Geekerella (Starfield #1)(17)

After that disastrous reunion I stopped going, and after a while Mom stopped inviting me, the son of a Hollywood social climber—I’m sorry, manager. Now it’s just me and Mark, united under the Freeman brand.

“So, here’s the deal,” he says. “We’re moving your vacation to the weekend after you wrap filming.”

“Surprise,” I deadpan, waiting for the rest. I want him to bring it up—ExcelsiCon. Because he sure as hell hasn’t yet. I failed miserably this morning when I called—well, texted—that stranger. I didn’t get the person at the con, and I practically blew my cover besides. It was, certifiably, one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had.

“We had some last-minute gig come up. A photo shoot for Entertainment Today, a car commercial—assuming those clowns at BMW USA sharpen their pencils a little—and that appearance at the…you know. The thing.” He waves his hand in a spiral.

“The con,” I say shortly.

He snaps. “That’s it. Look, I know Hello, America spoiled the surprise, but—”

“Spoiled the surprise? I’m not an idiot, Mark. I know you didn’t tell me so that they’d corner me and I’d basically have no choice but to agree on camera!”

He sighs. “Come on, kid. You love cons, don’t you? You always went with that buddy of yours. Billy or Bucky—”

“Brian.”

“Yeah, him. And you haven’t been to one in a while. I thought, hey! Let’s give him something he’ll actually like doing!”

I massage the bridge of my nose. “Mark, you know I don’t—”

“Yes yes, you ‘don’t do cons.’ I get it—”

“Did you just air-quote me?”

“—but hey, you know what? It’ll perfect timing at the end of summer to remind everyone that you’re in Starfield. You’re coming right off filming! You’ll be in great shape! And it’s great press to get out there and meet the fans.”

“The fans,” I repeat. Like the Rebelgunner blogger, ready to slug me in the face for besmirching Carmindor’s good name.

“C’mon. It’ll be good for you to get out and do something normal.” He’s trying to reason with me—which, props for that, at least. “All you gotta do is show up—”

“No.”

“And do a meet-and-greet—”

“No.”

“—with one lucky contest winner, and make an appearance at their weird dance party afterward—”

I jerk to my feet. “How many times do I have to tell you? No.”

“Well, hate to break it to you, buddy, but you agreed to do it on live television. If you cut out now, it’ll look bad. Like you’re temperamental. A diva.” He lowers his voice. “Hard to work with.”

“Whatever.”

He gives me an appalled look. “What’s gotten into you, kiddo? You know how important these things are for your image.” He softens. “And you love conventions.”

“Loved. Past tense. I also loved making my own decisions, but I guess that doesn’t get me enough good press, huh?” Turning on my heels, I snatch the room’s keycard from the counter and shove it into my back pocket.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“To get a soda,” I grind out, yanking open the door.

“Remember your diet—”

I slam the door.

The hallway’s quiet, white and immaculate like a lot of these new-age hotels. The hallway actually reminds me of the Seaside set, stark white walls with halogen lighting. Empty. Except the set was fake and I could pull back the plywood that made up most of our “houses” and peek at the tech guys behind them. Here, I can’t get away from it.

There isn’t a vending machine on my floor, so I take the stairwell down to the tenth, and then the ninth. By the eighth floor, still no vending machine, but no people, either. At this point, the less people in my life, the better.

On the seventh-floor landing, though, I hear voices. I quickly press myself against the side of the wall as they get louder, drawing near the stairwell. I sink down on the bottom step of the landing, and there I sit, waiting for them to leave.

Maybe they’re just regular people. Maybe they won’t recognize me. Or maybe I’m crazily paranoid. Long story short, there are people like my dad who want to channel your fame and help you rise to the top. Then there are people like Brian, who take damning pictures of you when you invite them to visit the set and sell them to TMZ. That’s what hurt, more than the yacht fall. And no, despite what the “IS SEASIDE COVE’S DARIEN FREEMAN IN A FREEFALL?” article said, I wasn’t drunk, or high, or tripping on anything besides my own feet. It wasn’t some publicity stunt.

And yes, I have a scar to prove it.

I put my face in my hands, getting impatient. All I wanted was an Orange Crush. Just one. It’s been a day. I deserve one.

I do.

Getting to my feet, I pull my hoodie over my head and wrench open the stairwell door and—slam into one of the guys loitering in the hallway. There’s three of them, one girl. My age, maybe a year or two younger. Tourists, by their sandals and backpacks.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and duck my head as I pass.

Don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me, I pray. These days, when everyone’s got a jillion-megapixel camera in their pocket, you don’t even have to worry about official paparazzi. Why couldn’t I live during the days of flip phones?