Geekerella (Starfield #1)(77)
The Nox King scowls, lipstick smearing over his teeth even more. “Episode sixteen.”
“Huh,” says Darien.
“What’s it to you?” The cosplayer crosses his arms.
“Nothing.” Darien shrugs. “Just that the Nox King doesn’t wear a cape in episode sixteen.”
“Yeah, so?” Nox King says. “I improvised.”
“Cool, cool.” Darien frowns, then taps his own shoulder, then gestures to the shoulder guard on the cosplayer. Now that he points to it, I realize what’s wrong.
“But what about the insignia?” Darien says. “Because I seem to remember it on the other side. In every episode. And it’s not a small detail. It’s pretty big, actually. How can your followers kiss the symbol of their religion if it’s on the wrong shoulder?”
The cosplayer opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“That is why you didn’t win,” Darien Freeman goes on, “because you were careless. Not because you’re a ‘real fan.’ We’re all real fans. This girl most of all.”
The cosplayer advances on Darien. “Yeah? Then who the hell are you? Her boyfriend?”
Carmindor Darien simply smiles in the face of the Nox King—how I wish that the movie revolved around that plot arc instead—and stands his ground. Shoulders straight but easy, his chin slightly inclined, a smirk tucked into the side of his lips.
I don’t mean to stare—and I’m not staring, I’m merely looking—but for a moment, in the dim light of the disco ball and the fog machines and the glow from the sconces on the walls, he actually looks the part.
Like…
“I’m Federation Prince Carmindor to you,” Darien Freeman replies, and the irony isn’t lost on me, “but also just a fan. Like you. And no, she isn’t my date, but now that you mention it”—he extends a hand to me—“I wouldn’t mind some fresh air, would you?”
I freeze, until I remember I’m part of this whole thing and not just watching from the wings.
Darien’s eyebrow arches higher over his eyelet mask. “Well, Princess?”
My gaze raises from his outstretched hand to the coy look glimmering in his eyes, asking me to play along. Okay, I’ll play along. I take his hand. “Only if I don’t have to walk through a Black Nebula.”
“Once is enough,” he jokes, and leads me out onto the balcony. “Let’s get on with our meet-and-greet, shall we?”
I DON’T STOP UNTIL WE’RE OUTSIDE on the small veranda connected to the ballroom. Two Vulcans are making out by the peach tree (everything in Atlanta is peach themed, apparently), so I lead her to the other side. Beyond the balcony, the city stretches out like a map of lights.
Princess Amara unravels herself from my arm, leaving a strange sort of hollowness. I brush it away.
“You didn’t have to step in and save me, you know,” she begins, retreating to the bench. “I can save myself.”
“Self-rescuing, are you?”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m not disappointed at all.” I sit down beside her. “It’s just one of my pet peeves is all—someone accusing a fan of being a fake. I know about that way too well.”
She chews on the inside of her mouth. “Look, about that blog post…I didn’t—I didn’t think…”
“Please, you know you thought I was only in it for the money,” I tease, and her cheeks redden even more.
“I didn’t know you,” she replies. “I mean, I don’t know you, but—”
And there’s the problem. That’s always the problem, isn’t it? Nobody knows me. I should go back inside. I should tell Gail that we need to go. The meet-and-greet is over. I’ve done my part. I shouldn’t linger here long enough for people to snap photos and begin making assumptions, selling the gossip. Maybe she’ll get some TV host or DJ to pay for an interview. Cash in and get her five seconds of fame, like Brian.
But this girl seems nothing like him. And neither did Elle.
I clear my throat. “You probably know enough about me. I’m sure you’ve read a few interviews, watched a few talk shows.”
“The dunk tank one was really good.”
I grimace. “Yeah, that was a good one.”
“But…” She hesitates. “That’s not really you, is it? I don’t mean to be blunt. I just—I just don’t believe that the guy who stuck up for me back there is Darien Freeman.”
“I assure you I am, Princess.”
“But that’s not Darien Freeman. That’s not—”
“The guy you wrote your blog posts about?” I finish. “Great pieces of journalism, by the way. All incredibly searing. Each one hurt worse than the last.”
She winces. “Okay, I deserve that. I feel like a complete jerk for it, and I’m sorry. But if you’re not that guy…” She starts to braid a piece of hair behind her ear, like she’s nervous, which is kind of adorable. “…then who are you?”
“Who am I?” I echo, surprised.
She nods. “We could, um, call it an exclusive? I’ll even redact the other posts.”
I shift uncomfortably, thinking of Elle and of what Brian said. In all our texting, I hadn’t been truthful to her—not once—because I was lying by omission. If I really valued her, cared about her, would I have at least told her the truth?