More cheers and clapping as people begin to make an unorganized dash for the entrance doors. We hang back with the team and wait on a golf cart to drive us to our next stop—the meet-and-greet.
The event goes by in a blur. It’s genuinely so much fun to meet readers and fans. I love seeing the huge smiles on their faces. They’re contagious, and soon my face hurts from smiling so much. The entire day is filled with signing books and flatlays, as well as posing for photos. By the time the floor closes for the night, I’m exhausted and so is Roxy.
Tomorrow we have panels sprinkled between signing slots on the show floor. Saturday is always the busiest day. At times, you can look up and see nothing but a literal sea of people packed together so tightly they can barely move. It’s also the day the ATMs usually run out of cash, and the internet crashes. Saturday is my least favorite day because it’s grueling.
When we arrive back at the hotel, Roxy and I agree in the elevator we both just want food, a shower, and a movie in bed. I’m pleasantly surprised when we open the door to find platters of assorted dinner entrees waiting for us in the room. Everything is still hot, like it was just delivered. I look at Roxy, and she shrugs her shoulders.
“It was probably Cas,” she says with a shit-eating grin.
“Roxy, did you give him our hotel information?” I gasp. “You traitor.”
Her mouth pops open in surprise. “I’m offended you would accuse me of that. For the record, I didn’t tell him, but I would’ve if he’d asked.”
“I should’ve never told him to stalk me. I think he took it too literally.” I laugh.
“Shut up, you love it,” Roxy says, calling me out on my lies.
I snap a picture and send it to Cas.
Me: I think you took “stalk me” too literally.
Cas: Only trying to keep you fed.
Me: Thank you.
Cas: You’re welcome. Get some rest. I’m about to go on.
I don’t text him back. I’m not sure what to say to that, and “okay” seems weird. Instead I confirm with Roxy it was Cas who sent the food. We sit at the table and dig in. Both of us were hungrier than we realized. I finish first and jump in the shower while Roxy finishes up. When I’m done, Roxy jumps in and I put everythingin the hall for room service to pick up. Then I climb into my bed and search for a good movie.
By the time Roxy emerges from her shower, I’m half asleep. She turns out the rest of the lights, climbs into her bed, and whispers, “Good night.”
“Night, Rox,” I answer, passing out immediately after.
The next morning is another blur of panels and signing. Roxy and I are just getting settled for a ticketed fan signing when I get a weird feeling, like someone is watching me and not in a good way. I shiver, shaking it off and scanning the line. Thirty or so people back, there’s a girl standing cross-armed, with her hip popped out, shooting daggers right at our booth.
“Hey, Roxy,” I say, tapping her arm with one finger lightly. “Check it out—about thirty people back the girl in all black. Is she still glaring?”
Roxy stops what she’s doing to look. “Yeah,” she says, surprised. “I wonder what her problem is.”
“Right? Like why are you so unhappy? Smile.” I crack a joke.
“Exactly,” Roxy says with a shrug.
Our signing starts and we both forget about the girl. I’m having way too much fun taking photos and meeting fans. An hour later, she appears at the front of the line and my heart stops. She stilllooks unhappy. I glance at Roxy, she’s watching like a hawk. I look at security, and they’ve zeroed in on the interaction as well.
“Hi,” I say. “What can I sign for you?” It’s the same greeting I give all my guests in this line since the ticket came with a signed print.
“How typical. Assuming I actually want something signed by you,” the girl sneers.
“Then why’d you bother waiting in line for an hour?” Roxy snaps, her tone icy and dangerous.
The girl ignores her, turning her attention back on me. “You don’t deserve him. You’re already ruining his career. We all hate you. He can do so much better than a stuck-up spoiled little brat like you.”
“That’s enough,” I snap, slamming my hands on the table.
I turn to shout at security to intervene as I do something slams into my arm, catching me off guard. “Secur—“ my shout for security turns into a blood-curdling scream.
Pain explodes up my right arm, leaving my stomach lurching. It burns like it’s on fire, and then something warm dribbles across my skin, wetting the spot that hurts. More screams erupt around us. Everything is happening in slow motion. I look at my arm and nearly faint. There’s so much blood. I fall back in my chair but miss, collapsing to the floor as the room spins. I’ve never handled blood well, and seeing my own is no exception.
