Geekerella (Starfield #1)(18)
Phones. My hand goes to my pocket—empty. I turn around. The tourists are still there.
“Hey, dude,” one of them calls.
I turn back around, go in the other direction, speed up.
“Wait a sec!” the girl adds, a slight tilt to her words. French, or Canadian. Of course the girl would be the one to recognize me. I hear her start running down the hallway toward me. “Hey—hey, dude, you dropped your phone.”
She holds it out and I take it, trying not to look her in the eye without seeming rude.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She frowns. “You look really familiar—”
“I get that a lot,” I reply, and quickly spin on my heels again, making my exit down the hallway.
“Weird guy,” one of her friends murmurs.
“Whatever, it’s New York. Everyone’s weird.”
Yeah, understatement. They keep talking and I force myself not to listen as I follow the signs toward the snack machines. I push open the door and the iridescent lights of the soda machine shine eerily in the dark room. Bingo. I don’t bother to turn on the lights as I dig into my pockets for spare change and pop the coins into the machine.
“Take that, luck,” I mutter, pressing the button for orange soda.
OUT reads the machine display.
I jab it again.
OUT.
OUT.
OUT.
“Nox’s crack, come on,” I plead, jabbing the button with the fervor of a man on death row.
Sighing, I opt for water instead, and the vending machine groans as it operates, rolling out a sparkling bottle of nothingness. Have you ever noticed how vending machines are never out of water?
I lean against the wall, taking a swig. I don’t want to go back to the room yet, but I also don’t want to pass that group of friends again, and they’re between me and both the stairwell and the elevator.
If I had friends, or a girlfriend—there’s a hilarious idea—now’s when I’d fire off a text message to catch up, say hey, complain about my day. I settle on the vending-machine-room floor and idly thumb through my messages from the bottom up, contact after contact after contact. A few odd texts with the Seaside cast from last March, but I was never close with them—they’re all, like, twenty-five and on the opposite coast. Then some with the Seaside publicist, my publicist Stacey, Gail, Mark…all people I work for, or people who work for me.
I’m not lonely. I’m not, I swear.
Then, at the top, there’s that wrong number. The chimichanga girl—or guy, I guess, but for some reason I assumed it was a girl.
I sip my soulless water. There’s no reason to text the number again. Absolutely none. But I’m bored, and I’m stuck, and my fingers type up a quick message and hit SEND before my head can catch up.
I ROLL OVER ON THE BED, taking my phone out of my back pocket, and slide my thumb across the cracked screen to the message.
It’s the stranger. Well, the cosplayer. Carmindor.
Unknown 9:42 PM
—How were those chimichangas?
I chew on my lip. This guy could be a stalker. Or some weird old geezer with a Carmindor fetish. Or just someone who wants to know about Mexican food on my spaceship el pumpkin.
9:47 PM
—Very vegan.
—Did you get in contact with who you were looking for?
Unknown 9:48 PM
—Sadly not.
—Haven’t had time to track them down.
I sit up. The convention was a part of me I walled off after Dad died. I didn’t want to be a part of it, didn’t want to walk in through those glass doors and almost see Dad standing in the lobby, Carmindor coat starched, starwings gleaming. Besides, the people at ExcelsiCon haven’t been much in contact with me either. Pretty much dropped me cold turkey after Dad died. Some community that was.
But Dad always believed in helping everyone no matter what. In being kind and going the distance. I wish I was half the person he was, but he always said he learned it from Mom. So if Mom was kindness and Dad was half of her, what did that leave me? A quarter?
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I reply, wondering why I’m making an exception.
9:48 PM
—Maybe I can help?
—Although the REAL Carmindor doesn’t give excuses, you know.
Unknown 9:48 PM
—What do you call episode 26?
9:48 PM
—Uh, he was mind-warped by a Nox?? Please.
—Unless I’m wrong and you’d like to set me straight, your Federation highness.
Unknown 9:48 PM
—Somehow correcting you about Starfield feels like a bad idea.
—As I tend to have.
9:50 PM
—You wouldn’t be Carmindor without your bad ideas.
—…No offense.
Unknown 9:51 PM
—None taken. I pity the poor galaxy that falls under my rule.
—Muha. Ha.
—So…you’re a Stargunner?
9:51 PM
—I bleed Federation blood.
—You?
Unknown 9:52 PM
—Born from the Brinx Devastation itself. I promise-swear.
—\m/
Like I believe his promise-sworn…whoever he is. Lightning cracks across the sky again, closer this time. I wait to hear thunder. One-one thousand. Two-two thousand. Three-three thousand…Then it comes, slow and soft like a song.