America’s Geekheart Page 3

  She didn’t ask to be famous.

  And she didn’t ask for the crazies to come out.

  I did that.

  And I need to make it stop.

  The question, though, is how.

  Four

  Sarah

  There’s nothing better for stress relief than complete and utter denial with a side dish of crazy.

  And I have crazy in spades right now.

  The Fireballs are playing tonight, which means my very best friend in the entire universe has invaded my house to watch the game.

  And when I say invaded, I truly mean invaded.

  Mackenzie’s set up pumpkin spice candles—even though it’s June—to inspire thoughts of fall baseball. Her Fireballs banner is hanging from my living room curtain rod. She made me change into a Fireballs jersey—which wasn’t really a hardship—because they win more often when we both wear Cooper Rock jerseys. Unless we’re at the stadium, in which case they win more often if I’m wearing a geeky science T-shirt.

  She’s also playing music on her phone that’s supposed to relax us both.

  It’s some sort of new age techno with a beat that our pulses are supposed to sync to, so we can be the most excited Zen people in the world watching our home team lose a game.

  Statistically speaking, we’re in for a bloodbath tonight, because we won last night, but I don’t point this out to Mackenzie, because she showed up approximately seven minutes after I tasered Beck Ryder and has been running my afternoon and distracting me from the internet ever since.

  Now, I’m camped on the couch next to her with my laptop pulled up, ignoring the mailbox warnings that it’s about to overflow because of all the Twitter notifications, and I turn on the live cam feed of Persephone the Giraffe’s journey toward giving birth at the Copper Valley zoo.

  I’ve been tweeting the feed since the zookeepers announced she was showing early signs of labor a week ago, and it’s fun to see that almost half a million people worldwide are watching with me.

  “Our girl’s still pregnant?” Mackenzie asks as she settles next to me with her popcorn.

  “She could theoretically go another month.”

  “I wonder if her being pregnant is good or bad luck for the Fireballs?”

  “Maybe she’ll give birth to next season’s good luck charm.”

  Mackenzie’s my polar opposite. She’s blond-haired, blue-eyed, long-limbed, perky-boobed, well-dressed—even her jersey looks stylish, probably because her shorts fit right and aren’t stained, and she’s wearing it with jewelry—and she’s a trash engineer.

  Which isn’t as different as it sounds from an environmental engineer, but on the surface, we’re night and day.

  Especially since she’s only a trash engineer since she can’t get paid to be a professional Fireballs fan.

  By the third inning, the Fireballs are down two to nothing, and it’s getting painful. Not as painful as thinking about how long it’ll be before I’m doxed and someone figures out who my parents are, but still painful. I tell Mackenzie I need to go tuck the bees in for the night, which is a total lie since they’re mostly self-sufficient this time of the year, but she doesn’t call me on it, so I slip out the back door to make sure nothing’s disturbed my hives.

  It’s part hobby, part me trying to save the world.

  All’s been quiet at my neighbor’s house since the taser incident.

  Which I feel mildly bad about, because I didn’t really want to have to taser anyone, but who comes through a back gate to talk?

  Ax murderers, rapists, and paparazzi. That’s who.

  After I make sure the gate latch is closed and the bees have water, I head back inside. At first, I think Mackenzie’s listening to a commercial, but then I realize, no, she’s talking.

  To a person.

  Who’s also in my living room.

  “Ow!” a male voice says.

  “That’s for being a dick to my best friend,” Mackenzie announces. “Also, can I have your autograph? Ohmygod, I still have that first poster you did back when you modeled for Giovanni & Valentino before they split, and sometimes I—never mind. But seriously. Autograph. You owe me. And if you don’t owe me, you owe Sarah.”

  “I know, that’s why—”

  “And you better not be bad luck for the Fireballs.”

  I step into the living room, and whoa.

  Beck Ryder looks taller standing up.

  I mean, duh, right? Naturally he’s taller standing up.

  Also, when his eyeballs aren’t rolling in his head, they’re really striking. So blue. Like maybe all those billboards aren’t touched up.

