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Priscilla noticed the tension but wasn’t impressed since she was the one who lived for drama. “Don’t panic yet.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Dave snarled at her. At least he turned to the right person now.
“Are there any suggestions, Priscilla?” Paul got restless. “May we proceed with that?”
“Of course!” She settled onto the tip of her chair, clicking a couple of times on her screen before rotating it. “This is what we have. And this,”—she opened another tab—“is what we need to stay afloat. If we don’t…”
“It’s over,” Calista whispered, tucking her hands between her thighs as her shoulders sagged in defeat.
No idea why it took me so long to hunch down next to her chair and swing an arm around her, but she looked ready to bawl. And not unlike every other guy, I had trouble with women who cried.
My legs took me to her anyway, leaving my otherwise stony attitude at the side. “We’ll make sure it won’t happen, Cas.”
She cast a soft smile, wiping her button nose with the back of her index finger. It didn’t do anything to me. Not even when I heard my name from her mouth. “We won’t, Ares.”
I filed that thought away. There was nothing to it. Dita was just something new. A shiny car I took a spin with.
Priscilla ticked off some suggestions. “What I’m asking from you is to use your social media to attract any positive attention. Post regularly and fish for helping hands or spontaneous,”—she air-quoted—“donations. No one likes to give money to get nothing in return, but we need it, so try to make it look enticing enough for people to engage.”
Great.
I gently let go of Calista and stood. This was so not happening. “I’m not reactivating my Twitter.”
Paul’s lips twitched. “I don’t even know how these things work. I wasn’t born with a cell phone in my hand like any of you.”
“Well, consider it an order,” Priscilla demanded. “Oh, and make sure your profiles are set to public, for anyone who wants to share.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But if there are gossip junkies, I won’t hesitate to delete it again.”
“Accepted,” Priscilla approved. “Since you’ve left your dogged impression at the side for once.”
I nodded at her once, ignoring Paul’s addition, “You’ve pulled his good-boy-card, Priscilla. You sure you want to spend it on his Twitter account?”
She pursed her lips and shot her brown eyes at me, “Don’t make me regret this, Volt.”
Dave detached himself from the conversation with an annoyed eye roll while Calista hid a smile behind her hand.
I unfolded a lazy smile and said, “Well, for now I’m back to business, ladies.”
Priscilla continued. Everyone listened carefully. Our duties were well explained and we all knew the importance of those tasks.
“Do not mention the underlying reason. Our need for help needs to feel unprompted, casual. Ask around, discreetly, if there are people who want to invest. Only if you feel like this person has nothing to lose, and no, I’m not looking at you,”—she dismissively waved her hand at me—“then grab them by the balls and shake them, so fucking hard, their spare change falls out of their pockets.”
“Got nothing in here, PP,” I said, using her initials mockingly and pulling out the fabric of my pockets.
“But your dad—”
“I. Won’t. Ask. Cary.” I held up a hand. “Are we clear?”
“Fine,” she bit out, pushing out her lower lip from between her teeth when she did. “But be sure you have others who can help us out.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Not financially, Ares,” Paul intervened. He then addressed our entire group. “Every helping hand, stock things up around here or look over our sweet snakes, is welcome.”
With that said, we were dismissed, and I’d never plopped down into my car wanting to drive home with such fever.
Yes, I know how stupid I look now that my privileged ass dug into the exclusive carbon-fiber sports seats, I still didn’t want to invest Cary’s money.
