Page 9 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
The lights flicker and then wink out completely. I’m wrapped in darkness, but I hear movement, feel it too. “Come to play?”
I know it’s coming, but I can’t stop myself from screaming when the lights are back on, and this man is inches from me.
I laugh. I have to remind myself that this is all theater. He’s tall, towering over me, and even with the over-the-top makeup (inked eyes and a slash of red across his lips), he’s attractive. Hisshirt’s unbuttoned, and I enjoy the sight of his broad shoulders and chiseled chest. But it’s his eyes. Warm honey, intelligent. Something inside me sparks.
I part my lips. I want to smile, but the flickering light has me on edge.
He arches an eyebrow. “You look pretty scared.” He held and stretched the last syllable ofprettyuntil it became a low growl.
Heat creeps up my neck. I look pretty? No, he said I lookscared. I’m feeling all kinds of things, chief among them is outright annoyance that Adam set me up. But something else. Curiosity, I think. I haven’t felt curious about anything or anyone in ages.
It’s a sad commentary on my life that I’m this interested in the attention of a strange man dressed in cosplay. He takes a step back, and now he’s standing under one of the lights, his brow shadowing his eyes, highlighting the bridge of his aquiline nose, and his sharp cheekbones creating dark valleys in his cheeks. “Who are you?” he asks.
I’m not backing away. This cosplayer has an intensity, an energy that is as sexy as it is terrifying.
“I’m a volunteer.”
“No.” His hair—long and bleached blond—has gotten into his eyes. “You’re someone special.” He smiles, and I shiver. “I can tell you want to play.” Another step, and I back away. “With me.”
I swallow. I try to smile. This is a joke, a very well-executed joke, that my brother’s target audience is going to love. “You’re Badpun, right?” I catch the trademark teardrop tattoos at his left eye.
He inhales through his nose, and I watch his chest rise. He exhales and groans. “Let’s play a game and find out.” The cadence of his words is insane. Rising and dipping in unexpected ways. Stressing syllables that should be quiet. It makes my ears buzz. My skin tingles.
This guy is good. Talent is a funny thing. Subtle. Often mistaken in flashier circumstances for ego. But this guy has it. Presence. Timing.
“How?”
“Turn around.”
I roll my eyes.
“Turn, turn, turn, turn. Yes,” he says in a low hiss. “Now close your eyes.”
“No.” Admiration for talent and curiosity notwithstanding, I have my limits.
“Fair. But I did warn you.”
Strobes go off, and I have another reason to hate Adam. “Ugh,” I moan, pressing my eyes shut, hoping I’m not permanently blinded.
Fabric brushes against my arm. “Touch me, and I will sue you.”
There’s the low chuckle again. I feel his breath on the bare skin of my neck. “Do we need a safe word?” He is so close I can almost feel his lips brush the bottom of my ear, and his scent—fresh thyme and eucalyptus—swirls around me.
“I think that ship sailed.”
“You sure?” His hand is gently brushing my hair back and behind my ear.
I swat his hand away.
“Don’t move.”
I can’t move. If I do, I’ll start panting or shaking, my heart is beating that fast.
“Close your eyes.” In the darkness, I imagine seeing his throat bob. “Please.”
I do.
“Open them in three, two, one.”
