Page 17 of My Cosplay Escape
“I got it,” says a recognizable voice. Adam—Adam West McKinney—opens the car door. “I’m taking Poison Hemlock’s place.”
“Just make sure your girlfriend doesn’t scratch the leather.”
My shoulders tense. “I’m not his girlfriend.” I slide into the car, my vinyl crackling against the leather.
“Whatever. Same destination, sweetheart?”
“Please, and thank you,” I continue in my rough monotone. I’m not about to slip into anything genuine in front of Adam. Or Camaro Dude.
The driver puts the car in gear. “Pacific Beach it is.”
Adam smiles. “So you’re a local. That’s great.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you want?”
“I want you in my escape room. New characters mean repeat business.”
As we drive farther away from cosplay mecca, I begin to feel more and more uncomfortable. “Cosplay isn’t something a girl does in real life.”
“Not even for a paycheck?”
“People do all kinds of stupid things for money that they regret in the morning.” Like take a friend’s dare and say exactly what you think to a guy dressed as Cicada-bro at a party. The memories of that stupid night are swirling too close to the surface. Especially now that cosplay and I are over for good.
“You had fun. I know you did. I had fun watching you have fun.”
“This is getting uncomfortable,” Camaro Dude mutters.
I scoff in frustration and also in disbelief. Really? I have to take heat from my Lyft driver? “Cosplay only works for Comic-Con. It’s just weird outside of it. I’m weird outside of it.”
“You look weirder than weird. You look plain stupid,” Camaro Dude says.
I barrel on before Adam can defend me. Not that I want him to or think he would. I don’t. “I have a real life. If people in my real life saw me like this…” Mom would force me to go with her to Bible study. Brent would make some awful joke about me getting married again. It would be open season on my terrible life choices and only a matter of time before Mom found out about my miscarriage. I’d never be trusted again. I’d turn into Mom’s pet human. She might even make an IG account featuring tearful and public discussions about lost sheep and shepherds, replete with photographic evidence of my rehabilitation. I shudder. “No one would take me seriously. This is a stunt that’s only okay for one day during Comic-Con. Nice girls don’t get a pass to dress up like this even for Halloween.”
“I could give you that pass.”
“You’re not listening,” I say with more than exasperation in my voice.
“He’s really not,” Camaro Dude agrees. Again, I try to ignore his commentary. Momentum is important.
“I don’t want a pass,” I say. “I’m an adult. Adults don’t do this outside of Comic-Con.” Particularly if she is a loser who lives in her mom’s office/spare bedroom.
Adam grows quiet. “Even if no one knew your true identity? If you were only ever Catstrike at my escape room?”
“Yeah, but you’d know.” And the thought of this man ever seeing me for what I really am—a sad little divorcée whose life stopped before it ever even started—that is even worse than my mother spotting me in costume in theUnion-Tribune. Oh gosh. I hope theUnion-Tribunedoesn’t pick my picture for its article.
“Let’s say I didn’t,” Adam says. He’s tactfully staring out the window. Streetlamp reflections squirm in the water of Mission Bay below us. “Let’s say there was a clause in our business agreement that kept your true identity a secret. You could write your conditions. What’s your number?”
Camaro Dude snorts. “Smooth.”
I stare at the back of his shaved head and then refocus on Adam. “Seriously?”
“Right,” Adam says, pulling out a business card and a very sleek-looking titanium pen. “This is my number. This is my Fem Fantastic’s number. She’s one of my managers—my best manager. Call her. She will vouch for my character and operation. It’s nothing but good, clean, superhero fun.”
I pinch the card between my thumb and forefinger. “I doubt that.”
“Yeah, me too,” Camaro Dude says. “Anyone can carry around business cards.” He swivels in his seat at the next red light. “But where did you get yours printed, man? I was thinking of getting some.”
I indulge in a momentary fantasy of scratching swears into the pristine leather seats with my fake claws.
