Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Britney takes a moment to think, searching her libation-addled brain to try to summon up the knowledge. “Oh, you mean the whole plagiarism hullabaloo?”
“Yeah,” Essie says. “The plagiarism hullabaloo.”
“Yeah. I never really cared. I just like to read books, I don’t tend to get all wrapped up in the details of what happens off the page, but… She accused you of stealing her work, yes?”
Essie nods. Slowly. Remembering the whole stupid, unwarranted, drawn-out saga. “Yep. She got it into her head that SS was stealing and repurposing her work.”
“Why would she think that?”
As Britney asks the question, it is not immediately apparent to Essie if it is a sincere curiosity or if there is an implication buried somewhere inside the asking. But, deciding that it doesn’t really matter, Essie says, “Because. She wasn’t on top anymore. I’m not even really sure she believed Steve did steal her stuff. I think she was just trying for a takedown. Some kind of public relations debacle. Which she got, just not in the way she intended it. It’s a bummer. Steve really looked up to her, I think. Totally admired the way she positioned herself for success, and then used her as inspiration. But he would never steal from anyone. He’s a totally good guy. He really is. He just wouldn’t do something like that.”
Distracted by the snoring husband on her shoulder, Essie adjusts his head so he doesn’t slip and fall as she finishes her thought. Coupled with her warm inebriation, it is presumably this perfect storm of disruptions that causes her not to notice the words she just used or the confused look in Britney’s eyes.
“What do you mean, Steve wouldn’t do something like that?”
“Hm?” Essie pats Mike on his sleeping cheek.
“You said Steve wouldn’t do something like that. You said his name, like, three times. Steve looked up to her. She believed Steve stole her stuff. I…”
A slow awareness washes over Essie as Britney talks, resulting in a kind of distance in her affect and energy as she circles the wagons inside her mind. “Did I? I said ‘Steve?’” Britney nods. “Huh. I… I dunno. I…”
There is silence. A snore from Mike causes Essie to jolt. She stares at Britney, saying nothing. Which may be an answer in itself, Britney starts to consider.
“Well, listen,” Essie finally says, “It’s—oh, my God, it’s late, late. Late o’clock. Latey, late, late, late. I need to get this one to sleep. I mean asleep in a bed.” She slides her shoulder out from underneath her snoozing husband who, somehow, does not wake up as he collapses forward onto the place his wife was just sitting. “Okay! See you in a few hours,” Essie declares with what Britney seems to feel is just a smidgen more emphasis than is necessary.
Essie Smith-Scott then proceeds to drag the cumbersome, snoring form of Michael Scott from his cushioned, makeshift bed, and drag him awkwardly toward the door of the lounge so that he might be placed in a more conventional state of repose.
Maybe it’s the effort that obscures her awareness. Or perhaps it is a kind of disappointment in herself. Or maybe it’s simply anxiety over making a mistake that, while perhaps apparently insignificant to someone like Britney, is one that she has worked hard not to make for oh, so many years. Or maybe… maybe… it’s just that she’s kind of drunk and, on some deeper, more suppressed level, is tired of maintaining a façade that she’s no longer sure serves her.
But, whatever the reason, as Essie pulls Mike from the room…
… She fails to notice that Leslie Munch, aka Raylen Star, has meandered from the bar and is now sipping her drink on a sofa, watching this whole exchange play out and grinning a ferocious and contemptuous smile of knowing.
Moments later, as Britney presses the numbered button that will command the elevator to carry her off to her floor, and the doors begin to slide shut, a long, thin, nail-polished claw thrusts itself in between the closing doors and compels them to spring open again.
Leslie Munch, or Raylen Star, as is her preferred nom de reference, enters the car, presses the button for her own floor, and stands directly beside Britney Kincaid. Far closer than is required given that they are the only two in the space.
They both stare at the numbers lighting up as the elevator makes its journey, Britney lost in her own champagne-fueled haze of thoughts and Raylen née Leslie equally absorbed by what she suspects Britney must be thinking.
“Figure it out yet?” Raylen asks.
“What? Sorry?”
“Put two and three together and get five yet?”
Ignoring the odd bastardization of a commonly used expression, Britney turns to Raylen and says, “I’m sorry. What?”
“Y’know, I’ve never said anything myself because I’ve never had rock-solid proof, but despite what they claim to the contrary, they did steal my ideas from me. Was it plagiarism in the classic sense? Maybe, maybe not. But when someone comes along and lifts everything you did to make yourself a success and just copies your playbook, does it really matter? Is that any better?”