“No,” I tell myself. “Stop it. You are trusting. You love your fans. You’re cool and funny and chill. You are Jennifer Lawrence.”
But even as I say it, my heart begins to sink into my gut. Because ExcelsiCon may be a con—but it isn’t just a con. It’s ExcelsiCon. The con I used to fly across the country for with my best friend, Brian. Back before I had to start covering my face to meet a date at a restaurant. Back when I could date. Back when it wasn’t a publicity stunt. Back before my abs had more screen time than the rest of me.
I scratch my stomach at the thought of it. The airbrushed makeup—I mean, “contouring”—makes my skin itch like hell. Even thinking about going back to a con hurts. If I go back, it means I’m really not that Darien anymore. The normal—well, geeky and obscure—guy with normal friends who didn’t betray him.
So I’ve just always said I don’t do cons. Everyone knows this little factoid—Gail, my publicist Stacey, Mark, the countless assistants he’s fired over the course of my career. This isn’t a secret. It’s probably even in my personal file at the agency, highlighted and underlined with scented marker. So, yeah, this is kind of ticking me off.
I’ve barely leaned back against the green room door when a thunderous voice makes me jump.
“DARIEN!”
It’s my father. My throat tightens.
“Old man!” I try for a joke because he hasn’t let me call him “Dad” in three years. To protect my image, he said. I also try to sound like I’m happy to see him, which is the even bigger joke. “Finally managed to hobble out of L.A.?”
His face falls, looking tense and unfriendly under the low-watt institutional-like lighting, and he drops his outstretched arms. At this point I’m sure he’s more plastic than person, but most people who hate wrinkles become Daleks over time, anyway. “What’re you doing without Gail? I knew I should’ve gotten you a bodyguard.”
“She’s in there,” I say, jabbing my thumb toward the door, “and I don’t need a bodyguard. My fans are…well, passionate, but—”
“What if someone was coming down the hallway that wasn’t me? You can’t just go anywhere anymore. It’s too risky. You know this,” he stresses, “especially now that you’ll be Prince, uh…” He waves a hand around.
“Carmindor.”
“Exactly!” Mark smirks. “The lead guy. Everybody wants a piece. You’re valuable now. You’re a million-dollar man.”
“I’d have taken the part for free,” I mutter.
Mark snaps his fingers in my face. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.” He looks left and right down the hall, as if he’s worried someone might have overheard me daring to express enthusiasm for my part. “What’re you doing out here, anyway?”
I hesitate. I have to just lay it out for him—no ExcelsiCon. No way. Because instead of wandering the aisles and waiting for autographs, it’ll be photos. Aching, smiling muscles. Flash blindness. Carpal Tunnel. Fake friends pretending they know me. And dredging up bad memories. That’s not what I want from a con.
“Well…,” I begin. “I kinda want to talk to you about the—”
“Where’s Gail?”
Once again I thumb toward the door.
He mutters something under his breath and adjusts his cufflinks. “I’m not paying her for panic attacks.”
“She’s had a long day.”
“I’ve had a long day. You’ve had a long day. And it isn’t even Monday.”
“Actually it is—”
“The press junkets after filming are supposed to be the tough-as-balls part, not this,” he goes on. “This was supposed to be easy.”
“It was pretty easy for Fishmouth to get onstage,” I point out. “Actually, I want to talk to you about—”
“Can it wait?” he interrupts, pulling out his phone. It dings again. Either an email or a text, I don’t know. “I’m gonna handle this. Why don’t you go get some lunch, yeah? We can talk about it later, promise.”
My shoulders slump. Whatever the opposite of promise-sworn is, that’s Mark. Later is never going to come. “Yeah.”
“Good. Oh—and Darien?”
“Yeah?”
“Diet. Don’t forget. I think the third floor has a cafeteria.”
I make a face. “Cafeteria food? That’s cardboard, bro.”
“Bro, get a salad.”
I purse my lips. With my new workout regimen and my personal trainer (who reminds me of Wolverine with the personality of a wet cat…so basically just Wolverine), I’ve existed on protein shakes and rabbit food. And chicken. So much chicken I could sprout feathers. And it’s not even seasoned. All to keep me looking like the however many million dollars my body’s apparently worth.
David Singh—the original Federation Prince—never had to worry about crunches, or cardio, or airbrushing, or fangirl ambushes on live TV. The original Starfield show barely made the ratings, and yet it somehow inspired a cult following. He got fans for his work, for inspiring people to think bigger than the Earth and ignite the stars.
I get fans for my abs.
If I were David Singh, if I were really Carmindor, I’d tell Mark to shove off. Diplomatically, of course. And he’d listen, and I’d go get a burger down at Shake Shack.
But I’m not Carmindor. Not in this universe, anyway.
—
THE CAFETERIA ON THE THIRD FLOOR is worse than cardboard. It’s an entire table of absolute gluttony and sin. Because doughnuts. Nothing but doughnuts. Doughnuts as far as the eye can see. And sitting to the side, like an emo kid in a high school cafeteria, is one sad and lonely fruit cup.
“It’s you and me, buddy.” I take the fruit cup and find a table.
There’s a few other people eating breakfast—doughnuts, to be exact—but I bypass them all to the far corner of the cafeteria. It overlooks Rockefeller Center. The blue and silver Starfield crowd has almost dissipated. It’s hard to think they all came for me. Me. My stomach twists, and it has nothing to do with the fruit cup.
I give a pineapple chunk a poke. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a guy walking toward me. The one who until a moment ago was eating a heavenly looking chocolate-sprinkled doughnut. He’s older than I am, with thick-rimmed glasses and a sweat mustache.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re Darien Freeman.”
People say this to you all the time when you’re famous. What do they expect me to say back—Yeah, you caught me. Instead, I just stick out a hand to shake. “Hi there. Nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t take my hand. “Great show today.”
I know sarcasm when I hear it. “Thanks, man,” I reply, giving him a tight-lipped smile.
“Me and some of my PA buddies were just talking about it.” He leans in a little closer. “Can I ask you a question? Just between us.”
I don’t like where this is going, but there’s no way for me to say no, is there? And Gail isn’t here to distract him while I make a break for the door. I shift uncomfortably. “Uh, sure.”