What Happens at Con Page 3

  It took him a second to realize the pounding wasn’t coming from his head. There was someone in the kitchen making all that noise.

  As close as he was to Adam and Tessa, he was more than ready to tear the head off whoever it was to make them stop. “What the actual fu…” he started to yell, then stopped abruptly.

  It was Tessa’s friend Ani. He’d met her a few times, briefly. Each time, she’d looked at him like he had some particularly virulent strain of leprosy, and since he was pretty sure that she worked with that kind of shit, she ought to know. Her long black hair was braided, sort of, but she’d obviously slept on it, so pieces stuck out haphazardly. She was wearing a T-shirt that said University of Washington Huskies on it, and her dark skin tone was a little green.

  “Not so loud,” she croaked, gripping one temple and then wincing as she hit herself with the handle of the mallet.

  “Not so…” He growled, low in his throat. “What the hell are you doing banging stuff so fucking loud this early in the morning?”

  “I’m making a hangover cure,” she said, and hit the cutting board with one more loud thwack that had them both groaning. “There. Sorry. That’s all I needed.”

  He sniffed. “Is… What is that? Ginger?”

  She nodded, then looked at him. “Want some? You look pretty rough, too.”

  He could only imagine what he looked like. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Well, as long as he was up, maybe he should make his own hangover cure. “What do you do with it?”

  Her eyes widened behind the lenses. “Um, consume it?”

  “Smartass,” he said, but it wasn’t as harsh as he normally would say it. “What, do you chew it or something?”

  “Making chai,” she said, and pointed to a pot of milk on the stove.

  “Never had that. Don’t plan to, either.” He scowled. “Chai’s something that teenaged, yoga-pants-wearing girls drink when Pumpkin Spice Latte isn’t available. Real men don’t drink chai.”

  “Wow.” Her drawl was derisive. “Generalize much?”

  He wasn’t sure if her irritation was hangover based or what. “I’m making breakfast. I’ll try not to get in your way,” he added.

  “I didn’t know you were hungover,” she said in a quiet voice. “Or I wouldn’t have… you know, woken you up.”

  “With the banging of a mallet,” he tacked on.

  “With the really quick banging of a mallet at eleven in the morning,” she clarified, her voice tight. “What are you doing?”

  “Making breakfast,” he said. “Best hangover cure ever.”

  “Making breakfast is more manly than chai?”

  “This is.” He pulled out some supplies that he’d had the forethought to bring over breakfast materials: bacon, sausage, eggs, hash browns. Bread. Before Adam had hooked up with Tessa, the whole crew would play video games until well past dawn the next day, then crash out, wake up, and have breakfast.

  He glanced at his bounty. Greasy hangover food. Just what he needed.

  He heard a gagging noise. Ani stared at him, eyes wide. “You’re going to eat that?” She waved a hand at his supplies.

  “Well, not all of it,” he said, then remembered her offer. He figured he could be generous. “You’re welcome to some.”

  She stared at the ceiling, as if asking for help from above. “You have got to be kidding me. I’ll be lucky if I keep the tea down.”

  “Hey, this is a traditional, tried-and-true hangover cure,” he said. “Short of having another shot of moonshine, eating lots of greasy food is the manliest cure for hangover there is.”

  She carefully poured the hot milk over the spices, putting in some of the pulverized ginger and then squeezing in some honey. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “Manliest? Could you be a little more cliché?”

  He paused. He’d thought they were having fun, but… well, if she was going to pull her claws out, then he wasn’t going to go easy. “Well, there is one more cure that’s manlier than bacon, I admit.”

  She grabbed her tea. “I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  But she still paused at the doorway.

  He smirked, waiting as he pulled bacon out and put it on the heating griddle. She still stood there, rubbing the mug.

  “So, what is it?” she finally asked.

  He looked over his shoulder, grinning, with a heavy leer. “It’s a good, solid fucking,” he said. “Endorphins. Great pain relievers.”

