to be two different things?” I asked, watching the guys coming toward me with a wary eye. They were filming me, which seemed to always end badly, at least of late.
“I have my fingers in a lot of pies,” Taggert said with a smug grin that I wanted to punch off his face, along with all the skin and his neatly ordered teeth. This was surprising to me, because it usually takes at least a few lines of dialogue after their introduction for someone to make me want to punch them. I imagined grabbing him by the back of the head and shoving his face in a pie until he stopped writhing. He moved his head slightly, his spray-on tan looking super orange in the room’s surprisingly bright lights. “You’re smiling.”
“Uh, sorry,” I said, ignoring the hand he extended for me to shake. “I imagined you saying you had your fingers in a lot of butts.” I brushed past him, still ignoring that hand. Because he probably had had his fingers in a lot of butts. I glanced around the room, taking it all in. It was kind of a classic décor, all large windows and wood floors and—I dunno, Persian carpets or something. It all looked really expensive, and I felt completely ill at ease here. “So, I hear I’m not the only one you’ve been pissing off, Kat.”
“People are always envious of success,” Taggert offered from behind me. I was regretting not practicing my punch-based dentistry on him already.
“People are also annoyed when successful people stomp on them to become successful,” I offered in return, considerably cooler than I might have an hour or so earlier, before I sobered up some on my flight. “Also, I’ve met a reasonable number of successful people who never had to step on anyone to get that way.”
“I doubt that,” Taggert said.
“That I’ve met successful people?” I asked, carefully putting my hands behind my back and clenching them together, forcing a smile on my face, “or that some of them have done that whole ‘climb to the top’ thing without screwing anyone else over?”
“Maybe both,” Taggert said with a ready grin. His hair was all slicked back, his skin more than a little rough from what looked like a few bouts of acne in his youth.
“What’s the situation?” I had the good grace to pass on firing back at that jackass as I turned my attention to Scott, who was standing mute near the door I’d just come in. He was looking at me blankly but came back to life when I directed my question at him.
“Did you see the news?” Scott asked.
“Is this on the news?” I asked, inadvertently sighing. I bet this totally knocked the coverage of my saving the plane right out of the spotlight. Not that I’d stayed around to pose for pictures, but still … I get no credit.
“Wall to wall,” Taggert said, grinning again as he snapped his fingers, gesturing for a girl in her twenties like he was ordering a dog around. He pointed at the flatscreen mounted above the fireplace, which I assumed was ceremonial or decorative. It was November, but I’d been here for like, five minutes, and I was already wishing I’d worn shorts and ditched the jacket. The girl obediently scrambled for a remote and turned on the TV, and I added another simmering desire to my burgeoning wishlist: all I wanted for Christmas was to knock out Taggert’s two front teeth. And then all the rest of them.
Sigh. Being good was such hard work.
When the TV came on, I saw that Taggert was right, though. There was helicopter footage and on-the-scene reportage from Kat’s attack. They had the big lighting rigs mounted and everything, since now it was dark and that place looked like it was lit up like daytime. It was some office park on a city street, as near as I could tell, and the place looked way, way different from a Minneapolis street.
“Can we have a minute?” I asked, looking around the room and making a motion toward Kat, who froze at my mere suggestion. “I think we girls need to work something out.”
Taggert
“I have my fingers in a lot of pies,” Taggert said with a smug grin that I wanted to punch off his face, along with all the skin and his neatly ordered teeth. This was surprising to me, because it usually takes at least a few lines of dialogue after their introduction for someone to make me want to punch them. I imagined grabbing him by the back of the head and shoving his face in a pie until he stopped writhing. He moved his head slightly, his spray-on tan looking super orange in the room’s surprisingly bright lights. “You’re smiling.”
“Uh, sorry,” I said, ignoring the hand he extended for me to shake. “I imagined you saying you had your fingers in a lot of butts.” I brushed past him, still ignoring that hand. Because he probably had had his fingers in a lot of butts. I glanced around the room, taking it all in. It was kind of a classic décor, all large windows and wood floors and—I dunno, Persian carpets or something. It all looked really expensive, and I felt completely ill at ease here. “So, I hear I’m not the only one you’ve been pissing off, Kat.”
“People are always envious of success,” Taggert offered from behind me. I was regretting not practicing my punch-based dentistry on him already.
“People are also annoyed when successful people stomp on them to become successful,” I offered in return, considerably cooler than I might have an hour or so earlier, before I sobered up some on my flight. “Also, I’ve met a reasonable number of successful people who never had to step on anyone to get that way.”
“I doubt that,” Taggert said.
“That I’ve met successful people?” I asked, carefully putting my hands behind my back and clenching them together, forcing a smile on my face, “or that some of them have done that whole ‘climb to the top’ thing without screwing anyone else over?”
“Maybe both,” Taggert said with a ready grin. His hair was all slicked back, his skin more than a little rough from what looked like a few bouts of acne in his youth.
“What’s the situation?” I had the good grace to pass on firing back at that jackass as I turned my attention to Scott, who was standing mute near the door I’d just come in. He was looking at me blankly but came back to life when I directed my question at him.
“Did you see the news?” Scott asked.
“Is this on the news?” I asked, inadvertently sighing. I bet this totally knocked the coverage of my saving the plane right out of the spotlight. Not that I’d stayed around to pose for pictures, but still … I get no credit.
“Wall to wall,” Taggert said, grinning again as he snapped his fingers, gesturing for a girl in her twenties like he was ordering a dog around. He pointed at the flatscreen mounted above the fireplace, which I assumed was ceremonial or decorative. It was November, but I’d been here for like, five minutes, and I was already wishing I’d worn shorts and ditched the jacket. The girl obediently scrambled for a remote and turned on the TV, and I added another simmering desire to my burgeoning wishlist: all I wanted for Christmas was to knock out Taggert’s two front teeth. And then all the rest of them.
Sigh. Being good was such hard work.
When the TV came on, I saw that Taggert was right, though. There was helicopter footage and on-the-scene reportage from Kat’s attack. They had the big lighting rigs mounted and everything, since now it was dark and that place looked like it was lit up like daytime. It was some office park on a city street, as near as I could tell, and the place looked way, way different from a Minneapolis street.
“Can we have a minute?” I asked, looking around the room and making a motion toward Kat, who froze at my mere suggestion. “I think we girls need to work something out.”
Taggert
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