Bad Influencer by Kenzie Reed

Chapter Eleven

Elliott

The last few days have been a blur. A blur in which I only think about Jillian’s soft lips parting under mine maybe once or twice an hour, in between meeting after meeting with our ride designers and software engineers and with the outside software team we’ve flown in as a backup.

Trevor has flown in with his security team. We’ve found an unexplainable glitch in the code for the programmable logic controller system, for a total of five rides. They’d all have frozen up at some random, unpredictable point in time. We’re actually incredibly lucky that Jillian and I went on that late-night ride, or opening day could have been a disaster.

We can’t tell if the software was deliberately hacked or not. If it was, I can’t imagine anyone who’d be behind it other than Park City Properties. That’s a pretty huge risk they’d be taking, though. Sabotaging an amusement park ride? People could be hurt or killed. We’re talking prison time.

The software engineers, working around the clock, add in new failsafes that will catch any future bugs in the programming.

They personally go on every single ride with me, Trevor and Cameron, multiple times. We subtly increase security, bringing in members of the security company dressed up as park employees—miners, loggers, and so on. And when I discuss the issue with the board and the investors, I manage to make it seem like this was all pretty much planned, just some extra precautions that we’re taking.

It’s Wednesday before I feel like I can relax a little. I know Jillian’s been climbing the walls, trying to get me in some pictures. She’s done a great job of selling us to her own followers, emphasizing the eco-friendly measures we’ve taken in building the park, how we’ve mitigated wetland impacts, and our many vegan and vegetarian menu options. But for whatever reason, she wants to get my ugly mug all over the park’s social media feeds too.

Which is why I reluctantly let her drag me to the play area which is swarming with, you guessed it, children. I mean, they’re freaking everywhere. I think longingly of my nice, quiet office in Seattle, where I could lurk behind the scenes and create good times for families from a safe distance.

“You owe me big time,” I grumble.

“Be careful,” she whispers, inclining her head at the children swarming over our enormous play fort area. “They can smell fear.”

I scowl at her. “Are you on my side or not?”

“Kind of, but it’s just so entertaining watching you quaking in your shoes at the sight of humans who don’t even reach your knees.”

“Jillian!” Mr. and Mrs. Sanders have spotted us. Oh no. I glance at the playground entrance. Is it too late to run for it?

“You’ll never make it alive,” Jillian informs me.

She’s trying, and failing, to suppress a huge grin.

The Sanders barrel towards us, all five of them. Several reporters who’ve been invited here by our press department swoop in, cameras aimed like guns.

The children are almost on us.

“I think we’re supposed to try to puff up and act like we’re larger than we really are, and also make aggressive growling noises?” I whisper to Jillian.

“Pretty sure that’s for bears. And I think that doesn’t really work. It’s just a myth.”

“You know what does work? Having a slower friend.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Or someone who’s easy to trip. You look like you’d be easy to trip.”

“Jeez. Remind me to bring my bear mace when I go hiking with you.” But she’s still smirking, that devil-woman.

“I thought you loved animals?”

“Jillian!” the children shriek happily, throwing their arms around their legs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sanders!” I say heartily. When in doubt, speak really loudly and enthusiastically. At least, it always worked for my dad. Damn, I wish he was here. He’d charm the socks off everybody while I made a quick getaway.

I reach out and pump Mr. Sanders’ hand in greeting. “Are you enjoying this beautiful day?”

“Loving every minute of it! This is our dream vacation!” he beams. “Winning the contest was the third best thing that ever happened to us! The first and second being getting married, and having the kids. We never thought we’d be able to afford a vacation at a Bradford park. Kids, say thank you to Mr. Bradford!”

Uh-oh, now they’ve focused their velociraptor vision on me. And I cannot for the life of me remember what their names are. Triplets. Why did it have to be triplets?

“Hey, there… Martha, Maxwell, and Maria?” I hazard. The kids burst into laughter. Then they let go of Jillian and latch on to me.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradford!” they shriek.

I glance at Jillian. She’s mouthing words at me, trying to help. At least I think she’s trying to help.

“You’re welcome… Minnie, Margo, and Morgan?” I suggest desperately.

The photographers draw closer. Like piranhas, they can smell blood.

The children laugh even harder. Then I see that Jillian is smiling and giving me a subtle nod of encouragement. Making a fool of myself is apparently a good idea. Okay, I’ll go along with it.

“Mark, Manuel, and Mandrew?” I’m not even really trying any more.

“Those are all boys’ names!” Mini-female in a sunflower romper howls with laughter. “And there’s no such thing as a Mandrew!”

Flash bulbs are going off, and parents and park guests have their phones pointed at us.

“Madeline, Marissa, and Minerva?”

“Those are all girls’ names!” The boy child shrieks. They’re cry-laughing. Their parents are laughing too.

Oh, what the hell. “Minnesota, Martini, and Martian?”

“Those aren’t even people names!” They’re doubled over, gasping for breath.

I lean in and whisper to Jillian. “Wow, so all you have to do is act like a total idiot in public, and everyone will laugh? Who knew?”

“Uh, the writer of every sitcom? And definitely me?” Jillian flashes me a huge, gorgeous smile and I bathe in its warmth. “Totally works for me. Every time.”

One of the girl children leaps into my arms.

“My name is Mandrake the Martian!” she yodels.

Mrs. Sanders winces. At first I think it’s because of the children’s antics, but then she puts her hand on her stomach. “Sorry.” She smiles apologetically. “I think I walked too much yesterday. I’ve got some strange stomach cramp.”

“Do you want to go lie down, honey?” Her husband’s forehead creases in concern. “I can handle the kids.”

“No, no, it’ll be fine. This is our dream vacation!”

Mandrake the Martian’s brother is rolling on the ground laughing. Girl number two starts climbing my leg like it’s a tree. I don’t know how she does it, but seconds later she’s on my back. I have a tiny, child-sized backpack.

Jillian leans in. “You’re doing great! This is exactly what we needed for social media! Just try to stop looking terrified,” she whispers to me, her warm breath caressing my ear.

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. “What if I drop one of them and it breaks?”

Jillian gracefully swoops in, snatching the girl from my arms and handing her back to her father. He gestures at the other two, and they reluctantly scramble back over to him.

Jillian cups her hands around her mouth. “Thank you, folks, you’ve been a wonderful audience! We’ve got to get a move on, but we’ll be here all week!” She does a deep, exaggerated bow, then puts her arm around my waist and hustles me away.

I glance back at them and wave goodbye. Mr. Sanders waves enthusiastically. Mrs. Sanders is still wincing, hand pressed on her stomach.

“That’s probably baby number four,” I say to Jillian.

“Oh my God,” she gushes. “How great would that be?”