  He waited to see the sneer, the look of sheer disgust. He wanted to see it — throw it in his face. Let her act like a stuck-up bitch, he thought defensively. She was the one pounding shit at — okay, it was eleven, she probably was in the right there — when a guy was hungover. And making fun of bacon. And calling him a cliché, and treating him like he was garbage. Let her…

  But before the sneer, there was a second of pure, unadulterated lust. Not directed at him, necessarily. Just… in general.

  Well, well, well. Little Miss All That wanted to get some. Wasn’t that interesting?

  He shut off the pan and washed his hands. “The bacon can wait,” he said genially, feeling the smile cross his face slowly, “if you want to feel better.”

  She blinked, and the sneer went into full effect. “You’re disgusting.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to do my civic duty, princess.”

  If she gripped that stoneware mug any tighter, she was gonna shatter it, he thought, grinning.

  “I’d rather finger-prick myself with leprosy,” she said. “I’d rather get it on with someone dead.”

  “I can lie real still if that’s your kink,” he offered.

  Her look was poisonous, and he suppressed a laugh.

  “Gee. I was just trying to help out.”

  He grinned as she stormed off, and he heard her slam her bedroom door — then heard her moan in protest at the loud noise. He finally chuckled, even as his own head hurt.

  That had been fun, he realized reluctantly. It’d probably be more fun if it had been with someone who didn’t hate him. But that was okay. He didn’t much like her, either.

  Of course, the fact that they hated each other didn’t necessary preclude getting horizontal.

  He blinked at himself, momentarily sidetracked from the pounding pain in his head. Where the fuck did that come from?

  Which brought him back to last night’s conversation with the guys, what he could remember about it.

  He needed a hookup, ASAP. And there was something about a bet…?

  The phone in his pocket buzzed, and he frowned, pulling it out and looking at the message.

  Good morning! Remember, you promised, the text said. And there was a picture of Jose, Fezza, and Dennis all propping him up as he held a signed IOU.

  He’d lost. To add insult to injury, he’d lost at Overwatch, one of his favorite games. He’d gotten sloppy drunk, and now his punishment was to enter this hunger games tournament to see who could get nailed first.

  He squinted, studying the details of the IOU.

  In costume.

  Apparently, he was dressing up and going to something called Erotic City Con. And they were going to choose what he was going to wear.

  He groaned, even louder, as he continued slowly making the breakfast. He hated dressing up. He always felt like such a loser. His father would call it childish, or worse, girly. He’d gone to plenty of comic cons, but he’d kept his role-playing to a minimum. And when he’d dressed as Sailor Uranus in January because he’d lost a bet, he’d been able to say that — he’d lost a bet.

  His father respected bets. A man kept his word. And technically, he’d lost a bet this time, too.

  Turning the bacon, he quickly dialed up Jose. “Hey, Jose?”

  “Yeah?” Jose sounded wary.

  “Tell me where the hell this fucking con is,” he said. “And what I’m supposed to dress up as. We talking mech? Soldiers?” He winced. “I’ve still got military gear…”

  “As it happens
, we pitched in and got you the perfect thing,” Jose said, and Abraham felt a slow, cold shudder of fear.

  What would they have come up with to troll him? Chicken suit? Speedo? Chicken speedo?

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  This was going to be bad.

  “I may have made a tactical error here,” Ani said, wincing as they walked around the fifth annual Erotic City Con. She was feeling sexy, make no mistake. In the outfit Kyla had designed, it was impossible not to feel sexy as all hell.

  Maybe that was the problem.

  Not that she had a problem with the venue. She used to go to sex clubs with friends when she’d done internships in LA, and she’d hit a few clubs in Amsterdam during her gap year, the pause in her education that her parents had absolutely lost their minds over. In her various adventures, she’d seen people getting spanked, people getting pierced. She’d seen people having sex on stage. As far as she was concerned, whatever got your consensual jollies off, go to town.

  But she’d also been to enough clubs to know that, if you weren’t in the mood, it was hard to get in the mood. And if you were in the mood, but there wasn’t the right opportunity, it was a recipe for frustration. Right now, her libido was revving, but there was no click with anyone, and that seemed to drive her irritation even further.

