. “Well, at least that’s less dangerous,” he said lamely.

“Clearly you’ve never had to shave Chewbacca.”

“Hmmm,” he said, now suddenly preoccupied with his cell phone. He had it out and was typing away with his thumbs like a pro. I took this as a sign that he was done with me, blessedly, and put my head against the bulkhead. I didn’t intend to go to sleep, but I ended up drifting right off with the summer sun shining on my face through the window.

I woke up when the plane touched down, kind of astounded I’d slept through the flight but not at all displeased. I got antsy flying commercial, probably because I wasn’t in control and because I couldn’t feel the wind on my face. Also, I wasn’t the biggest fan of reading since I'd spent years doing it to kill time while trapped in my house, and while I had a few movies loaded on my iPad, I got twitchy watching them on flights. Also, I’d seen everything I had multiple times.

Thanks to being in first class, I was one of the first off the plane, and I drifted through the crowds at LaGuardia, ignoring the temptation to feed at one of the innumerable restaurants around me. I was saving myself for Shake Shack. I carried my bag snug on my shoulder as I left the security area and descended toward the baggage claim, where I was suddenly very regretful that I hadn’t travelled with sunglasses.

About a billion flashbulbs went off as I came down the escalator, blinding me and making me both sorry and grateful for New York handgun restrictions all in one. The paparazzi were waiting for me, with more cameras than I’d believed still existed in the US. Hadn’t everyone switched to phones already?

Apparently not, judging by the strobe light effect of the flashbulbs all around me. I got mobbed as I walked out of the security exit, barely able to see through the crowd to the double doors past the baggage claim and the bright daylight beyond. I heard about a hundred voices shout, “Ms. Nealon!” and I suddenly remembered that my super-peppy seat neighbor had texted right as we were taking off. Maybe it was innocent, or maybe he’d tipped off the jackals that I was coming to town. Either way, I was not disposed to think of him kindly.

“What brings you to New York, Ms. Nealon?”

“
Hamilton
,” I said, pushing my way through the crowd without committing felony assault. It was not easy.

“Does it have anything to do with the incident on Wall Street this morning?”