America’s Geekheart

by Grant, Pippa

  He jerks his head to the office across the hall. “Sarah’s got problems, and what the fuck is wrong with you? I liked her. Tripp liked her. My sister liked her.”

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  Fuck the fashion world.

  Sarah.

  Sarah’s what I’m passionate about. “What? Where is she? How big? What’s wrong? Can you fix it?”

  He squints at me for half a second before the squint turns to a smirk. “To answer your questions, one, you’re a dumbass if you let her go. Two, I’m IT, not psychic, so I don’t know where she is. Three, it depends on what you call big and if she had the poor taste to actually like you back, which is actually two separate problems at the moment”—he smirks at me again—“and finally, Ryder. Come on. Can I fix it? Whoa. Is Charlie yelling at someone?”

  “She’s firing Bruce.”

  He shoves the laptop at me. “Here. You get started. I gotta listen to this.”

  “Hank.”

  “Ah, fuck. Fine. But you owe me big. I’ve been wanting to listen to her blow for months.”

  He picks the office across the hall from where Charlie’s still listing Bruce’s flaws—she’s gotten to the you’re a sexist asshole part, which either means she’s just getting started or wrapping up soon—and he opens his laptop. “Get your phone out and figure out what to do about Twitter, but do not type anything yourself, okay? I gotta get her website back up. You really break up with her?”

  My veins frost over. “Fuck, no. Why—” I can’t finish the sentence, because I can’t make those words come out of my mouth together.

  He looks at me.

  Then points to my phone. “Twitter, dude. Your job. Computer? My job.”

  I open Twitter.

  And fuck.

  Just fuck.

  Tweet after tweet saying she didn’t deserve me anyway. That she’s ugly. That after all I did for her and her giraffe lover, she should be grateful, not a bitch who dumps me on a Monday morning.

  Charlie stomps in, looks over my shoulder, and gasps. “What the fuck? They loved her yesterday. Did Bruce do this? He’s dead. He’s deader than dead.”

  I switch over to my profile, and there it is.

  The canned statement announcing we’re done.

  “Can you get rid of this?” I ask Hank, pointing to the tweet. Because I can’t just take it down. You can never just take it down. People get screenshots and share that shit for eternity. He’ll be playing whack-a-mole.

  Fuck.

  “One thing at a time,” Hank says. “Her website crashed again from all the hits.”

  “Don’t make me call Davis.”

  “Already calling him,” Charlie says.

  “I can fucking handle this on my own,” Hank growls at her.

  “Shove your ego in a dirty gym bag. It’s for Sarah.” She pauses, then mutters, “And Davis is faster.”

  “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “I can say it louder.”

  I leave them to their bickering and head for the elevator, already dialing Sarah’s number.

  When she doesn’t answer, I call Judson.

  “Where’s Sarah?” I ask.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  This is so fucking stupid. It’s none of anyone’s damn business who I date or how I feel. And now they’re dragging her through the mud without knowing a damn real thing about either one of us.

  And they’re hurting her.

  They’re fucking hurting her.

  I put Judson on speaker and text Hank and Davis both with orders to hack Twitter and take the whole fucking site down.

  “She’s with her mother in the garden. What the fuck did you do now?” Judson growls.

  “Is she okay?” I hit the button for the garage level, knowing full well I might lose signal, but there’s no way I’m wasting another second getting to her. “She hasn’t seen anything, right? She’s okay? She doesn’t believe it, does she? I fired the dumbass. I mean, I let Charlie do it, but I’m cleaning house with my team and if they don’t like Sarah, they’re gone. Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay.”

  “Depends on your definition of okay,” he growls, and that’s the last thing I hear before the signal drops.

  “Be okay, be okay, be okay,” I whisper to myself.

  She’s not darting off on a jet to Morocco and changing her name. She’s in her backyard with her mom.

  She’s not digging a bunker. Judson would’ve said she was digging a bunker if she was digging a bunker.

