Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Carson inhales deeply through his nose, his nostrils flaring as he gets his emotions under control. “Carson,” he says after he exhales. “At least call me Carson if you’re cleaning up my clusterfuck.”
I smile warmly, knowing it’s an olive branch, or at least as much of a submission as he can offer. “Carson,” I say agreeably, “and you can call me Jayme. If it helps, from what I know, you were in a near impossible situation and you did the right thing sticking up for your employee. But in a world where people jump to conclusions, it’s a PR situation nevertheless. If it’s easier, we can start with the incident rather than your secrets?”
Carson nods and leans back in his chair to tell me his version of what happened, starting with his noticing a disruption as he was merely doing a walk around of the park, to his defense of Barbara the clerk and the assistance of the security guards, to the entitled hissy fit ‘McKenzie’ had thrown.
“I was trying to defuse the situation as quickly and effectively as possible. At the time, I thought we’d done that.” He shakes his head, continuing. “It wasn’t until that evening, when I got a Google alert, that I found out that this time, the ‘do you know who I am’ stuff wasn’t empty bullshit.”
“As in realizing that ‘shoplifting McKenzie’ is really Abby Burks, the social media darling behind Abby’s Adventures,” I fill in. “Her ‘Abby’s Army’ has gone foamy-mouthed rabid, and video of the incident has been posted and shared millions of times. Not to mention the pages of comments calling for your head . . . s.” There’s an awkward pause as I add the -s to the end of ‘head’ because Abby’s fans are quite literally suggesting that Carson be doubly beheaded.
He frowns but nods as he bites out, “And that she wasn’t shoplifting but had been given permission by my own damn department to visit Americana Land and was gifted a souvenir pack.”
“You didn’t know at the time, but you knew about the approval for her visit?” I clarify, and Carson shakes his head in frustration.
“No idea. That isn’t something that requires my approval.” He shrugs noncommittally. “She wanted approval to film, which people do every day here, and a Freddy Freebird and a T-shirt isn’t exactly a big money loss. But there was nobody from Park Operations around, who should have been there to make sure something like this didn’t happen, that we knew she was a VIP. And how was I to know that she’s some media darling who’d have people boycotting us and sending me death threats?”
“Death threats?” I repeat, sitting up straighter and glancing around as though ninja assassins might burst through the windows at any moment. “Anything we need to take action over? If so, we need to get the legal department on it. There are too many people who don’t stop at sending nasty emails.”
“No, Legal’s already been made aware,” Carson says, remarkably chill for someone discussing death threats. “And they’re just mouthy cowards behind keyboards. Besides, I can defend myself.”
He curls his hands into tight fists, the knuckles cracking like snapping mouse traps at the force, before purposefully relaxing them to lay them flat on his thighs. I can’t help but note the strength in them and the way his fingers taper to blunt ends, calloused and rough from whatever he does in his spare time.
Some people have naturally graceful, pianist hands. Carson Steen has hands made for gripping or pounding flesh. He’s got the hands of a warrior, and I could easily see those hands grasping a battle-axe as he goes to cleave into his enemies. Or probing the flesh of his lover, rough but at the same time thrilling as he . . .
“On that note, tell me about you,” I continue, forcing myself to close the incident subject for now. There’s no other immediate option. However uncomfortable it may be, we need to do this so I can get on to fixing this situation for Americana Land and focus my brain on the issue at hand.
Damn it . . . no more thoughts of hands!
“Short version? Middle son of Ben Steen. My mother’s not important. My older brother, Archer, is a lost cause and a total fuckup of a human being. But I’m close to my younger sister, Toni, anyway. Her mom is my dad’s second wife, Izzy. I’m the CMO of Steen Amusements, the company and park my grandfather started, dad inherited and grew, and the one I’ll take over someday. Favorite color, green. Drink, coffee, or bourbon if it’s after six o’clock. Food, Korean barbecue.”
He smiles like he answered my question, even though we both know he gave me about as much depth as a Tinder profile. All he’s missing is some dumb ‘meaningful’ quote from a movie or a song lyric.