Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Buffy is the greatest show in the world.
John Kater is really not hot.
Two margaritas can be greatly improved by a third.
“A hundred and fifty dollars. Can you believe it?”
We parked Otis’s car outside the Rockwell Convention Center, the beating heart of Middleton’s social calendar. From wedding receptions to furniture expos, it had seen it all. Today, it was bursting with lanky teens, die-hard Trekkies, and the occasional Bronie.
Otis surveyed the crowd with a mix of fascination and mild horror.
“You really didn’t have to come,” I said, grimacing at the wall of people ahead.
“And let you have all the fun by yourself?” He hooked his arm through mine, and I picked up the pace.
Finding our destination didn’t take long—cardboard cutouts of John Kater popped up every few meters, pointing toward the far end of the hall.
“I will pay you back for the tickets.”
Otis waved me off. “Please. My treat. You becoming famous will do wonders for my dating pool.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder for a second. “Once I meet Ryan Gosling, consider yourself engaged.”
The knot in my stomach tightened with every step. This was it. I’d rehearsed my words, lined up my plea. No turning back now.
The crowd thickened, eventually congealing into a misshapen line. It was mind-boggling how many people were willing to wait just to get a glimpse of John Kater and their books signed. Otis leaned towards me. “Now may be a good time to tell you I’m doing it.”
The world worshipped him like the second coming of Kurt Cobain. And now that he was engaged to Hollywood’s newest Bond Girl? They were on every magazine cover, every Buzzfeed list—smiling like actors in a toothpaste ad.
Otis leaned closer. “Now might be a good time to tell you—I’m doing it.”
“Doing what?” I said, rising to my tiptoes to look over the crowd.
“The audition, Nora Rose.”
I was almost certain I could spot Emily between two cosplayers.
Otis was suddenly quiet. When I turned, he stood with arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
Audition for… I searched my brain for the missing information.
“Oh, Rocky Horror?” Middleton put on one local play every year, and this year it was even something fun.
“That’s all I’ve been talking about for weeks. Not that you were listening.” He jabbed my arm, but his mouth was drawn tight.
“I’m sorry!” I tugged on his sleeve, trying to see if Bambi-eyes would melt his frosty glare. They did. “I promise you that, as soon as I hand this in, crazy, obsessive Nora will leave the building.”
I peeked past a pair of foam fairy wings. My stomach flipped. I’d found her.
Emily Arlington.
Brown curls and a kind smile I recognized from social media. She looked tiny next to you-know-who, who sat beside her.
Otis slung an arm around my shoulder. “Crazy, obsessive Nora will always have a place in my heart, but I have to say—I’m really looking forward to reading her eulogy.”
The line inched forward at a glacial pace.
Cosplayers staged dramatic battles against invisible demons.
Lanky guys in their early twenties, all wearing lanyards and laminated badges, barked at people to stay in line and not touch the “irreplaceable” collector’s items. I mean, good for them for feeling a little important today.
None of them looked like they’d get laid any time soon.
Technically, this should’ve been my crowd.
The misfits, the geeks, the superfans. I gawked at the wigs, the tails, the sheer bravery of people openly celebrating what they loved.
I was a quieter kind of nerd. More behind-the-scenes.
The Captain Caruso fandom wasn’t as massive as, say, Star Wars or the Final Fantasy crowd, but we had a tight-knit online community.
Just last year, I became a moderator on the biggest Caruso fanfic platform.
I spent my evenings devouring every weird and wonderful spin on my childhood favorite: crossover fics with Star Trek or Law and Order, angst-ridden alternate endings, and even 900-page reverse harem mermaid sagas.
No rules in fan fiction. If you wrote it, someone would love it. No one judged.
In front of me, a fairy in sparkly wings held up her phone and zoomed in to snap an out-of-focus photo of the man signing books. All you could see was a blur of jawline.
I rolled my eyes.
Otis leaned in. “He is kinda hot,” he said, smoothing his hair to one side.
“He’s an ass.”
“You say that like you know him.”
I bit back the truth. “Just keep it in your pants for, like, five seconds?” I elbowed him. “You find everyone hot.”
“And you should get your eyes checked.”
My leg bounced—nervous energy turning manic. I swung my backpack around and unzipped it to pull out my manuscript. “There are plenty of hot people on this planet. But dating is—”
“A pain in your butt. Nonsensical. Overrated. I know, I know,” Otis sighed. “But you’re in your prime, Nora. It’s honestly a waste.”