  She’s not packing up her bees to move to some small town in Kansas without internet. Plus, all of Kansas has internet. I think. I’ve been in a small town or two in Kansas, and they always had internet, even though everyone in LA and New York thinks they don’t.

  “Be okay, be okay, be okay,” I mutter.

  I point the bodyguard in the basement to my car. “Drive. Sarah’s house.”

  My hands are shaking.

  I can’t drive myself.

  If she’s not okay, I’m going to be so pissed at myself for dragging her into this.

  I’m already pissed at myself for dragging her into this.

  But when I finally get to her house, when I push past Judson and the pig and the cat and out into the backyard, I discover it’s not bad.

  It’s worse.

  Way. Way. Way. Fucking. Worse.

  Forty

  Sarah

  I’m leaning over an open tackle box of eyeshadow colors when Beck bursts through the back door, sweeps his hot blue eyes over all of us, and then erupts in a rage.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he howls.

  He crosses the patio—my yard is full, but not large, so it only takes him four steps, and he bends down and gets right in my mom’s face. “She. Is. Beautiful. Just. As. She. Is.”

  I leap up in alarm and grab his arm. “Beck—”

  “No. No. You don’t have to prove any single fucking thing to those losers who are jealous that they’re not as smart and dedicated and passionate and naturally gorgeous as you are.” He flips the whole makeup case over and glares at my mom again, then growls at my dad, who’s leaning out the back door and watching with narrowed eyes. “And you two. Didn’t you ever tell Sarah she’s perfect just the way she is? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  I gape at him, because Angry Beck is like the Incredible Hulk, if Hulk wore sky blue so well that it brought out his eyes perfectly and highlighted all that anger simmering on his cheekbones and had a week’s worth of binge-eating delicious food to fuel his rage.

  And also if he were hell-bent on being my hero.

  “I forbid you to wear that shit,” Beck declares.

  I choke on my own spit. “You forbid me.”

  My dad gapes.

  My mom leans back in her lounge chair and gapes.

  And Beck thrusts his fingers into his hair and attempts to pull it out. “Okay, look, I know I can’t forbid you to do anything, because I’m not a total moron, and I just fired an asshole for that tweet, which was a total lie, and also for being a dick to my assistant and so many other things I should’ve fired him for years ago, but damn it, Sarah, you don’t need that shit, and I’m going to hunt down every last fucking troll on Twitter and dunk their heads in dirty toilet water until they cry uncle and realize that there’s no fucking thing as one definition of beauty and that their souls make them the ugliest assholes in the history of assholes. I. Love. You. Just. The. Way. You. Are. Not with all that goop all over your face and in shoes that hurt you and wrapped in Lycra torture devices. And I’m not letting you go without a fight if you really did try to dump me this morning, even though I know that was my asshole manager being a dick, and I can’t think of more creative things to call him because I’m that pissed. But the point is, fuck anyone else who tries to make your self-worth tie to how you look.”

  I wait while he paces over my short patio, because odds are good he’s not done.

  But he doesn’t say anyth
ing else.

  Nope.

  He stops suddenly, and he looks at me.

  Just looks at me.

  At first with his nostrils flaring and the blue flame in his eyes threatening to singe his eyelashes off, but the tight lines around his mouth loosen, and his brows untangle, and he drops into the seat I just vacated and wraps his arms around my waist. “Please tell me they didn’t hurt your feelings, and please tell me you didn’t see that tweet, or if you did, that you didn’t believe it, because I swear, I will never forgive myself if they hurt you, and I’d really rather just be here with you than out avenging your honor all over the world for the next six years.”

  “I know a good asylum for the insane,” my dad growls.

  “Judson, hush, and come give poor Beckett a hug. He’s had a rough four minutes.”

  “Can I talk?” I whisper to Beck.

  “I love when you talk,” he says against my belly.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “Four times.”

