Chapter Forty
", hey, hey! No running in the house!" I yelled as I heard the sound of pounding feet run through the kitchen toward the back door.
"We're not running!" came the protesting voices in unison. "We're marching, Mom!"
"Okay, well, running or marching, I want some peace and quiet in this house!" I called back trying to swallow my laughter. "Because if you wake your sister, you're going to be responsible for her. Do you hear me?"
"Aye aye, ma'am!" came the reply from two small voices.
"They are your sons," I smiled as I looked up over where Ryan sat at the table reviewing paperwork that had been delivered that morning.
"Well, I can't say I'm sorry to hear that, Dr. Powell," he grinned. "What's for dinner?"
"I don't know, what did you pick up at the grocery store on your way home?" I asked sweetly.
"I was supposed to pick something up?" he looked up at me genuinely confused.
"I've been in the lab coding SAI 02 for three straight days," I sighed. "You knew you were responsible for dinner!"
"I suddenly miss those days when we lived next door to Nemo's and I could just call your boyfriend and order dinner," he said with a wistful grin.
"You are a pill," I laughed as I moved around the island and leaned down to hug him as he sat scanning papers. "What's that?"
"Same thing as usual, just going over the TriCorp books making sure that you're not squirreling away money so you can dump me and move to your own private island," he said turning to kiss my cheek.
"Yes, because that's what I'd definitely want to do if I squirreled away a lot of money," I said returning his kiss. "But if possible, could you direct a little more money toward the SAI 03 project? The lab team needs some supplies and I can't get the supply manager to release them."
"Cece does a great job of keeping that place in running order, doesn't she?" he grinned. "Give her the paperwork and I'll see if I can't prod her to get what you need a little quicker."
"You're a good husband," I said as I picked up my phone and tapped the screen. A few minutes later, I said, "Okay, you're off the hook. Dinner's on it's way and should be here in an hour. You do, however, need to get your sons in here to wash up and set the table for six of us. Meanwhile, I will go wake my daughter and get her cleaned and fed so that she can entertain the crowd."
"Who's coming to dinner?" he asked as he stood up and walked over to me. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to his chest.
"Who do you think?" I said as I rested my cheek against his chest and breathed in his musky scent. "The supply manager and my old boyfriend, they're bringing food from Nemo's."
"I miss those old days, but I am eternally grateful that you agreed to create a whole lifetime of new days with me, Echo," Ryan said as he held me close.
"I am, too, Ryan," I said as I tipped my head up and stood on my toes to kiss him. "I am, too."
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THE HOT GAMER
By Alexa Davis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Alexa Davis
Chapter One
Carina Jade Rivers
I adjusted the headpiece of my costume and smoothed the black latex thigh-highs up my legs. Peeking through the curtains from backstage, I watched Lacey stalk across the stage in her Poison Ivy reimagination. I tried not to roll my eyes. Sure, her outfit was sexy, but “Reimagined”? I scoffed to myself. Draping vines over a green bikini and slapping on a red wig was hardly the stuff of creative genius. I pushed the curtain aside a little more. Then again, she didn’t need much creativity with a push up bra and an all-male panel of judges.
Lacey did one last pirouette and strutted off the stage like it was a runway. I made one turn in the mirror backstage and breathed. I may not have the expensive augmentation to fall back on, but the plunging neckline of my jacket drew the eye down to the thick leather belt I’d painstakingly built and the attached real utility clips, including one with a genuine retracting cable outfitted with a tiny industrial strength folding grappling hook.
I’d bribed one of the stage hands to make sure I had a good bit of catwalk to throw it up to, and for fifty bucks and a Mardis Gras bead-worthy flash of breasts, I prayed he followed through. The announcer called my name, and I tossed a long, jet black dreadlock behind my shoulder and stepped out onto the stage. I was no longer C.J. Rivers, model and professional gamer, I was “Widowmaker” and I acted the part.
I whipped my waist-length hair around as I aimed my foam and cardboard sniper rifle at a spot on the edge of the stage and jerked my shoulder back like I’d pulled the trigger. Instantly, a small spark and a puff of smoke popped where I had aimed. The audience gasped in unison, and my heart felt so big it made my bodice tight. I pretended to fire a few more shots as I swaggered around on stage, giving the judges every angle of my costume design while acting as though I were the super-sniper herself on the job, instead of modeling an outfit.
With a little prayer that the stage tech was where he was supposed to be, I launched the tiny paracord straight up to the catwalk. It hit something at the top, and I felt a catch in the line. With a deep breath, I pressed the button to retract, and my body jerked up as the stage hand helped the small motor lift me, and I was hoisted smoothly as he pulled the line over the steel rail until I pushed the button again dramatically to show him I wanted to stop. He held me in place and I swung gently on the end of the two hundred-pound test line. The audience went wild. I made eye contact with each of the judges in turn before the stage hand released me slowly and I was lowered back into place, the paracord zipping back into the utility belt.
It had worked, so all that remained to be seen was if it got me a win, or a disqualification. I crossed my fingers and stood front and center to answer the obligatory questions about my design and execution of the character.
I waited for the applause and cheers to die down, and the judges finally began questioning me. Still in character, I answered in the heavy French accent the Widowmaker would use and cheers erupted again. The announcer called my name one more time, signaling me to wave and leave the stage. With my rifle still in my hands, I managed a front flip and a round off as I exited stage-right, elated with the absolute cacophony of cheers and stomping from the audience. It no longer mattered if I won or not, I had the crowd, and in the end, that was what made the best and most memorable cosplay models.
