Chapter 1
I didn’t want to die. Not today. Especially not in front of my coworkers.
Dying would only make this ordeal more embarrassing than it already was.
The earth could swallow me up, but that would also be too conspicuous.
And curling into a fetal position at the foot of the podium would only prolong my shame.
Nope, I wanted to disappear as if I’d never existed. Game over.
I risked a glance at Aida whose eyes were frozen in wide-open horror before she blinked her expression back to normal, polite for once in her life.
But while she wasn’t laughing at me, her husband, Marco, sat behind her, one finger strategically draped across lips, biting back a smile by supreme force of will.
Reynold Kent, the only one whose opinion mattered, sat at the back of the room, giving nothing away, arms crossed, stone-faced.
“Guys, it’s just my stomach.” I lifted the mic attached to the placket of my shirt to prove it was my gut not my butt. I knew what it had sounded like, the gurgle of nerves churning in my bowels—like a strip of bubble wrap being popped in rapid succession followed by a balloon losing air. Those dulcet tones ended in a high-pitched curlicue, as if my stomach had asked a question. Pffft? The rumbling hadn’t been enough to register on the Richter scale, but it had most certainly imitated a fart.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Every single time I spoke in front of people, something awful befell me, which only made my stomach twist into knots of self-fulfilling prophecy.
I didn’t want to be here, but I needed to be here.
Aida rolled her hand to urge me to continue with the presentation, and so I shuffled the index cards. Reynold checked his phone.
I squeaked out the words on the next card. “The mage can command a variety of mystical weapons.”
Like an amateur actor on a local car commercial, I gestured to the video playing on the screen behind me where a badass staff-wielding mage cast balls of flame that erupted, boom-boom-boom.
“Among her arsenal, the mage possesses the power to detonate her enemies with explosions of magical gas.”
Marco snickered, and my courage crumbled.
I pulled the microphone off and dropped it on the table.
Reynold said, “Thank you, Sierra. That was . . .” He winced. “That was not great.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was blowing my one chance to prove I could demo our new video game at Gamescon in a couple of months. As lead developer of Extinction Level Event Game Designs, I should have been a shoo-in. Nobody knew the game like me. But the prospect of presenting to a room full of strangers made me sick with dread. I’d barely made it through this practice run, and I knew all three people present.
Aida ran a hand over her round belly. “Sierra, why don’t you try again?”
If she weren’t due to drop her spawn at the end of June, she’d be the one going to the trade show. She had a face made for showbiz and the charisma to charm the pants off reviewers and investors. With her out of the picture, the company needed someone to replace her, and that opening ought to have given me a chance to get a free trip to Cologne, Germany, to geek out on everything I loved, surrounded by other nerds. But like a hero in an adventure game, I first had to prove my mettle.
Sadly, my mettle had long ago abandoned me.
Reynold stood. “Look, if you can’t do this, we’ll have to find someone else who can.”
No other developer was ready for prime time, and the sales staff wasn’t yet well versed in the game. Yes, I sucked, but so did everyone else in some way or other. I’d have to pray for an extra life.
I picked up my things and left the conference room, defeated.
In the hallway, Wyatt from customer service emerged from the coffee nook carrying a mug in both hands, like an offering. The scent of cheap French roast mingled with his Drakkar Noir. One of those two things tempted me. I needed some caffeine.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
He wore khakis and a crisp pink Oxford that might have flattered him if he had a little more skin color. His styled blond hair had benefited from a decent salon cut and expensive products. He looked like every guy who worked in the office: unoffensive but unremarkable. Only his crooked front teeth set him apart. I’d once found his imperfect smile charming.
I shrugged. “Same as always. Epic fail.”
“You’ll get it right.” Working the help desk had taught him optimistic ways to rephrase failure.
“Thanks?” Everyone else had more confidence than I did that I’d conquer this hurdle.
“So maybe we could go get a drink after work?” His expression left no doubt that a drink meant more than a drink. He had some nerve.
“And after?”
“Who knows?” Now his expression read full-on lech. My stomach hadn’t quite recovered from the earlier presentation, and it churned at his implication.
“Wyatt, you have a girlfriend.”
He tilted his head. “She’s out of town.”
Gross. A few months ago, I’d hooked up with him after one too many drinks but before he’d met Karen. Ever since, he thought he could coax me back for a booty call. Yeah, no. I didn’t do cheating. Or cheaters.
Why did these jerks act like I owed them anything?
“Go home, Wyatt.”
“Come on, Sierra. You didn’t play so hard to get St. Patrick’s Day.”
True. I never played hard to get. I might balk at hooking up with a guy who was off the market, but my standards had fallen despairingly low when it came to emotional availability. I had a tendency to climb into bed with guys who weren’t offering anything longer than a night, at least not to me. Maybe that was why I only got the sex while people like Karen got the boyfriend. Not that I’d want a Wyatt for a boyfriend.
Sadly, I was surrounded by Wyatts. At least, I wouldn’t knowingly be a part of his philandering.
“You don’t deserve Karen.” I turned and walked away.
He called after. “You’re a four, Sierra. You should take what you can get.”
Despite his insult, I expected he’d send me a dick pic any minute now.
Asshole.
Back in my own office, my tension unwound. I made a beeline for my comfort zone—my Alienware gaming laptop, docked beside a pair of widescreen monitors. Before Aida invited me to the meeting room, I’d been in the middle of resolving a fascinating defect where a character’s inventory suddenly blipped out. I un-paused the action and entered my world.
Inside the game, I was a goddess, even if I had to fight off an armored giant carrying a flaming mace. Inside the game, I had control and power. It didn’t matter if my enemies were CGI or avatars played by real live opponents in some far-flung living room. It didn’t matter if they were men or women, tall or short, rich or poor. We were all as powerful as our gaming skills allowed.
In virtual space, no one could hear my stomach scream.
I longed to meet the actual players on the other side of the monitor. My people. Ever since I’d first learned about gaming conventions, I’d wanted to attend one for myself, but I could never justify the expense. And here I was blowing a free trip to one of the biggest cons in the world because my head and my body couldn’t make peace with each other long enough to allow me to overcome my nerves.
Short of Xanax, there was no way I’d shake the crushing performance anxiety that had plagued me for nearly ten years.