by Regina Kyle
I rake a hand through my hair. “This isn’t something I’d joke about.”
He crumples up the napkin and tosses it in the trash. “Fuck. I owe Ainsley fifty bucks. She bet me you two were more than roommates.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” I say, disbelieving. “Losing a bet? You’re not mad at me for dating your sister behind your back?”
“The behind my back part stings a little. I don’t get why you felt like you had to hide it from me.”
“I don’t know. I guess I was worried you’d think it was weird. Or that I’d wind up breaking her heart.”
“I’m more concerned she’s going to break yours.”
That has my defense mechanisms on full alert. I tense up and my pulse kicks into high gear. “What do you mean?”
“Your life is here, in New York. And Brie’s career takes her all over the place. What’s going to happen when she gets a job that’s shooting in Los Angeles? Or Toronto? Or a role in a play at some regional theater in who knows where?”
Good question. One I’d like to know the answer to as well. But, sadly, I’m not a fortune teller. Jake’s guess is as good as mine.
I will myself to relax, starting with my shoulders and working my way down. “Lots of people are in long-distance relationships. They make it work.”
“Yeah, but is that what you want? Once this Netflix thing starts streaming, Brie’s whole world is going to change. I’m talking red carpet premieres, fancy charity galas, big-time award ceremonies. Remember how much you hated that kind of stuff with your dad?”
Yeah, I do. After my mom died, my dad dragged me to a ton of his PR events. Book signings. Readings. Lectures. All those people, crowding around him, demanding his attention. Especially the women, once word got out that he was single, under fifty, and more than reasonably attractive.
My dad, being the world’s biggest narcissist, ate it all up, of course. Half the time he forgot I was even there, unless he needed to use me as some sort of publicity prop. Look at me, Vincent Dow, father of the freaking year.
But for me, it was the seventh circle of hell. Having all those eyes focused on me made me squeamish. All I wanted to do was read or play hand-held video games in a quiet corner, away from the chaos and commotion. Eventually, as I got older, I put my foot down, and he agreed to let me stay with the Lawsons when he was on book tour as long as I let him parade me around like a show pony at one or two of his bigger events each year.
I keep telling myself that Brie’s not my dad. That things will be different with her. She may enjoy the spotlight, but she doesn’t crave it like he does. At least, I don’t think she does. And she’s not a user, either. She’d never treat me like arm candy, there to make her look good.
Jake raps his knuckles on the desk, making me flinch. “Earth to Connor. You still with me?”
“You’re not saying anything I don’t already know,” I admit. “But we’re talking about Brie, not my dad.”
“I realize that. But she’s going to have certain obligations, and she’ll want the man in her life at her side. How are you going to deal with all that public scrutiny? Hell, you don’t even like making appearances at your own club.”
I can’t argue with him. So I don’t. “That’s your only objection? That I can’t handle being Brie’s plus one?”
He finishes his iced tea and nods, punctuating it by setting his glass down on the desk with a decisive thunk. “That’s a simplistic way of putting it, but yeah.”
“And aside from that, you’re totally okay with me dating your sister?”
He stares at me for a moment, then nods again.
“Then let me worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
There’s a long pause, then he stands and rounds his desk, holding a hand out to me.
“Deal. Just promise me one thing.”
I rise so we’re on eye level but keep my hand at my side for now, waiting to hear the catch before I agree to his terms. “What’s that?”
He gives me a wry half-smile. “Don’t hate me when I say I told you so.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Connor
I LOOK AROUND at the throng of elaborately dressed cosplayers streaming into the Javits Center, then down at my nondescript khakis and classic white polo shirt, and wonder if maybe Jake was right after all. Maybe I don’t belong in Brie’s world.
Or maybe I just don’t belong at Comic Con. I thought I was into geek culture. But these people make me look like a rank amateur.
