Right then, for a fleeting moment, he could hear something else through the cacophony of rage.
It was Marcus. Not the Marcus worriedly standing beside him backstage, but the Marcus of other occasions, other terrible moments.
He pleaded, Play the film to the end. What happens if you don’t change the script?
But Alex couldn’t. The future beyond this moment, this stage, was a wall, unknowable and opaque. He needed to smash through it, and there was only one way. Only one path forward.
Marcus was watching him carefully. “I know you’re angry, but—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, distantly impressed by his own calm voice. “I’ll be fine.”
He would be. Better than fine. He’d be free. Of his own self-loathing, of the show, of the howling fury in his fucking brain.
Then he was striding onstage, and the microphone felt good in his grip. Powerful.
Cameras were aimed his way, and cell phones too, and he offered all of them a feral smile, entirely delighted that his words would be livestreamed for the entire fucking world.
For endless minutes, he answered questions from the moderator and spectators as coherently as he could—because, again, none of this was their fault, and he wouldn’t be a dick to them for no reason. All the while, he paced, waiting for his moment.
It would come. Someone would ask. He knew it.
If tasked to identify the moderator in a police lineup, he wouldn’t be able to do it. The only person he could see clearly in a huge room packed with people was her.
Wren, wearing an austere blue button-down and dark jeans. In the front row, at the very end, in her reserved spot. Days ago, he’d secretly asked the organizers to bring in a special chair without arms for her, because the seating at cons was fucking unforgiving.
Much like me, he thought. Very appropriate.
As unbothered by insults as she claimed to be, that email had to have hurt. Especially coming from a fucking member of her family.
If so, it didn’t show. She didn’t look hurt. She wasn’t hunched or flushed or curled in on herself or avoiding his eyes in embarrassment.
No, she was staring up at him, brow furrowed, perched at the edge of her chair. His Wren, poised for flight. His dear friend and protector, ready to leap between him and danger.
Which she, in fact, had already done.
It was his turn to leap for her, because she deserved it. She deserved everything.
He gave her a little nod. Appreciation. A vow.
Another question from the audience. Another. They were running out of time, and the session was about to end, and was he really going to have to bring this up himself?
But then—
A nervous woman in the third row stood to ask a question. The question.
Her voice wavered. “Wh-What can you tell us about the final season?”
Thank fuck. Finally.
He bared his teeth in a wide, delighted grin, but she did not appear appreciably comforted. Which was fair. He was a lion with a gazelle in sight, and while she was not the gazelle in question, her instincts for danger were sound.
“Your question is about the final season, correct? You’re asking what I can share about it?” When she nodded, he smiled at her one last time, then looked directly into the bank of cameras streaming his every movement, his every word. “Thank you for such a fantastic closing question. I’d be delighted to answer.”
Lauren flew to her feet, somehow sensing imminent trouble, and Marcus was already striding toward center stage, but it was too late. They were too late, and Alex was smashing through the goddamn wall, fuck the consequences.
Fix this. Fix this now, his brain howled.
So he did.
17
LAUREN BURST INTO THE DESIGNATED HALL FOR ALEX’S Q&A session, frantic to talk to him. But even as a volunteer ushered Lauren to her assigned seat—a special one without arms, and she’d immediately known who’d arranged that—the moderator strode onstage, and the session began.
Shit. Shit.
She was too late.
After receiving Ron and R.J.’s email, she’d taken a few minutes to calm herself in her hotel room. The insult itself didn’t particularly bother her—if she had a dollar for every time her cousin called her ugly during their childhood, she’d have enough money in her savings account for several Spanish vacations—but having Alex read it …
Well, that stung a little, if only because it put their differences in such sharp relief. It wasn’t as if he could somehow overlook the fact that he was an unabashedly beautiful human being, and she was not. He didn’t require a reminder, though, and she didn’t either.