Geekerella (Starfield #1)(67)

“Mm.” She nods toward a group of cosplayers gathered at the far corner of the showroom. One is holding a sign that reads TEAM FOUR STAR. “Do a lot of internet groups meet up at conventions?”

“Sure.”

“How about your Starfield peeps? The online ones you talk to?”

“Oh—well, yeah. A few of them are here.” We break apart for a moment as an elf with a scythe squeezes between us. “Anyway, we should get to the costume contest area and sign in, what do you say? And try not to run into the twins.”

“If we do I’ll shove them in a closet,” Sage mutters.

I laugh. “Ready to kick some Nox butt?”

She scoffs. “Elle, I’m ready to tell them to get down on both knees and call you Queen.”

“I thought you were going somewhere completely different with that.”

“Eh, this is a PG sort of moment.”

“Fair enough.”

She consults a convention map that she found on the showroom floor, but I take it from her with a scoff. “Oh please, I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“Yeah, how do you know this place so well?”

“Because my dad started this con,” I reply, grab her hand again, and follow my feet into the crowd, the map of the convention floor burned into my memory like the glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling.





SCRAWLING MY NAME OVER ANOTHER HEADSHOT of my character on Seaside Cove, I thank the pretty brunette for standing in line and hand the photo back to her. She hugs it to her chest like it’s made of gold, tells me she loves me in Seaside, and hurries off with her friends. It’s pretty amazing. I thought I’d be tired of fans gushing up to me, but there’s just something earnest in fandom that’s never boring. Sure, having fans inflates my ego, but I like to think that I’m not that shallow. I appreciate this job because I’m making things that people—all kinds of people, from the looks of my line—enjoy.

“So the blogger was right,” I mutter to myself, tapping the end of the permanent marker on the table. It’s annoying just how right she was. My time is way less important than making these people happy.

Gail hovers just out of earshot, talking animatedly on the phone, setting up meetings and photo ops and all the things I’m too busy to handle. After all this, she deserves a break. Or a promotion.

At the front of the line is Lonny, looking as stoic and badass as ever—even in a Powerpuff Girls cap he swiped from a nearby booth to make him look less suspicious. He keeps getting strange looks.

A fan slides a book toward me and I begin to say that I don’t sign other people’s work when I recognize the graphic novel.

Batman: Year One.

I grip the marker, slowly turning up my eyes to a redhead in a Kilgrave T-shirt. He’s taller than I remember—and older, obviously; his hair close-cropped, eyes dark.

My heart sinks. I sit back, capping the marker. “Brian?”

“Hey, Darien. Long time, yeah?”

I glance behind him. There are at least twenty people still waiting to get something signed. I can’t just walk out now and Gail has her back turned, so she can’t see the trouble even if I Hulked out and waved Brian over my head by his foot. I have to keep my cool. Which is hard, considering I want to punch him in the face.

Instead I nod and reply. “Long time. Do you have something for me to sign? You know I don’t sign other peoples’ work.”

He licks his lips. The start of the Empire’s insignia from Star Wars peeks up from the collar of his shirt. Of course he’d get the Empire’s. He wasn’t ever good enough for the Rebel Alliance. “I just want to talk to you—just for a minute. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I left voicemails at your hotel—”

“That was you? I thought—” I don’t finish my sentence. Because what I thought was ridiculous. Of course it would have to be Brian.

He smiles. “Did you listen to them?”

“Can’t say I had the time,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He makes an aggravated noise and squats so we’re eye level. If that’s not condescending, I don’t know what is. “Look, I didn’t know they’d try to take you down like that. I thought it’d just be a quick piece in some small tabloid. I didn’t think, like, People magazine would get a hold of it. He said I’d get to keep the money, and…I don’t know, dude, I thought you were in on it!”

“In on it?” I can’t believe this. “In on what—you selling me out?”

“It was a lot of money. You understand, right? You have to understand.”

I want to tell him off, but the frakking truth is that I do understand. I understand why he’d sell me out for paparazzi money. When someone gives you enough cash to cover a good chunk of your college tuition, you take it. And then there was me, the geeky son of self-crowned Hollywood royalty. We were outliers. So we became friends.

So yeah, of course I understand him. I understand him better than I understand myself. That’s what pisses me off the most. That he couldn’t understand me the same way. Wasn’t that what best friends were? He was like my brother. Brothers don’t rat each other out, and yet here we were.

I look down at my marker, twirling it in my fingers. “Yeah, Brian, I understand.”