I finger the VIP pass hanging from a Walking Dead lanyard around my neck. I’m still not sure why Brie wants me here so badly. I’m sure she’ll have plenty of fans lined up to meet her and the rest of the Mortal Misfits.
But the bottom line is that she asked me to be here, so I’m here. I didn’t have the heart—or the desire—to say no to her. It’s like Jake said. If I’m her man—and goddamn it that’s what I want to be—I should be at her side. No matter how damn uncomfortable being in the public eye makes me.
Plus, a little—okay, big—part of me wants to prove Jake wrong. To show him—and me—that I can stand up to the scrutiny. That although Brie and I are polar opposites in some respects, those differences won’t drive us apart.
With renewed resolve, I fall in line between a frighteningly accurate Night King from Game of Thrones and what I think is supposed to a steampunk Princess Leia and make my way into the convention center. When I get to the attendant manning the gate, I flash my badge, and she hands me a program and a map.
“Welcome to Comic Con,” she says in a monotone, probably sick and tired of repeating the same thing over and over to the thousands of conventioneers streaming past her. “The line for the Jensen Ackles signing is to the left. Artists alley, panels, and screenings are to the right. The show floor is two levels up, escalators are straight ahead.”
Jensen Ackles? I don’t even know who the hell that is. I might as well turn in my nerd card right now.
“Thanks, but I’m looking for—”
I don’t bother finishing my sentence seeing as I’m already two feet inside the gate, well past the attendant, pushed forward by the momentum of the crowd. I manage to maneuver myself out of the flow of traffic into a corner so I can check the map and schedule.
I’m fumbling with the map, trying to open it with one hand while holding onto the thick program with the other, when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Need some help?” It’s steampunk Princess Leia, the woman who was ahead of me in line coming into the convention center.
I hold up the partially unfolded map with a sheepish smile. “I look that lost and out of place, huh?”
She returns my smile with a mega-watt grin that lights up her face. She’s the type of girl I normally go for. Petite. Curvy. Cute, if maybe a tad too perky. In different circumstances, I might have worked up the courage to ask her out. But that was before another petite, curvy, cute-if-maybe-a-tad-too-perky girl bullied her way into my apartment, upended my world, and dragged me into the craziness that is Comic Con.
“Not lost and out of place,” steampunk Leia reassures me. “Just new and confused. Where do you want to go?”
“The Mortal Misfits panel. It starts in—” I turn my wrist over to check my Ulysse Nardin tourbillon watch. It’s the one and only thing I have in common with my douchebag dad. A fondness for high-tech, designer timepieces. “Ten minutes.”
“That’s where I’m headed, too. I’m meeting some friends there. We can walk together.”
“That would be great.” I fold the map back up and stick it in the program. Thanks.”
We head down a long passageway to Exhibit Hall 1A, where Leia tells me all the panels and screenings are taking place.
“So, you’re a fellow Mortal Misfits fan?” she asks.
I dodge a couple dressed as Dr. W
ho and the Tardis, meaning I have to hustle to catch up to my escort before I answer. “You could say that.”
“Are you meeting someone at the panel, too? Or are you here alone?” The side-eyed look she gives me lets me know which answer she’s rooting for.
“I’m meeting someone,” I say. “My girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. As good as it feels to say it out loud, the word also feels small. Unsatisfactory. Inadequate to express the breadth and depth of my feelings for Brie.
“Oh.” To Leia’s credit, her smile only falters for a moment. Then she recovers and launches into an enthusiastic discussion about the panel we’re about to see. “I’ve read all the Mortal Misfits comics. I was super stoked when they announced that they were making a series based on them. Although I’m not sure about some of the casting.”
My fingers curl into tight fists at my sides. If what she’s implying involves Brie, I don’t like it one damn bit.
“What’s wrong with the casting?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and breezy, like I’m not seething internally at the thought of anyone being less than pleased that Brie’s part of this series.
“Don’t you follow that chat boards?”
“Chat boards?” I echo dully.
