He offered to bring them in to do a joint business venture, to become affiliates and go from there. We were supposed to stay separate. They were going to be our indie leg. Only they still repped The Geekery brand. And, shocker, Dad got obsessive about it. Pretty soon, he was bringing down rules and regulations “from corporate,” but who are we kidding? He is corporate.

Then they weren’t so much affiliates as something else entirely. A mash-up. A corporate store with an indie front. Artists stopped coming for signings, customers stopped coming in to buy, prices went up to cover costs, inventory went down. It became this weird, sad chimera, leaving everybody unsatisfied on both sides.

Finally, after Dad ran their business into the ground, he bought them out at a teeny tiny fraction of what they were once worth. Dad rebranded them as The Geekery mini-marts, selling mostly cheap merchandise and Funko Pops instead of comics. He even hired one of the old owners as the manager. Twenty-five years of comics history down the drain, and all they could do was watch.

The idea of him doing that to Vera . . .

“She’ll never go for it. Ever.”

“That’s why we’re counting on you to find a way for us to make an offer she can’t refuse.”

“You’ve been watching too much of The Godfather. Vera Flores is not a sellout.”

“Grow up, Ridley. Everyone has a price.”

“Whatever you say.” I reach for my headphones, planning to tune her out completely, but then she says something I can’t ignore.

“You did.” She pulls my laptop off my desk and drops it onto the bed in front of me before slamming the door behind her. Fuck. She’s actually right. Except.

Except.

Maybe I can still fix this. I open the report file on my computer and start filling it in, feeling lighter the more I write. And if it isn’t strictly accurate, well, nobody has to know.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jubilee

RIDLEY AND I are an hour deep into sorting and stocking books—he’s been here so much this last week, I figure he’s an honorary employee at this point anyway—when Jayla walks into the shop. She frowns when she sees him, and I sneak a glance at my phone and see she’s been texting me this whole time. I dropped the ball. Again. I was working, though, sort of, so she can’t really be mad.

I say sort of because, while I did help a customer, and we have gotten a bunch of stock out, we’ve mostly been talking. And laughing. And awkwardly bumping into each other accidentally on purpose. That’s basically our MO here, and maybe, possibly the reason I’ve been picking up so many extra shifts.