Page 57 of The Fake Divination Offense
Treva waves us toward a reporter near the middle of the carpet, held back with the others by a velvet rope. “Let him ask a few questions, then make your way inside. And a heads-up—he’s going to ask about Urzoth. Reverend Drach wanted a more direct tie between the happy couple and the church.”
My grip on Alexo tightens, muscles previously relaxed by him going rock solid.
Treva bats her hand at the sudden strain on my face. “It won’t be anything preachy, just fluff stuff.”
Alexo pushes his weight against me. “Okay,” he tells her. “We got this.”
She winks before going over to Marlow, who’s still being accosted with questions and photographs. Hellhounds publicists bustle all around, dipping in and out of interviews, gallantly trying to herd us like keeping kittens in a box.
Alexo and I walk away, my arm around him, but my head’s stuck on what Treva said.
Urzoth is a part of this whole arrangement. Shouldn’t be shocking, derailing.
And yet.
Alexo tugs on the fist he still has in my tuxedo shirt. “Hey. It’ll be fine. I can take the questions. He’s my patron god now, too.”
My anxiety doesn’t alleviate, not at all. “No. I’ll—I’ll do it. It’s fine. Expected, even. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hm.” Alexo surveys my expression, cheek caught in his teeth. “You’re allowed to worry about me, but I can’t worry about you?”
My lips part.
We’ve reached the reporter, and a recording device is thrust into my face.
The reporter’s smiling too big, too eager, and I’m going into this off-balance.
“Orok Monroe,” he starts. “What can you tell us about the new developments in tonight’s charity?”
I let some of my muscles drop. See? It’s a normal interview.
And the topic does make me perk up.
“Thrive Children is a national organization the pro rawball league has partnered with for decades,” I say. “I’ve been lucky enough to be involved since I signed. They do fantastic work helping us set up rawball camps, and we’ve gotten to—”
“Yes, yes, we all know the pamphlet spiel,” the reporter cuts in, and I flinch.
Alexo does, too.
“Tell me about thenewprograms Thrive Children is allegedly implementing,” he continues. “Something about a crisis hotline and therapy access?”
My chin draws back, shock making my grip on Alexo spasm. I should let him go; he’s not a stress ball. But as I peel away, and he puts his hand over mine on his hip.
“I’m not at liberty to speak about anything in development,” I manage.
How does this guy know about those programs?
We haven’t gone public with anything. I’m waiting for the money to come in, and it was going to be a big announcement, one of the few projects that I’d actually attach myself to, not hide behind anonymously. It’s important to break down stigmas around mental health, and if I can do so by using my fame and platform? I will.
Being the face of something like that was another thing that’d give my mother a conniption, but I wasn’t supposed to have to deal with that fallout formonths.
“Where exactly is Thrive Children getting the funds for these programs?” the reporter asks with a slickgotchagrin. “Rumor says it’ll be the money coming from your recent lawsuit against Camp Merethyl. What does the Urzoth church have to say about you promoting programs that contradict the more physical, tough-it-out methods they usually employ?Strong as stone, hard as rock, thoseideals. How do they feel about you funding these programs with the money you got through a lawsuit many Urzoth followers have criticized for also contradicting their doctrine?”
The blood drains out of my face.
My palm’s sweating; I’m ruining Alexo’s nice satin shirt. I need to let go of him.
Step back, and let go of him.
