Cant escape love, p.1
Can't Escape Love, page 1
Dedication
For Athena.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
An Excerpt from A Prince on Paper
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the Author
By Alyssa Cole
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Reggie stared at the email she’d just dictated via voice transcription software, wondering whether sleep deprivation had caused her to enter an altered state or someone else had temporarily taken over her body, like in the anime series she’d binged the night before when sleep had yet again refused to come.
The comic book and manga character figurines on the shelves above her desk seemed to look down at her with pity, as if asking, Oh no, baby, what is you doing?
Reggie was asking herself the same thing. She was a successful Black woman in online nerd culture, which took stamina and thick skin to say the least. She didn’t let anything get in her way—she knocked social media trolls off their bridges like she was the biggest billy goat gruff. When she navigated her wheelchair through crowded conventions, people parted before her like the Red Sea or got the backs of their ankles fucked up. After years of working as an analyst at her parents’ real estate investment fund, and being damn good at it, she’d quit to embark on turning her inclusive nerd culture website, GirlsWithGlasses.com, into a full-on media empire.
She didn’t shy away from going after what she wanted, because life was too fucking short and full of unpleasant surprises for that, but here she was, nervous about one simple email. There was sweat at her hairline, despite the fact that her tight curls were up in a bun and the air conditioning was set to Hoth to stave off the heat and humidity blanketing the borough of Queens.
Ugh, I hate this.
Asking for something was like revealing a soft underbelly when Reggie prided herself on not being soft. She worked out six days a week, two of those days with her longtime physical therapist, doing everything from boxing to going for strolls at the nearby park with the assistance of a walker. She read every site related to comics, games, movies, and pop culture she could find, analyzing what they did right and wrong and applying it to her own site. She trawled social media and the internet, looking for interesting posts ranging from every-nerd material to the esoteric, so that she was always providing her followers with unique content. She made sure her site was pleasing and streamlined, accessible to as many readers as possible, and a safe space to geek out; hateful people weren’t welcome in her community and were banned with extreme prejudice. This all took a lot of work, which she delegated when appropriate, but she clung fiercely to her desire to never have to ask for things.
She lived alone in a two-story house because she’d fallen in love with the beautiful, impractical, old-style Colonial in Flushing when her parents had wanted to flip it; it looked like a tiny castle. Reggie was the kind of woman who thought waiting for a prince or princess to get a castle for her would be a waste of her valuable time, so she’d gotten it for herself.
She was independent, and would cut anyone who implied otherwise, but acknowledged that her independence was linked to her bank account and inherited wealth: cleaners to help manage the chores that her disability made difficult and time-consuming, personal trainers to help maintain her physical health and make sure she stayed on track in physical therapy, a nutritionist to design meal plans that supposedly benefitted her, and doctors who offered the latest medications to help with her ataxia.
She loved GirlsWithGlasses because it was something that she’d built herself, first on a free microblog platform, then a small, self-made site, then as a growing social media empire. She’d done it without her parents’ input or even their knowledge, spending long nights building her internet clout and carving social media breaks into her work schedule, until it had become too big to hide. It was the one thing she could point to that was indisputably the result of her hard work, and it was her shrine to the art that had kept her sane and given her joy during and after her recovery. She was really, extremely fucking busy with taking GirlsWithGlasses to the next level and was in the midst of planning their big push for the Anime Con coming up in a few months. She wasn’t going to let insomnia ruin everything.
Reggie couldn’t slip up now. She needed to do more work, get more likes and follows, make sure every post was fun, interesting, unique, and grammatically correct—she needed to become the best geek site the internet had ever seen, because if she didn’t . . . She thought of all the people who followed her, so excited to have a safe, diverse community where their race, sexual orientation, or disability was respected as a matter of course. She thought of her staff, all from marginalized backgrounds that usually didn’t have this opportunity.
She couldn’t fail. She needed to sleep or the business she’d spent the last few years building up might come crashing down. She’d beg this guy for his help if she had to, though she’d rather scoot down glass-covered stairs than beg anyone for anything.
But she was desperate, and this was a simple matter of problem solving.
The email was fine, technically. There were no typos—the latest update to the speech recognition drivers and her own proofreading had fixed that—but there was one major problem: despite her stating otherwise, it was creepy.
Dear Mr. Kendoku,
I hope this email finds you well. You may not remember me, but three years ago I used to tune in to your Streamlive.com channel, The Puzzle Zone. We chatted quite a bit over the course of three months, or rather I sent messages in the live stream chat function and you responded.
I’m writing with what I’ll admit is an unconventional proposition. I’d like to request approximately ten hours of audio recordings of you speaking. I’m willing to pay a more than reasonable amount for this product, and will have a contract drawn up specifying that it is for my personal (noncreepy) use, protecting you from any unlawful dissemination of said product. I look forward to hearing back from you.
