Nope. Uh-uh. He did not want to hear this. “Stop.”
“It was Cassidy.”
No shit. Her name, one he hadn’t even permitted himself to think over the last month, hit him with the blow of a sledgehammer. The Cheetos he’d eaten rebelled in his gut, and he straightened with a groan.
“If possible, she looks worse than you do.”
He glowered. “Good.”
“No. Not good.”
Gage’s gaze shot toward his friend, who was wearing an astonishingly serious expression. Whoa. This guy was pissed off.
“She looks worse than you do,” Ryker said, his tone biting, “but she’s at least got her act together.” Ryker fished inside the envelope and removed a rectangular piece of paper. Without another word, he dropped it in Gage’s lap.
Before he could stop himself, Gage looked at it. It was a check. His eyes popped wide. For $7,500. From—he squinted to make sure he was correct—what appeared to be Cassidy’s personal checking account.
The memo line simply read “Your Equal Share.”
“What the fuck is this?” He had meant the question to be powerful and accusatory. Instead, it slinked out of his mouth.
“There’s a letter. I don’t suppose you want to read it.”
Gage was shaking his head before Ryker had even finished talking.
Ryker sighed. “No, I didn’t think so. Apparently, Cassidy sold a game.”
That sick feeling in his gut seemed to rise up his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He shoved the check back at Ryker. “I don’t want that. Ever.”
Like this could make up for what she did? Could somehow counterbalance the fact that he was about to be the laughingstock of the entire country? “Are you on her side or something? You’re the one who warned me about her in the first place!”
Ryker held up his hands, and the check floated to the sofa cushions between them. “Look, man, I still don’t know what happened between the two of you.”
Something like a warning growl emanated from Gage’s chest.
“And I’m not about to ask,” Ryker said quickly in a placating tone. “But I can’t help thinking there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I assume you’ve talked this through with her and have all the facts? That you didn’t just bail as quickly as possible because I told you your don’t-give-a-fuckery was a ruse, and you just had to prove me wrong?”
Gage’s upper lip curled.
“That’s what I thought,” Ryker said with a smirk. “But even if it turns out she’s some she-devil who screwed you over without any thought, who the fuck throws away a free $7,500?”
“It’s not free.” Nope, that was the going cost, apparently, of Gage’s pride and self-respect.
“Then you earned it?” Ryker asked. “That’s a relief, because God knows you haven’t taken a client in the last four weeks. It’s about time you earned something.”
Gage looked down at his hands. It was hard to take a client when you disconnected the only phone number clients had to reach you.
It’s also hard to take a client when the very thought of fucking somebody makes you shrivel between your legs.
Gage scowled at that too-honest thought. Before it could take hold, he reached out and snatched the check from the sofa. “Fine. I’ll cash it. Happy?” Truth was, he really did need that money. Ryker was right. He wasn’t in the gigolo business anymore—never would be again if he were being completely truthful. He needed something to tide him over while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with his life.
“No, Gage.” Ryker spoke quietly. “I’m not happy. Because my best friend in the entire world is self-destructing before my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
There was genuine pain in Ryker’s voice.
Gage closed his eyes. If he looked at his friend’s face, he’d promise anything in the world to make the hang-dog expression go away.
But, damn it, the pull was too strong. After only a couple of seconds, he couldn’t prevent a quick glance at Ryker and—yep—arrow to the gut.
“I’m sorry,” Gage muttered, not even clear on what he was apologizing about. For crashing on Ryker’s couch? For not contributing to life in any meaningful way? For causing him to worry? For being an epic fuck-up?
All of those things.
“You don’t apologize to me, Gage. Not ever. That’s not how our friendship works.”
He knew that. Had never stopped being thankful for that fact. “I’m just . . . lost.” The confession escaped him before he could stop it.
Ryker sighed. “I know that. I really do.”
“I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Well, that, I can help you with.”
Another piece of paper appeared before Gage’s eyes—this time a colorful Post-It note with a woman’s name and a phone number.
“Client I had last week.” Ryker shook the note a couple of times until Gage accepted it. “Fitness model agent who let it slip during pillow talk that she’s looking for new talent. Despite your recent affinity for Cheetos and slumming, you’ve still got some crazy fitness going on. I think you should give her a call.”
Fuck, he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to upgrade to a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and nap until Sunday. But that glance of Ryker’s face a moment ago wasn’t going to leave his memory any time soon.
“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll give her a call.”
When she turned him away, at least he’d be able to tell Ryker he’d tried.
“Good.” Ryker’s tone was suddenly enthusiastic, and Gage had to resist the urge to tell him not to get his hopes up. This was his life they were talking about here.
Damn. When did I get so pessimistic?
Ryker folded the envelope, and in the process, Gage spied what had to be the letter Ryker mentioned, but also two things that looked like tickets.
“What’s in the envelope?”
Ryker hesitated for a moment. “You know, I don’t think you’re ready yet. And there’s still time.”
He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but—damn him—Ryker knew curiosity would eat away at his restraint.
“Whatever you say, man,” Gage said, unable to keep a tinge of tension from the words.
