“I couldn’t have kids. But I can now.” Brit glanced at Joe, currently poking around the little pantry looking for food, before lowering her voice. “If it weren’t for all this.” She spread her hands. “I would ride Joe until he put one in me.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I didn’t need that visual.”
Brit smirked. “But now you got it.” She lightly bumped the back of my head with her palm. “So, Intentions.”
I groaned. “I already know I don’t want any of these.”
“And that’s why everyone thinks you're brainwashed.” Brit punched the table. “The Architect gave you shit. He made you work and fucked up so bad you jumped into bed with a Lawson.”
“That’s not at all what happened!” I threw my hands in the air. “I was fine doing my part. If Xan had treated me like a princess, I would have gotten suspicious and probably run away. I don’t like being in debt to people, speaking of which.” I batted my eyes at Ravana, who blinked at me as if I’d grown two heads. “I’ve got money, assuming no one’s stolen it out of my room.”
Ravana’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward. “Paying for my roof now? The Architect fill your head with that shit?”
I shook my hands in front of me.
“Of course he did. Cheap fuck.” Ravana grinned. “My people want to flash what you’ll get with a Westwater Intention, maybe I’ll let ’em.”
I put my head in my hands.
“Truth don’t matter, kid. Stories do,” Ravana said. “Right now, you’re the brainwashed girl who spread ‘em for the wrong man. Either let it ride or flip the script. Make yourself the player.”
I didn’t lift my head from my hands, but her words hit home. I’d almost died trying to finance my independence. Money helped, sure, but it didn’t mean squat against everything else. I needed to pull on my big-girl pants and start writing.
I picked up an Intention. “This one’s offering me exactly fifty-three sheep along with a pastoral cottage in Northumberland, wherever that is.” I thrust it at both of them, feeling ridiculous. “Is the rest of my life worth fifty-three sheep?”
Brit took the Intention and cleared her throat. “The Bewicks sure hope so.”
Ravana laughed. The rich tone echoed in the massive room. “Do whatever you want, kid, but don’t fool yourself. In The Pit, I spin a fighter’s story, and the crowd eats it up. That’s power. Right now, you’re acting like a pawn, letting everyone else spin yours.”
She was right. In my time, people made a living putting twists on stories and changing the perception of events. I wasn’t old Quinn hiding in a corner. Here, I was literally an event. A woman from the past with sparkly hair, possibly four boyfriends, who made dragons out of magic.
Was I a celebrity? Was this dystopian fan mail?
My sudden adjustment in attitude must have shown on my face, because Brit literally beamed at me, while Ravana squeezed my hands. “Men run the board, but the spin decides who wins. Play it smart, kid. Be the player.”
I grinned. “I have an idea.”
Brit handed me the Bewicks’ Intention. I thought of Erick and his carefully worded ‘fuck offs.’ Without meaning to, I’d let him speak for me. Knowing Erick, he’d probably gotten off on it too. Never again.
I erased and wrote three times before the right words came out of my pencil.
Dear Hiring Director,
Your offer of sheep and cottage life sounds lovely, but as I know nothing about sheep and have only lived in cities, I’m unsure what I can add to your family.
If we find ourselves in a similar location, I would be happy to get a coffee and learn more about your life.
All the best,
Quinn Question
“What’s a ‘hiring manager’?” Brit asked after reading it.
“Someone who’s in charge of hiring,” I responded.
Brit gave me a flat look, and I grinned.
Ravana dropped my pad of paper with a snort. “Sweet as sugar, sharp as a knife. Makes ’em second-guess why they sent it in the first place. That’s spin, kid.”
