Joan the Made (Throwbacks Series, Book 1)

Chapter 26

Back at my dorm, Sparkle is sound asleep. There is no way the headmaster is handing her over to that blond man at the bar.

I lie down, blink, and six hours have passed. I have to rush to get ready for rehearsal, and I am still pulling my hair into a messy ponytail when Nic joins me as I step out of the elevator.

"I hope your acting is in better shape than your hair," Nic quips, but I continue my policy of ignoring him.

He sneaks glances at me as we silently walk out of the dorm.

Finally, he lets out a breath. "I know you're mad, but I was only trying to protect you by getting you kicked off Strand's vid. If Strand finds you poking around, they'll retire you."

"In your mind, you're my knight in shining armor then?"

"In a way," he says, but he's fidgeting.

"Because I'm a little novice, in need of a strong, older man who's wiser in the ways of the world to protect me," I continue, enjoying how his eyes cut away from mine to hide his embarrassment.

"You're twisting my meaning."

I finally make eye contact with him. "I'll talk slow so you can keep up. You can take your protection and shove it up your ass. I don't need anyone to take care of me, but if I had to choose someone, you can bet it wouldn't be a drug addict."

"That's how you see me, even still."

A pang of guilt hits me in the gut, but I dismiss it. "Nice try, Machiavelli. You can't use mind games to turn this around on me. I may be a novice, but I'm a novice who is going to get the information we need. Today."

"How?" he asks, a note of panic in his voice.

Strand's car arrives, and I get in without answering his question. I've done it now. I better get that tablet, or he's going to hold this over my head forever. Luckily, I'm skilled at making plans on the fly, and I have an entire car ride to mull it over. By the time we reach Strand's headquarters, a tentative plan has taken shape in my mind.

"If you think you can steal a tablet from one of the janitors, you're wrong," Nic mutters as we make our way inside. "They're harnessed to the carts they push around, and the lock is industrial grade."

"I figured as much," I reply, giving him a grin that makes his face turn red with irritation.

"Good, you're here," Blake bellows as we get closer to the set. "Let's make this a more productive rehearsal than the last one, eh, Joan?"

"Oh yes, sir. I've learned my lesson."

"Good girl," he says, patting me on the head.

I force myself to stay still and tolerate his touch, though Nic cracks his knuckles like he's about to throw a punch. I step on his foot, hard, to remind him not to make a scene. He scowls, but his fists unclench.

I'm yearning to search the room for any janitors or stage crew with tablets, but instead, I focus on Sparkle's acting advice. How do I channel the bubbly, cheery version of Joan Fasces?

I have the perfect memory. In the third grade, I took junior cheerleading. It was before my parents were out of control with their Amp addiction, and I thought twirling and shouting to psych up a crowd was the most fun thing in the universe. Now, I would love to destroy the vids of me wielding pom-poms, but the experience is coming in handy for this role.

I remember how thrilled I'd be in the car rides to the gymnasium where I practiced and how much I wanted my teacher to praise my little cheers. When Blake turns the camera on us, I'm ready.