I wipe my cheek and bite my lip to keep the happy tears at bay. “I just have one question.”
They wait for me to ask. The room calm and quiet, unlike before. When I talk, they all try to listen. That means…
A lot.
A whole lot.
“Who is everyone dressing up as?”
{ 6 }
0 years : 02 months
October
LOREN HALE
“So what’s the deal with Sam?” Ryke asks, sitting on the hotel chair with an energy drink in hand, only wearing a pair of jeans.
“He’s late,” Connor declares as he unbuttons his white shirt. “So we all know you two will hit it off.”
Ryke shoots him the middle finger.
I check my watch. “He’s not that late.” I almost never defend Samuel Stokes—because we don’t get along.
Story of my life.
I pull my black shirt over my head, tossing it on my small duffel bag. My costume lies on the hotel bed along with Connor’s. We each arrived at the convention in different cars, trying to throw off the paparazzi. Stepping out of the Princeton house wearing our costumes wasn’t an option. We’d be all over the internet. The headline, Lily Calloway and Loren Hale Go to Philly Comic-Con, would be enough to send Lily running back inside.
So we’re changing here while Lily and her three sisters dress in another hotel room, and then we’re meeting the girls downstairs at the convention floor.
“From the few handshakes we’ve had here and fucking there, I know absolutely nothing about the guy,” Ryke says.
Connor takes off his button-down. “He’s twenty-seven, the Chief Marketing and Commercial Officer of Fizzle, receiving the position purely by nepotism,” he says without missing a beat. “His prior employment was Dairy Queen, and he has a four-year-old daughter with Poppy Cadence Calloway Stokes.”
“Fucking fantastic,” Ryke says dryly. “I asked what’s his deal, not for his fucking resume, Cobalt.” Ryke nods to me, looking for a better answer.
“I want to say that Sam’s an asshole like the rest of us,” I tell him. “But I don’t think about him that much.” Thinking about Sam means I have to dig through painful childhood memories. Where I threw back drinks to drown out the world. Where I vandalized houses. Where I screamed.
Where I ran.
Where I became a thing to be hated.
Samuel Stokes showed up in Poppy’s life at fourteen.
I was only eight. I can’t imagine that he sees me as anything more than a delinquent, rich kid.
And then, within maybe a second, a fist raps against the door.
Connor goes to greet the person on the other side, simultaneously unbuckling his belt. When Connor constantly wears collared shirts and preppy attire, it’s hard to tell that he’s ripped. He has better definition in his muscles than me, and I work out a lot to rid stress—but running cuts my muscle mass down.
“You’re late,” Connor says easily, swinging the door open. Without paying much attention to Sam, Connor returns to his wardrobe on the bed.
“Try having a four-year-old throw a tantrum over her Princess Peach costume.” Sam walks further in the room, a travel-duffel slung over his shoulder. “I had to leave her at the Villanova house with Poppy’s mom.” Sam nods at Ryke and me in acknowledgement. “What are you two dressing as?”
I lean an arm on the television cabinet and swallow a smartass comment. “The Shirtless Wonder,” I banter. “With my sidekick.” I gesture to Ryke who hasn’t moved his ass off the chair. My brother raises his brows and sips his drink, sizing up Sam with a long once-over.
Really Sam can be described in two words:
Pretty boy.
When he was younger, he had the whole nineties grunge look down, his hair hanging half in his eyes, like he was part of the Hansons. Now his brown hair is out of his slightly unshaven face, dressed in a plain shirt and jeans—he’s the picture perfect representation of normality.
Without an ounce of humor, Sam says, “It looks like you’re going as Cyclops.” He motions to my navy and gold costume on the bed with a red visor: Cyclops circa 2010 comic book era. Before Bendis turned him into a villain. After he lost Jean Grey and had one of the strongest, most confident and beloved mutants by his side.
It’s this Scott Summers that I love the most. Somewhere between good and bad. Somewhere between a stiff and a revolutionary.