  I stifle a smile and stroke his hair. “I think I’ve been around celebrities enough to know not to listen to anything I don’t hear out of the horse’s mouth,” I whisper to him.

  His arms tighten around me. “I’m a very good horse,” he says into my stomach.

  “A very good stallion,” I correct.

  He huffs a laugh, and I keep stroking his hair, because it’s so thick and perfect and so easy to touch, and I missed him.

  I might also be a little wobbly in the knees with relief, because while I did know that tweet was all PR baloney, I needed to hear it from him.

  And I might’ve been hiding from the fear that he wouldn’t want me anymore when pulling me into his circle will always mean that we both have to deal with me being such an easy target on social media.

  Except I don’t feel nearly as worthless and small right now as I did in high school when I’d make the tabloids. Because in the midst of the storm, there are still people talking about Persephone and her new baby. And about going to watch a meteor shower for the first time.

  And about an old, old news article I shared about sand.

  Yes, sand.

  Because when sand is magnified, it’s not just little grains of nothing. It’s an entire universe of miniature shells that we all walk all over to get to the beach without realizing the beauty right under our feet.

  Maybe we’re all tiny universes of miniature shells. And maybe I should be more like the sand and be fabulous just as I am, even if very few people will ever stop to look closely enough.

  Like Beck has.

  “I’m quitting, Sarah,” he says hoarsely. “I swear, I’ll sell it all. I’ll retire and come home and talk you into taking vacation every other week to go see the world and I’ll stay home and cook you dinner and second dinner and dessert and breakfast and show up at your office with second breakfast and morning snack and lunch and second lunch.”

  My heart is so full, it’s warming my entire body and making words hard. “Beck. You don’t have to do that for me.”

  “I don’t want those shitheads saying nasty things about you. I don’t want anyone saying nasty things about you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does. You’re sitting here looking at makeup and you’re not wearing a geeky T-shirt.”

  “Are you sure you’ve eaten?” I ask lightly.

  “I’m getting hungry again, but that’s not the point. I can push through it.”

  “Beck. Compromising isn’t always a bad thing.”

  “I should’ve eaten three or five times?”

  “No, I’m saying if I’m going to do more video blogs, I can wear very light makeup to make up for the fact that I’ll be under harsh lights.”

  His neck goes tense under my fingers. “You’re making more videos?”

  “I can concentrate on how many people are saying ugly things, or I can realize that I have a unique opportunity to share some of my passions with the people who want to listen despite the circus. If I quit, if I disappear again, then it doesn’t matter who wins. It matters that I lose. I don’t want to lose. Especially when I’m basically losing to myself.”

  He looks up at me finally, studying me with eyes so serious, they almost don’t look like his.

  But they are.

  And they’re full of worry and concern and—

  My breath catches, because that’s utter adoration.

  For me.

  Still.

  “You are such a fucking badass,” he says reverently.

  I laugh and bend down to kiss him. “Not always.”

  “I’m still going to hunt them down and hook their nipples up to a car battery while I give them flushies.”

  “Serendipity, it’s time,” my dad growls with a thicker growl than normal. “He’s proven himself. He can join the fight against the Euranians.”

  I laugh again and stroke Beck’s tense shoulders. “Thanks, Dad. But I don’t know if I want to lose him to the war.”

  “Sacrifices have to be made in the name of justice.”

  “Judson, dear, at least let them get married and have babies first. It makes for such a better gut-wrenching story when he dies as she’s giving birth.”

  “Mom.”

  “What? It does. In fiction, naturally. Not in your life, dear.”

  A yowl erupts from inside the house, and I jerk my head to the back door. “Oh, no. Cupcake’s alone with Meda.”

  Beck releases me and follows me as I dart into the house, where I find Cupcake sprawled on her back in the middle of the kitchen floor, with Meda grooming her little pig snout.

  “What—” I start.

  “I told you they loved each other,” Mom says.

  Beck slips his arms around my waist and rests his head on mine. “Huh.”

