Geekerella (Starfield #1)(21)

But then the flashlight beam catches glitter and dark-purple cloth. Can’t be—Catherine threw all this stuff out. She said she did. Donated it with the twins’ clothes and her clutter.

I sink my hands into the trunk and take hold of a dress that could have been made from a midnight sky, the fabric a rich plum, soft and silky. I lift it up, wisps of gauzy silk slipping between my fingers. In the shadows, it sparkles like a galaxy caught in the threads.

Tears brim in my eyes. It’s Mom’s dress. Princess Amara’s dress. I never really knew her, not like I knew Dad. But I wish with all my heart that I did.

I hug it tightly, squeezing my eyes closed. For a moment, it feels like I’m not alone in the attic. It feels like they’re here.

An idea begins to dawn on me. Catherine can sell the house. She can take away my parents and put them in boxes. She can make me do the chores. She can berate me for working at a food truck…But besides what’s here, in this trunk, I’m the last bit of my dad the world has left. I might be no one, but my father was extraordinary. And he loved me more than anything.

What kind of daughter would let that fade?

Then again, what can I do when the only thing I really own in the world are my parents’ old costumes?

The answer hits me like a lightning strike.

I’ll go to ExcelsiCon and enter that contest. I’ll win that contest. And I’ll get my tickets out of here, away from Catherine and the twins, and create a new universe where I can be whoever I want to be and not what everyone thinks I am.

I’ll be my father’s daughter.

It’ll be work. I’ll have to clean these things up, alter them so they fit, somehow find a way to get to Atlanta for the convention. But Dad taught me a long time ago that it takes much more than a few good pieces of costume to be worthy of the Federation insignia. It takes courage and perseverance. It takes all the good things I still feel in Dad’s old cosplay uniform. All the kind things in Mom’s galaxy dress.

And with their help, I’ll make them proud.

I’ll ignite the stars.





I’VE MET MY DOOM, AND IT isn’t even breakfast yet.

Six foot eight, as broad as a New York Jets linebacker with sausage fingers that could snap me—even buff, gained-twenty-pounds-of-muscle-for-a-movie Darien 2.0 me—in half. A tribal tattoo winds across the side of his mostly shaved head.

Holy looming nose hairs, Batman.

Mark looks between me and my doom with this proud grin on his face. Like he’s won the county fair with a stolen prized pig.

“So?” he says, egging on a compliment that I will not give him. He can call me petulant. He can tell me I’m showing my age. I don’t care. “What do you think, Darien?”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. I try to stand as tall as I can, but even then Mr. Doom towers over me by a good six inches. Think half the Rock, half Terry Crews. All three hundred pounds of muscle. And when I stand up straighter, so does he. Showoff.

“He’s not here for your benefit,” Mark replies through a smile. His teeth are clenched. “He’s here because our insurance company insisted on it.”

“It’s not my fault you insured my abs. They never asked for that. If you hadn’t made me do that stupid stunt on Hello, America—”

“I’m thinking of your future, Darien. You don’t want to mess it up more, do you?” He taps my chin—the same spot where I have a “career-ending” scar. After my unfortunate boat fail, Mark tossed around names of plastic surgeons like NFL quarterbacks throw Hail Mary passes. I didn’t think the stitches were that bad, but the showrunner had to go back and reshoot almost every scene in the finale to incorporate them. Needless to say, the resulting scar did not end my career. The only thing that ended was my last and only friendship.

I tear my eyes away from Terry Crews Jr. to glare at my dad.

“Don’t give me that look, Darien,” he says with a sigh. “I just want to do best by you. I just want you to get jobs in this town. You understand that, right?”

“Fine. Fine.” There’s no point arguing. “For how long?”

“Now see, that’s the thing—”

“How long? And what does Gail say about it?”

“Gail agrees it’s a good idea. And indefinitely.” He takes out his vibrating phone and glances at the number. “I need to take this. You two get to know each other. This’ll be an adventure, right?”

I don’t even answer before Mark spins off, phone nestled against his shoulder. “Hello, yes, this is Mark. Harrison! How are you? How’s the ankle?”

The door can’t slam behind him quick enough.

My bodyguard and I exchange the same expectant look. I size up his crisp black suit and his neat tie and his silver Rolex—which makes you wonder how well bodyguards get paid—and I scowl. When he doesn’t flinch I give up, pull off my day-old T-shirt, and stomp over to the corner where I stashed my suitcase.

We rolled into Atlanta late last night. I couldn’t sleep a wink because the plane powered through a monstrous thunderstorm. The moment I got to the hotel I fell asleep in my clothes, and I’m still tired. The glaring red clock on the bedside table reads 8:31 a.m., which means I only slept four hours.

“You’re probably good at taking lip, aren’t you?” I mutter more to myself than to my bodyguard, clawing through the suitcase for a T-shirt that isn’t tight on me. “Like a CIA operative, right? Do bodyguards go to bodyguard school? Are you like the hitman in Hitman?”