“Caught me,” I say with a half-smile.
He sets his duffel on the free bed and then glances back at Ryke. “What are you drinking?”
He shakes his energy drink can and then takes a large swig.
“Try this.” Sam rummages in the pocket of his duffel before pulling out a slim black can with a lightning bolt insignia. He tosses it to Ryke, who easily catches it in one hand.
My brother reads the label. “Lightning Bolt…with an exclamation point. What is this shit?” He inspects it like Sam handed him arsenic. And then Ryke pops the fucking tab and takes a sip.
I just shake my head. How has he not died yet?
“You didn’t know what it was, and yet you still drank it?” Connor says aloud. “Now I’m questioning our friendship.”
“Good,” Ryke says, “because I question it every fucking day.”
“I remember now, why we’re friends.” Connor steps into his costume’s black pants. “Every man needs a dog.” He pauses. “Lassie taught me that.”
I slow clap.
“Fuck you,” Ryke says.
“I thought it was a compliment,” Connor replies casually with a grin. “Everyone loves Lassie.”
Sam sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re holding an energy drink,” he tells Ryke, circling back to the point. “Fizzle created it. We’re unveiling the product in a few days.”
“It’s not bad,” Ryke says, scrutinizing the Lightning Bolt! can.
“Good because if you’re around Lily at all, you can’t drink brands from Fizzle’s competitors. It’s bad marketing.”
“No problem.” Ryke stands and tosses his old energy drink in the wastebasket.
We all concentrate on changing clothes. Sam rises and tugs his shirt off before unzipping his duffel. I become acutely aware that he has four years on Connor and Ryke and six years on me with the way he begins commanding the room. Confident posture, assured stance—a build that would suit someone heading into the army. Not that he’s ever going to enlist like his father and four brothers.
Sammy took another path in life to be with the rich and now the famous.
By the time I have the gold belt around my waist, along with tight navy pants and boots, Ryke lounges on the chair.
“You can’t seriously be finished,” I say, scanning his dark green leather jacket, a hood attached, and an identical colored crew-neck. Black jeans to top off his simple look.
Sam scrutinizes him. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Green Arrow.”
I shake my head in disapproval. He wore the same exact costume almost one year ago—when I first met him.
“It’s the only thing I have,” Ryke says to me. “And what does it fucking matter?”
“I can see your face.” I point at him. “You can pretend your little hood will conceal your features, but the moment we hit the convention floor, people are going to swarm us.”
“I’m going to shave,” Ryke declares. “And I have black paint that I’m going to use for a mask.”
“Where’s your bow and arrow?” Sam asks, scanning the room for Ryke’s props.
“I left them at my apartment—”
I groan.
Connor says, “Not surprised.”
“Look, I already had one of the girls swing by my place and pick them up on their way. Problem solved.” Probably Daisy…but I smother that suspicion. It shouldn’t matter if she was the one—they’re just friends. Like he said. I’d rather not put my doubts in Sam’s head either.
Ryke zips up his leather jacket. “And worry about yourself, Cobalt.�
��
“That’s the thing,” Connor says, “I don’t have to worry about myself.” He fits his black mask over his eyes and nose, shrouding half his face. “It’s called confidence, in case you were confused.”
“Sounds more like arrogance,” Ryke says.
“Closely related,” he says, not denying a thing.
Sam snaps his blue belt around his waist. “Poppy has my shield,” he says to Ryke, “so do you want to stop by the girls’ room with me?” He’s being all buddy-buddy with my brother, which has me a bit on guard.
Connor checks his watch on the bed. “Rose already texted me that they’re waiting on the ballroom level.” Everyone is pretty much ready except my brother, who’s been slacking. “Hurry up and shave, Ryke.”
“I’ll just meet you fucking down there.” Ryke heads to the bathroom.
“No,” Connor says. “A man never leaves his dog behind.”
Ryke flips him off, not turning around as he does so. He disappears in the bathroom.
