Stiff Competition

by Micah Persell

  “You okay?” he asked.

  What a question. “Mmm hmm,” she hummed noncommittally.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re coming to the final pitch meeting, right?”

  “Holy shit,” she muttered. That was today? The day Mr. Callahan chose the game to go ahead with was—she glanced down at the clock on her laptop screen—yep, it was today. And the meeting started in about two minutes.

  “This isn’t happening.” She shot to her feet.

  “Hey,” Chris said behind her. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and her fingers stilled against her laptop where they’d been preparing to snatch it up.

  It wasn’t until she felt his hand on her back that she realized she was shaking.

  “Whoa, Cassidy.” Chris stepped around her and ducked down, peering in her face. “Have you been . . . crying?”

  With that, she sniffed hard, grabbed her computer and sketchpad, and straightened. She forced herself to meet Chris’s eyes. “It hasn’t been a good day.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Do you need to talk about it?”

  To her horror, she felt her eyes flooding with tears again. She turned away from him, shrugging off the hand that was still on her back before he could see them. “We have a meeting to get to.”

  He was silent for a second. “Okay,” he said finally.

  They walked down the hallway toward the meeting room in awkward silence, and she could feel Chris’s gaze on her as heavy as a winter coat.

  By the time they arrived, everyone else was seated, including Mr. Callahan. As one, all their heads turned toward the door, and she saw several widened eyes before they were quickly hidden behind politely distant expressions.

  Damn. Just how bad did she look?

  “So nice of you to join us, Cassidy.” Mr. Callahan nodded at her. “Chris.” Another nod.

  Her fingers tightened on the laptop as she noticed a new face among the familiar ones around the table. An older, distinguished gentleman at Mr. Callahan’s right elbow glanced at his watch, and a glint of light ricocheted off it and caught her directly in the eye, making her wince.

  Chris moved toward an open seat near the end of the table, but she paused before sitting, hoping Mr. Callahan would introduce the newcomer. His presence made her already unsettled stomach dance just a fraction harder.

  Mr. Callahan raised his eyebrows. “Are you volunteering to go first?”

  Cassidy pressed her lips together. Sudden panic threatened to overrun her. You’ve just reworked your entire project. This was bad. She’d not had a chance to edit it. To even read through the synopsis and check for continuity.

  Her gaze darted to the man sitting beside Mr. Callahan. A muscle in his check flexed, and his nostrils flared as he drew in a big breath.

  Great. She’d been in the room twelve seconds and already managed to alienate at least one member of her audience.

  She straightened her spine, drawing on reserves of strength from a deep place inside her she hadn’t really known existed until just this moment. “Yes, I’m volunteering to go first.” After all, what was the worst that Mr. Callahan could do? Fire her?

  A nervous giggle slipped from her lips, and she clamped them shut. That was the worst that he could do.

  Lose Gage and my job all in one day. What would I have left?

  She didn’t care about anything else.

  Her laptop hit the table a little rougher than she’d intended, and she jolted but quickly gathered her wits again. Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, she eased open the lid of her computer. It immediately blinked back to life, glowing up at her and illuminating the synopsis to her game.

  A sudden calm overcame her as she silently scanned the first line. This was her best work.

  Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin, and started from the beginning.

  Mr. Callahan nodded along as she read—he’d heard this part. Several times. The first time she said the word vigilante, however, he frowned.

  She plowed ahead. “ . . . partnering equally with her friend, a jaunty gigolo with a heart of gold, they work together to stop a car theft ring—”

  “Wait.” Mr. Callahan held up a hand. “Vigilante? Partnering?” He glowered at her. “Cassidy, what is this? Where’s the game you’ve been working on all this time? The sexy car thief and the circle of gigolos she uses for information.”

  She tried not to let the nerves overtake her again. She really did. But the look on Mr. Callahan’s face—a cross between having smelled something sour and barely harnessed rage—made such a feat difficult. She swallowed. “I changed it. Sir.”