“It’s all over the forums. Comic Book Realm. CGC Comics. Comic Book Resources Community. People are upset that they basically went with a bunch of unknowns. There was some excitement at first when everyone thought Brie Larson was going to play Sage. But turns out it’s another actress with a similar name.”
“Brie Lawson,” I mumble.
“Yeah, that’s it. Lawson.” We’re outside the exhibit hall, and she grabs my wrist, pulling me inside. “So you do follow the forums after all.”
“Not really. I heard it on Entertainment Tonight,” I lie, gently shaking her hand off.
“My friends are over there,” she says, pointing to a group of steampunk Star Wars characters. There’s steampunk Luke, steampunk Han Solo, even steampunk Darth Vader. “Do you see your girlfriend anywhere?”
I scan the room. The stage is still empty but the audience is jam-packed, barely a free seat to be found. For the first time the enormity of how much Brie’s life is about to change really hits me. Of how much my life is going to change if I’m with her.
Jake’s warning rings in my ears, but I ignore it. I’m determined to prove him wrong and shove his stupid I-told-you-so down his throat. He may be my best friend, but that doesn’t mean I can’t want to make him eat his words.
“Wanna join us?” Leia prods since I haven’t answered her initial question. “With your girlfriend, of course, when you find her. It looks like my friends have a couple of extra seats saved.”
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Jake with a question about our liquor permit, which I renewed last week. But Leia doesn’t know that.
“Thanks, but that was her,” I lie again. “She’s got seats for us up closer to the stage.”
“Well, enjoy the panel. Maybe I’ll see you around later.”
I thank her again for helping me find my way, and we part company. I snag a seat about halfway down the center aisle, between the ice princess from that Disney movie and the Mad Hatter, and thumb a quick response to Jake assuring him that the license is all taken care of before stuffing my phone back in my pocket.
As I leaf through the program waiting for the panel to take the stage, I can’t help but wonder whether Brie’s heard the casting bullshit Leia was referring to. If she has, she hasn’t let on. I guess the keyboard warriors are an occupational hazard. She’s probably learned to ignore them. But that doesn’t lessen my irrational desire to track them down and defend her artistic honor.
“Hello, everyone.” A microphone squeals, and I look up to see a tall African American woman center stage. She lowers the mic, waits a few seconds—presumably for the sound tech to deal with the feedback issue—then brings it back to her mouth. “Sorry about that. I’m Lynette Bell from Geek Girls Rule, and I’ll be your moderator for today’s Mortal Misfits panel. Are you read to meet the misfits?”
A cheer rises up from the crowd, and Lynette motions with her hand toward stage right. Five waving, smiling individuals emerge—three men, two women—and take the five director’s chairs lined up behind her. My brain briefly registers that they’re all in costume before it zeroes in on one particular misfit in one particularly eye-catching costume that has my dick doing the Macarena.
It’s not eye-catching in the sense that it’s revealing. To the contrary, there’s no gratuitous skin showing. Unlike so many female superhero getups—Dagger from Cloak & Dagger and Sue Storm from the Fantastic Four come to mind—Brie’s—or Sage’s—costume doesn’t have any unnecessary cutouts. She’s wearing combat boots, not stilettos, and a one-piece bodysuit instead of a glorified swimsuit or a skirt too short for any self-respecting superhero to chase bad guys in.
But damn if that bodysuit doesn’t hug her curves like a Formula 1 race car. The black and gray-green spandex/leather combo is a cross between body armor and a sleek, utilitarian space suit. Functional, but hot as fuck. Sexy, but not sexist. She looks ready to kick ass and save the world without breaking a sweat.
I shift in my seat, subtly adjusting the crotch of my suddenly too tight pants. As I do, I realize I’m not the only one who’s impressed with Brie’s crime-fighting couture. Next to me, the Mad Hatter is not-so-discretely elbowing his friend—dressed, naturally, as the White Rabbit—and pointing at Brie.
