I heard the growl underlining Angelo’s voice as he said, “Maybe I like salads.”
With a shrug, I bit deep into my sandwich. It was a quality lunch. When I looked up again, Angelo was carefully placing more dressing on his salad. It wasn’t a pouring action. It was a dab here and there from the packet the restaurant provided.
I started to raise the sandwich to my mouth again, but then I abruptly stopped. I noticed Angelo’s fingers. They were long and slim. I’d often heard about artist fingers, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen them up close. My breath caught in my throat when I realized I wanted to touch them, or even better, have them brush against my bare skin.
Angelo looked up and noticed that I was staring at his hands, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he sipped more of his iced tea through a straw and stabbed the lettuce harder. He made sure the plants in that bowl were dead before they reached his mouth.
There was something about his face that matched the hands. Maybe it was the graceful nature of his movements. There was nothing short and sharp about Angelo. When his lips wrapped around the straw, it was a slow and deliberate action. They pinched slightly as he sucked.
Angelo interrupted my contemplation. “So why are you so hellbent on winning anyway?”
I had a pat answer ready, but something about his expression and the earnest gaze from those dark brown eyes made me take a moment before I answered. My oldest brother, Mason, always blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. Tate taught me to count to three. I remember him saying, “Then you can let it fly. I don’t know how many times I’ve stopped myself from saying something utterly ridiculous that way.”
I decided to be honest and straightforward. There was nothing to hide from my work partner even if he acted frail enough to get knocked over by a strong gust of wind. Setting my sandwich down on my plate, I leaned forward and said, “I’ve got a reputation to live up to. Do you have any siblings? Particularly brothers?”
“I have one brother, Tony.”
“Older or younger?”
“Tony’s younger. He’s a junior in high school, but sometimes I think he acts like he’s 42. He’s smart and understands people better than any high school students I’ve ever met.”
“Including you at that age?”
I had him talking, but then I opened my big trap and Angelo frowned. He started to shut down. He didn’t respond to my question and turned his attention back to the bowlful of leaves.
I tried to sound lighthearted and said, “Yeah, I get it. Sometimes I’m kind of rude without even trying. Anyway, along with my twin brother, a super brain in school in Boston, I’m the youngest with three older brothers. They’re all incredibly successful in their work and personal lives, so I need to try to keep up. It sucks being the low one on the totem pole. Like they say, sometimes shit runs downhill.”
Angelo smirked and shook his head. I waited for a verbal response, but he didn’t even look up. Those fingers grabbed his packet of dressing and squeezed out the final drops dabbing them onto one of the last bits of lettuce left in his bowl.
My self-preservation reaction settled in. I never could let anyone believe that my stature in the world was tenuous. I said, “It’s not like I’m not successful. My supervisors all tell me that I’m doing a great job, but I don’t want to wait around for the leftovers to come my way. I want one of those corner offices by age 30 if possible, 35 at the latest. You know what I mean?”
I thought I saw a slight nod. Angelo did know what I meant, but he wasn’t going to give me credit for a wise statement. After finishing the last bite of his salad, he sipped the tea again. With the straw pinched between his lips, Angelo looked up, and his long, dark eyelashes fluttered for a moment.
Finding it difficult to handle the empty air between us, I blurted out a questionable comment again. “You know, I’m starting to wonder whether you actually know how to speak. Like form words with your mouth. Maybe you can only communicate in pictures.” I pointed across the table. “There’s a napkin. You can draw what you want to say if that’s a better way to have a conversation for you. After all, you’re an artist.”
In a tone barely above a whisper, Angelo said, “Winning isn’t everything.”
“What? Are you a loser? Is that how you would know?”
Angelo winced. I was too aggressive again. I saw a twitch in his jaw, and he crumpled a napkin in his right hand. I waited for the shake of his head, but it didn’t come.
Then I surprised myself. I was getting something out of making Angelo uncomfortable. Somehow his discomfort with me was sexy. It made him appear vulnerable, and I knew that could be very hot. One of my past friends with benefits said that to my face while he had my wrists tied to the headboard of his bed.
I remember looking up into his eyes with my cock tenting the bedsheet when he said, “You know, Jamie, I think you’re at your hottest when you’re vulnerable like this.”
Trying to sound like a guru discussing a serious issue, I said to Angelo, “I mean, obviously if you were a consistent winner, you wouldn’t think in terms of winning being anything but everything. So that’s why I’m asking.” With my elbow propped on the table, I rested my chin on my right hand and repeated the question, “Are you a loser, Angelo?”
I’d gotten to him. Angelo slammed his right hand on the table, quickly picked up the remains of his lunch, and rose from the table. “You’re full of bullshit, Jamie.” Before picking up his empty iced tea cup, he held his left hand level with his nose. “Filled up to here.” Lowering his voice, he hissed, “So much shit that it’s interfering with your thought processes and clogging up your brain. See you later.”
Angelo was sexy as hell when he was angry. The way he moved, it looked like he was waiting for the right response to take him back down, make him melt and then take back every frustrated word. He paused. Angelo was waiting, and we did need to meet to work on our project. I couldn’t let a little lunch tiff block my path to victory.
