Geekerella (Starfield #1)(9)

My favorite character.

The horn blares again, and I know the neighbors are wondering what a food truck is doing in the driveway.

“I’m coming!” I shout. With a click, I post the article, sending it out into the netherverse.

Thirty seconds later, I’ve pulled my work shirt over my head, slung my satchel over my shoulder, and hopped in shotgun to the ostentatiously orange monstrosity that is my place of employment.

“You’re late,” she says in a voice that matches her chlorine-green hair. Dull. Pretty weird. Not interested in talking to me. It was probably once a deep green, because she’s the type of person who would dye her hair the color of her name—Sage. “I’ve been waiting here for ever.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. A creepy laughing pumpkin hangs from the rearview mirror that my coworker adjusts as she backs out. “I had to…do something.” In a million years, or a million universes, I would never admit to Sage that I’m a Stargunner. I’m sure she’d just laugh. “Wait, isn’t the RiverDogs stadium the other way?” I add as she turns down one of Charleston’s notorious one-way streets.

“Change of plans.”

“I…” My voice trails off as I glance at a passing street sign. “I think this is one way the other way.”

Sage says nothing, just grips the wheel tighter, a grin curving her hot-pink lips. On her otherwise expressionless face, it looks…out of place. Like a stuffed animal in the middle of a blood puddle. Demonic almost.

“Tally-ho!” Sage shouts—so loud that I jump—and yanks around on the gearshift.

I scramble for my seatbelt. I have my license, but since her mom is the owner—and thus our boss—Sage is the one who gets the driver’s seat. The downside is that she’s also a lunatic behind the wheel. And everywhere else, too. Honestly, if I could work anywhere else, I would. But since the only thing on my resume is my ill-fated stint at the country club—which I am not going to return to, no matter what Catherine says—I’m probably lucky the Pumpkin even wanted me at all.

There are worse jobs, I guess. I could be getting attacked by fangirls like poor, pretty Darien Freeman.





“I’M SO, SO, SO SORRY.” Gail hands me an ice pack as soon as I make it to the green room.

“What just happened?” I take it and wince as I press the pack against the back of my neck.

Gail shakes her head. “I thought security had her…”

“I mean, they did,” I say. “Right after she had me. On the floor. I thought I’d choke on her tongue.” My damp hair—no longer perfectly curled—sticks to my neck like seaweed.

The fangirl had come at me so fast, I barely knew what—or who—hit me until I was already flipping over the rock-hard sofa and onto my already bad back. Which is ridiculous, I know: I’m eighteen, I shouldn’t have a bad back. But after two years of carrying my costar around on Seaside Cove—it was supposed to be romantic, the fans loved it—my chiropractor told me to lay off the stunts for a while. I’m pretty sure that includes random girls lip-locking me in the middle of Hello, America.

Gail rubs her hands together nervously. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’m sorry. Was my fault completely. I should’ve had more security. I should’ve said something.”

“Hey,” I interrupt, gently touching her elbow. “I’m sure it’s not your fault, you know that. We both knew these abs were killer.”

She gives me a pained look, but smiles. “Don’t make me laugh! I’m your handler; I should’ve handled this before they surprised you on live TV. Mark’s gonna shank me right up the middle this time.”

I sink onto the green room couch. Mark. My manager, my number one cheerleader, my bailer-out-of-jail, and—somewhere far, far down that list in a galaxy far, far away—my father. Gail’s been on his bad side for quite a while now. To him, she’s a fumbling idiot and sometimes she does fray at the edges, but everyone does. And if he thinks she is a fumbling idiot, I don’t even want to know what he thinks of me.

Besides, Gail’s the only person left from B.S.C.—Before Seaside Cove. Everyone else, my assistants and their assistants and Gail’s assistants, have all gone through Mark’s wringer, but Gail stayed. She’s a monument to where I came from. A piece of history from a time when I never thought a fan would tackle me on the stage of Hello, America.

I also never thought I’d purposefully miss a Starfield question. I knew the answer too—it was so easy. But that was the script. I’d miss ah’blena, get dunked, and show my abs. All in a day’s work.

Gail motions to my neck. “Hurt bad?”

“I can feel it, so I think that’s a good sign.”

Nodding, she sits down beside me. Once security pried off the fan, the producers ushered me into my dressing room to get checked out and go over the legal jargon I signed to go on the show. Mainly so I won’t sue them for injuries. Of course I wouldn’t sue, but the second Mark found out what happened, he ordered us to stay in the studio until he arrived. He’d sue Hello, America in a heartbeat.

But that’s not even what I’m most worried about.

“So…,” I say, turning to Gail, “who was supposed to tell me about that ExcelsiCon contest?”