“Get a load of Sage,” he stage whispers to Bunny Boy.
“Sweet,” his friend agrees. “I hope she acts as good as she looks.”
“Who cares?” Mad Hatter says with a disgustingly creepy waggle of his fake orange eyebrows. “As long she’s wearing that.”
“Think she’ll be at the signing after?” Bunny Boy asks.
Mad Hatter glances at his program. “Schedule says she will. Let’s go. I want a chance to see her up close and get very personal.”
He waggles those stupid eyebrows again, and I press my lips into a thin, harsh line. I’m not a violent man. I’ve always battled with my wits, not my fists. But right now I’d like to punch the Mad Hatter right in his unnaturally white face.
Fortunately for him—and me—Lynette’s back on the mic introducing the five cast members, and the panel discussion gets rolling. Hatter and his buddy wisely shut up and listen, giving me time to cool off. The last thing Brie needs is her jealous boyfriend starting a brawl. Obnoxious fanboys are just another thing I’ll have to learn to live with.
Once I’ve calmed down enough to pay attention, the panel’s actually pretty interesting. Brie’s fairly tight-lipped about her work—she’s under a lot of NDAs—and I don’t like to pry. But on stage, at an event arranged and organized by the production company, she’s every inch the star she was born to be. Charming. Articulate. Unassuming.
But also genuine, honest, and vulnerable. It’s clear she’s not pretending up there. She’s letting the audience see all her messy, fragile parts, and she’s got everyone—me included—in the palm of her hand.
And that’s when I know. The realization crashes into me, like a two-ton tractor trailer.
I am so far gone for this girl, it’s fucking ridiculous. Inside-out, head-over-heels, ready-to-beat-the-crap-out of-any-man who-looks-at-her-sideways gone.
The rest of the panel passes in kind of a blur. My mind is somewhere else as I exit with the crowd. On the conversation I need to have with Brie. Preferably later and in private, not surrounded by costumed characters.
But first, she’s got this signing thing, which, if the line that’s forming at the Mortal Misfits booth in autograph alley is any indication, is going to take a while. And as her ever loyal, always devoted boyfriend, I’ll be there by her side for every long, excruciating minute. Or as close to her side as I can get in this mess. Making s
ure she knows I’m with her one hundred percent.
And guys like Mad Hatter know she’s one hundred percent mine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brie
MY BACK ACHES, my eyes are starting to blur, and my hand is cramping from signing my name so many times—on everything from to fan art to body parts. And I’ve never been happier.
It’s happening. After years of waiting tables, eating ramen noodles, and pounding the pavement from audition to audition, it’s finally, actually, unbelievingly happening. I’m in a series that everyone’s talking about. The producers just announced that it’s been picked up for a second season. And my character is being bumped from recurring to principal. Meaning more screen time, more money, and hopefully some movie roles when we’re on hiatus.
The only fly in the ointment is Connor. Not that he’s done anything wrong. He’s been a perfect angel. I just wish he was sitting next to me instead of stuck standing in the corner, being chatted up by a guy dressed as Geralt from The Witcher. I know this must be agony for him. Connor, I mean. Not Geralt.
Yet there he is, sipping a bottle of water that probably cost five dollars—not that he can’t afford it, but it’s still highway robbery—and letting Geralt chew his ear off about God knows what. Every so often I catch him sneak a glance at me and our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds before I have to divert my attention to the person who is standing in front of me, shoving a program or photograph or comic book at me to sign.
It’s almost embarrassing how that flare of connection makes my insides feel all warm and fuzzy. I’ve had my share of relationships—more than I can count on one hand, less than I can count on two—but no guy has given me the warm fuzzies like Connor does. It should freak me out. Two and a half months. Ten short weeks. That’s all it took for me to fall hard and fast for my roommate. My brother’s best friend. The guy who’s known me since I was in pigtails and braces.