  She scouted through the crowd, looking for potential hookups. There were the tourists: people who had bought tickets and shown up simply to gawk and mock. They were dressed “normally” and tended to snicker or whisper behind their hands or make snide comments in low voices that they knew would be heard. They also sneaked pictures on their phones, even though it stated specifically on entering that there should be no photography. Ani ignored these men outright, even as several of them smiled at her, trying to get her attention.

  If you went to a place simply to make fun of people’s passion, she thought, you didn’t deserve to have sex with her. Or anyone, really.

  Next, there were the preeners, the ones who took care of their bodies and knew it. They strutted like peacocks, almost mechanically, their eyes sweeping the crowd not so much to search as to ensure that people were watching them. Ugh. Not her cup of tea, either.

  Finally, there were more that were passionate and truly into the lifestyle. Many of the guys tended to be less supermodel, even pudgy or scrawny in some cases, but what they lacked in physique they made up for in pure enthusiasm. Most of them already had partners, male or female.

  That was what she wanted, she realized. Not to be part of the lifestyle — BDSM hadn’t been her particular kink. But she wanted someone to want her as passionately as these couples seemed to want each other — if only for a night.

  “Would you like to be in a scene?” a woman asked. “Have you done dominatrix work before? That outfit is stunning.”

  She was wearing Kyla’s creation. The woman was brilliant. She wore a pair of black pants that zippered on the side with a black sheer overskirt that only covered the back. Her top was a corset of black leather cups and a web of black lace and straps over a deep crimson brocade. It tied up the back, and sleek stainless-steel chains connected over her breasts, joining with a black leather choker around her throat. She wore her hair up in a messy, curly bun with a small top hat and tulle veil that barely covered the ornate stainless filigree half-mask Kyla had created.

  “Thanks, and sorry… I’d hate to do it wrong,” Ani told the woman, who nodded graciously. “Perhaps I’ll watch it.”

  The woman gestured to a cordoned-off area where the scene was occurring — a woman had a man tied to a gym bench and was using a light flogger. Ani let out a silent sigh as frustration ratcheted up.

  Anyone could make any costume sexy, whether it should be or not — sexy pharmacist, sexy gym teacher, sexy cereal box. Hell, she could have simply dressed in a bikini or something and bought a mask, as it looked like several other people had. But while she wanted to have sex, damn it, she wanted… passion. She wanted to feel sexy enough that a man would work for it. She was tired of sophisticated and civil, or worse, convenient. She wanted a man who was crazy about her. She wanted him to crawl for her, ready to beg for her. Someone who would drag himself across a battlefield, simply for a kiss.

  While I’m at it, I’d like an endless vat of ice cream that doesn’t make you fat.

  The problem was, she didn’t have the time or the mental bandwidth for long term, and the odds of her finding passion like that, for one night, were between slim and none. Even if she did find someone, she didn’t want the hassles of a relationship. Not when her doctorate was on the line. Which resulted in her current dilemma.

  Here I am: all dressed up, and no one to blow.

  “Are you all right?” Adam asked protectively. He looked adorable dressed as Jack Skellington, complete with bat bow tie.

  She grinned. Tessa hadn’t wanted Ani to go by herself, so she dragged Adam along to this thing just to be Ani’s “wingpeople.” It was, in a nutshell, adorable.

  “I’m fine,” Ani assured him, wanting to hug him because of his earnest expression. She’d only known him for a short time, comparatively speaking, but he was like the brother she hadn’t known she wanted. He was protective without being a jerk about it, and he made her best friend outrageously happy.

  Tessa wandered over with drinks in plastic cups. She was dressed as Sally, with yarn hair interspersed with leaves and a patchwork dress, her skin tinted blue. “You sure you’re okay?” Tessa asked. “If you’re not, we can walk you to your car.”

  “I’m fine,” Ani said, watching as a couple tied up a third, and another tableau was set up. “I already got the room. I might as well enjoy it.”

