Chapter 19: Corban

Before I came up with any plan, I had to tell Luna the truth. I couldn’t let her stay home alone, mistakenly believing that I cared what that despicable spoiled brat Thorn Edwards thought about her. I didn’t trust that ass as far as I could throw him, and my visit to the Twins’ lawyer had only confirmed my original suspicions about Edwards.

I steered my Audi around the corner and into Summit Avenue. I hadn’t bothered calling Lou for this. I didn’t need an escort now, I needed to be in control of this moment. I slowed down outside Luna’s house, and my heart turned into a ball of lead.

Five vans, printed with a range of different logos for various local newspapers and news stations, were parked outside Luna’s home. Reporters milled around on the sidewalk.

One of them, a large and sweaty woman in a horrible checked outfit stood on the curb, squinting at the group of – holy shit, of Klingons and Stormtroopers marching away from my car. It had to be some kind of science fiction convention at the hotel. I vaguely remembered hearing about it on Fox 9 news. Attendees were expected from all across the Midwest.

I opened my door and slipped out into the clamor. A flash of beauty caught my eye and there she was. Luna. She stood in the midst of the group of geeks, cheeks wet with tears. Dammit, the reporters had made her cry again. Every single tear she shed in vain caused a new part of my heart to bleed sympathy for her. She stared at her house, then at the journalists who’d gathered – circling wolves ready to tear their fangs into fresh meat.

“Luna,” I said, but she couldn’t hear me over the chatter.

She bumped into someone, bent, and disappeared, then popped up again. She put on a Stormtrooper helmet and blended in with the crowd.

“Shit,” I grunted and took a step forward. I lost her. All I wanted was to tell her that I knew the truth and that I believed her. That I’d stick up for her. I had to get to her before she did something rash. Something she’d regret.

I darted into the crowd of sci-fi con dorks and joined the throng which swelled as more and more cosplayers joined in. People laughed and whooped. A group of Darth Vader’s fake air-choked their friends. People halted mid-march to take pictures and pose for them. Selfie sticks were everywhere, causing human gridlock.

I moved through the insanity, muttering under my breath. I didn’t fit in with the crowd. My suit stood out like a sore thumb, but Luna didn’t.

Wait a second, there she was! A woman about the same height as Luna in a Stormtrooper helmet marched just ahead of me, head swiveling from left to right, searching for something. It had to be her.

But where was she headed? Why had she left her house in the first place? She could’ve hidden out inside until the reporters left. Sure, I didn’t have much experience with the paps, but they had to go home sometime, right? The moment the talking heads caught wind of a car accident or a downed pedestrian, they’d ease off.

It didn’t matter now. I sped up and darted between the cosplayers and Spocks. Luna walked right ahead of me. I reached for the Stormtrooper helmet, heart pounding.

“Luna.” I whipped it off.

Curly black hair sprang free and dropped to her shoulders.

“Luna, I–” Wait a second, curly black hair? That wasn’t –

The woman spun toward me, heaving in great gasps of air. Her eyes flashed. “What the hell are you doing, creeper? Fall the fuck back!” She snatched the helmet out of my hands.

“Sorry, I thought you were somebody else.”

“Yeah, right!” She shoved the helmet against my chest and pushed me into a group of Klingons. Clicks and tuts surrounded me. A couple of the cosplayers growled at me.

“Shit, sorry.”

“Get lost, loser,” one guy said. “Nice suit. You get that at Savers? It’s the wrong costume, douche.”

“Are you kidding?” I straightened and brushed off my Armani suit. It probably cost more than this post-pubescent asshat’s annual salary.

The Klingons surrounded me, all glaring from beneath pasted-on, ridged brows and pronounced widow’s peaks. “What are you supposed to be?” one of them asked. “One of the men in black? You’re no Will Smith.”

“He couldn’t pull off Tommy Lee Jones if he tried, either,” another said and balled up his fists. “He ain’t ugly enough.”

“Slow down, fellas,” I replied, and put my palms up. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”

Back in the day, only geeks attended these kinds of conferences, but the recent upswing in popularity of Star Trek, Star Wars and cosplay in general meant a couple of these dudes could’ve frequented clubs as bouncers.

One of the burly ones flexed his biceps. “Get him,” he growled.

“Oh shit.”

The skinny Klingon threw the first punch. I ducked down, and the fist sailed over my head and smacked into the back of a Stormtrooper’s helmet. A shocked gasp shuddered through the crowd.

The entire group of Stormtroopers halted and turned. Apparently, the two factions were about to start a war. “He just hit me!” the Stormtrooper screeched. “That Star Trek lover just hit me.”

“Better than being a Star Wars freak!” one of the Klingons yelled. “Oh ho, well done, you jumped onboard the franchise train. Mainstream loser.”

“Bubbly-headed freak!” one of the other Stormtroopers chipped in.

“Are you kidding me with this?” I muttered, feeling like I stumbled into some alternate universe for the sake of my wounded heart. And the woman who had snatched a part of it already. I kept low and moved between the crowds, away from the brewing trouble.

“Get them!” A Klingon, the massive dude with the biceps that could’ve bench pressed a bus, gave a war cry, and leaped into the fray. Tension erupted, and an all-out war began. Klingons versus Stormtroopers. Heck, even a few Wookies joined in to defend the Star Wars brand, giving strange yowls mimicking those they’d heard in the movie.

A pimply geek darted past me screaming bloody blue murder, swinging his Stormtrooper helmet above his head.

I avoided the punches, the half-assed tackles that would’ve made a jock scoff, ducking low and strafing left and right. These guys were into it. This had to be the most action they’d had in years, apart from shooting up enemies on their computers and rubbing themselves raw with their right hands.