I craned my neck to peek at the front of the line. “The only two people I would date are Keanu Reeves and Gillian Anderson, and even with the best wingman in the world, I don’t see that happening.”
We were still at least forty people away.
“Fuck this.” I slid out of the line.
“Nora, no,” Otis hissed, eyes wide as he followed. The gap we left was instantly filled.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, as I’m not actually here to see him, why bother queuing?”
“Oh my god, you’re insane. They’re going to throw us out.”
With my manuscript in hand, I marched straight toward the table where John Kater was signing books. But my focus was locked on the woman beside him.
Emily glanced up from her laptop. The second she spotted the stack of pages I clutched, her brows drew together. I wished I’d had time to bind it properly. None of this was supposed to go this way.
Just as we reached the panel, a beanpole of a guy with glasses stepped into our path. His arms were wrapped in fabric wristbands from past conventions, and the word STAFF was printed across his chest in bold letters.
“You’ll have to queue like everybody else,” he said with a smug face.
“Well, Mr. Security,” I said, trying for charm and missing by a mile, “I’m just here to see his manager, so if you’ll excuse me…” I winced. I sounded like a total Karen. I tried to push past, but he blocked me with all the self-importance of a hall monitor on a power trip.
Now people were staring. Fantastic.
Otis tugged on my sleeve.
Mr. Security was clearly living for this. He tapped the earpiece like we were in some kind of low-budget spy movie. “Nighthawk here, we have a code three.”
“Oh, come on.” I groaned. “I just need to hand her this and then I’ll be out of everyone’s way.”
“Yeah, sure. One more step and I’ll have to escort you out, young lady.”
“Young lady?” My voice pitched higher. “I could’ve babysat you, you little shi—”
He moved to tap the ear piece again.
“Fine,” I snapped. “Fine, I’ll behave.”
I turned and stormed back toward the line, trying to reclaim our spot—only to be met with scowls.
One guy even adjusted a foam sword like he meant business.
I clenched my fists and stomped all the way to the very end of the now-much-longer line.
Otis opened his mouth, but I cut off his I told you so with a single glare.
I glanced across the vendor stalls. Maybe I could knock them all down with Thor’s Hammer—currently on sale for $29.99.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Several times, I nearly bolted. I just needed to hand over the manuscript, give my little speech, and explain why I’d missed the deadline. Tell Emily how hard I’d worked, how little I’d slept, and how much this meant to me. Then I’d leave. Without ever even glancing at John.
Smooth. Confident.
I basically invented fake it ’til you make it.
Only two people left in front of us. The current person at the table was gushing some version of OMG I’m your biggest fan, blah blah blah.
Otis was throwing moony eyes at a guy dressed as Legolas.
One more person.
I rolled and unrolled the manuscript in my hands, annoyingly aware of my chipped red nail polish. Keeping a safe distance from the cosplayer ahead of me to avoid getting smacked by his tail, I craned my neck for a better look.
My stomach dropped.
The seat next to John Kater was empty.
What the—?
Someone shoved my side. It was Otis, looking wide-eyed between me and the author. The author who grimaced at me—a look somewhere between a fake smile and… what the hell was her problem?
We were next, and I was frozen to the spot.
I swallowed. “Where did she go?” I pointed at the now-empty chair beside him.
John Kater’s smooth brows lifted. “Emily had to leave,” he murmured, voice low and velvety.
“Now?” My voice, on the other hand, bordered on hysteria.
“Would you mind?” came a mumble from the vampire behind me. His fake teeth made it hard to understand.
“Shut up or I’ll turn you to dust,” I snapped, stepping toward the table where the author still sat. I could swear there was amusement in his chocolate-brown eyes—which, I hated to admit, were even nicer than I remembered.
“Who will I be signing for?” he asked. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”
He held a hardcover of his bestseller in one large hand, Sharpie ready.
“Sooo,” I drawled, “this is awkward. I’m not actually here for you.”
Otis gasped. “Nora, you can’t say that.”
“Well, I just did.” I gave my head a quick shake.
“You certainly did,” John said flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitched—like he actually found this funny. Shouldn’t he be offended?
Then his gaze dropped to the manuscript in my arms. “You came here to pitch your book? At my signing? Gutsy.”
He leaned back, arms crossing. The sleeves of his sleek black shirt were rolled up, revealing a designer watch and the kind of forearms that made BookTok lose its mind.
“I’m not randomly pitching. I’m here for the contest. You probably don’t know, but Captain Caruso’s last book—”