Bookish and the Beast - Ashley Poston Page 0,47

enough?”

“You purposefully kept a secret from her,” adds another voice—male. Imogen’s boyfriend, Ethan. I watch as his character comes over to mine and takes all of my ammo and supplies and runs on to the next objective. “It’s really simple. You just go up and tell her ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

“But I’m not in the wrong,” I try to argue.

“Oh yeah, you are,” Imogen replies.

“Because I didn’t want her to know that I was that guy at ExcelsiCon?” I respawn at the next checkpoint and jump off the sandy cliff and into the fray again. “Excuse me if I didn’t want to ruin my image.”

“Starflame. Self-absorbed much?”

That ticks me off. “What’s so self-absorbed with letting her have her fantasy? What do you think she thought, Imogen, when she realized it was me?”

“Maybe that she was happy she finally found you?” Ethan challenges.

“Or maybe she thought—oh! Let me go to the tabloids!” When they begin to argue I add, “Whatever—I don’t expect you two to understand.”

Imogen asks, “Because we don’t always see the worst in people?”

“Mo,” her boyfriend warns.

“What?” she says. “It’s the truth. Maybe you need a friend—like we’re friends, obviously—but someone else. Maybe Natalia is making her work there because she agrees.”

A friend—why is everyone coddling me, thinking that I’m not acutely aware of the choices I make?

I grit my teeth. “Yeah, and do you also think I needed to get away from LA? That it was good of me to live in some—some nowhere town?”

“I’m not saying that, Vance.”

“You don’t have to because my stepfather already did,” I snap.

“All I’m saying is those stupid friends of yours in LA made you jaded and untrusting and that’s not who friends are. People aren’t out to find the worst in you, Vance. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now—”

Someone headshots me for the fourth time, and I give up. Both on this conversation and on the game. I’m too angry to play, anyway. “Forget it. I’m leaving.”

“Vance—”

“Good game,” I add absently, and sign off before she can say anything else. I wrench off my headset and bury my face in my hands. Because a small part of me thinks—for a moment—Imogen might be right.

And I can’t bear to think about that.

I PARK IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE-HOUSE on Monday afternoon, but I don’t turn off the car. I’ve half a mind to just kick my good ole hatchback into gear and drive straight home. Let Dad pay off the rest of the book fee—even though it’s probably still more than we can afford. I’ll find a different job to pay him back. I’ll even resort to Craigslist and risk getting murdered by some Hydra-hailing Ted Bundy with an alarming collection of The Killing Joke and the Reddit username FIGHTTHESJWS to find another copy of that waterlogged priceless volume of Starfield.

Honestly, that sounds at least a little more exciting than just the thought of facing Vance Reigns again. Vance Reigns, who was my mystery prince at ExcelsiCon, the guy I’d been daydreaming about—stupidly daydreaming about.

Because I’m such a fool.

“Pull yourself together, Thorne,” I tell myself. “You can do this. He’s just a guy. A very hot…very tall…very good-looking…asshole.” I thump my head against the steering wheel and accidentally honk the horn.

I jerk back in my chair, and quickly turn off the car.

Okay.

Amara up, Rosie. You can do this.

Just march in there, like Amara’s gonna march on the Prospero in the second movie, and take no shit from Vance Reigns. You have one goal, and he isn’t it. And you’re free of your crutches. You are strong and independent and—

I take a deep steadying breath, grab my bookbag, and get out of the car.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You’ll be okay. Just go in, do your job.

When I get to the door, I let myself in with the key under the mat. I dump my bookbag on the barstool where I always do, but Mr. Rodriguez is nowhere to be found. Usually, if he’s gone when I come in, he leaves a note on the counter, but there isn’t one today.

I wonder where he is.

“Mr. Rodriguez?” I call, wandering into the living room. I step outside onto the back patio with the pool, but he’s not back here either, and neither is Sansa.

Where could they be?

I turn and grab the handle for the sliding glass door—but it won’t budge. I try again. The door rattles.

And I realize: I’ve locked myself out.

A rumble of thunder rolls overhead.

“ELIAS?” I CALL THROUGH THE HOUSE, but no one