Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Andi
I manage to get through the week without running into Cat, and by Thursday morning, I’m belted into my exit-row seat, waiting to take off for Las Vegas. With my sorry excuse for a cosplay packed in my duffel bag overhead and a venti black coffee in hand, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for four days of excessive sun, neon lights, and air conditioning. I send up a quick prayer that I make it through the weekend unharassed. The last thing I need is some basement dweller calling me out for “lying” about my role on Aftermath .
Not that there’s anything wrong with basement dwelling. Plenty of people, gamers and nongamers alike, spend entire swaths of their lives in basements without resorting to attacking random strangers on the internet.
As soon as our wheels lose contact with the tarmac, I crack open my book. Before I can lose myself in its dense thicket of pages, someone punches my headrest. My head flies forward.
I spin around, scanning for the tiny culprit and their parent, but the seat behind me is vacant. Instead, a zip-up hoodie flies past me, its back emblazoned with the Aftermath logo.
My fingers clench and I end up dog-earing my book. I force the tendons in my hands to relax. This plane must be stocked to the brim with gamers ready to descend upon Sin City with their witty graphic tees and cargo shorts. One Aftermath hoodie does not a threat make.
Yet the form moving down the aisle feels familiar, like a half-remembered word. Whoever it is has short brown hair and a European gait to their walk. They’re wearing black skinny jeans and Vans along with white Beats headphones clipped over their head. The headphones are what give me pause. I can imagine their tacky surface, the muted sounds of My Chemical Romance emitting from the speaker housing.
Seriously, Andz, give it a shot. Nothing puts me in a writing mood faster. “Welcome to the Black Parade” is basically Connor White’s anthem.
It can’t be Jan. Jan’s lived in Seattle for as long as I’ve known him. And unless he’s sorted out his move to Amsterdam after being appointed Elevation Art’s creative-in-residence one week ago, he won’t even be at IAX. He has no business flying into Vegas out of Denver.
There’s only one possible explanation: I’m seeing ghosts.
I pull my own hood up until the lip of it obstructs my line of sight. Curling my spine forward, I dive back into my book. I don’t lift my head again for the rest of the flight.
Philo and Gabe join me on the ground on Friday morning. Together we attend an industry brunch and a few other networking events, where we make and laugh at inside jokes no normal person would find funny. In the late afternoon, Philo disappears to sit on a panel hosted by Black Girl Gamers while Gabe wanders off to lose a few hundred dollars at the lowest-stakes table he can find. Untethered by any social obligations, I secure a spot by the pool with my laptop and a blood and sand cocktail. I’m behind writing-wise and want to eke out a page or two before Saturday sets me even further back.
Slack pops off as soon as I hinge my laptop open. Against my better instincts, I check my messages and get sucked into a wormhole of “quick questions” and “hey, are you theres.” It takes a cabana boy standing in front of me for me to realize thirty minutes have elapsed and my blood and sand is bone dry. I ask for water in lieu of another cocktail and turn back to the screen, determined to get some actual work done.
Until my eyes fall on the newest unread row at the top of my inbox. What the hell? I literally looked away for fifteen seconds, and in that time another digital pest crept its way into my life. Sighing, I check the sender: Brett McCloy. He probably just wants more material related to Sentinel’s love life.
Except his email doesn’t mention Sentinel by name at all, let alone Kelsi or any other NPC. All it does is rather cryptically warn me to not confirm publicly, one way or another, if we’re adding romance options to Compass Hollow . “There’s some sensitivity from the higher-ups around the love stuff right now so keep your head down till we decide if we like the direction you and your team are going in. Speaking of which, how about I drop by next Thursday afternoon with some ’za and you share what you’ve got?”
How about you shove your ’za up your extra-puckered asshole? I think uncharitably. His entire tone is throwing me for a loop. After weeks of bugging me for updates on how Kelsi x, Evaralin x, and Catha x are going, suddenly he’s all “ if we like the direction”? What happened to being a numbers guy and capturing the female market?
With a start, I wonder if the higher-ups he’s referencing include Jan Eschler. What if now that Jan is EA’s creative-in-residence, he’s poking into Heartrender and Compass Hollow via Brett? What if he still resents me for “taking credit” for Aftermath (however accidentally), then turning him down that night he drove me home?
Jan just became creative-in-residence, though, and who knows what responsibilities that title even entails.
A breeze lifts, cooling my skin and bringing with it a familiar, homey smell I can’t quite pinpoint. I perk up, momentarily distracted, but don’t see anyone besides the sleeping form of a large, pale man on the opposite side of the pool. Strange. I could’ve sworn I sensed someone else.
The cabana boy drops off my water, which I drink down in one long swallow. Enough spiraling. Now that it feels like the arcs Cat and I have hashed out are under threat, I’m suddenly motivated to get Dane down on the page.
Quitting out of everything but my word processor, I stretch out my forearms and get to typing.