“Now,”—Ryker produced the cellphone Gage had hidden away in his bag weeks ago—“you going to call the agent?”
Chapter Twenty-One
One month later
Cassidy paced behind stage, wringing her hands.
Don’t peek out at the audience again. Don’t do it. Don’t!
Damn, the roar of the crowd was like a siren’s call. Yeah. The roar of the crowd. Keep telling yourself that.
She slunk to the edge of the black curtain and looked through the small gap. Big mistake. For one, the sight of what had to be a thousand people made her want to throw up in her convention swag bag. Secondly?
He’s not here.
She’d been expecting this ending when she’d given Ryker the tickets last month, but expecting it didn’t soften the disappointment.
“Ms. Hastings, we’re going to be ready for you and the rest of the Illumination crew soon.”
She jumped, her hand flying to her chest. “Yep. Uh-huh. I’ll be ready.”
The guy, who looked to be no older than a teenager, grinned and went on his merry way, stopping to talk to the other huddles of her co-workers.
She’d grown familiar this week with the look in the kid’s eye—a weird mix of hero worship and oh, shit, it’s a girl—here at one of the largest popular culture conventions in the country. The motley crew Mr. Brown had collected to start his new gaming company, which they’d collectively decided to name Illumination, had taken the gaming world by storm. This panel today had been highly anticipated the whole week in San Diego, and now it was time to go out there on stage and talk about the first game they would be releasing in a year and a half.
Cassidy’s game.
No pressure. Or anything.
<
br /> She flipped through her notecards, containing her talking points meticulously plotted out, for about the thousandth time in the last thirty minutes. She had them completely memorized, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to epically fuck up when she walked out on the stage and faced thousands of gamers staring at her with impress me expressions.
“All right, folks,” the kid said, drawing the black curtain aside. “It’s showtime.”
The stage lights shot through the gap in the curtain and stabbed directly into Cassidy’s brain via her retinas. By the time she blinked away the dazzling spots, she was staring at the backs of her co-workers as they filed on stage.
“Ready?” a familiar voice asked from behind her.
Cassidy looked at Mr. Brown over her shoulder. “Yes, sir.”
He nodded toward the curtain where the kid was now waving Cassidy over in exaggerated circles. “Go make us proud.”
“Yes, sir,” she squeaked, stumbling toward the light. No pressure. Or anything.
She slipped past the kid. “Good luck,” he whispered right before dropping the curtain back into place.
She didn’t realize there had been a dull roaring in her ears until it abruptly vanished as she faced the crowd. They were . . . they were applauding them. Enthusiastically.
Holy shit. If David and Greg could see her now. Hell, they might see her now. Pretty much everyone in her profession was in San Diego for this convention.
She made her way to the table, spotted her name on a placard, and settled in next to one of the guys she’d been working with for weeks, Jesse. He nodded as she sat down, and flashed her a surreptitious thumbs-up behind the cover of the tablecloth.
She still did a double take every time one of her colleagues genuinely encouraged her, but it was something she was quickly growing to love.
The moderator, someone in the field whom she idolized and therefore couldn’t believe was moderating a panel with her on it, began introducing them. “I know we’ve all heard the buzz surrounding Andrew Brown’s new company, Illumination. And we’ve also heard rumors of their flagship game, so without further ado, let’s meet the geniuses behind the next must-buy phenomenon.”
And then there was a spotlight. On her.
Cassidy clenched her hands together to keep an errant one from shielding her eyes. There was another round of applause, luckily, which gave her just enough time to gather her wits and lean into the microphone in front of her as the applause died down. “Hello. I’m Cassidy Hastings, and I wrote the game we’re tentatively titling Stiff Competition.”
Immediate, thunderous applause filled the room. Hoots and whistles followed. Cassidy leaned back against her chair with her heart thundering a mile a minute. Is this really happening? Am I dreaming again?
She quickly discarded the dream theory. If she were dreaming, Gage would be here. As he was in the majority of her dreams.
Jesse leaned forward as the applause died down and introduced himself as one of the effects guys. His applause was noticeably softer than Cassidy’s, she noticed. He didn’t seem to mind, casting her a huge grin and mouthing wow! as their co-worker Eddie began introducing himself.
After introductions, the moderator settled in on his stool and glanced down at a card. “Now, I’m sure we’ve all read the description of Stiff Competition, so, our first question is for Cassidy Hastings.”
The spotlight immediately spun on her, and she smiled, most likely showing too many teeth in the process.
“Where did you get the inspiration for a game about gigolos?” The moderator said the word salaciously, his tone carrying an obvious wink and nudge.
She stared down at her useless prepared cards. This was way worse than the feeling she got each time she’d had the show-up-naked dream over the last week. Her lungs seemed to freeze. Why didn’t I prepare for this! It was an obvious question, for Chrissake.
It was another reminder of why Gage had run from her kicking and screaming. No matter what she did, people would hear the word gigolo in conjunction with her game and have that same wink-nod reaction.
Well, I can damn well do my best to quell that shit right here and now.