  Mr. Callahan’s eyes widened. From her peripheral vision she saw several of her co-workers shift in their seats.

  “You changed it,” Mr. Callahan repeated in a deadpan voice. “From the potentially bestselling game you were working on, to . . . this.” He cast a hand toward her laptop, the very move dripping with disdain.

  “Sir, if you’d just let me finish, I think this game is stronger than the former version—”

  He leaned forward and jabbed a finger in her direction, cutting her off. “You’re wrong. You want a game with a female lead”—he practically spat the words—“and you take away the only thing that makes her remotely strong in her story by making her partner with someone who should have been beneath her. And with that move, you also take away all of the humor. Gigolos are funny. They’re less funny when you take them seriously. Do you know what our demographic is? Thirty-year-old males. No one will want to play your character. She’s weak. Powerless. And they’re damn well not going to want to pair with a male prostitute!”

  She looked down at her fingers knotted in front of her. No wonder Gage left me. He read her game and knew people would think of it this way. “The best person I’ve ever met in my life is a gigolo,” she said softly. “And there are ways people, even women, show power without stepping on the backs of others. Sir.”

  The air seemed to suck from the room as though someone had flipped the power switch on an industrial vacuum. Cassidy dared a glance around. Her co-workers looked at her in varying degrees of shock, their mouths open and eyes wide. Mr. Callahan’s entire face and neck were flushed red. If the pulsing in his cheek was any indication, he was grinding his teeth to dust.

  He sniffed and yanked his cuffs down over his wrists, one at a time, and then he pinned her with a glare. “I warned you, Cassidy. Several times.” He turned toward Chris. “Chris, have you made any changes to your game since the last time we talked?”

  Chris gulped audibly. “N-no, sir.”

  Mr. Callahan jerked a nod. “Good. We proceed with your game.” He turned back to Cassidy. “Hastings, you’re fired. Effective immediately. Go pack your belongings.”

  Her gut plummeted to the vicinity of her ankles. To her renewed horror, her throat felt thick, and there were pinpricks behind her eyes. “Yes, sir,” she managed to whisper.

  The gentleman who sat at Mr. Callahan’s elbow leaned forward. “If I may,” he began.

  Mr. Callahan turned toward him. “Mr. Brown, I sincerely apologize for the direction this creative meeting took. I—”

  This time, it was Mr. Brown who held up a hand. Miracle of miracles, the gesture halted her boss’s words on the spot.

  “I came to invest in a game, and I find myself intrigued by the one the young lady was pitching.”

  Every head in the room snapped in his direction.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Callahan said, giving his head a little shake. “What was that?”

  “That game about vigilantes and powerful women.” Mr. Brown gestured toward Cassidy. “I wanted to hear more, but as you’ve just fired this employee—” Mr. Brown looked directly at her, their gazes connecting. The intelligence and kindness there seeped through layers of the cold that filled Cassidy’s body. “Would you agree to meet, miss, and discuss your game?”

  Mr. Callahan looked as though he were going to simultaneously explode and mel
t into his seat. “Mr. Brown, if you’ll let me—”

  Again, Mr. Brown held up a hand. His gaze never left hers. “Miss?”

  Cassidy’s head began bobbing several seconds before she could get words to leave her mouth. “Yes. Yes, sir, that would be great.”

  “Wonderful.” Planting his hands on the table, he pushed to his feet. He held every gaze in the room as he pulled a business card from his breast pocket and extended it toward her when he neared. “Meet me at that address in an hour. Will that give you sufficient time to gather your belongings?”

  Again with the bobbing head. “Uh-huh. Yes.”

  “Excellent, Ms.—”

  He waited for several seconds.

  Oh! “Hastings. Cassidy Hastings.”

  He extended his hand. “Ms. Hastings. I’ll see you soon.”

  With a warm, firm shake, he left the room.

