“The fans,” I repeat. Like the Rebelgunner blogger, ready to slug me in the face for besmirching Carmindor’s good name.
“C’mon. It’ll be good for you to get out and do something normal.” He’s trying to reason with me—which, props for that, at least. “All you gotta do is show up—”
“No.”
“And do a meet-and-greet—”
“No.”
“—with one lucky contest winner, and make an appearance at their weird dance party afterward—”
I jerk to my feet. “How many times do I have to tell you? No.”
“Well, hate to break it to you, buddy, but you agreed to do it on live television. If you cut out now, it’ll look bad. Like you’re temperamental. A diva.” He lowers his voice. “Hard to work with.”
“Whatever.”
He gives me an appalled look. “What’s gotten into you, kiddo? You know how important these things are for your image.” He softens. “And you love conventions.”
“Loved. Past tense. I also loved making my own decisions, but I guess that doesn’t get me enough good press, huh?” Turning on my heels, I snatch the room’s keycard from the counter and shove it into my back pocket.
“Where the hell are you going?”
“To get a soda,” I grind out, yanking open the door.
“Remember your diet—”
I slam the door.
The hallway’s quiet, white and immaculate like a lot of these new-age hotels. The hallway actually reminds me of the Seaside set, stark white walls with halogen lighting. Empty. Except the set was fake and I could pull back the plywood that made up most of our “houses” and peek at the tech guys behind them. Here, I can’t get away from it.
There isn’t a vending machine on my floor, so I take the stairwell down to the tenth, and then the ninth. By the eighth floor, still no vending machine, but no people, either. At this point, the less people in my life, the better.
On the seventh-floor landing, though, I hear voices. I quickly press myself against the side of the wall as they get louder, drawing near the stairwell. I sink down on the bottom step of the landing, and there I sit, waiting for them to leave.
Maybe they’re just regular people. Maybe they won’t recognize me. Or maybe I’m crazily paranoid. Long story short, there are people like my dad who want to channel your fame and help you rise to the top. Then there are people like Brian, who take damning pictures of you when you invite them to visit the set and sell them to TMZ. That’s what hurt, more than the yacht fall. And no, despite what the “IS SEASIDE COVE’S DARIEN FREEMAN IN A FREEFALL?” article said, I wasn’t drunk, or high, or tripping on anything besides my own feet. It wasn’t some publicity stunt.
And yes, I have a scar to prove it.
I put my face in my hands, getting impatient. All I wanted was an Orange Crush. Just one. It’s been a day. I deserve one.
I do.
Getting to my feet, I pull my hoodie over my head and wrench open the stairwell door and—slam into one of the guys loitering in the hallway. There’s three of them, one girl. My age, maybe a year or two younger. Tourists, by their sandals and backpacks.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and duck my head as I pass.
Don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me, I pray. These days, when everyone’s got a jillion-megapixel camera in their pocket, you don’t even have to worry about official paparazzi. Why couldn’t I live during the days of flip phones?
Phones. My hand goes to my pocket—empty. I turn around. The tourists are still there.
“Hey, dude,” one of them calls.
I turn back around, go in the other direction, speed up.
“Wait a sec!” the girl adds, a slight tilt to her words. French, or Canadian. Of course the girl would be the one to recognize me. I hear her start running down the hallway toward me. “Hey—hey, dude, you dropped your phone.”
She holds it out and I take it, trying not to look her in the eye without seeming rude.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She frowns. “You look really familiar—”
“I get that a lot,” I reply, and quickly spin on my heels again, making my exit down the hallway.
“Weird guy,” one of her friends murmurs.
“Whatever, it’s New York. Everyone’s weird.”
Yeah, understatement. They keep talking and I force myself not to listen as I follow the signs toward the snack machines. I push open the door and the iridescent lights of the soda machine shine eerily in the dark room. Bingo. I don’t bother to turn on the lights as I dig into my pockets for spare change and pop the coins into the machine.
“Take that, luck,” I mutter, pressing the button for orange soda.
OUT reads the machine display.
I jab it again.
OUT.
OUT.
OUT.
“Nox’s crack, come on,” I plead, jabbing the button with the fervor of a man on death row.
Sighing, I opt for water instead, and the vending machine groans as it operates, rolling out a sparkling bottle of nothingness. Have you ever noticed how vending machines are never out of water?
I lean against the wall, taking a swig. I don’t want to go back to the room yet, but I also don’t want to pass that group of friends again, and they’re between me and both the stairwell and the elevator.
If I had friends, or a girlfriend—there’s a hilarious idea—now’s when I’d fire off a text message to catch up, say hey, complain about my day. I settle on the vending-machine-room floor and idly thumb through my messages from the bottom up, contact after contact after contact. A few odd texts with the Seaside cast from last March, but I was never close with them—they’re all, like, twenty-five and on the opposite coast. Then some with the Seaside publicist, my publicist Stacey, Gail, Mark…all people I work for, or people who work for me.
I’m not lonely. I’m not, I swear.
Then, at the top, there’s that wrong number. The chimichanga girl—or guy, I guess, but for some reason I assumed it was a girl.
I sip my soulless water. There’s no reason to text the number again. Absolutely none. But I’m bored, and I’m stuck, and my fingers type up a quick message and hit SEND before my head can catch up.
I ROLL OVER ON THE BED, taking my phone out of my back pocket, and slide my thumb across the cracked screen to the message.
It’s the stranger. Well, the cosplayer. Carmindor.
Unknown 9:42 PM
—How were those chimichangas?
I chew on my lip. This guy could be a stalker. Or some weird old geezer with a Carmindor fetish. Or just someone who wants to know about Mexican food on my spaceship el pumpkin.
9:47 PM
—Very vegan.
—Did you get in contact with who you were looking for?
Unknown 9:48 PM
—Sadly not.
—Haven’t had time to track them down.
I sit up. The convention was a part of me I walled off after Dad died. I didn’t want to be a part of it, didn’t want to walk in through those glass doors and almost see Dad standing in the lobby, Carmindor coat starched, starwings gleaming. Besides, the people at ExcelsiCon haven’t been much in contact with me either. Pretty much dropped me cold turkey after Dad died. Some community that was.