Covalent Bonds

by Trysh Thompson

  He felt awkward as soon as the mention of a relationship came out of his mouth, though asking her out had crossed his mind. She smiled, took her hands from her ears, and folded her arms over her tank top. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. Maybe he was thinking too much.

  “I’m Mike, by the way.”

  “Aleisha. Hi.”

  “Hi. Nice to meet you,” he offered his hand and she accepted it. Her hands were warm and soft, and he got a whiff of coconut that made his heart jump. She was cute, smelled delicious, and she knew old horror flicks.

  Aleisha was, quite possibly, the girl of his dreams.

  Mike presumed he was dreaming.

  “You too,” she replied, as she stepped up to the ticket window and whipped her quilted wallet out of the messenger bag on her shoulder. No one was in the ticket booth yet, no surprise.

  “I assumed you were on your way to yoga.”

  “No. I just came from there. Now I’m seeing a Christmas horror movie in the middle of July. Like I said, it’s my favorite of Linnea Quigley’s films. No one screams as well as she does. Like in Night of the Demons.”

  “Night of the Demons is the stupidest movie ever made.”

  Aleisha held up a hand to stop him. “We both know there are way stupider movies. Tourist Trap, for example.”

  “David Schmoeller is a genius,” Mike burst with his opinions. “It was early in his career, and for the budget he had it’s almost a masterpiece.”

  “It’s about killer mannequins.” Aleisha’s face showed her disbelief. “Night of the Demons isn’t perfect, but at least the plot sort of makes sense. Sort of. And the soundtrack is amazing.”

  Mike stared at her.

  She looked back at him and shrugged her bare shoulders. “What?”

  “I can’t believe I’m arguing camp horror from the eighties with a woman who does yoga.”

  “Ah,” she nodded to herself. “You’re one of those movie guys.”

  “Those movie guys?”

  She let out a long sigh before she explained. “You’re a movie snob. You took one look at my yoga mat and assumed I would be an airhead. Let me guess, now you’re going to try and mansplain the genre to me —because only dudes can know horror.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Sure.”

  “No,” he argued.

  “People can have more than one interest,” she laid it down for him. “Most people in the world, in fact, do. I like yoga and horror movies. I’ve liked them since I was ten and had sleepovers at my friend Karen’s house where we’d scare ourselves silly with her teenage brother’s VHS collection. My best friend —a woman, by the way—does ballet and also happens to be a legit grillmaster. My upstairs neighbor works at a sex store and writes children’s books. Don’t judge, dude. All it does is shut doors you might want to open.” A long-haired hipster appeared at the ticket window. “One for Silent Night, please.”

  They were silent a minute, while Mike took in her words. Yeah, he’d been a jerk and had been—rightfully—put in his place.

  “Make that two tickets,” he said to the ticket taker and handed over his card. “I might be a movie snob, but I can also be a gentleman.”

  Aleisha nodded appreciatively. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Apart from the lone guy sitting front and center, they had the whole theater to themselves. Mike got his favorite seat, and Aleisha settled in next to him. As they sat down, the organist appeared and the short black and white film began. Usually, the shorts were one of the things Mike loved most about being at the Harris, but he couldn’t stop casting looks at the woman next to him who was smiling broadly.

  Aleisha apparently liked movies.

  They cheered loudly for the organ player when he’d concluded. When the film started, Mike leaned over and whispered, “Would you like some of my organic, free-range Skittles?”

  “No, thank you. “Aleisha slipped the soda out of her bag and took a sip. “You’re right. This stuff is so vile.”

  Silent Night, Deadly Night, the story of a deranged young man who kills people while dressed as Santa Claus, lived up to every expectation Mike had formed. There were terrible special effects, overwrought performances, and the whole thing was every bit as dated as he’d hoped.

  It was a nearly perfect movie, made even better by the delightful woman in the seat next to him. She kicked off her flip-flops and sat cross-legged in the seat. Mike saw that her toes were painted red. He liked that.

  He liked her. A lot.

  At the moment Linnea Quigley died (impaled on deer antlers hung on a wall), Aleisha leaned over.