I sighed and shook my head. Trying hard to reel it all back in, I said, “Yeah, sometimes I’m an idiot. Sit back down. We need to talk about the project.”
As he pulled his chair out again, Angelo mumbled, “Sometimes?”
“What the hell? Are there rumors out there?”
“Rumors?”
He was a bastard with the one-word questions, and my smile faded. Whether it was the fact that he might be right, or it was his failure to fold under the charm of my self-deprecating approach, I wasn’t sure, but Angelo was quickly shifting from sexy guy one getting under my thin skin.
I did my best to kick all the smoldering annoyance to the curb and adopt a business-like approach. I said, “We have to work together. We don’t have a choice. They won’t let us switch partners.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
I remembered the story that Sellers, one of my buddies back in the copywriting department, told me about the contest the year before I arrived at Star One.
I said to Angelo, “I heard about a guy who tried to switch partners. The response was, ‘I’ll let you do that this time, but it’s probably the last advertising campaign for you. Advertising is a collaboration. Plain and simple. When you hire a client, you don’t pick the collaborating personnel. You have to work with everyone from Satan’s spawn to the heavenly angel strumming his harp. I hope you understand, and do you still want to change partners?’”
Angelo sat and scooted forward. For the first time, I’d said something that didn’t piss him off. “Okay, well that’s over then. I do have an idea. I did a few small sketches this morning. Did you have anything? Or do you want to see my ideas? We’ve got to do both static ads and the storyboard for a commercial. I thought we might even shoot some simple clips to illustrate the storyboard.”
“Frankly, selling a brand of soda is boring as hell to me, but I guess we don’t get to choose that. Should we do something with a bunch of deliriously happy people dancing around like Dr. Pepper
or Coke? It’s not like it lends itself to pyrotechnics and blowing shit up.”
Angelo smirked and shook his head. “Um, this is an advertising project. Hollywood is over a thousand miles that way.” He pointed toward the door.
I tilted my head to the right and asked, “Did you realize you’re a smug asshole sometimes? It’s not a good look on you. Stick to the starving artist with those fingers—that’s the track to awesome.”
Angelo ignored the comment. I was impressed. He had a more rigid spine than I thought. He passed a notebook across the table and said, “Here are some of the ideas. I thought about color and people that could look as unique, bright, and—I realize this is pure cheese—fizzy as the soda. I even thought maybe we could focus on the word ‘fizz’ somehow.”
I had to admit to myself that Angelo had some talent. As we finally got down to business, he talked like a professional. He pointed at the various sketches, gestured to round out the commercial idea, and then he said, “I know somebody that could appear in our photos and the little clips for the storyboard.”
I said, “If this is going to turn into your audition to be a movie star, then we’re backing up to the beginning. I’m a copywriter, and I’m looking to be an executive. This isn’t the talent scout end of the business, so don’t get those stars in your eyes.”
Angelo shook his head. “No, I’m not talking about me at all. I’d be nervous as hell in front of a camera. I don’t like it when my relatives take my picture. It’s my little brother. He’d be perfect for this, and he works cheap.”
I reached up and scratched my head. “You’ve got a little brother with...fizz?”
I tried to imagine featuring any of my brothers in a commercial. Benji would be too shy. Guy would be somewhere halfway around the world unavailable. Tate would look hot, but he’d stumble onto the set and knock the cameras down. That would leave Mason. He would love to do it, but his head was too big to fit into the camera frame.
With the sense that we were making some progress despite the black cloud hanging between us, I didn’t want to immediately kick the idea of Angelo’s brother to the curb. He said, “Yeah, he does. Tony’s incredible. You should meet him. He’d love to speak your words...Jamie.”
I don’t know how he did it, but the way he formed my name with his full lips and focused his eyes on me, I was suddenly the one melting for Angelo, and it frightened me for a moment. I needed to get back to work and not think too hard about what was happening outside of the progress on our project.
6
Angelo
After lunch with Jamie, Pete, one of my friends from the art department, caught up with me as I poured myself a cup of coffee to get through the afternoon. He said, “Be careful drinking that. Madison made it this morning, and most of us have avoided it the rest of the day. It’s thick like motor oil. Drink it at your own risk.”
I shook my head. “I guess I’ll never understand why you don’t simply pour it down the drain and make a new pot. Why wait until someone drinks the nasty stuff before you decide to make it the right way?”
“Because your way is too simple. Honestly, Angelo, sometimes you sound like somebody’s mom.”
I laughed softly. “I sound like my mom talking to my dad. I’ve listened to her a lot. Naturally, I’m going to eventually pick some of it up.”
Pete elbowed me lightly in the side. “So how is it working with Matheson? You said you had a lunch summit meeting. We all had you at better than even odds to win the whole contest until they matched you with him. I’ve heard that he struggles with the English language, let alone writing good ad copy, but maybe his big brother can step in as a ringer and save the day.”
I wasn’t ready to start defending Jamie, but I didn’t want to let rumors about him start reflecting poorly on me and our project. I asked, “And why the hell do you think I’d let something like that happen? You know me better than that. At least I thought that you did.”