Connor grins. We end up waiting for Ryke in the doorway. Sam leans his shoulder on the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The expression he wears—the faint humor mixed with seriousness as his lips rise—fits his character too well.
“Captain America,” I say. “Aren’t you glad you left your four-year-old at home? She’d learn words like fuck off and fucking fuck all within the span of thirty minutes.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sam says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap back.
“He’s your brother, right? Cut from the same cloth.”
I don’t curse as much as Ryke, not even close, but he’s saying that he’d be hesitant to let his child around me. I can’t do anything but glare.
Sam sighs, seeing that I’m taking offense to this. “I didn’t mean anything by it other than you’re both rough around the edges.” I don’t tear my gaze off him, and to throw up a white flag or maybe prove a point, he calls out to my brother, “Do you plan on procreating, Ryke?”
“Yeah,” Ryke shouts back. “And I hope my kid is a horrible influence on yours.”
Sam looks at me and outstretches his arms like am I right?
Yeah. My lips lift. Maybe he is.
{ 7 }
0 years : 02 months
October
LILY CALLOWAY
“Batman?” I stand beneath a towering figure with pink lips and broad shoulders. And I think: Please let this be Connor Cobalt. Within ten minutes, I lost my sisters among the costumed-clad masses. I was distracted by the best Ninja Turtle cosplay, of all things.
I’d search for the numerous Captain Americas and Black Widows, but it’s easy to tell which ones aren’t Sam and Poppy. Same goes for Cyclops—who’d be my first choice.
But the Batmans—I can’t discern from faraway. So this is my fifth attempt at rejoining my group.
The guy lowers his head a little so his blue eyes meet mine. And then he says in a deep voice, “I am Batman.”
Okaaay. “But do I know you?” I ask. I wish I could just be like: Hey, Connor, are you messing with me? I’d rather not shout his name too loudly. Even though “Connor” isn’t so original, people could put two and two together, right? And then they’ll figure out that I’m Lily Calloway.
I straighten my blonde wig in anxiety, hoping that the glitter on my face is a good enough disguise. If it was up to me, I’d be a pink Power Ranger—totally hidden from head-to-toe. However, Rose and Lo said I need to be partially exposed to the world because I can’t dress up all the time.
I feel fully exposed. I mean, these white spandex booty shorts are riding up and my top is nothing more than a boob corset with laces in the front.
And I think Batman may be checking out my cleavage, which is sparse. He can’t be Connor—
“Should I know you?” Batman asks like he has gravel in his throat.
“Nope,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve crossed paths before.” Off to find the next Batman. Or hopefully the right Scott Summers.
Just as I pass him, Batman sets a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, I do know you.” He broke character, his voice no longer abnormally low.
My eyes bug. “No you don’t.” I knew I should have been the Pink Ranger.
“Yes I do.” He smiles, which looks odd. Batman doesn’t smile like that.
“I’m no one,” I say stupidly and immediately blush. “Ihavetogo,” I mumble that last bit out.
“I do know you,” he says. “You’re Emma Frost. The White Queen. Biggest bitch.”
I glare.
“Hey and you kind of look like her too. Though your boobs need to be a lot bigger. It threw me off at first.”
I purse my lips, feeling a little offended like Rose would. “Stop making Batman look like a pervert.” As I pass, my shoulder shoves into his, and I stomp away. It’s probably way more badass in my head than actuality. Something about costumes—about being someone else—gives me a bit of confidence that I’ve lost since my addiction was publicized.
“You even sound like her too!” he calls out.
I turn around, walking backwards. I contemplate shooting him the middle finger, but my balls haven’t grown to that size yet. Instead I squint, hoping all he sees is a fiery, narrowed gaze full of irritation.
He laughs.
Damn.
Suddenly, my back bumps into a hard chest.
I freeze.
This is a man-chest.
For sure.
“I lost something recently,” he tells me.