  He shifts his attention to me, starts to smile—eyes first, which is whoa—and then shrinks a little beside the gorgeous woman with him.

  “I swear your sister let me in,” he says to me with a gesture toward Mackenzie. “I just want to apologize.”

  She and I share a look.

  Sister?

  She doubles over laughing.

  The ape’s girlfriend humors him with an exasperated smile.

  “Do Mackenzie and I look like sisters?” I ask him.

  His shoulders relax, and dude. The guy’s hands are in his jeans pockets—undoubtedly RYDE jeans, which are really freaking comfortable, which I won’t be mentioning to him—but his arms are long. I wasn’t really off in calling him an underwear ape with arms like that.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything,” he says. “My sister and I don’t look alike at all.”

  Is he for real? They could be twins—same eyes, same smile, same dark hair. “Only because she got the pretty genes.”

  “Sarah,” Mackenzie hisses.

  But the underwear ape barks out a laugh and winks at me. “You got that right.”

  Mackenzie is swooning, but when I say I know Beck Ryder’s type—and how much I should never trust the charm—I don’t mean I read People and watch Secret Lives of the Stars on late night TV.

  I mean even my best friend doesn’t know where I grew up.

  “Apology accepted,” I tell him, because it’s the fastest way to get rid of him and that sexy smile, and also because I’m having this weird tingle in my breasts that suggests I shouldn’t call him by his real name or encourage him to stay any longer than necessary. Especially with the way his girlfriend is sizing me up.

  I want to point out to her that if he’s dating her, really dating her and not just in some Hollywood stunt that his PR people told him would make him look good, then she has nothing to worry about.

  And not just because why would I ever be interested in a random guy who insulted me on Twitter? I need to get a grip on my breasts.

  Not literally, of course.

  I look at Mackenzie. “Game’s back on.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes dart wildly between the game and the underwear ape. “Um, are you good luck for the Fireballs?”

  “I’m rarely bad luck,” he replies with that schmootzy charm. Yes, schmootzy, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. Schmootzy can’t be trusted. He’s a schmaltzy schmoozer with the swoon factor on his side.

  Officially outside the circle of trust, no matter what promises are lingering in that summer sky in his irises as he studies me entirely too closely.

  He’s not here to apologize because he feels bad. He’s here to apologize because he’s getting bad press.

  I hate that I can’t trust people to just have good intentions. Maybe he does have good intentions. Maybe he was raised with the Southern manners everyone in Copper Valley seems to have, and maybe he’s honestly sorry, and maybe this has nothing to do with people burning RYDE underwear in the streets and him trying to save face.

  I want to believe he is.

  But I have too much experience with Hollywood to believe it.

  My best friend is looking between all of us now. She’s mostly ignored the ape’s girlfriend, but Fireballs baseball is not something to be trifled with, and I know she’s sizing them both up to decide if they’re good
or bad luck.

  “How often do you watch?” she demands.

  “Few times a summer,” Beck says while his girlfriend gives the subtle not often head shake.

  “Gah! Ack. Okay. Okay. We can try this, because it’s not like we have a lot to lose. You. Sit. Right there. You. Stand by the plant, but don’t look at the cat. Looking at the cat is bad luck. Every time Sarah pets the cat while the Fireballs are playing, they lose.”

  Meda rolls her mismatched eyes from her perch atop the flowery upholstered rocking chair.

  Beck Ryder takes my normal seat.

  His girlfriend dutifully stands by the overgrown ficus where Mackenzie insists she go.

  And my possibly traitorous but mostly superstitious best friend pushes me to the couch next to the man I tasered a few hours ago.

  “Stop freaking out,” she tells him when he goes tense and eyeballs me again. “Sarah put her taser away hours ago, and we’re only allowed happy thoughts when we’re watching the Fireballs.”

  “I really am sorry,” he says out of the corner of his mouth to me while he glues his eyes to the TV, like he’s afraid Mackenzie’s going to yell at him if he disrupts the game, but they keep darting to me like he’s equally afraid to be this close to a psycho.