Pete shrugged. “How do you know for sure that it’s his work and not someone else’s? Maybe you don’t have to worry about the quality of his work at all. Maybe Matheson will shake that fine ass for someone higher up…”
I cut him off. I’d had enough. “Fuck off, Pete. Damn, I thought you were better than that.”
He backed up and mumbled, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he muttered, “Be careful, bud. We all like you. I can’t say the same for your partner.”
As I watched the unusually thick, black liquid that passed for coffee swirl down the drain, I thought about the lunch with Jamie. He was an asshole at first, but by the time the meal ended, I recognized that he had some talent. He had a unique way of coming up with witty taglines when he set his mind to it. I liked intelligence and with. I knew that we could work well together, but I was already worried that the others in the office wouldn’t trust our project as an original one that didn’t come with outside assistance.
I fumbled with the coffee filter as I thought more about the project. Both Jamie and I loved the idea of bringing Tony in as the face for our campaign. He was cute, and his way of presenting himself was both cutting edge and endearing. I couldn’t wait to share my ideas with my little brother.
With a fresh cup of coffee that tasted almost as good as what I could get from the shop around the corner, I found my way to my desk. I understood the questions about Jamie’s talent, but I was starting to think that perhaps he had more skills than any of us knew. If we had any prayer of winning the competition, I needed to buckle down and figure out ways to take advantage of what Jamie could do.
As I started to sketch another idea for our storyboard, I thought back to Pete’s comment. It was entirely out of line. I wondered if similar rumors floated around about me when I found myself involved with Walker Pierce. It wasn’t my fault. He was after me before I figured out what was going on. Maybe Jamie was a victim sometimes, too.
It took another cup of coffee to shake me out of the world of rumors about my project partner. I knew that the best way to fight back was through performance. If we could pull off the best final product, and it had our unique creative stamp all over it, whispered words in the rumor mill wouldn’t matter.
Tony already had himself planted in front of the TV when I arrived home. He lounged in the recliner while eating peanuts out of a bag. I watched him, and it mesmerized me. He was carefully shelling the peanuts and creating a pile of the scraps on a paper plate. As he ate each nut, I watched his eyes close while a satisfied smile spread across his face. He was savoring every single nut.
“Hey, Tony!” My words startled my little brother. Although the TV was on, he was so focused on his peanuts that he didn’t know I’d arrived.
“Oh, man! You startled me. Can’t you make some noise or something when you walk into a room? That way, I have some warning.” He held the bag out toward me and asked, “Want a nut?”
With my lips twisted into a smirk, I said, “Well…”
“Damn, you have a filthy mind. A pea-nut.”
“You’re not making it sound a whole lot better.”
As I watched Tony, I marveled at how different he managed to look from the day before. The neon-colored clothes were gone. In their place, he wore a faded pair of blue jeans, an old Dallas Cowboys t-shirt that probably came from my closet, and he had his usually disheveled hair slicked back with product.
“Well, I’ll just keep the snacks to myself then,” said Tony.
I asked, “Did you have a job interview today?”
“Job? Me? I think I have two unpaid jobs. One is helping out downstairs, and the other is looking after my big brother. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else. So the answer to that question would be no.”
“I mean the clothes and the hair.”
Tony slowly shook his head as he shelled another peanut. “I can’t be fabulous every moment. Everyone has a low-profile day now and then. Sometimes the pretty people have to let down and relax.” He tossed the TV remote control to me. “Here, find something
. I’m too focused on the task at hand.”
I sat on the sofa and pulled my legs up to my chest. I started to push the button to channel surf but stopped abruptly. Instead, I turned the TV off.
Tony looked up. “Hey, what gives? You never kill the box. That’s rule number one. The second rule is that I set the rules.”
“I’ve got something to talk about.”
After closing his eyes for a moment and savoring another nut, Tony said, “Ohh…that’s right. You had your meeting today with that Jamie guy. How’d it go? And should I put the peanuts down? This might be good.”
“The meeting went well. I think Jamie has some talent. We can work well together, and the subject I wanted to talk about involves you.”
Tony slowly placed the bag of peanuts and the plate of debris on the small table beside the recliner. He eased himself forward until he was sitting upright. “Okay, since you brought me into the picture, you’ve got my full attention. I’m listening.”
Inside my head, I visualized crossing my fingers. After talking him up with such confidence when I spoke with Jamie, I hoped Tony wouldn’t turn me down. Sometimes he was unpredictable. An icy cold sensation of doubt tickled the base of my spine.
I asked, “Did I fully describe the contest? We’re creating a print ad and commercial campaign for an artisanal soft drink. I’m in charge of the visuals, and Jamie takes control of the words.”
Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, I got all of that a while back. You need to tell me where I come in. That’s new. Skip over all of the blah description. I always hate those parts in books.”
“Well, I think we need a face for the commercial. We’re not filming the whole thing. That isn’t required. All that we need for our storyboard is the basic ideas, but I thought it would be great to show a couple of short clips with a cute guy in them to drive our concept home.”
Tony’s jaw dropped. “Me? In a commercial? Are you serious?”
Winner: The Mathesons Book 4 Page 4
