Geekerella (Starfield #1)(66)

“Actually, I’m here for the cosplay contest.”

She smiles, unwraps a butterscotch, and pops it in her mouth.

“Your father’s daughter, indeed.”





“YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN, DARE.”

Thanks for that, Gail. Understatement of the century.

We’re walking out of the giant auditorium, away from the panel that just let out. Spots blink across my vision from the flash of a zillion selfies that people who just love me in Seaside couldn’t wait to take (even though, if they really loved me, they would’ve not had the flash on). All the audience questions from the panel are swimming in my head like the insides of the Blob.

How do you feel being the new Carmindor?

What do you bring to Carmindor that Mr. Singh didn’t?

Since filming just wrapped, can you tell us a little about what to expect from your take on Carmindor?

Why did you think you could be the Federation Prince?

Jess didn’t get those questions. Calvin didn’t either. And every time Amon got asked why he cast me as the Federation Prince, he would simply say, “Did I cast the perfect person for the role? I think I did.”

Which is, of course, media interviews 101. When you’re asked a question you don’t want to answer, you redirect it by asking your own question and answering that one instead.

So between that blogger in the convention office and the panel, I’m in a pretty terrible mood. I can’t believe I ran into the Rebelgunner blogger. And it was a girl. Fate must be trolling me. Not even seeing Nathan Fillion will help this dark cloud over my head.

“That girl really got under your skin, didn’t she,” Gail says, shuffling behind me. Lonny follows behind us like a hulking shadow.

“She wasn’t a girl so much as the spawn of Satan,” I mutter, opening the GUESTS ONLY door to one of the private hallways.

“She had a point, you know,” Lonny rumbles.

Gail nods. “Darien, you’re usually so good with fans. Darien.” When I don’t stop, she grabs me by the arm to halt me in the middle of the hallway. The dude from that demon show passes, and I give him a bro nod. When he’s out of earshot, she whispers, “What’s really wrong?”

What’s really wrong?

A muscle in my jaw feathers. “Gail, my phone is still missing and I haven’t gone this long without talking to Elle since we disagreed about the solar flux capacitor, Rebelgunner is a girl, and I have a signing in less than”—I check my invisible watch—“ten minutes where a guy who’s left threatening messages at my hotel might or might not show up.”

Plus—and I know it’s crazy—I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I mean I know I’m being watched but…this feels different. The same way I felt all throughout filming. Like when the guy locked me up on the roof and then those clips and photos got leaked.

“But I’ll be there,” Lonny rumbles, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll turn them into sailor knots.”

“Thanks, bro.” I exhale a long, stressful breath. “It’ll be fine. Absolutely copacetic. As long as I don’t sign anything that could be described as a mound.”





I MEET UP WITH SAGE IN the lobby and crown her with the extra-VIP badge—the same kind of badge I show to the ticket booth guy as we walk through the security line. His mouth falls open at the yellow band across the top of mine.

“Eat it,” I mouth, and do the one-finger-at-a-time wave as the security guard checks my duffel—and the costume—and lets me inside.

“Okay, so we need to finish up your costume and get you ready for this contest,” Sage says, patting the strap of the bag. “Still gotta make sure the stitching’s right on your shoulder and glitter up your coat and—”

“Sage.” I pull her to a stop.

She hasn’t even looked up at it all. “Yeah?…Oh.” She stares out at the expanse of showroom floor. Her mouth goes slack jawed. “Ohhh.”

Floor to ceiling, spanning the entire convention center. TV network and studio and game booths line the walls, lifesize replicas of World of Warcraft characters and Funko figures. People with pleasant smiles staff the tables that stretch from one side to the other, banners for Star Trek and Star Wars displayed overhead, waving gently in the air-conditioning. The crowd shuffles around photo ops mid-aisle, snapping selfies with cosplayers wielding cardboard swords and scythes, light sabers and phasers and starguns. A Deadpool bumps into me as he dodges out of the way of four Ewoks scuttling behind a mammoth Hulkbuster, their cellphones recording the event. And still no sign of the twins. Which is a good sign.

Sage and I slowly turn our eyes to each other. “Holy shit,” she says. “I’m in nerd heaven.”

“Oh, young Padawan,” I tell her, waving my hand toward the room, “everything the light touches is our kingdom. Let’s go explore it.” I pull her into the din of fantasy and sci-fi denizens and we get lost in the shuffle.

“God, look at all these people—so many Carmindors! Do you think yours is here?”

“Maybe,” I reply as we pass a booth selling Assassin’s Creed robes.

“Seriously? Are you going to meet up?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t answered.”