My heart swells at the familiar voice, and I spin around to drop-dead-gorgeous cheekbones, a ruby-red visor, and lips that pull into a breathtaking smile.
“Found her,” he says.
I don’t know why those words almost bring tears to my eyes—but they do. They resonate deep within my soul, filling a part of me that only Loren Hale can reach.
I fling my arms around his neck, standing on the tips of my toes, and I kiss him. I feel safe in my costume and safe in his arms.
No one can stop me from loving him.
He kisses back, and he lifts me into a front piggy-back. In the middle of the ballroom floor, booths lining the walls, people milling around us.
I lose sense of everything, except the way his hands hold me close, the way his urgency, the degree of his love, matches mine.
“I missed you,” I say between kisses.
He grips my ass, my legs wrapped securely around his waist, ankles crossed. All is well. “Me too, love.”
We’ve been apart for three hours.
And then the surrounding noise escalates and breaches my happy place. Guys are whistling. Girls are clapping.
“Stick it in, Cyclops!” someone yells.
“There are kids here!” an angrier person rebuts.
“Emma Frost, looking hot!”
“Scott, stop cheating on Jean Grey!” Obviously that guy hasn’t realized that Jean Grey is dead.
I break from Lo’s lips for a second, the place between my legs throbbing for a harder entry, but I force the need away, shelving it as I concentrate on more important things.
Like being a spectacle without people even knowing our real names.
Camera flashes blind my eyes, and every fanboy and fangirl watch us like we’re reenacting a scene from an X-Men comic.
We’re not.
We’re just…in love? Horny? Both. Definitely both.
“Letmedownletmedown,” I slur together in haste (and fright), tapping Lo’s arm.
He sets me on my feet but instantly grabs my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “I’m not losing you again,” he says. He scans our audience, and they start cheering.
“Encore! Encore!” about five people shout.
Nooooo. Well…I take it back. There will most certainly be an encore. Only no one will be watching it. Just Lo and me. Alone.
Lo draws me out of the crowds, giving them a stiff wave to say that the show is over. Now we’re just part of the mas
ses again.
“Should we go to the hotel room?” I whisper.
I can’t see his eyes behind the visor, but he stares down at me with an intimidating scowl. He makes a good Scott Summers.
“Not to have sex,” I amend.
“We have friends now, remember? No more fake Stacey and Charlie.”
“Right,” I say. No more scapegoats.
“And with great friends comes great responsibility,” he tells me. “Like trying to listen to your sister talk without me referencing a demonic entity.” He looks at me. “It’s torture.”
Before I can reply, someone shouts, “I see her!”
I only flinch into Lo because Daisy’s voice emanates from seemingly nowhere. I whip my head around—how can she see me? And probably the least helpful thought pops up: She’d be an awesome spy.
“Emma!” Daisy shouts, using my character name to avoid attracting the wrong gazes. Thank you, Daisy.
I finally spot her…and she’s sticking out of the crowd by a Cider Rose Comics booth—the indies where Lo would’ve put Halway if he wanted to promote. He didn’t, and his father cut into him for that one.
“Is my little sister floating above people?” What the…I tilt my head. Her legs are as high as the heads. Is she standing on a table?
Oh.
No.
She’s on someone’s shoulders.
“Come on,” Lo says, quickening his pace.
Daisy’s short, bright orange wig molds her face. She wears a cropped white shirt and gold spandex. The giveaway of her costume happens to be orange foam suspenders that go beneath her crotch like a thong. I couldn’t pull off Leeloo from The Fifth Element with the same vigor as Daisy.
We reach the line of indie booths, and I expect my sister to be on some stranger’s body. She’s way too trusting. The opposite of me, I realize.
I was wrong though.
She’s on Ryke’s shoulders. Standing. Not sitting.
His hands clutch her calves so firmly that I doubt she can even shift an inch. He has on the same Green Arrow outfit from last year’s Halloween—oh my God, he shaved. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ryke completely shaven.
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