Page 45 of Single-Minded
“A boffer, that’s what these types of weapons are called.”
According to the card he’s given me, I’m a healer, which means I get to attend to the imaginary wounded after their battles. I’m not sure what that entails, but I’m here, so I might as well play along. I pull on the red cape. Even though I feel like an idiot.
It’s surreal as we walk into the elaborate campsite, set up like a small village and populated by all sorts of medieval and fantasy characters, many of whom apparently spent the night. In the woods. I don’t even like regular camping—and it occurs to me that it’s probably really hard to sleep on the ground while wearing fairy wings. Or horns. Gunner Starlord leads me through the crowd, and a woman wearing a black bustier, a feather cape, and a pointy hat hurls oatmeal mixed with green glitter at me, as she recites an incantation.
“Jalla kaboobba whencas odium…”
“Hmmf, don’t mind her,” Starlord whispers in my ear. “That’s just Morgana. She’s only a level-three wizard. Her spells can’t harm you.” I start cracking up and immediately my hand flies to cover my mouth when I realize that Gunner Starlord is deadly serious.
39
My date with Congressman Robert Warren, aka Gunner Starlord, was, by far, the most bizarre six hours of my life.
I mean, how often do you get to see your date battle it out with foam hammers and swords with another grown man dressed up as a Minotaur, like it’s some magical medieval fight club?
The second he drops me off at my house and pulls out of the driveway, I’m on the phone to Darcy and Sam.
“How’d it go?” asks Sam.
“You seriously would not believe it if you saw it for yourself,” I say. I tell them about the LARPers, the elaborate costumes and makeup, my observation that the unparalleled fashion of choice for witches, fairies, and elven women is a dead heat between the breast-hoisting bustier and the wench gown. “I don’t know that it’s even necessary to put them on display,” I joke. “I think a lot of those guys may not have even encountered a real live woman before. It might just be too much for them to handle.”
I replay every detail of the battle royal between the congressman and the Minotaur, the spell-caster who seemed to have it in for me, and as much as I could remember about the excruciatingly detailed backstory of Gunner Starlord.
“Gunner Starlord?” roars Darcy, “Gunner fucking Starlord?”
“Yep,” I answer, laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.
“I heard he was a weird one, but I hadno idea.” Darcy laughs. “Please, please tell me you took a picture.”
“I’m texting it to you now,” I say. “Show no one. This does not leave the three of us.”
“Nice cape,” cracks Darcy.
My misadventure with Gummer Starlord was like a bad omen of what was to come.
To say that my dates with the sensitive artist and the lead guitarist did not go well would be the understatement of the year. The sensitive artist (okay, mentally unstable graphic designer, but close enough) wept inconsolably for forty-five minutes over a two-year-old breakup, and didn’t stop until the busboy cleared the table. Now I know how Ferret Guy felt.
Twenty minutes into the date at the finest table Hooters had to offer, the wannabe rocker, who asked to be called Kryptic, enthusiastically suggested I recruit our waitress for a BDSM threesome back at his place.
“Are you wearing panties?” he asked me while lecherously swirling a chipotle garlic chicken drummette in bleu cheese dressing.
“Are you wearing an ankle monitor?” I shot back.
“I’ve got the largest collection of nipple clamps on the East Coast,” he whispered.
“I’m sure your mother is very proud,” I said, wishing I’d taken Darcy up on her offer to buy me a stun gun for my birthday. You know, just in case. Although this creep would have probably liked it. Ten minutes later I was back in my car, speeding toward home.
Michael keeps promising to find me not only a replacement soul mate, but also a quarterback, and he hasn’t delivered on either. I’m not holding my breath.
But at least my Naughty Nine list is now down to a more manageable Terrifying Threesome: The bad boy. The quarterback. The sexy foreign guy.
Well, foursome if you count the fish.
It’s too bad that I can’t count Ferret Guy and Dr. Dicpic against my Naughty Nine, but apparently nobody trulyneedsto date a math teacher or an Internet pervert before they find true love.
I keep thinking that if I stay busy, I won’t be sitting around obsessing over my embarrassment about the fact that Nate hasn’t called. Yet. It’s not working.
Two days later Michael finally (finally!) comes through on his promise to introduce me to a quarterback. No sign or word of the soul mate he promised. Dane Cooper is the injured, first-string quarterback for the University of South Florida. He apparently broke his foot while he was being sacked by the East Carolina Pirates, which is why I’ve agreed to meet him at his house instead of a restaurant or bar—the cast makes driving difficult. Anyway, it’s some sort of dinner party with his “crew,” which is, I guess, another way of saying his teammates.