She straightened her useless cards, tapping them against the table twice to get them perfectly square. Then she laid them beside the glass of water in front of her. She leaned toward the mic. “The inspiration was the same man who inspires me in every aspect of my life. Naturally, my work benefited as well.”
The moderator’s smile was still wicked. “And that man is a gigolo?”
Cassidy smiled sweetly. At least, she tried to. If she had to hazard a guess, she looked like she’d just swallowed a full packet of Splenda. “That man is a human being. The only aspect of him that should matter to anybody.”
For the first time, the moderator’s smile slipped. Before he could say anything, however, she kept talking. “In fact, the equal partnership between the male character, who, incidentally, is a gigolo, and the main, female, character—” She could feel herself getting passionate. She fisted her hands atop the table. “That relationship functions purely to stress the fact that all of humanity should be treated with dignity and respect regardless of superfluous matters such as gender, sexuality, education, occupation, ethnicity, money—the list could go on and on. In our industry, there are rarely equal partnerships in gameplay. Even Mario is superior to Luigi. And there is absolutely never equality between male and female characters in gameplay. We believe that has real-world consequences, and Illumination is here to change that trend.”
Her final word echoed throughout the completely silent auditorium.
Cassidy blinked several times. Her heart was racing. Her throat was drier and in desperate need of the cup of water her gaze now fixated on. I think I said everything right. She didn’t remember exactly what she’d said, but she had no feeling of regret. No beginning swirls of panic.
At that moment, a few people in the front row stood to their feet and started a slow clap. Within seconds, several others had joined them, and another moment after that, the entire auditorium was on their feet. Thunderous applause filled the room, and cheers shook the portable platform beneath her Converse.
Her gaze swiveled around the room, her eyes wide, until it landed on Mr. Brown standing right behind the curtain they’d used to get on the stage. He was grinning. Nice job, he mouthed.
She felt her cheeks heat.
When the applause died down, the moderator, with a slight edge to his tone, said, “The next question is for Jesse.”
At that point, Cassidy tuned out. That had been incredible! One of the highlights of her entire life. Definitely a highlight of her career.
She tried to gather her thoughts, like strings of a million balloons, and once she had a firm grip, she folded her hands in front of her and listened diligently to the questions her co-workers answered.
Cassidy was never asked another question. Which, honestly, was probably a good thing. There was no way she could top her last answer.
“I see we have a line forming at the microphone,” the moderator said, putting his question cards into his pocket and glancing at his watch, “and we do have a short time for questions from the audience, so, gentleman at the front—What’s your question?”
Cassidy squinted through the glaring lights. She could barely make out the form of a young man in Final Fantasy cosplay standing before the microphone. Behind him, a long line, completely in shadow, stretched down the aisle.
Cassidy swallowed hard. Audience questions. She squeezed her hands together beneath the table to keep them from shaking.
“Yes, uh, I’m a writer, too, and I wanted to ask Cassidy, um, what your process was for writing this game, and do you have any advice for the rest of us?” He pushed the hair from his wig out of his eyes and knotted his own fingers in front of him. He was a picture of nervousness, and something within Cassidy loosened and relaxed.
She leaned into the microphone. “Best advice I have is don’t attempt to delete you
r entire game like I did when I decided I didn’t like it anymore.” Several laughs sounded in the dark auditorium. She smiled. “The bitch fought back with the help of an unwitting friend and showed up on my screen the next day, thank God, and I was able to turn it into the game you’re hearing about today. Also”—she gestured to everyone around the auditorium—“don’t forget who you are or what your values are while you’re writing. Never compromise them.” What else had the kid asked? “Oh, yeah, process. My process was to fuck up. Repeatedly. So, don’t do that.” Shit. She’d just dropped the f-bomb in front of Jesus and everybody in San Diego. She closed her eyes briefly. Well, can’t win them all.
When she opened them again, there seemed to be some sort of ruckus happening in the shadows of the audience question line. Several heys sounded, and she heard a clear “Wait your turn!”
Suddenly, the young writer who had asked the question was eclipsed by a hulking man. Wearing leather. And the face of the man she had fallen completely in love with.
She audibly gasped, the sound echoing in the room. She even tensed to leap from her chair, as though she were going to race down the stairs and straight into his arms. The thunderous look in his eyes kept her still, however.
“Sir,” the moderator began, “you have to wait in—”
Gage leaned down, hunching over the microphone. “You’d deleted the game that night?”
Just like that, every single sound in the room died an abrupt death.
Cassidy drank in the sight of him. If possible, he was even more handsome than the last time she’d seen him two months ago. He was leaner, as though maybe he hadn’t been taking the best care of himself. His leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders and bulging arms. The tight black T-shirt beneath clung to his sculpted abs. But it was the brief flicker of hope she saw in his eyes that had her breathless.
Please let that hope not be a trick of the light and distance. She raised a shaky hand and pressed it over her heart. Leaning forward, she said, “Deleted every word.”
Gage swept a hand over his face, and as he did so, she noticed his fingers were trembling just as much as hers were. “This man—” He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was even huskier. “This man you say inspired every part of your life . . . how do you feel about him now? After everything?”
Stiff Competition Page 19