  “Sorry,” she whispered in his ear.

  The warm breath on Mike’s neck tingled. When he turned to her to reply something clever, he found his face only an inch from hers. Swiftly, she brushed her lips over his. Mike went in for more, but she just giggled. “You’ll miss the movie.”

  “I’ll torrent it.”

  “Sacrilege,” she replied. Their lips met again, and Mike’s head spun. “Please mansplain to me how David Schmoeller is a genius one more time. I think it’s sexy.”

  “He is,” Mike said between laughs and kisses. “He should get an Oscar every single year for his contributions to the genre. Tell me again how no one screams like Linnea Quigley,” he whispered before he nibbled at her earlobe.

  Aleisha laughed out loud and put her hands on his shoulders, angling better toward him. Her lips were full and warm, and she kissed him with a sweet strength he didn’t expect, and just the faintest lingering taste of Mountain Dew. They turned to each other as best they could with the wooden arm of the seat between them and made out like high schoolers under the dark cover of the movie. Every bit of Mike was charged with energy, and he felt that if they’d been in a movie, the camera would have panned away to blowing curtains or fireworks or something to emphasize the explosive connection they shared.

  They were still kissing when the lights came up.

  When they emerged back into the bright afternoon sun, Mike knew he was smiling too broadly.

  “Nice meeting you,” Aleisha said, and she turned to walk away.

  “That’s it?” he asked in surprise. He gestured back to the theater. “After that? We should go get coffee, or a drink, or stay up until 4 a.m. watching Blu-Rays or something.”

  Aleisha smiled at him and moved so close he noticed a small freckle under her eyelid. “Tell you what. I’ll be here on Tuesday for the next film.”

  “Is that a spoiler?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She shook her head, and a piece of her hair fell out of her ponytail. “Nope. It’s just how the story starts.”

  After she dropped a light kiss on his cheek, she turned and walked away, looking back over her shoulder with a beautiful smile that made Mike feel like the coolest guy on earth.

  Marie Piper writes steamy western historical romance, so getting her geek on in Covalent Bonds has been a delight. Her trilogy, Fires of Cricket Bend, is being published by Limitless Publishing, and her short stories have appeared in collections from LoveSlave, House of Erotica, Torquere Press, NineStar Press, and Coming Together. Maidens & Monsters, Marie’s 5-novella old west mystery girl squad serial, is out now. For more information, visit mariepiper.com or @mariepiperbooks

  Rogue Trip

  Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “A little help?” called Angie. “I’m down sixty-four hit points! This thing is killing me!”

  Cassandra didn’t look up from the figures on the table. “I know! That’s why I’m about to hit it in the head with a mace!”

  “Cassandra, you’re the cleric! I want some healing.”

  Cassandra glanced at her character sheet. Morningstar or broadsword? She should have buffed the sword. “Quit your whining, I’m busy.”

  Angie’s voice was insistent. “Healing?”

  “Fine, fine.” Cassandra raised a hand overhead, still looking at the map and figures on the table, and pointed at Angie. “Cure moderate. Take…
” She rolled two dice. “Twenty-two points of health back.”

  The GM frowned. “Hold on, her character’s twenty feet away from you. You can’t cure from there.”

  “I took the Faith’s Reach feat. I can touch from range distances.”

  “Thanks,” said Angie. “Now I can run away screaming.”

  “And leave the cleric alone in the front line?”

  “There shouldn’t be a cleric in the front line!”

  “Shut up, you.”

  “Right, then.” The GM sighed. “You’re that kind of cleric. This is going to be a rough game.”

  Cassandra noted the three other players watching her dubiously across the table. “Look, guys, I said I didn’t want to play a healer. Told you that up front.”

  “But we needed a healer,” answered one, in the obligatory black t-shirt and with a character name placard which read Delfinus, Ranger. “And we already had a paladin. An oracle seemed like a nice compromise for you.”

  Cassandra resigned herself to being a good team player. “Okay, I’ll heal. But you’ve gotta call out if you need help, I’m not tracking your statuses.”

