Chapter 6: Meeting Zoe IRL

Teri

If I’d known how tired I’d get driving all the way down to Denver, I’d’ve agreed to take Sam’s car. And yes, I drove every fucking kilometer—wasn’t about to let my sister touch Baby. Three hours on the highway was, frankly, a stupid decision for someone with a month’s driving experience. Worse than the highway was the airport, with its spaghetti mess of lanes and turns and traffic—drove me completely bugfuck. Almost had two accidents. By the time I crawled into a parking space, fourth floor up the long-term parking garage, I was wiped.

And I hadn’t even reached the con.

I looked at Sam, still rigid in the passenger seat, while I took a few deep breaths. At least she’d basically spent the whole ride clammed up, except for screaming during the almost-accidents. Yeah, like that helps. She was, I thought, still pissed off that she had to be my nominally adult babysitter for the trip. Welcome to my normal state of mind, big sis.

I shook my head and got out, and got our luggage.

I had no idea how Father got my older sister to come with me in Mother’s place. Hell, I wasn’t sure how he talked me into still going, even though Mother was still in the hospital. Something about not breaking commitments and condition stable. That and his rock-steady gaze. When Father gives you an unconditional order, you obey.

Just like security guys in the airport, I guess. Not one of them was as tall as me.

If it were just me, I’d’ve let Sam stew in her own pissiness while I rested. But as Mother firmly pointed out, when I said goodbye to her in the hospital, I needed Sam’s willing, active support on this trip. As we waited near our gate for boarding to begin, I finally admitted I had to take the first step.

I had to convince my sister, of all people, to help me. Fucking irony.

The irony bit enough, I waited till we boarded. I’d sprung for first class for the legroom. We both needed it. I don’t know exactly how tall Sam is, but she’s maybe 5cm shorter than me, and I’m 191. She wears her height well—a natural athlete, both basketball and volleyball star, heading to UN-Las Vegas on a full-ride athletic scholarship in the fall. Me, I’m just big—stocky. Most of it muscle, under a layer of surface fat that used to make me look chunky. Kinda still does, the way it hides muscle definition. Not that I work for that—I want strength, not looks.

And yes, I was still putting off talking to Sam. Having a brain wrapped in cotton wool was no excuse.

I settled in my seat (wide enough for me yays) with my coffee-with-three-creams (first-class priority drinks for the win), then looked at Sam. She was studying me. I raised one eyebrow in a question, and she grimaced.

“You might as well say it,” I told her.

A knot of passengers walked up the aisle, heading for the cheaper (and narrower, ha!) seats.

A few seconds later, Sam finally sighed. “Fine. Just tell me what’s going on.”

I thought that was obvious, but then I realized—I’d no idea what she knew. I’d been ignoring this as hard as she had. “We’re traveling to a comicon, where I’m making an appearance as a pro author. You’re along because I’m a minor and there’s times when someone will need to sign for me.”

“I know that,” she snapped, then took a breath. “I just don’t understand any of it.”

I rubbed the inside corners of both eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. I just wanted this over with. “What do you need to know?”

She made a frustrated gesture. “What’s this about you being a published author? I mean, you’re barely halfway through high school. I thought you just did fanfic and shi—stuff.”

“That’s how I got started,” I agreed. I hadn’t written much fic for a year now, just a couple shorts for gift exchanges, but I still thought of fandom as home. And hell yes I still read and beta’d and commented on fics—that’s what community does. “A couple years ago, me and two other writers got an idea for an original work, one we thought was good enough to self-publish. Series, I should say—a setting we could write several stories in.”

“And ... now you’ve just published it?”

I shook my head. “We just published book 5.”

“Whaaa?” She shook her head—no doubt trying to clear it of the idea I had a whole secret life she hadn’t known about. “And it’s doing well?”

I hesitated. That a flight attendant had stopped next to me, to let some passengers pass, made for a good excuse.

Sam shook her head again. “Okay, obviously well enough you could buy that sacred minivan.”

“Let’s just say, I’m set for college. All four years.”

“Shit!” A long pause. “What kind of books are these?”

From my purse-pack, I pulled out Triple Games. Not that I needed it for the con, but I wanted something to show people. Hadn’t thought it’d be to her.

Sam stared at it. The cover was great—our designer had outdone herself. A hunk and two babes, all three partially clothed, each holding a different style of blaster, with the wheel of Downstar Station spinning through space behind them. Unlike a lot of boy-girl-girl erotica, one of the partially clothed babes was in the center, white-haired Trixina with an ice-cold expression.

After a long pause, Sam said softly, “Shit.” Then, “I take it sex sells.”

“Yup.” Especially when it’s different enough, but not too different, from everything else.

Another, even softer, “Sheeee-it...”

The overhead announcement whined something about preparing for departure.

It was so tempting to let it go. Hell, I could take that fucking nap I needed. But I had to do more, dammit—had to get her on board. “Look,” I said, then waited till I had Sam’s attention. “You worked hard for that athletic scholarship, right? Hours of practice and training.” She nodded. “As long as you keep performing and improving, you’re set for college yourself.”

“Well, yeah. I guess.” She had a look that said Where are you going with this?

“I’ve been working hard, too—twenty, thirty hours a week, putting in my time, for the last three years.”

She studied me with narrowed eyes, then shook her head. She turned to look out the window, ignoring me.

I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Fuck.

On the way to baggage claim, I spotted a pixie standing by a pillar wearing large sunglasses. Pixie is her own term, though Zoe’s a good 8cm taller than Dana—she is, at least, more waifish. I grinned.

“Teri!” Zoe shrieked and leaped into my arms. I swung her around full circle and plopped her back on her feet exactly where she’d left the ground.

“Whoa!” She stumbled despite my gentleness. “Goodness, you really are a strapping lass.” Her Liverpool accent was stronger than usual—tired from yesterday’s flight across the Big Puddle. She looked me up and down, mostly up, and shook her head. “I know you told us how tall you are, but in person, it really is something else.”

“Says the short stuff,” I countered.

“None of your lip, now. And who’s this dark-haired beauty? She’s almost as tall as you.”

“Zoe, this is my older sister, Samantha Florez. Sam, Zoe Barnes, one of my collaborators.”

“Hi,” Sam said faintly. “There’s more of you?”