This would be a tale they told and retold at other conventions. The first and hopefully last Klingon-Stormtrooper war. I extricated myself from the center of the brawl and made my way through the outskirts of the marching group. I scanned for Luna, but I’d lost her. Panic and hopelessness coursed through me. How could I help if I couldn’t make contact?

I had two options: rejoin the fray and take a chance I’d find her in there, or head back to the car and wait it out. She had to go home at some point, so the latter seemed like the better option.

I straightened my suit jacket for what had to be the fiftieth time that day and trekked back to my car, past Luna’s home.

Those vans with their reporters still hadn’t left. Men and women crowded in front of her gate, muttering to each other. One guy yawned and checked the time on a cheap, gold watch.

I stopped and narrowed my eyes at them. These assholes were a part of the problem. If they’d left her alone, she’d never have run off like that. And if they’d treated her like a human being instead of a tourist attraction, she would’ve carried on with her life in peace.

What were they even doing here? Had they somehow picked up on what happened at the hotel?

Shit. I’d totally forgotten about what that Edwards’ bastard said. That he’d seen Luna in the Star and Tribune. Was that why they were here? They were that desperate for a sensationalist story. Scumbags.

“Think she’s coming back tonight, Greg?” The woman in her checked skirt-jacket outfit tapped her kitten heel on the sidewalk, grinding grit beneath the sole. “I don’t want to waste more time here if we’re not going to get answers. I heard Larry’s working on a special.”

Greg snorted and readjusted the camera. He checked the lenses. “Sheila, I don’t give a fuck. Man can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“You need to give a fuck, Greg, unless you want to keep on working the entertainment section of the evening news. We’re not even in a good slot. We could be doing sports. I bet he’s doing a piece on sports.”

“This is technically sports,” Greg replied. “Thorn Edwards’ ex? This is a big scoop. If she’s fucking this new guy, we can–”

“New guy?” I asked.

The reporters turned on me as one. It was as if they were a flock of birds – one switched direction, and the others followed seamlessly. They stared at me.

My body reacted before my brain. I stumbled back a couple steps. These fuckers were predators. But I had fangs too.

“That’s him,” Greg said. “That’s the guy. That’s the guy she was with at The Ivy. Mr. Hot as Hell Bachelor of the year. Cramden Duke.”

“Drake,” Sheila replied. “Mr. Drake. Mr. Corban Drake, imbecile. Mr. Drake, is it true that you’re together with Miss Luna Anderson? Are you a couple?”

“Vulture,” I growled, the words popping out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Sheila batted her cameraman on the arm with her bobble-headed mic. “Get the camera up, jackass. This is about to get good.”

Greg hefted the piece of equipment and took the lens cap off. He gave sheep-faced Sheila an excited thumbs up.

“Mr. Drake, what do you have to say about the accusations that Luna Anderson ruined Thorn Edwards’ career?” Sheila pushed the mic into my face.

The other reporters advanced, spitting out equally infuriating questions.

“Have you and Miss Anderson made your relationship physical?”

“Are you and Miss Anderson engaged?”

“Mr. Drake, how do you feel knowing that you’ll have to step into Thorn Edwards’ shoes to satisfy Miss Anderson? It’s urban legend that he packs more than ten inches.”

The barrage didn’t stop. I jammed my lips together and refused to comment. I knew enough about PR to realize this was one of those nightmares publicists avoided. I backed off toward my car and reached into my pocket.

“He’s got a ring in his pocket,” Sheila muttered. “Are you going to propose to Miss Anderson tonight?”

“Mr. Drake, is it true that you’re hosting an event for the Minnesota Twins, and you hired Thorn Edwards as the emcee? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

I sucked in a breath, turned my back on the slugs, and marched to my car. It took all the reserves of strength in my body not to walk back to them and clock one of the fuckers in the jaw. They were part of the problem. The more they publicized this, the worse it got for Luna.

I opened my car, ignoring the continuous stream of shouts and questions, the flash of cameras. I didn’t want to know what they’d write about me in the papers tomorrow. I got in the car, started the engine, and drove off.

I circled the block, chewing on the side of my tongue. I’d lost Luna in the sci-fi crowd, but that didn’t mean she was unreachable. It took me five minutes to head back around to a parking spot down the road from Luna’s home.

By that time, the reporters had returned to their watch posts in front of the house. Sheila and Greg exchanged their aimless chit-chat, kept checking their wristwatches.

I brought my cell out and tried Luna’s number. It rang, at least, which meant she finally switched on her phone, but every one of my calls went to voicemail. I grunted my frustration, then opened my messaging app and shot off a text:

We need to talk about what happened. Please know that I don’t believe anything that dickhead said. Call me back when you get this. Please.

That ought to do the trick. Hopefully, she read her messages. I tried calling her number one last time, then gave it up and settled in for the long wait. Hours passed, and the reporters didn’t move from the front of the Summit Avenue house. Luna didn’t reappear either.

My concern doubled, and I tried her number again and again, but nothing worked. She’d gone officially MIA. The only indication I got that she was even near her cell was when she hung up on my call without answering.

It was a tiny slice of relief in a sea of frustration. Thorn Edwards had caused all of this. He’d blackmailed her into taking the fall for his own shortcomings, and everything else had collapsed like a row of dominoes. There had to be a solution to this mess. There had to be.

I strained my brain, working over the options in my mind as I called on every meeting I’d ever had with PR, but evening had arrived and settled a purple shroud over the architectural roof of Luna’s house. Her windows remained dark. Much like my hope for our future.