  Absolute silence filled the space in his wake. All eyes were on Mr. Callahan. With a deep breath for courage, she chanced a glance his direction. His eyes darted with what had to be racing thoughts.

  What’s he going to do? Unfire me? Tell me to get out now?

  The real question wasn’t what Mr. Callahan was going to do, but what she planned to do. Did she want to work with this man who had insulted her and belittled her work at every turn? Or did she want something better for herself?

  Mr. Callahan cleared his throat. “Cassidy—”

  She blew out the air she’d been holding in a rush. “I’ll just gather my things and be out in a few minutes. Thank you for the opportunities you afforded me, Mr. Callahan.” Which were none.

  He blinked several times. Finally, with a sigh, he sank back into his chair. “Yes, fine.”

  Without another word, Cassidy turned from the table and left the meeting room for the last time. As soon as she passed through the doorway, she glanced down at the business card she still held in her palm.

  Her gaze landed on the address first, and she frowned. Where had she seen it before? She began scanning the rest of the card, and when she saw the man’s full name, she stutter-stepped to a halt in the middle of the hallway.

  Andrew Brown.

  Her eyes widened. “Holy shit,” she muttered. The Andrew Brown? The man who had helped to develop some of the technology that’d led to the Atari and original NES?

  He was a millionaire. No, try billionaire. His patents were still in use today. He was notorious for investing in promising games and making them successful. He had heard her partial pitch and been interested?

  She wanted to dance a jig on the spot.

  How had Mr. Callahan gotten someone like Andrew Brown interested in investing in their small company, even as promising as they looked to be given the success of Road of Trials?

  What a coup de grace that she had swooped Callahan’s golden goose. Callahan must be livid.

  She started walking again, suddenly and with more speed. She wanted to get out of here and over to Mr. Brown’s business complex before Mr. Callahan sought her out and tried to offer something that would be tempting. Something she was still afraid of losing, like job security and respect.

  Back at her cubicle, she slipped her laptop back into her bag and snagged an empty box from beside the printer to load the few personal Funko Pops and action figures she’d brought to the workplace. In a pitifully short amount of time, she was ready to go. She secured her laptop bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, nearly plowing into Chris.

  She gasped and took a reeling step backward to keep from colliding with his chest, which caught her so off balance she nearly hit the floor ass first.

  He reached out with both hands and grabbed her upper arms, steadying her. “Whoa, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She straightened at that. “You didn’t scare me.” She resisted rolling her eyes. Way to sound defensive. “I’m fine. No harm, no foul, right?” She shrugged and adjusted her grip on her box. “What’s up?”

  Chris cocked his head to the side. “That was Andrew Brown in there, right?”

  “It was. I can’t believe it, but it was.”

  His eyes lit up, which was not the reaction she’d been anticipating. She and Chris had been competing in that room. “That’s incredible, Cassidy. Huge congratulations.”

  Her brows drew together. Was he genuinely happy for her? “Uh . . . ”

  “I mean,” he gestured toward her laptop bag, “worst-case scenario, you pitch the rest of the game and he’s not as interested as he thought.” Chris shrugged. “He still invited you to pitch, and word of that will spread all over this industry. You’re going to be in high demand.”

  She hadn’t even thought of that. Her cheeks began to heat, and her heart raced. Holy fuck, I can’t wait to tell—

  Reality slammed back in. Gage. She couldn’t wait to tell Gage what had just happened. But Gage was gone. Was never coming back.

  “Whoa.” Chris squeezed her shoulder. “What just happened here? Why aren’t you ecstatic?”

  She looked up at him, seeing nothing but genuine concern and care, untainted by their former history, written on his face. She found herself saying, “I had a . . . break-up this morning.” She took a shaky breath. “A bad one.”

  He dropped his hand from her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said softly after a moment. “I know how that feels. It’s not fun.”

  Understatement of the century. And now that she was on this side of the equation? The heartbroken side?

