Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Juno leans on the back of my chair, reading over my shoulder. The subtle weight of her hand on the chair’s rail is a gravitational field. “Where?”
“Hotel Delphine. Ballroom A for the public-facing demo, Ballroom C for the invite-only after party.” I click to a floor plan. “I can get us into the first. For the after party, we’ll need a split op. I’ll bring friends.”
“Friends?” She arches a brow. “You have friends who know about this?”
I consider the truth. “They know about me. They don’t need to know about you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Because anonymity has worked so well for everyone in this saga.”
“I keep you out of their crosshairs,” I say, firmer than intended. The modulator turns it into a command. “We move as ghosts. We gather intel. That’s all they need.”
She opens her mouth—to argue, to poke fun, to wring an explanation out of me—but something in my stance stops her. She exhales, then nods once. “Fine. Ghosts.”
I pull a canvas duffel from under the desk and flip it open. Four rubber faces blink up: Millard Fillmore’s unfortunate mutton-chops, James K. Polk’s dour jaw, Rutherford B. Hayes’s fluffy beard, Chester A. Arthur’s dandy stash. The Lesser-Known Presidents Squad. I feel ridiculous and oddly proud.
Juno stares, then snorts so hard she chokes. “Oh my god?”
“Waste not.” I tap Hayes’s forehead. “Ballroom C is ‘Neon Noir.’ Masks encouraged.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Their Instagram invite says ‘come masked, leave legendary.’” I want to gag and also applaud their branding department.
She groans. “Influencers deserve unionization.”
“I’ll suit up my team.” I zip the duffel and stand. Time to recruit.
Gage arrives at the loft first, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, two energy drinks and a bag of gummy bears swinging from his hand. He takes one look at the duffel of dead presidents and grins so hard his face might split. He grabs James K. Polk in his hands.
“Bro. Are we forming a government?”
“Shadow cabinet,” I say. “With snacks.”
Knight shows five minutes later with his denim jacket slung over his shoulder. He fist-bumps me, then lifts Rutherford B. Hayes like Hamlet contemplating Yorick. “This guy looks like he invented the tax audit. Plus we have the same last name.”
“Accurate,” I say.
Render rolls in next—quiet, bearded, hummingbird-nervous, and a camera bag that probably holds more than the GDP of a small nation. Render doesn’t do long hellos. He grabs the Millard Fillmore mask, tapping it. He looks at me, and says, “Audio?”
“I’ve got bone-conduction earpieces and a push-to-talk channel. Ozzy’s bringing socials.”
“Ozzy?” Render asks.
“Friend of a friend,” I say. “Real name is Ozborne, but he goes by Ozzy because he can impersonate a brand rep, a lighting tech, or a paid ‘creator liaison’ with equal conviction. He’s our chameleon.”
On cue, my phone buzzes with a text:
Ozzy: I’m downstairs. Parking is trash. Bring me a president who doesn’t look like he bites.
I grin and jog down to let him in. Ozzy is a study in controlled chaos: bearded, nose ring, black blazer over a HOLO-BURST tee he thrifted for authenticity. He takes in the masks, selects Chester A. Arthur, and slides it over his head like he was born with mutton-chops. “Hot,” he pronounces through the rubber, sliding his vocoder in place.
Juno meets us at the loft at seven-thirty, already in her chosen armor: black-ripped jeans, plain white tee, and a hoodie. Her black boots could break hearts or kneecaps. When the squad sees her, there’s a beat of stunned silence. I feel weirdly possessive and absurdly proud.
“Team,” I say, modulator engaged behind Ghostface. “This is—” I stop myself before Juno leaves my mouth. “—our client.” I turn to Juno. “Crew names only tonight.”
She nods, amused and serious all at once. “Then call me…Final Girl.”
Gage throws both hands up. “On brand.”
We run the plan in the loft while Ozzy tapes tiny mics under our collars and Gage checks battery levels.
“We’re only doing the after party, obviously,” I say, pointing to the Hotel Delphine map. “Arthur and I go in early. He’ll flirt his way across the check-in table and pull a couple of spare lanyards. Polk and Hayes, you work the main floor. Post by the sponsor booth and record anything off-script. Fillmore, you’re our eye in the sky—balcony shots, zoom, capture entrances and exits. Final Girl”—I meet Juno’s gaze, my voice softening despite the mask—“you stick with me. We don’t separate, not even for ‘just a minute.’”
She rolls her eyes again but her mouth softens. “Yes, Dad.”
“I can be your daddy if it gets you to follow protocols,” Ozzy mutters, and Knight smacks the back of his head.
My jaw tightens as the rest of the crew laughs.
Render tosses us hotel-branded pins he yanked from a swag box last week. “If anyone asks, you’re micro-influencers with a combined reach of ‘big vibes.’ Especially Polk. Polk screams big vibes.”
Gage, in Polk, does a gentle body-builder curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me.”