Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“She can do this,” Britney agrees.
“Great! Well… then I’ll see you guys later. There’s no mixer tonight, but there are a slew of private parties. Maybe we’ll all meet up?”
She’s looking at Britney, not Cordelia, when she says this. Britney agrees with a nod of her head, which satisfies Essie, but comes off as weird to me. I thought they were brand-new BFFs?
At any rate, Essie leaves, making her way back to Mike and the parents as hordes of people mob her with each step.
I let out a sigh and turn to my lovely Cordy, smiling like a fool. “Hi.”
“Hello.” She is not smiling like a fool. She is… frowning.
What’s up with that?
I try again. “If this is about your Skinny Laminx—”
“What are you talking about?”
I look over at Britney, who is staring at me with a strange expression. All-teeth smile, tight jaw, wide eyes. What the hell does that mean? If I had time, I could run through my mental dictionary of words that describe facial expressions, but I’m too confused to get past ‘A’ for ‘angry.’
“Sorry,” Britney says, putting up her hands as she backs away. “I’ll give you two kids a moment.”
I’m just about to celebrate, when Cordelia says, “No. It’s OK, there’s no need. I gotta go.”
And she’s talking to me!
Is she… brushing me off? Giving me the cold shoulder?
After that delicious date last night?
No.
But then… she walks away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Embarrassment. Foolishness. Disappointment. Maybe a little anger. Either at Steve or myself. I’m not sure which is more profound. These are all the things I’m feeling in no particular order. And rather than confront Mr. Smith (when I close off emotionally, I start referring formally to anyone I might be mad at) to see if he is, in fact, guilty of lying to me and possibly manipulating my trust—and vagina—for his own ends, I choose to do something much healthier and not at all dumb: I ignore him like a teenager and walk away.
Because, despite how I may be feeling right now, he remains really cute and charming and I need to center my thoughts before I get into any kind of confrontation with the dude who I let choke me last night. Which is a sentence I have never before had an occasion to think, and I have to believe very few other people have. So I need a minute to work it all out for myself.
Also, BT Dubs (which is yet another phrase I’m not sure I’ve ever thought before—I am definitely not of a clear mind just now), I’m on a panel? I’m on a panel. Holy moly, I’m on a panel. How did I get put on a panel? It’s my first time at a con and—
Steve. He got me on the panel. He must have. That has to be it. Same way he got me a suite, got me killer booth placement, got me invited to this thing at all. What is this guy’s game?
Assuming Britney has the straight dope (seriously, I normally don’t talk like this), he’s a pretty crafty one, this Steve Smith. If he’s been hiding in the shadows, writing romance all this time, and maybe even did plagiarize someone else to get to where he is, then he clearly has no problem playing a long game. Is he gaming me? Long… ly?
I don’t want to believe that someone as awful as Raylen Star could be right, but it happens. That annoying phenomenon when the worst person you know says something you may agree with. That’s a slippery slope. Because on the one hand, you want to deny the source, but on the other hand… what if they’re making sense in spite of being all oogy as a human?
“Ow!” That is my verbal reaction to both nearly chewing off the tip of my finger and being gripped around my upper arm by a strong and recently familiar hand.
“Talk to you for a sec?” Steve asks.
“Jesus, Cord, are you bleeding?” Britney follows up, taking note of the place where the end of my index finger used to be.
“Huh? Oh, no, I’m fine.” Then, turning my attention to Mr. Smith—“Not right now, thanks. I have a panel to get to. Because I’m on a panel. Here. Now. At my very first con. Which is cool and obviously well-deserved and not at all part of some weird, overly complicated, grand ploy to do something I haven’t figured out yet.”
Both Britney and Steve look at me like I’m a bag of mixed nuts.
“I’m going to get you a Band-Aid,” Britney says as she starts off.
“No, I’m—” But before I can finish, she’s gone. And now I’m standing alone with Steve Smith. Well, not alone. The place is teeming. But still, I’m—
Oh!
Steve. Smith. SS! S! S! Holy—I knew—
“Are you okay?” He interrupts my revelation.
“What?”
“Are you okay?” he repeats.