Bookish and the Beast (Once Upon a Con #3)(40)

“All I’m saying is those stupid friends of yours in LA made you jaded and untrusting and that’s not who friends are. People aren’t out to find the worst in you, Vance. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now—”

Someone headshots me for the fourth time, and I give up. Both on this conversation and on the game. I’m too angry to play, anyway. “Forget it. I’m leaving.”

“Vance—”

“Good game,” I add absently, and sign off before she can say anything else. I wrench off my headset and bury my face in my hands. Because a small part of me thinks—for a moment—Imogen might be right.

And I can’t bear to think about that.





I PARK IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE-HOUSE on Monday afternoon, but I don’t turn off the car. I’ve half a mind to just kick my good ole hatchback into gear and drive straight home. Let Dad pay off the rest of the book fee—even though it’s probably still more than we can afford. I’ll find a different job to pay him back. I’ll even resort to Craigslist and risk getting murdered by some Hydra-hailing Ted Bundy with an alarming collection of The Killing Joke and the Reddit username FIGHTTHESJWS to find another copy of that waterlogged priceless volume of Starfield.

Honestly, that sounds at least a little more exciting than just the thought of facing Vance Reigns again. Vance Reigns, who was my mystery prince at ExcelsiCon, the guy I’d been daydreaming about—stupidly daydreaming about.

Because I’m such a fool.

“Pull yourself together, Thorne,” I tell myself. “You can do this. He’s just a guy. A very hot…very tall…very good-looking…asshole.” I thump my head against the steering wheel and accidentally honk the horn.

I jerk back in my chair, and quickly turn off the car.

Okay.

Amara up, Rosie. You can do this.

Just march in there, like Amara’s gonna march on the Prospero in the second movie, and take no shit from Vance Reigns. You have one goal, and he isn’t it. And you’re free of your crutches. You are strong and independent and— I take a deep steadying breath, grab my bookbag, and get out of the car.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You’ll be okay. Just go in, do your job.

When I get to the door, I let myself in with the key under the mat. I dump my bookbag on the barstool where I always do, but Mr. Rodriguez is nowhere to be found. Usually, if he’s gone when I come in, he leaves a note on the counter, but there isn’t one today.

I wonder where he is.

“Mr. Rodriguez?” I call, wandering into the living room. I step outside onto the back patio with the pool, but he’s not back here either, and neither is Sansa.

Where could they be?

I turn and grab the handle for the sliding glass door—but it won’t budge. I try again. The door rattles.

And I realize: I’ve locked myself out.

A rumble of thunder rolls overhead.





“ELIAS?” I CALL THROUGH THE HOUSE, but no one replies. I could have sworn I heard the front door open. But he isn’t in the kitchen, and no one is in the library, so perhaps Rosie isn’t here either. Did she decide to quit?

“Elias,” I call again, stepping out into the backyard. The humid fall air is so thick it feels like walking into a mouth. The day is dark with thunderclouds, purple and heavy with rain. In the distance, the clouds rumble. I don’t want to be out here longer than I already am. It looks like it might rain any moment. “Elia—”

From the pool area, Rosie scrambles from one of the chairs, pale and wide-eyed. “No! Don’t close the—”

The door slides shut behind me.

“—door…” she finishes glumly.

Why would she not want me to…oh. My stomach drops into my toes as I spin around and try the door. But it’s locked. I can’t believe this. How stupid can I be? I sigh and turn back to her. “I assume it was you I heard coming in?” I say.

“Probably,” she replies, nervously twisting the class ring on her finger.

“And you haven’t seen Elias either, have you.”

She shakes her head. So that means he hasn’t broken the news to her yet, either. Great. I curse under my breath and give one last tug. Still nothing. The glass in the door rattles with the force.

We are officially locked outside.

“Maybe the front door is unlocked by some glorious twist of fate,” I mutter, realizing that I don’t even have shoes on, and start for the side of the house.

“I’ve already tried it. Can we talk?”

I ignore her.

“Vance.”

When she says my name, I can’t help but to stop. I glance over my shoulder at her. The clouds above us rumble again. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“You—you wish you’d never found out it was me, don’t you,” she forces out, and fists her hands. She raises her eyes to me defiantly. “Because I’m not who you imagined, am I?”

I roll my eyes. “Right, that’s it—”

“I’m being serious!”

“And I’m—”

She grabs my arm roughly and jerks me around to face her, and squares her shoulders so she looks a little taller. Imogen was right—I know she was—I should have told this girl the moment I recognized that birthmark on her neck, but I purse my lips and look away. There are few things I enjoy less than confrontation.