The cowboy nodded, still watching his drink as he swirled the clear caramel liquid around the polished glass.
Not supposed to be alive. That’d be a hell of a head trip, even though it’s probably crap.
Ree grabbed her normal, not-fighting-monsters jacket, and nodded to the older geeks as they sat leaning against the bar, another bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue open between them. Ree and Drake took the office exit, since if Ree never saw another sewer tunnel in her life, it’d be too soon.
* * *
Once again, Ree was eternally grateful for the twenty-four-hour Burger Bin. The post-adventure milk shake had become a tradition for her (and for Drake, to a lesser extent), a fast and delicious war to dump hundreds of calories back into her system in a hurry.
Ree got her customary Shake of Victory, which basically involved throwing every single ingredient in the place into an industrial-strength blender and pressing Go.
Drake had vanilla.
They made their way out as soon as the drinks were ready, not wanting to press their luck in terms of the discretion of the overnight employees, who hadn’t bother asking what the hell the two of them had been doing before walking in. Drake had put together a pretty good olfactory glamour to hide the sewer smell, but they still looked like rejects from a Victorian postapocalyptic rave. Plus, she still had a puffy shirt skirt instead of pants, which even bored high school Burger Bin employees had to think was weird.
They made their way to the park two blocks away. It was really just a triangle of grass, a few benches, and a couple of trees that filled up a street corner too small to hold a useful building. Ree took off her boots, laid her squidgy socks over the back of a bench, and walked on the dew-cooled grass. She took several long breaths, soaking in the texture of real earth, the crunch of the grass, and the scent of fresh city air. No walls, no dome, and, best of all, no fucking monsters.
And the whole time, a part of her brain circled back and back and back to Drake. The look he got when he reacted to the richness of the ice cream, the restrained flickers of unalloyed pleasure kept at the edges by his propriety, the curve of his arms, the bare skin of his neck.
Stay good, Ree. She stared at her milk shake, hiding in the exhaustion as they talked. The sugar and caffeine pushed her aches back, dimmed the headache a bit, but she still felt as wrung out as a pile of washboard laundry.
They’d found the right time of night to be ignored by the world, only a half-dozen lights visible from their spot in the park. It was a rich enough neighborhood to have a Burger Bin, was off the drop routes for the city’s drug trade, and was populated enough to be a bad choice for muggings. Though she’d like to see someone try to mug the two of them, especially after the miserable night they’d had.
When both straws started making sucking-on-air sounds, they made their way through the four-AM empty streets to Ree’s building. The same mischievous voice, rampaging on a sugar high, said on a loop, Smooch him! in the weird cousin to the “Shoot her!” line from Jurassic Park.
But her libido was not the boss of her. “You want I should bring your jacket back down?” Ree asked.
Drake waved off the idea. “No need. I wouldn’t ask you to use the stairs any more than necessary. We will speak again soon.”
Smooch him! the voice said again.
“Got it. Sleep well, Drake,” she said instead.
Drake tipped a hat he wasn’t wearing, an affectation he’d picked up from one of the many movies she’d inflicted on him.
The Smooch him! voice called out again as he stepped back to turn away. She wanted to watch him go but forced herself to tromp up the stairs and put her fool-ass self to bed.
Dear self,
Go the F@*% to Sleep.
And so she did, dreaming aggravatingly pleasant dreams of Drake punctuated by Scott Pilgrim–esque nightmares of Gothic Lolita ninjas attacking Eastwood. Because that was her life now, like it or not.
Acknowledgments
First, my Epic Level +5 Radiant thanks to Adam Wilson, for his enthusiasm and wisdom in helping to shape the continuing adventures of Ree, Drake, and the gang.
To Meg White, for her thoughts on Lieutenant Wickham, as well as her stalwart support and tolerance of weekend afternoons in coffee shops.
To Sara Megibow, agent of awesomeness, for bobbing and weaving through the mad melee of publishing to keep me working and able to share these stories with the world.
To my readers, for the incredible honor they do me by engaging with my work, and for the unmatched, primal joy that comes from knowing that you’ve made people happy through storytelling.
To my fellow writers and storytellers, source of limitless inspiration, support, and camaraderie. You help make a lonely job far less isolating.
And most of all, thank you to the gaming community—dice chuckers, card-floppers, pewter painters, tabletoppers, console warriors, LARPers, game designers, everyone. Games and gaming have been a huge part of making me who I am and brightening my mood in times when I was low. This story is an attempt to reflect some of that brightness out into the world.
Michael R. Underwood
Baltimore, Maryland
November 2013
About the Author
Michael R. Underwood is the author of the Ree Reyes urban fantasies Geekomancy and Celebromancy, as well as the forthcoming The Younger Gods and Shield and Crocus. By day, he’s the North American sales and marketing manager for Angry Robot Books. Mike grew up devouring stories in all forms, from comics to video games, tabletop RPGs, movies, and books. Always books.
Mike lives in Baltimore with his fiancée, an ever-growing library, and a super-team of dinosaur figurines and stuffed animals. In his rapidly vanishing free time, he studies historical martial arts and makes pizzas from scratch.
Also by Michael R. Underwood
Geekomancy
Celebromancy
But wait! There's more from Michael R. Underwood's Ree Reyes series. . .
Clerks meets Buffy meets d20s and demons . . .with a Boom! Ree’s thrust into the world of the geekomancers. This won’t be pretty . . .but it will be hilarious.
Geekomancy
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Fame has a magic all its own in the no-gossip-barred follow-up to Geekomancy. Really, celebrities are even worse than you thought.
Celebromancy
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-5778-0
Attack the Geek: A Ree Reyes Side-Quest Page 14
