“We are all gathered here today against our fucking will because apparently I hurt someone’s feelings.”
My older brother’s hand twitches. He’s debating which would generate worse press: letting me keep speaking or just tackling me off the stage.
“My brand-new PR princess wants me to apologize.”
I hold up the piece of paper that has colorful lines of highlighter on it, make sure all eyes are on me, and rip it into pieces.
Below me, the PR princess’s red mouth is open, the corners turned down, slack with shock as the reporters titter.
“Let’s get one fucking thing straight.” I lean over the microphones as the reporters watch, rapt. “The only statement I make falls out of the sky, dropped by a B-52.”
I smile coldly.
“I’m only sorry that cunt Joseph from HopeWorks doesn’t know how to fight. He should go complain to his father instead of a judge. My dad is a piece of fucking shit, but at least he cared enough about me to beat my ass on the back porch of our trailer. That’s why I know how to fight.”
Several reporters clap their hands over their mouths.
“So no, I’m not sorry for anything. Fuck this shit and fuck you. Oh, and by the way, you’re going to suck my dick for this later, Salinger.”
I stride into the RDC headquarters.
The PR princess races after me, high heels clacking on the floor, her bright pink folders, the oversized sparkly accessory-laden cup, and a sparkly tote bag bundled in her arms.
“You have got to run these announcements by me!”
“And here I thought they hired you to keep me in line. Guess you failed,” I say over my shoulder.
“Help me help you help me.”
“Hard pass.”
My brother grabs me by the collar, hauls me into my office, and throws me into a chair.
“What the fuck is your problem, McCarthy?”
“People are my problem.”
The PR princess and all her bags and her dog and the multiplying cups she has in her arms push their way into my office, and that demented smile is on her face.
“Actually, scratch that. Just one person in particular.”
“Someone’s already gone viral.” She’s waving a phone at me on which a video plays. “Have no fear, Salinger. I’m working on a game plan.”
I preen.
Salinger glowers.
“This is not a good thing, McCarthy,” Jenna says, dumping her stuff in a chair and shuffling through all her papers. “It’s bringing back into the public consciousness that video of you assaulting that poor innocent man.”
I tune her out. If she thinks that HopeWorks director was a good person, she is as delusional as everyone else.
I prop my feet up on my desk as she rambles.
“Let’s pay attention.” The PR princess claps her hands in front of my face.
I slap at her hands.
Salinger grabs my stapler and hurls it at me, barely missing the side of my head. “Pay the fuck attention.”