  Legit fear.

  Maybe he’s smarter than his billboards and Twitter feed make him look.

  “It’s fine,” I murmur back, because I don’t want to talk about it, and my mouth is getting a little dry, and he has really long fingers that are fascinating me, and also, Mackenzie will probably say it’s bad luck to talk.

  Some days I can’t remember how she so thoroughly insinuated herself into my life, but she accepts me for the weirdo I am, and I’ve never had to break up with her because she wanted to meet my parents—and yes, I have been through that heartbreak—so the least I can do is return the favor and humor her scientific luck experiment.

  Yes, I realize science and luck are not related, but there would be this huge gaping hole in my life if she ever quit coming over to watch baseball with me.

  “I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of publicity,” he says, “and if it’s overwhelming, my team’s happy to help you sort through the mess. Since it’s my fault.”

  I snort. Don’t have a lot of experience. He has no idea.

  “I’m not just blowing smoke,” he insists. “I fucked up. You shouldn’t have to pay for it.”

  He smells like Earl Grey tea in a snowy cabin. Bergamot and a thick wool blanket. It should be suffocating in June, but it’s making me crave a trip to the mountains.

  “Some other celebrity will get caught stuffing the sausage in a pig next week and this will be completely forgotten,” I reply. “It’s fine.”

  “Quit being an idiot and take advantage of him,” Mackenzie hisses. “Oh, oh, oh, run! RUN!” She leaps to her feet and pumps a fist in the air as Jose Ramirez gets a single for the Fireballs.

  Meda yowls and darts for the stairs to my converted attic bedroom.

  Ryder’s girlfriend stifles a smile and scrolls on her phone.

  They’re a publicity stunt, I decide. Because he’s all up in my chili, and she’s not even batting an eyelash.

  “The Nature Center could really use some funds for updated playground equipment,” Mackenzie muses as she sits back down and grabs a handful of popcorn as if she isn’t ratting out my favorite weekend project.

  “Done,” Beck says. “Which nature center?”

  “Sshh,” she replies, waving a hand at him.

  Darren Greene’s up. Left-fielder. Her not-so-secret crush who strikes out more often than he gets on base these days.

  “Which nature center?” Beck whispers to me.

  I shush him too, because I don’t believe in blackmail, even when the blackmailee is volunteering for it, but especially when he smells this good and are his long thighs really all muscle, or is it another trick of the soft denim wrapped tight around them?

  His girlfriend is frowning at me again, but I ignore her, because Greene hits a single that advances Ramirez to third.

  “Sarah!” Mackenzie shrieks as the camera pans to Cooper Rock stepping up to bat. “BATHROOM!”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” I say to the underwear ape. “Seriously. We’re cool. Go away.”

  I’ve never been so grateful for Mackenzie’s undying belief that me going to the bathroom is good luck for the Fireballs.

  Because by the time Cooper Rock is done at bat, Beck Ryder and his sexy body and bright blue eyes and delicious smell will be gone, and my life will be on its way back to being normal.

  Five

  Beck

  As soon as Sarah disappears around the corner, I glance at Charlie next to the weird leafy plant thing. She’s being uncharacteristically silent through all of this, which means she’s either decided there’s no use in trying to stop me, or she’s getting an idea.

  She’s half the brains behind most of my operations—okay, probably like seven eighths, really, which is why I pay her so much—and we’ve worked together so long that I can usually read her, but today, I’m clueless.

  Obviously.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve reached out to a person in the hopes of just apologizing only to be told to go away.

  Most people want my money.

  Or a shot at some residual fame.

  Or there was that one time I was asked if I could baptize a rabbit, but I try not to think about that.

  But Sarah just wants me to go away.

  It’s odd.

  Charlie wanted to dial in the PR team before coming over, but for once, I overruled her, because this isn’t supposed to be a PR stunt.

  I just wanted to apologize. The right way.