Sincerely,
@26InchRims
There. Nice and formal and businesslike, so there was no reason for him to think she really needed his voice, even if she did. But maybe it wasn’t the right tone? They’d spent every night together for three months after all—that was longer than any of her relationships had lasted. They’d kind of been friends.
Not enough for him to want to keep in contact, though.
Kakuro Kendoku’s email address had been unearthed by Reggie’s twin sister, Portia, Jill-of-all-trades and amateur internet detective. Portia, who was off on some kind of Eat, Pray, Swords journey of self-discovery in Scotland, had accidentally found out her boss was the secret love child of a duke using those same skills. Reggie was not in royal watchers fandom, but even she was intrigued, and the hits to Portia’s blog posts on GirlsWithGlasses were a bonus.
Reggie was certain she’d weirded her sister out by asking for anything from her, let alone information on a guy, since they usually didn’t talk about dating and personal stuff like some twins did. She’d let Portia think whatever she wanted because the reason she needed Kakuro was embarrassing.
His voice was the only thing that could help her sleep when her insomnia got this bad. She’d discovered that over the course of their short online friendship, a friendship in which neither knew the other’s real name, age, or location—their knowledge of each other was limited to what they’d revealed in the privacy of a totally public online live stream. The thing was, it had been private, since no one else had ever tuned in.
Whenever she couldn’t sleep, she’d revisit the stream’s archives; it’d still been up six months ago when she’d had her last battle with a recalcitrant Sandman. But it was gone now, deleted, and though she’d hoped that she wouldn’t need his soothing voice for a good long while, she needed her auditory Ambien now.
It pissed her off—she shouldn’t have to rely on a stranger like this, though he wasn’t exactly a stranger at this point. She didn’t know what he looked like, had never seen higher than his chin and mouth because his camera had been set up to focus on his hands, creating a kind of reverse Kakashi-sensei situation, but they’d “talked” almost every night after a couple of weeks of her lurking on his stream. She’d stumbled across it while looking for stuff to post on her fledgling website; his voice helped her focus as she worked late at night, searching for content and writing articles, figuring out how to turn her hobby into a hustle.
She had a great memory, but she hadn’t really known him then. It was her repeated bedtime listening sessions of his archived videos had led to her inadvertently absorbing things about him and his life. His relationship with his younger brother, who would sometimes walk around in the background of the videos and try to distract him. How often he mentioned his grandmother. His love of crunching on shrimp chips like his mic wasn’t picking up the sound, how he’d gone to school for architecture and been in between jobs. He’d also had a really nice mouth, not that it mattered. So he wasn’t a stranger, but she’d let herself turn his voice into a necessity, and now she was paying for it.
What if he says no?
She didn’t do panic—not since awakening in a hospital
Problem solving with a side of common sense.
She dropped her head, reached out a hand that was shaking more than usual, and tapped the send button on the touch screen of her laptop.
There, it was done.
She rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension, then switched over to the video recording software on her laptop because there was work to do and it didn’t matter if her brain felt like lumpy grits. Her bullet journal list for the day had ten items, and at least five of those things couldn’t be put off.
Her own face stared back at her in HD—golden-brown skin, short rust-red kinky coils, large plastic-rimmed glasses that kind of hid the dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t glamorous like Portia, but Reggie was cute. She’d throw a filter on it afterward, anyway.
She pressed Record.
“Hey, Lunettes! Check out what I got in the mail!” She unlocked the wheel brakes on her chair and backed up so that her office was visible and viewers could see the life-size Reject Squad Ultra cardboard cutout that she’d received from the show’s PR team. “I have not one, but two of these babies, and even though I ship PhilRora hard enough to keep both, I am a magnanimous fangirl. That means one of you can get in on this! Swipe up to enter to win on the site, and don’t forget to share on social media!”
She wheeled back to her desk and quickly clipped the video, uploaded it to InstaPhoto, and threw a filter on it before pasting the text she’d typed up earlier and adding a link. She then shared the fact that the video was up over all her other social media sites so that people who didn’t follow her on InstaPhoto would head over there.
She’d always been savvy, having grown up at the knee of two successful real estate investors and spent her formative years lurking in the comments and forums of various fandom sites, but this “being open” stuff still felt unnatural to her. It was something Portia had coached her on, and her twin was pretty damn good at putting her best face forward, even if she was bad at basics like calling Reggie regularly.
She’s improving.
She grabbed her phone to text Portia a reminder about turning in the next “GirlsWithGlasses: Travel” piece, but a text from her sister was already waiting.
