She’s literally got metal in her face.
“Jordan Thorne.” Jordan places her hand on the counter with warm, practiced ease. “Sorry I’m late. I’m one of today’s speakers.”
The receptionist taps her tablet with fluttering fingers. “Thorne…yes. ‘Manifesting Abundance Through Trauma Healing,’ Room 3A, eleven thirty. We were starting to worry.” Her eyes shift to me again.
Suspicion stretches her features. She knows I don’t belong.
I raise an eyebrow, wondering what she thinks she can do about that fact.
We both know the answer isnothing, but it’s fun to see her imagination flicker.
“Wardrobe issues.” Jordan folds her gloved hands together. “But I’m here now.”
The woman accepts the evasion with a nod and starts piecing together Jordan’s welcome kit. A plastic rectangular badge hangs from a lanyard stampedSpeakerin block letters. A fat folder contains numerous recycled-paper pamphlets, schedules, flyers, and maps.
“Here’s your room key.” She slides a key card in a small envelope labeled with her room number across the counter. “Will you need any tech? Projector, screen, anything like that?”
Jordan’s eyes find mine, and in them I spy a challenge. “No. Unfortunately, I left my laptop at home.”
She knows that’s her own fault. She ran, she lost, and now she makes do.
I stare back, unmoved.
Though I’m tempted to accept and meet that challenge in a storage closet down the hall.
Jordan fixes the woman with a dazzling smile, designed for strangers and nitwits who can’t see below the surface. “I’ll wing it.” No trace of what lingers underneath.
The receptionist reaches over, her fingers brushing Jordan’s hand in a gesture thick with meaning, all shared faith and feminine solidarity or some shit like that. “You’ll be wonderful. The universe sent you here for a reason.” Then her attention returns to me, the smile deflating faster than a popped balloon. “Can I get your registration number, sir?”
I hold her gaze with my own blank one and wait.
“He’s with me.” Jordan nudges me with her foot. “A late addition. Can you add him?”
“Three hundred dollars.” The woman doesn’t even bother to appear sorry.
Three hundred bucks for the privilege of surfing through a sea of people who believe quartz can outsmart chemotherapy.
Every con has its booth. The practice remains the same everywhere. Only the costume changes.
I reach for my wallet. Not the real one. Never that. This one has a clean alias, IDs, and a stack of bills nobody can chase. I count out the money, one deliberate motion after another.
“Do you need a room too?” The woman’s tone is ice under a thin layer of customer service.
Jordan beats me to answering. “He’s in mine.”
The two women share a look. Some female communication I’m not privy to. Maybe pity, maybe warning.
I don’t care. Jordan’s not going anywhere without me.
The woman hands over my badge. A simple lotus in pastel pink and sun-washed gold. The kind of thing I’d rather light on fire than wear.
I hesitate, glaring at the colors.
Jordan’s lips quirk, amusement flickering in her eyes for the first time since this started. “They might kick you out if you’re not wearing that.”
I pocket the pass and meet her mirthful gaze with a steely one. “I’d like to see them try.”
She doesn’t answer. But I catch the slight shake of her head, the act more resignation than disapproval.