  While we watch, Cupcake starts to get up, but Meda yowls again and bops the pig on the ear, and Cupcake meekly goes back to lounging so Meda can knead her pork shoulders and clean her face.

  I just gape at both of them.

  “Love always wins,” Dad growls.

  Beck’s arms tighten around me, and I lean back into him. “Can we still go check out this Shipwreck place you love so much?” I ask.

  He grips me tighter and nods into my hair. “Yep. Leave your clothes here. You won’t need them. Ow! Dammit. Sorry, sir. Forgot you were standing there. Meant I had some that’ll fit her. Promise.”

  “Shipwreck?” Mom asks. “What’s Shipwreck?”

  “Dirty little town. Terrible. No vegan food. They all swill ale out of community pots. Ow! Hey, I needed that rib.”

  “You’re lying to my mother. Very badly,” I whisper.

  “I know, but it’s the easiest way to get you all to myself without having to share.”

  “You’ll always have to share,” Dad growls.

  “Can it wait a week?”

  “Wait, back up.” Mom frowns at him. “Are you serious about retiring from fashion?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He sighs into my hair. “And I have to be back to announce my new foundation on Wednesday. But I want to be home more. Here. And I don’t want Sarah to deal with all the shit that comes with public life.”

  “Beck—”

  “I know. I know. You’re strong. You can handle it. But you shouldn’t have to.”

  My mom smiles brightly. “Excellent.”

  Dad and I both eyeball her, because we both know that look. “What?” I ask her.

  “I need a new job. Train me to run your fashion empire, and I won’t have Judson gut you for touching our daughter.”

  “Mom.”

  “I love clothes. And these underwear are ridiculously comfortable. I’ve been meaning to retire, but I don’t do boredom well. I might as well help run an empire. Plus, that way we can really stick it to him if he’s ever stupid enough to leave you.”

  My jaw is totally unhinged.

  And my mother’s smile is growing. Growing, and taking on an evil, evil glow. “Plus, it wi
ll be so refreshing to be the one telling men that they’re too old or not pretty enough for a job. The best revenge is to succeed when everyone around you is trying to keep you down.”

  “That’s my girl,” Dad growls.

  Beck’s speechless.

  No, seriously. He looks like Mackenzie when faced with Cooper Rock the other day. I tap his cheek. “Hey. You okay? You don’t have to hire my mother to get me. You know that, right?”

  He looks down at me. Then back at my mom.

  He shakes his head, tosses his phone into the sink, and then sweeps me up into his arms and marches through the house.

  “Beck?”

  “I’m completely useless,” he declares.

  I grip him tighter. “You are not.”

  “Completely, totally useless. I can’t even solve my own calendar and life to be with the woman I love. The only thing I’m good for is kidnapping you and taking you to Shipwreck and trying for a fiver.”

  And there go my panties.

  Again.

  “Beck.”

  “And I don’t even know why I deserve you, when you’re clearly smart enough to know what you’re getting into with me, so I am. I’m kidnapping you. Don’t try to stop me.”

  “Mackenzie went through my email and found an invitation from the zoo for us to stop by and see Persephone and her baby girl.”

  He stops in the front doorway and looks at me. “So I can’t even kidnap you properly.”

  “We could stop and grab burgers before we go to the zoo.”

  “I love you.”

  I didn’t know it was possible to smile this big. “Are you sure that’s not just your stomach talking?”

  “We both love you. Sunny, Charlie will call you to talk details in five minutes because she’s psychic, and I’m promoting her to being my new chief of operations, which she also probably knows since she’s psychic.” He backs out of my front door and doesn’t hesitate as he carries me to his car. There are two beaters parked along the street, and I don’t care.

  Let them take all the pictures they want.

  I can’t stop running my fingers through Beck’s hair, and I add a kiss to his cheek before he sets me back on my feet so I can climb into his car. “Have I told you yet that it was really sexy when you yelled at my mom over makeup?”