  I look at the blonde—Mackenzie, I think Sarah said her name was. “Ah, thanks for the hospi—”

  “Bathroom,” she hisses at me. “Go on. You too. And she really really really wants to save the giraffes, so go grab this last chance by the balls.”

  I knew about the giraffes. Charlie did a breakdown of @must_love_bees’s tweets and blogs after my groveling phone call to Vaughn, and it’s pretty obvious that I’m lucky I didn’t get my ass stung off too after she tasered me, and also that I probably should’ve shown up with a giraffe named in Sarah’s honor if I wanted her to accept my apology.

  Not that she has to accept it.

  It’s just weird how quickly she’s dismissing me.

  Not because I’m as awesome as I let my family think I am, but because I’m rich and famous.

  Kidding, I swear. Fuck.

  No wonder I got myself in trouble on Twitter.

  “Go on,” Mackenzie shrieks.

  I leap up and head around the corner that Sarah disappeared to, planning to just hang in the hallway out of sight and leave her alone, except the bathroom door is right there on the other side of the wall, and it’s open and Sarah’s inside lounging with her hip propped against the sink, head down over her phone, and there’s no way to avoid the fact that her entire body tenses while her eyes slowly lift to watch me.

  Her eyes are so dark. Like I can’t tell where her pupils are in the middle of all that dark chocolate, and it makes me want to look closer. Or just fall in. Swim there for a while. Work on my backstroke. Or any stroke.

  Fuck, I’m getting tight in the jeans.

  Her jersey is so baggy, it’s hiding her body almost all the way down to her knees, and there’s something oddly familiar about her.

  Or possibly that’s a lingering side effect from the taser.

  “Mackenzie sent me,” I say, holding my hands up like I’m harmless, just in case she has another weapon. “For luck.”

  I think.

  She heaves a sigh that makes her breasts lift, and I get a familiar stirring down in the family jewels.

  Convenient.

  Not.

  She’s not wearing makeup, and I know at least a hundred women who would kill to have her eyelashes.

  Or at least wres
tle in Jell-O for them.

  Most of my acquaintances aren’t actually lethal. Learned a long time ago how to avoid those types out in Hollywood.

  “I thought I was sending my sister a private message,” I say into the silence, because it’s getting awkward, and I don’t like silence.

  I like to talk.

  Or be talked at.

  I’m not really picky. So long as it’s not silence.

  “I’m sure she appreciated your concern for her loins,” Sarah replies dryly.

  “She just got engaged to my best friend. I’d tell him the same.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “Yeah, Wyatt hit the lottery when he moved in next to—wait. You don’t mean he’s lucky because he’s my best friend, do you?” I give her the kidding smile.

  She doesn’t smile back, but she doesn’t roll her eyes either. Just watches me like I’m a science experiment she stumbled onto without knowing what she’s supposed to be testing.

  “OH MY GOD HE HIT A HOME RUN!”

  I jump at Mackenzie’s shriek. Sarah hits a button on her phone, and the sound of a toilet flushing fills the air. “It worked?” she calls.

  “SARAH! HE HIT A HOME RUN!”

  “You have an app that plays flushing toilets?” I ask her.

  “Do not ruin this for me,” she hisses.

  I hold my hands up in surrender again. “Of course. I know not to make Taser Lady mad. Your friend likes Cooper Rock? He’s a good buddy. Could get you a signed ball for her.”

  Now she rolls her eyes so hard her lashes flutter, and there’s more stirring in my cock.

  “I don’t want your money or your fame or your connections,” she says. “We’re fine, okay? Go away.”

  “I just…wanted to make it up to you. People are shits, and you were trying to do something good, and I fucked it all to hell because I’m a dumbass who doesn’t know how to send a private message on Twitter.” I trail her back to the living room, realizing belatedly what’s weird about the room.

  There aren’t any pictures.

  Every house I own is filled with pictures of my family.

  Okay, yeah, and of me, but it’s just funny to watch people jump when they come face-to-face with one of those cardboard cutouts of me in my underwear or the five of us from back in the Bro Code days.