  There were several attractive men wandering around. One, dressed as a voodoo-styled guy with Day-of-the-Dead makeup and a top hat, nodded and walked up to her.

  “Beautiful one,” he said. “Come with me. The show is about to begin.”

  Well, she liked that he called her beautiful. That was a good start. “What show?” she asked, playing coy and refusing to take his hand.

  He smiled. With the skeletal makeup, it looked menacing. “A sexual feast,” he said, “like you’ve never seen.”

  Tessa’s eyes were round. “You mean, like, where naked people are the table?”

  “The table, the utensils… in some cases, the food,” he said. “If you go to the private dining room.”

  Ani paused, waiting for something, some chemistry, to kick in. He was cute, she thought. She could work with cute. Maybe she was just being too picky.

  “We’ll see,” she said, and noted his look of disappointment — and irritation.

  And there goes the spark.

  “You’ll be missing out on a truly delectable experience,” he coaxed.

  “Sorry,” she said, and turned away from him dismissively.

  “I’ve got to admit,” Tessa whispered, “I am kinda curious.”

  Ani glanced over. Her best friend did seem bright-eyed, which made Adam equally excited.

  The two of them were too frickin’ cute, seriously.

  The crowd of people was headed toward the ballroom, where the “moveable feast” was going to be held. In their eagerness, Tessa and Adam moved ahead of her, and they were separated by the crowd. She listlessly followed them, not eager for the show, but intent on supporting her friends.

  Maybe I should just go to my room, get those electric candles out, and draw a bath.

  She noticed out of the corner of her eye two men going against the crowd. One was a shorter, muscular man, dressed as Wolverine. The other man… not bad, she thought. Not bad at all.

  Her heart started to speed a little, and she narrowed her eyes, studying him more intently.

  He was wearing a mask like Maximus’ in Gladiator — God, she’d had such a crush on Russell Crowe in that movie! — except it seemed to have Celtic scrollwork embossed in it. This guy wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he was wearing leather pants and boots. He was cut and looked like a brawler.

  Her body
zinged a little. Nothing sophisticated about this guy. Hell, he seemed barely tamed. He also seemed bored, moving away from the ballroom and the feast.

  He noticed her. She could swear it. But he didn’t do anything. Didn’t seem to smile, although his mouth was obscured by the edges of the mask and a trimmed reddish-brown beard. He didn’t nod. He didn’t do anything indicating interest.

  She sighed. Because of course he didn’t.

  Until he got to her side. Then, as she walked by, she felt it. His hand, reaching out. Touching hers. Holding hers, for just a second, like a test. An unspoken invitation.

  Just like that, it was like touching a Wartenberg wheel, only a hell of a lot more powerful. She felt her whole body jolt, and her eyes snapped to his.

  He looked surprised, as she was sure she did. His eyes looked a clear frost gray and hungry, burning.

  She froze in place, her fingers trapped lightly in his hand. She could tug free at any time, but she was trapped, by the electric want in his gaze and the sheer desire that slammed into her like a freight train.

  She didn’t break until she heard Tessa calling to her over the noise of the crowd. “C’mon!” Tessa said, oblivious to the moment that had just happened. “We’ll miss it. I want to see this, I think!” Tessa moved to her side, tugging on her hand, intent on heading to the ballroom.

  Ani looked forward, going with Tessa’s yank, breaking contact with the man… but before she could stop herself, she looked over her shoulder.

  He was standing still, staring at her, his arms at his sides. He looked like he would lunge after her. But he didn’t. She watched him until she got swallowed by the crowd.

  Abraham felt like someone had punched him. It felt unreal, a high-voltage shock to the system.

  This convention was a huge joke, as far as he was concerned. If people wanted to do bondage or S and M or whatever, he frankly couldn’t give a shit. He’d been with chicks who wanted to play Fifty Shades, and he’d been with one woman who really was a part of “the scene” as she’d told him (in a very high and mighty tone, he remembered). She wanted him to be dominant, which wasn’t exactly a stretch, but to him it essentially felt like micromanaging sex — not his idea of a good time.