CHAPTER THREE
Lara
I know he did not just do that!
But he did.
Every damned time he goes anywhere, people demand he take his shirt off. And he does! Besides him being shirtless on my book covers, there are a million pics all over the internet. Shirtless at a fan convention, check. Shirtless at the grocery store, check. Shirtless in the middle of Times Square, if you can believe it!
Brokk stands at the front of the stage, gesturing for the crowd to yell louder.
They do. Oh, man, do they fucking yell. Soon the cavernous room echoes with the chant “Shirt off! Shirt off! Shirt off!”
Brokk tosses me a wicked smirk. Then his huge hands fist the fabric over each pec and rip the front of his shirt open. Buttons go flying, pinging across the stage.
The audience loses its collective mind. They surge to their feet, screaming. A million cameras flash like someone set off a massive New Year’s Eve firework inside the auditorium.
He shrugs the fabric from his shoulders and lets it drop to the stage, the muscles of his chest rippling in a fascinating display. I’ve watched a million fan videos of this moment.
None of them compare to seeing it in person, only a few feet from me. God, if I could get off this stool without breaking my neck, I’m close enough I could touch all that green skin.
Chelsea better not ask me any more questions, because my ability to verbalize crumpled to the stage floor along with Brokk’s shirt.
My mouth goes dry, my eyes roaming over every exposed inch. He’s not only built like a god, he also truly looks like an orc. How does he get the green makeup to be so perfect? Even the middle of his back looks great. I can’t get the relatively tiny area that is my face to have such even coverage.
He turns from waving to the adoring crowd and catches me ogling him. There’s that knowing smirk again.
Dammit. I hadn’t meant to be so obvious. I’d even put it on my list! I jerk my eyes away so hard my whole body moves. My toes slide off the rung of the stool, the heels catching and making me wobble.
In a flash, he’s by my side, those big hands steadying my shoulders.
I cling to him… only this time I’m clinging to bare skin. God, he even smells good! Like leather and pine. I sway forward unintentionally and barely stop myself before burying my nose against his chest.
Do not huff the hot cover model, Lara!
Brokk lifts me from the stool effortlessly and sets me on my feet. Then he walks us to the front of the stage to wave to everyone.
“Lara! You didn’t answer your final question.” Chelsea hops forward, microphone extended toward me. Damn, this chick is not letting that go. This question wasn’t on the prepared list we agreed to, either, so I’ve got nothing.
Dick joke. Remember your dick jokes!
I had a list prepared, but standing here beside a shirtless Brokk, all I manage to mutter is, “What can I say? Once you go monster peen, you never go back.”
The audience roars, especially when Brokk nods and points at me and starts doing a big stadium clap.
They all leave their seats, crowding close to the stage, yelling and screaming his name.
As he always does, Brokk lets them pull him down into the crowd. But right before he gives them his full attention, he glances back over his shoulder, shoots me a knowing look, and tilts his head toward the side of the stage.
Oh! I always assume he does all of this because he gets a rush from all the adoration, but is he doing it for me this time? To save my awkward butt from further embarrassment? That’s super sweet.
I mouth a thank you and head backstage as quickly as the killer heels will allow.
Sherrie’s waiting to take me to the room set up for my book signing. “See, you did great!”
“Gotta love a dick joke,” I quip. But really, I know the interview only ended well because Brokk saved me, yet again.
The signing is fun. I always do better talking to people one on one, and everyone who shows up loves the books. And if some of the paperbacks carry Brokk’s signature on the inside cover? Well, it no longer stings quite so much.
“Excuse me, Ms. Jade.” A couple of the book-convention organizers approach my table. The one in front holds up her phone, showing the time—I’ve gone over. She raises her voice, “I’m sorry, everyone, but Lara Jade’s already signed for an extra half hour, and we need the room for the next event.”
There are disappointed noises from the people still waiting, but the organizers start to move them out the front as one of them points me toward a door at the back. It’s not the one I came in through, I don’t think. But I’m shit at directions, so maybe I’m not remembering correctly.
When I step through it, a narrow hallway stretches in both directions. I was right—this isn’t the way I came before, but it’s also blessedly empty. I seriously consider taking off the heels and going barefoot.
No wait. Where’s Sherrie? She should be waiting for me. That’s odd. My friend is super professional. She never misses appointments. I try the door, ready to go back into the room and ask for the other hallway where Sherrie must be. Fuck. It’s locked. My hands pat at my butt and hips, as if my phone’s going to magically appear in a pocket this catsuit doesn’t have. But nope—all I got going for me right now is sequins.
I start off down the hall, hoping I’m going in the right direction. I’m not great with that kind of thing—I can get turned around in a grocery store if I don’t pay enough attention, and don’t even get me started on IKEA. I got lost in an IKEA once—it was like one of those dystopian TV shows where everything looks super pretty, but you know something’s really, really wrong. I wandered through one gorgeous room after the other, ready to live with old, beat-up furniture forever if it meant I got to go home to my tiny apartment.
A door bursts open the moment I get near, and a young man in a cream-colored three-piece suit and a cravat steps out, blocking my way. He’s handsome, in a boyish way, with light brown hair and skin so fair his cheeks are naturally ruddy. Who the hell wears a cravat these days?
I come to a tottering halt, slapping a hand to the wall to steady myself on my heels.
“Ms. Jade,” he says in a super posh British accent. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“Um, hi.” I give a little wave and try to edge past him. “I’m sorry, but you’ve just missed the signing.”
Two bodybuilder types wearing dark suits and sunglasses step out into the hallway. They take up position on either side of the first man, standing with feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over their wide chests, blocking the way entirely. One’s blond and the other’s brunet, like he opened up a bodyguard catalog and purchased a contrasting set.
“I don’t want a signature, Ms. Jade,” the posh man says. “I’m Elton Edgerton the Third.” He pauses as if waiting for some kind of reaction.
I offer him a weak smile.
“The billionaire. The tech genius.” He strikes a pose, chin resting on his knuckles as he stares thoughtfully into the distance. “I was on Time Magazine ’s cover last month.”
“They still print that?” I blurt.
The pleasant expression falls from his face. “Ms. Jade, I want to hire you to activate a magical artifact in my possession.”
Oh, shit. This guy’s seriously delusional. Magic’s not real.
“Okay.” I take a step back, trying to keep my face neutral. “That sounds so, so fun.” I hide a wince and take another step. God, could my voice sound any faker? “But I don’t know how to do magic. I just write about it.”
“I really wish you’d said yes.” He sighs.
Oh, good. My shoulders drop in relief. He’s going to let me go.
“Get her.” Elton gestures the goons forward.
“What?” I squawk and skitter backward, tripping over the stupid heels.
This time, the guy who catches me makes my heart skip for a completely different reason than Brokk ever did. I open my mouth to scream, and the goon slaps a meaty paw over it.
The other one shoves a rag smelling sweet and chemically over my nose.
As the world goes dark, one final hazy thought swims to the surface of my mind. It’s too bad Brokk’s just a cover model. If he were actually an orc warrior, he could come and save me for real this time.