Portia: Hey, I’ve been watching those Hot Mess Helper videos you sent. Thanks. I feel a little less . . . messy. Still hot, though.
The videos, designed for people with ADHD, had helped Reggie, too. She’d been pegged by everyone as the good, productive, and successful twin, but A LOT of work went into that, work that had nothing to do with physical disability and had everything to do with figuring out how her brain worked best. Reggie hadn’t shared her own struggles with anyone, but she’d thrown the clearly floundering Portia the videos as a lifeline. She was glad to hear they’d helped her sister, who she was more like than anyone suspected.
Portia: Anyway, I’ll be sending my next travel piece in a couple of days. Been a bit overwhelmed here with the whole secret duke thing, and we’re going to have to make sure this drops before tabloids get a hold of this. Are you up for breaking the story on your site?
Reggie: Oooo, I get to scoop the Looking Glass Daily Royal Beat? Good. They published some trash about Naledi, and I’ll enjoy crushing them beneath my wheels. Maybe I’ll start a GirlsWithGlasses royal watcher section just to mess with them.
Portia: Wow, glad you’re on my side.
Reggie: Of course I’m on your side, fool. Wonder Twin powers, remember?
Portia:
She was still groggy and irritable, but she was glad that half a lifetime later, she could talk to her sister without things being weird. The smile on her face faded when she scrolled down to the next message, from her mother.
Mom: Hi, baby! Just wanted to say again that we’re so proud of you for taking the next step with your website. We miss you at the office. Your sister is supposedly going to take your position, but I think we all know how that will turn out.
Reggie’s shoulders stiffened. She loved her parents, but the difference in how they treated her and her sister was frustrating. When they’d been younger, it hadn’t been so obvious, and Reggie had been able to deflect, or to misbehave to show that she wasn’t some golden child. After her illness, it was like they could only see the good things she did—and developed blinders that prevented them from seeing the same for Portia. She knew her parents loved them both, but they didn’t really act like it.
Reggie: You asked her to fill the position? I thought you weren’t going to do that because it’s not remotely what she wants to do in life.
Mom: She doesn’t know what she wants. Your father and I think it will give her stability, and she agreed. Though there is this swordbabe guy lined up, so maybe she won’t need a job. Is that what they call him online? Swordbabe?
Reggie groaned, both at her mother’s mangling of #swordbae and her parental cluelessness. Of course Portia had agreed. She would agree to anything she thought would make her parents happy, even if she ended up flaking out later. Reggie exhaled an annoyed breath, shook her head, and reminded herself that she wasn’t going to do this. She’d left her job with her parents because she believed in her website, but also because she needed solid boundaries with them, and she wasn’t about to let them get crossed now.
Mom: When I talked to her last week she said he was just her boss and was offended that I suggested she lock that down. Lord knows she wasn’t so picky before.
Reggie’s fingers were tapping before she could stop herself.
Reggie: Presenting her only choices as a job she doesn’t want and won’t be good at or hooking up with her boss seems like a great way of supporting her. I’m sure she appreciates it.
Crap. Her sleep irritability and general annoyance at fuckery had overruled her thumbs. She typed her final response quickly.
Reggie: Lots of meetings today! Gotta go, Mom! Love you.
She stuck the phone into the pouch on the side of her chair, taking a minute to breathe and let go of the frustration that clung to her. There was the additional fun fact that her parents’ plan for Portia always seemed to involve finding a rich man they could hand her off to, but they never even asked Reggie if she was seeing anyone. When she’d mentioned dating in the past, they’d not so subtly ask if she was sure the person wasn’t “using” her.
Enough.
She wheeled out of her office, passing under framed original art pages from her favorite comic books and wall scrolls from her favorite anime. Her bookshelves and desks were littered with advanced copies of graphic novels, manga, and books that people wanted her to endorse on her site, but the floor was clear thanks to the cleaning service that came in twice weekly.
She pushed open the gate to the platform lift that went down to the first floor, the action a force of habit. There were things to do, whether her brain was ready for the day or not: Pilates core workout, second breakfast, video conference with her editorial staff to plan for the relaunch, site visit to the summer arts camp at the local library she’d created and helped fund two years running—
Her smartwatch chimed as she rolled smoothly across the glistening hardwood floor, and she lifted one hand from a wheel to glance at her wrist.
New Email
Sender: Kendoku, Kakuro
She reached into the side pocket of her chair and pulled out her phone.
Hi @26InchRims,
a)You were the only person who ever tuned in to my stream—as you well know. Yes, I remember you.
b)This is creepy; however, on a scale of 1 to “guy who snuck pictures of my feet in the pool changing room,” it ranks at approximately 3.5.
c)I’m busy, and not sure I want to do this, but I have questions. Here’s my number. Give me a call to figure out the details.
