Page 10 of The Biker and the Gamer
“So, we have almost everything we need—the plot, the storyline, the characters than their backstories. All except one critical thing.”
“And that’s?”
“The face for our main character.”
“Okay,” she mumbles distractedly she brushes crumbs off her bosom.
I’m momentarily distracted by the attention she’s drawing to what I'm positive is a perfect pair of tits under that shirt.
When she’s done and I have her attention again, I tell her, “We want you to be the face of our main character.”
Her brows knit together. “I don't understand.”
“Our main character’snameis Syla, but we want her to be a Kendra. Syla will be a game-world version of you.” I explain. “Now, we want her to be authentic and real, so we need more than just your features—we want your mannerisms, your voice, your walk, your Ducati. When people play the game, they won't be playing with just another generated character, they will be playing withyou.”
“Um…”
Understanding that I’m boggling her, I explain further, “How this works is that we'll do a body scan and some photoshoots to recreate your appearance. That's easy. But to authenticate you—mannerisms, etcetera—we’ll need to shadow you. However, the thing about shadowing is that you’ll never truly be yourself because you know someone is there watching your every move. The better option is for you to come out with us for at least two hours a day for two weeks. Doing…anything. That way the team can accuratelygetyou.”
“Hmm.” She wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “So, you want to use my identity or whatever for your game, and in order for that to happen, I have to hang out with you and your preppy team for two weeks?”
“Correct.”
She shakes her head. “Why would I do that?”
“Because we’ll be paying you one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Fair enough,” she says as she picks up her Mountain Dew and unscrews the cap, taking a sip.
Her blasé reaction to the sum is not what I was expecting. Granted, that's pocket change for me, but for a twenty-three-year-old girl working in an auto repair shop, I at least expected raised eyebrows.
“So? You'll do it?” I ask after a few long seconds of her just sipping her Mountain Dew and watching me.
“Dunno.” She traces her top lip with her tongue, and I try not to acknowledge what that does to me. “Lemme think about it.”
What’s there to think about. See? This is why Cedric is the frontman. You need patience for this. Because all I want to do now is offer her a million dollars to get her to agree right away. Cedric would probably put a timer on the offer and lie about having five other options, but I don't want to do that, because this girl is a lot smarter than she comes off.
“Okay,” I say with feigned nonchalance. From my wallet, I get out a business card and slide it across the table to her. “Well, you can give me a call, email, or text if you ever decide. But we’re in the development stage right now and anything can change at any given moment, so I'd take advantage of the offer as soon as possible.”
She flips the card between her fingers, her expression impassive. “Gotcha.” Then she gets up and throws a twenty on the table. “Gotta get back to the shop.”
“If your boyfriend has a problem with it, point out that this game will pretty much immortalize you. And if the gamedoesturn out to be a major success like its predecessor, which we expect it will, you’ll be making three times as much on appearances alone. Plus commissions on swag, merch etc. Tell him, in other words, that it's just business.”
There's a flash of white as she sinks her teeth into her black lip. “Your game is as pathetic as your sense of style.”
I feign ignorance. “What?”
“The answer to your question, Alec Vaughn, is no. I don't have a boyfriend. But even so,”—she scoops her keys up from the table— “you’re still not my type.”
With that, she turns and saunters out of the store without a backward glance. Mounts her bike, jerks on her helmet, and roars off.
She might be a badass. She might be a smartass. She might even be a pain in the ass. But if there’s one thing I’m sure about in this moment, it’s that I have a new type, and that’s Kendra Tisdale.
Kendra
On my wayhome from work, I make a detour to Grunt and Toni’s house in Greenwood Village. I drop in at least three times a week, mostly to check on my new favorite person in the world—their nine-month-old baby boy, Antoni Neo Gunnar.
Toni opens the door with a polka-dot apron tied around her waist and a finger pressed to her lips, the universal sign forshh. “Nero just got Neo down,” she whispers.
