“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 fromCloak & Daggerand Sue Storm from theFantastic Fourcome 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 sure she knows I’m with her one hundred percent.
And guys like Mad Hatter know she’s one hundred percent mine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brie
MYBACKACHES, 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 fromThe 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.
