No one has recognized me yet, at least. People have taken a second look, but I think my disguise is well behind the shield of Jessica Stone Wouldn’t Be Here. Which I am grateful for, but also…
It wouldn’t be so bad, you know.
If Jessica Stone was the kind of person you’d see here. I mean, at a nerd convention, not being in two places at once. That would still be awkward no matter what universe I’m in.
Natalia Ford is gathering her purse to leave, her meet-and-greet over, when Harper and I find her.
A security guard stops us before we can get in—her private security, I might add. Tall, burly guy. Very mustached.
“I, um, I think you lost something,” I shout to Natalia.
She stops and turns around, her eyes narrowing. I hold up the pillowcase. As if on cue, Stubbles lets out a low growl of discontent. Natalia gasps and rushes to me, pushing past security, to plunge her arms into the pillowcase and gather up the cat. The creature begins to purr the second she clutches the furless nightmare to her chest.
I don’t understand this animal at all.
“I know, I know. I’ve missed you, too,” Natalia coos to the rumbling demon cat, and then she says to Harper, “Thank you for bringing her back.” She doesn’t even look at me, even though I’m the one who delivered the cat. “Amon was supposed to be looking after her, but all he ever looks at is his phone, apparently. I don’t know what I’d do without her, so thank you.”
Then she finally gives me a glance—strange, almost like she can see right through my disguise—and turns away, disappearing underneath the black curtain in the back and out of sight. Her assistant, a harrowed-looking college girl with large pink glasses and pink-tipped blond hair, quickly thanks us and follows her boss.
Harper and I stand there for a long moment.
I look at the claw marks on my arms.
Stubbles is a demon cat, there are no two ways around it.
And then Harper starts to laugh. A loud, echoing guffaw that makes her clutch her sides. “We actually chased a cat! That has to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done at ExcelsiCon,” she says, wiping the corners of her eyes so her mascara doesn’t start to run. “Well, now that that drama’s taken care of, what do you say to a party?”
I start. “A what?”
“A party. My friends call it the Stellar Party. It’s space themed. We do it every year in a hotel room. We drink a little, sing some karaoke, stuff like that.”
“Oh, no. I don’t do karaoke.”
And also, I need to find the thief who stole my script. The Twitter account has been quiet for a long time, and I’m beginning to worry.
Besides, what if my cover got blown at this party? I’d end up on the cover of every national newspaper in the country—or at least every gossip magazine. I realize I’m not important enough for, like, the New York Times…
Am I?
“Come on,” Harper eggs, and she’s smiling in this way that makes my stomach twist. “You can stop trying to save Amara for two seconds. Take a breather. Enjoy life. You deserve it. Our princess can fend for herself for an evening.”
I hesitate.
If I don’t go to the party, there is a definite chance I’ll just be sitting around my hotel room, waiting for the next tweet. Maybe if I hang out with a bunch of Starfield geeks, I could ask around to see if anyone’s heard rumors of someone leaking the script.
Yeah, that’s a good reason.
It’s a lot better than the other one in my head: that it feels nice to talk with someone who doesn’t see me as Jessica Stone, who doesn’t want anything from me, who is nice and honest and very pretty. And I don’t even want to think about the way she puts her hands into her dress pockets, leaning back as if to get a better look at me, or how she didn’t have to come with me to herd the cat but she did anyway. And how, even though I was kinda dreadful to her in the beginning, she’s still sticking around.
It’s because to her you’re Imogen, her friend. She’s being nice to you because you aren’t Jess.
That makes my stomach twist further. I clear my throat and cross my arms over my chest. “Well, as long as you don’t make me sing.”
She crosses a pinky over her heart. “Hope to die,” she says with that same smile, and for the first time I realize why it’s so enthralling. Because there’s adventure tucked into the corner of her mouth.
The kind of adventure I want to go on.
“Okay,” I say, “count me in.”
WE ENDED UP STEALING SANDWICHES FROM the Green Room and eating in a vacant stairwell. The tuna melts weren’t that bad, actually, and Ethan had mints to cover up our dreaded fish breath. He also had a pen in his pocket, and a small notepad, so I could practice Jessica’s signature.
“Are your pockets bigger on the inside?” I tried to joke, but he just rolled his eyes.
“I don’t have that much in my pockets.”
“Maybe you’re a magician—Merlin, is that you, old man?”
“Shut up and practice the J again. Loop it more—no, like this,” he instructed, scooting close to me. He took my writing hand into his much larger one. He guided the pen into the perfect loopy J. “There, see?”
His hand was very warm, and he was very close, leaning against my shoulder. Much closer than he’d ever been to me before. Too close, really, for someone who hated me. He noticed a moment later, and quickly let go of my hand and scooted to the other side of the step. “We should go back,” he said gruffly, standing, and even though I hadn’t perfected my loopy J, we returned to the showroom. He didn’t know where the meet-and-greet area was, but I did, so I led him to the bottom of the Marriott and into one of the bigger ballrooms, and that’s where we find ourselves now. My head’s beginning to itch under my fake hair. “My wig’s hot and I hate it,” I say.
“Tough.”
“And the hair’s sticking to my neck,” I whine.
Ethan rolls his eyes. He’s worriedly twisting a silver ring on his left middle finger and peeks out from behind the curtain. After a moment he pulls his head back in and curses. “There’s a long line.”
“Well, it is for Jessica Stone.”
“What if someone realizes you’re a fake? Your contacts slip? Someone pulls on your wig—”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, old man. I’m a professional.”
He closes the curtain and levels a glare down at me. And I’m reminded of the moment in the stairwell when we were this close before, and alone, and it is bad. Because beneath his thick glasses, his eyelashes are dark, and underneath those eyelashes are his eyes, which remind me of puddles of black ink, the kind that gets on a writer’s fingers. His hair is now messy from being run through too many times, and I detest that thin set of his mouth, how it makes him look so self-righteous and—
How can someone so infuriating be so handsome?
The thought repulses me, and I quickly avert my eyes. The volunteer operating the camera hurries into the photo booth, pulling back her dark hair. “Sorry, sorry! Hi, I’m your volunteer, Savvy. Are you ready to start?”
“Yes,” I quietly reply, relieved that there’s someone else in the booth with us.