  “Chris?” She juggled the weight of her box until it was balanced in one arm. With her free hand, she squeezed his forearm. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. You didn’t deserve it, and . . . I’m sorry.” She’d suspected all along that he had been interested in more than a one-night stand. Shame on her for even going there with him. What had she said to Mr. Callahan in the meeting room? Women show power in ways other than stepping on the backs of others. Regret nearly choked her.

  He blinked several times. “Thank you for that.” His smile was abashed and slightly weak. He cleared his throat and straightened. “Now, you’d better hit the road if you’re going to get to your meeting on time. You’ll hit lunch-hour traffic on the Strip.”

  Her eyes widened. “Shit, you’re right.” And still, she hesitated, feeling like she hadn’t said or done nearly enough to atone for how she’d hurt the man in front of her.

  “I’m fine, Hastings,” Chris said softly. “Now get.”

  She managed a smile, squeezed his arm again, and then she was off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The clock in her dashboard said she had thirty minutes to make it to Mr. Brown’s building on time. She threw the car in gear, broke myriad safe-driving laws, and made it to his offices with five minutes to spare.

  By the time she’d frantically read the directory, jogged up the stairs, and arrived before Mr. Brown’s personal secretary, she was huffing and flushed. Just the impression she’d been hoping for.

  She stopped before the man’s desk. “Hello, I’m—”

  The gentleman looked up, and his entire face brightened with a broad smile. “Oh, you must be Ms. Hastings. I’ll just show you in.” Mr. Brown’s secretary rose from his seat, skirted the desk, and gestured toward the closed door at the far end of the waiting area. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  Valium?

  “Oh, no thank you.” She smoothed a hand over her hair. Damn it, she’d picked a hell of a day to dress in her typical jeans, Chuck Taylors, and T-shirt featuring a picture of Deadpool on it. Very professional.

  “If you change your mind, just let me know.” The secretary opened the door to Mr. Brown’s office and smiled again. “Good luck,” he whispered.

  The simple statement filled her heart with encouragement more than she would have guessed possible. “Thank you,” she whispered back.

  The secretary closed the door, and a movement to her right caught Cassidy’s attention. She turned to find Mr. Brown striding her way. “Ms. Hastings,” he said. “Just in t
ime. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me.”

  Is he kidding? “Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to even meet you.”

  He waved his hand in the air. “Oh, none of that.” Gesturing toward the seating area in front of his desk, he asked, “Shall we sit?”

  He waited for Cassidy to sit first, then took the chair opposite her. There was a moment of silence, and she lurched into it, not wanting to give him time to rethink this endeavor. “Shall I read the synop—”

  He held up that hand of his. “Why don’t you tell me why you love this game you’ve written?”

  What a question. Cassidy batted around all the appropriate industry responses. Because it’s my best work. Because this game could be a success.

  But neither of those was true. She loved this game because of Gage. This game was her apology letter to him. Her mea culpa. Well, she couldn’t very well tell Mr. Brown that.

  She picked an imaginary piece of lint from her jeans. “I love this game, because I love the characters, sir.” Not a lie.

  Mr. Brown nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a good start.” His lips twitched in the approximation of a smile as his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I don’t think that’s the whole truth, though.”

  Caught me. Pulling in a slow breath, Cassidy closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she met his gaze. “I love this game because as I was writing it, it felt like I was bleeding straight from my heart into this story.”

  Mr. Brown was silent.

  Oh, shit. Why the hell did I just say that? He was going to run screaming from her and her bleeding sentimentality. Her womanliness.

  He nodded. “That’s much better. And a damn fine reason to listen to the entire synopsis.” He leaned back in his chair, and gestured toward Cassidy. “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Hastings.”

  Her fingers fumbled with the bag as she pulled free her laptop. Everything seemed to go numb as she opened her document and began reading again. After the first paragraph, Mr. Brown leaned forward, steepling his fingers together beneath his chin and periodically making noises after she read a plot point.