An hour later, the judges had finally seen all the entrants in the cosplay pageant. The Las Vegas convention center was packed. It seemed like every gamer geek and cosplayer west of Utah had shown up for the first gamer convention of the fall. Grateful I’d secured my room months before, I listened to frustrated Gamercon goers, whose rooms had been double booked, or worse, hadn’t had the foresight to reserve rooms weeks before.
It was easy to kill time, posing for pictures with fans of the character I was playing, and a hundred others who either knew who I was in the world of modeling, or just wanted their picture taken with a half-naked lavender-skinned chick. I snuck off to the restroom before it was time for the winners to be announced. My wig had held up well even in the barn-like heat caused by too many bodies in an enclosed space, but my make-up was smudged at my hairline on the sides of my face from the sweat that kept beading up there.
I dabbed at the damp skin with tissues, then blended on some fresh theatre makeup from the fix-it kit stowed in a pouch on the utility belt. A quick glance at the black rubber watch I wore on the underside of my wrist had me scrambling for the main stage with only minutes to spare before they announced the winner of the cosplay contest.
Lacey scowled at me as we lined up, single file, back stage while waiting to be called out as a group for the presentation of the awards. I shook out my shoulders and bounced on the balls of my feet, earning me another glare from the Poison Ivy pinup girl. I made a face at her and before she could retort, I motioned her forward with the rest of the group. She snapped her mouth shut and spun on her heel, rolling her hips for effect as she walked out on the stage.
I followed and, as before, stayed in character, gun at the ready, no smile on my face. The crowd welcomed me back onto the stage like I’d just performed another unexpected feat and the red-hot stare from Lacey was worth a dozen awards all on its own. The third-place prize was given to a guy who had masterfully incorporated leather and gear-works into a Star Wars storm trooper character. My palms were damp and I was grateful I’d gone for the full gloves that would hide my nervous sweat from the world. If he’d only placed third, I couldn’t imagine what chance I had of coming in first, if I wasn’t chased out of the cosplay world for my on-stage antics.
I was so engrossed with my mental calculations and second guessing, that I completely missed the announcement of second place, until a flushed and grinning girl in a hand-forged metal Iron Man suit almost dropped the trophy she carried while juggling it and her costume helmet. As we waited to hear the final name called, Lacey’s nerves got the better of her hate and she reached out and clenched my hand so tightly in hers I thought my fingers would break against each other.
“And with no further ado,” the leggy blonde MC continued, “first prize, including a ten-thousand-dollar check and one Bob Mackie consultation and design assistance…” she paused for effect and the crowd responded with stomps and whistles. “…goes to our very own Ms. C.J. Rivers!”
I froze, shocked, and stood stock-still, unsure of how to disengage myself from the woman still gripping my hand in hers.
“Carina, come on over,” Jay Maynard, one of the judges and former cosplay artist, called out. One of the scantily clad elvish attendants helped me shake Lacey free and another escorted me to the center front of the platform to receive my prize. My jelly knees almost sent me tumbling, but a strong hand around my upper arm kept me on my feet long enough to accept the small trophy; a golden statue that mimicked an Oscar, if the Oscar had long, elvish ears and a flowing robe. I curtsied and held the statue up in the air, to the uproarious standing, stomping ovation.
I’d been a player in the world of cosplay ever since I’d started making enough money with my modeling career to pay for the insanely expensive hobby. After a couple of years making the rounds on my own dime, I’d started getting invited to these conventions by the hosts, and paid for my time and photos. Even at the Las Vegas Gamercon, I had made my reservations, dropped the hint that I planned on attending, and been reimbursed at retail for the tickets, which put a few extra dollars back I my pocket. Winning the cosplay pageant only cemented my value to the big game developers and the entire entertainment industry.
I kissed the little robed statue and waved as I sashayed off stage, shook my head back to push the heavy dreadlocks behind my shoulder and performed my best runway strut off the stage, to raucous clapping and catcalling.
I killed time for a couple more hours posing for more photos and at the convention center, if for no other reason than to get the most out of the trouble I’d taken with my Widowmaker costume; it had taken me two hours to get into my costume, even with the help of my friend and stylist, Shelby Grey. Shelby was a professional makeup artist I’d met when I worked for Ford models, who wanted to break into movies, with the help of a few cosplay awards, one of which she’d be able to add to her portfolio after my win. I had a second, less involved getup for the next day.
The afternoon rushed by in a blur of photo ops, Q&A panels discussing women in gaming, cosplay, and my new favorite pastime, streaming my gameplay. At the end of a long ten-hour day of stumping, interviews, and a thousand more photo opportunities, I was just happy to get back to my room, alone. I touched my statue for good luck and stripped down to a pair of men’s boxers and a tank top. The next part of my day was always my favorite, and I didn’t need prosthetic cheekbones or wigs or push up bras to make it work. Not that the guys who watched me minded a push-up, mind you, but they prided themselves on paying their subscriptions to see the “real me,” hair pulled back, glasses on, swearing like a sailor. Me.
I turned on my laptop and started my stream preview, while I stepped away to use the bathroom and pour myself a stiff drink. Usually, the strongest thing I drank online was beer, but it had been a long-ass day and I needed something with the medicinal ability to calm my jangling nerves. Headphones on, I did a quick camera check to make sure I wasn’t giving my viewers too much skin, and started my one-woman show.