Geekerella (Starfield #1)(10)

“I’m sorry. I just…” Gail usually meets my eyes when she talks, but now she takes out her phone. “There’s a lot going on and it slipped my mind.”

“Gail?”

She begins to check her email. Another good thing about working with her for so long—I can tell when she’s lying.

“Is it hot in here?” She starts fanning herself. “It’s hot in here. I’ll go ask someone to turn on the air—”

I put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from getting up, then offer her my ice pack. She takes it and presses it against her flushed cheeks.

“I’m not cut out for this,” she says.

“You kidding? I’d be lost without you, Gee. You know that.”

“This is my fault.” She shakes her head, burying her face in the ice pack. “I mess everything up.”

“You do not,” I reply. “No one could’ve predicted Fishmouth.”

“Fishmouth? That’s a horrible nickname, Darien.”

I shrug. “I mean, it’s not like she took the time to introduce herself. Usually when someone lands one on me I at least get her name first….Did you see the look on the one guy?”

“Rick Daley?”

“He covered his face so fast, you’d think he had his chin insured for half a mil.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Panicked, Gail drops the ice pack and begins to inspect me again, lifting up my now-floppy hair, checking my arms. “Crap, crap, crap! Your face! Is your face okay? Bruised? You’re filming tomorrow! I told Mark to not let you strip on the show. I told him it was a bad idea! Mark’s gonna murder me if—”

I grab her hands and clasp them together. “Gee, it’s fine,” I say, lying.

“B-b-b-but—”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, gently easing her down into the couch, and return the ice pack to her hand. Gail is the closest thing I have to a friend, after my actual friends turned into, well, assholes. I know Gail. I trust her. She’s that little voice in the back of my head telling me when something isn’t a good idea. Like taking flying lessons from Harrison Ford, or buying a house on the same street as Justin Bieber. And she always seems to Houdini me out of pits of fan hell or stalker paparazzi just in the nick of time.

“But I forgot to tell you about that convention!” she cries. “ExcelsiCon. I completely forgot.”

The name punches a shard of ice through my stomach. She must see my face twist because she begins to fret again.

“Oh crap—oh no, that’s the one you used to go to. With—”

“It’s fine,” I lie again. “Actually, you sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

Slowly, I back out of the green room and close the door quietly behind me. I touch my mouth, feeling the wound from where Fishmouth’s teeth collided with the inside of my lip. Maybe Mark’s right. Maybe I do need someone who can keep the fans at arm’s length, provide a little muscle just in case—

“No,” I tell myself. “Stop it. You are trusting. You love your fans. You’re cool and funny and chill. You are Jennifer Lawrence.”

But even as I say it, my heart begins to sink into my gut. Because ExcelsiCon may be a con—but it isn’t just a con. It’s ExcelsiCon. The con I used to fly across the country for with my best friend, Brian. Back before I had to start covering my face to meet a date at a restaurant. Back when I could date. Back when it wasn’t a publicity stunt. Back before my abs had more screen time than the rest of me.

I scratch my stomach at the thought of it. The airbrushed makeup—I mean, “contouring”—makes my skin itch like hell. Even thinking about going back to a con hurts. If I go back, it means I’m really not that Darien anymore. The normal—well, geeky and obscure—guy with normal friends who didn’t betray him.

So I’ve just always said I don’t do cons. Everyone knows this little factoid—Gail, my publicist Stacey, Mark, the countless assistants he’s fired over the course of my career. This isn’t a secret. It’s probably even in my personal file at the agency, highlighted and underlined with scented marker. So, yeah, this is kind of ticking me off.

I’ve barely leaned back against the green room door when a thunderous voice makes me jump.

“DARIEN!”

It’s my father. My throat tightens.

“Old man!” I try for a joke because he hasn’t let me call him “Dad” in three years. To protect my image, he said. I also try to sound like I’m happy to see him, which is the even bigger joke. “Finally managed to hobble out of L.A.?”

His face falls, looking tense and unfriendly under the low-watt institutional-like lighting, and he drops his outstretched arms. At this point I’m sure he’s more plastic than person, but most people who hate wrinkles become Daleks over time, anyway. “What’re you doing without Gail? I knew I should’ve gotten you a bodyguard.”

“She’s in there,” I say, jabbing my thumb toward the door, “and I don’t need a bodyguard. My fans are…well, passionate, but—”

“What if someone was coming down the hallway that wasn’t me? You can’t just go anywhere anymore. It’s too risky. You know this,” he stresses, “especially now that you’ll be Prince, uh…” He waves a hand around.