  “Thanks,” said Phineas Honorious, the paladin. “So, I’m gonna hit this thing in the head with a plus-two broadsword.”

  Angie threw Cassandra an apologetic look as the game progressed. She was the one who had wanted to play this scenario and had asked Cassandra to come along so she wouldn’t be at the table with no one she knew. While con games were generally friendly, Angie had been burned a couple of times as a lone female and preferred to play with backup.

  Cassandra mouthed, You owe me.

  Angie put on a sad face and nodded.

  But Cassandra didn’t care that much, not really. If rolling up an oracle was the worst thing she had to put up with this weekend, it would be a good weekend. She could always use the character in a home game later, where she could beat on things instead of being the party’s primary healer. Benjamin liked playing healers.

  A lot of the kids liked playing healers, actually. It made sense, in a way.

  After four hours, they’d entered the final battle with the Minotaur Lord, and Cassandra’s oracle stayed at the rear of the party delivering long distance heals. She was pre-rolling Cure Moderates when one minotaur broke free of the attack formation and rushed the party’s flank.

  “Hold on!” called Phineas Honorious. “I’m coming! Can you just retreat, get some distance so you’re safe?”

  “Retreat?” repeated Cassandra incredulously. “I’ve got a morningstar! Mace to the face!” She rolled. “Does a thirty-one hit?”

  “It does indeed,” confirmed the GM. “Roll damage.”

  “But if you attack, you can’t heal,” protested Honorious’ player.

  “You’re a paladin,” she replied. “Man up and lay on hands. Damage is… forty-three.”

  “It looks bloodied,” said the GM. “Phineas Honorious?”

  “I guess I lay on hands to heal myself,” he grumbled.

  “Delfinus?”

  “I’m going to take Precise Shot and…. Oh.” He looked down at his die. “Rolled a one. I’m going to drop my arrow, apparently.”

  “Sorceress Willow?”

  Angie grinned. “I cast Hideous Remorse.”

  They both rolled, and the GM sucked a breath. “Ouch. Okay, the minotaur stops dead and begins to think about the terrible things it has done. It begins punching itself in the face.”

  Angie grinned. “All yours, Cassandra.”

  When it was her turn again, Cassandra repeated, “Mace to the face. Twenty-eight to hit.”

  “That will hit,” he confirmed. “And the minotaur goes down. My figurine, please.”

  When the carnage was done, and the character sheets were being tucked into binders and dice returned to bags, Cassandra nodded toward the GM. “Hey, thanks for throwing me a bone.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “The Minotaur Lord was going down anyway, and it’s not like pulling one minotaur out for a flank attack was going to break the scenario experience. And you were a good sport about rolling up an oracle instead of playing the character you brought.”

  “I’m just glad I could afford to switch characters,” she said. “My rogue just got her last game to make her playable for Sunday.”

  “Oh, you’re in the debut game? Hellraisers?”

  “Yep! I spent five months leveling my nine stars into ten so I could be eligible, and then I pounded F5 like a jackhammer until the lottery opened. Was the fifth entry. Danced like a pop idol when I got the email that I’d won a table spot.”

  Playmor Games’ program recognized gamemasters for games run, helpful forum posts, newbies assisted, and other gaming community service. GMs were tiered by stars, one to ten. Only ten-star GMs would be eligible to run their flagship new scenario, debuting Sunday at XP Expo.

  “Excellent! I’ll be there, too.”

  “Cool! Maybe we’ll be at the same table.”

  “Could be.” He glanced at Angie. “Are you playing Hellraisers too?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I’ll catch a home game, after Cassandra plays.”

  “Sweet. See you Sunday!”

  Hellraisers Menace would open Playmor’s new multimedia role-playing game concept. Like Paizo’s Pathfinder Society, the Playmor scenarios took place within a larger, interconnected world, and players could participate anywhere in any reported game while tracking and leveling characters. But Playmor went further, linking tabletop RPGs with online events and revealing new pieces of world, story, and game scenarios depending on how successful players were in achieving scenario goals and how they played through each game. New geographic areas were unlocked only when player characters actually mapped them, factions and alignments shifted according to aggregate player actions, and players could vote online to sway their fictional councils’ decisions. It was going to be amazingly complex and organic and real world-building beyond even ordinary RPGs.Everyone was talking about it.

  Adam was boggled. There really wasn’t any other word for it. “Racist? What?”

  Jatan made a pained face and tapped the computer monitor. “The report is you made racist jokes during the game design panel.”

  “Racist?” Adam repeated. “What kind? I mean, I’m bi-racial myself.”

  “Really? You don’t look—”

  “That’s not the point! What was it I’m supposed to have said?”

  Jatan checked the screen. “Came in through the con’s mobile app. It says you put on an ethnic accent and talked in broken English.”

  Adam opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times. “I talked in my pixie voice,” he managed finally. “Like, a stupid little pixie character voice. That’s not ethnic. I always thought it sounded like an angry Munchkin on helium, if anything.”

  Jatan raised his eyebrows. “Maybe it’s not as innocent as you thought. It’s not so hard to slip into something accidentally. Let me hear it.”

  Adam hesitated, and then he cleared his throat. Then in a nasal falsetto he offered, “I can whack you with Stick of Feel Better for—hold on, need to take shoes off. For twelve points!”

  Jatan snorted. “That’s not any ethnic accent I can place. You sound like a Jawa using a voice changer.”

  “I know! I mean, not about the Jawa, but I know that voice is not mocking any ethnicity or culture which exists in our world. Who thought that was a racist joke?”

  “You know, it might not even be a legitimate complaint. Maybe somebody’s just trying to make headlines, or maybe they didn’t mean you—although I can’t think of anyone else at that panel who would be doing racist impressions, either. Anyway, I believe you’re innocent.”

  “That’s great,” Adam said, “but that won’t help if it hits Tumblr.”

  “Cross that bridge when you come to it,” said Jatan. “Maybe it won’t be a thing. How’s the Hellraisers setup coming?”

  “Ugh,” Adam answered efficiently.

  “That good, huh.�
��

  “The booth stuff is here and setup is going fine, but not all the merchandise made it. The remainder—including all the special edition Hellraisers modules—is somewhere in Missouri, because the truck had a flat tire. The games can’t go on sale until after the Sunday event anyway, but that’s a lot of related merch that isn’t on the shelves now and it’s a headache no one needed.”

  “Ouch. But hang in there. Plenty of time for the truck to make it.”

  “Hope so.”

  Jatan hesitated and tipped his head to look at Adam. “Bi-racial? I’ve known you three years and I didn’t catch that.”

  “Well, now you know. Hate to run, but if you’re done giving me the bad news, I’m going to see how setup got on while I was in the panel.”

  “Do that. See you later.”

  Adam turned toward the vendor hall. The line to enter was queued neatly against the wall, where costumed characters, bearded guys in black t-shirts, and girls carrying superhero bags leaned against the wall or sat on the floor to play card games. The line extended down the hall and wrapped around the convention center, contained by masking tape lines on the brightly-patterned carpet. In just five minutes, the doors would open and thousands of attendees would flood into the vendor hall, bolting for their favorites, trying to snatch limited editions or hot items before quantities were depleted.

  Adam hated crowds, but doing cons was essential if he wanted to advance in the industry. Maybe he could get a bit of elbow room at the booth.

  He lifted his vendor badge to show the woman at the door, who nodded before allowing him to enter. Soon, he hoped, he wouldn’t have to show his badge. That was his private dream, his personal milestone to mark success, that he would be recognized on sight so his badge was superfluous.

  He was getting closer. He’d just spoken on a game design panel at one of the most prestigious game conventions on the continent. He was a primary writer on one of the most ambitious projects ever seen in the gaming community. When Hellraisers Menace took off as it should, he would be credited for his work alongside one of the top names in the industry, Lee Cole, lead designer on the Hellraisers project and enthusiastic supporter of Adam’s contribution. He was so close. Maybe at next year’s XP Expo he’d be striding into the vendor hall with just a nod to the grinning door watchman. So close.