The Hot Gamer (A Romance Love Story) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #3) Read online

  THE HOT GAMER

  By Alexa Davis

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Alexa Davis

  From the Author

  I hope you enjoy the entire The Hot Gamer. If you want to get an email as soon as my next book is published then click here. I’ll also include you in all the giveaways I do automatically.

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  1. Carina Jade Rivers

  I adjusted the headpiece of my costume and smoothed the black latex thigh-highs up my legs. Peeking through the curtains from backstage, I watched Lacey stalk across the stage in her Poison Ivy reimagination. I tried not to roll my eyes. Sure, her outfit was sexy, but “Reimagined”? I scoffed to myself. Draping vines over a green bikini and slapping on a red wig was hardly the stuff of creative genius. I pushed the curtain aside a little more. Then again, she didn’t need much creativity with a push up bra and an all-male panel of judges.

  Lacey did one last pirouette and strutted off the stage like it was a runway. I made one turn in the mirror backstage and breathed. I may not have the expensive augmentation to fall back on, but the plunging neckline of my jacket drew the eye down to the thick leather belt I’d painstakingly built and the attached real utility clips, including one with a genuine retracting cable outfitted with a tiny industrial strength folding grappling hook.

  I’d bribed one of the stage hands to make sure I had a good bit of catwalk to throw it up to, and for fifty bucks and a Mardis Gras bead-worthy flash of breasts, I prayed he followed through. The announcer called my name, and I tossed a long, jet black dreadlock behind my shoulder and stepped out onto the stage. I was no longer C.J. Rivers, model and professional gamer, I was “Widowmaker” and I acted the part.

  I whipped my waist-length hair around as I aimed my foam and cardboard sniper rifle at a spot on the edge of the stage and jerked my shoulder back like I’d pulled the trigger. Instantly, a small spark and a puff of smoke popped where I had aimed. The audience gasped in unison, and my heart felt so big it made my bodice tight. I pretended to fire a few more shots as I swaggered around on stage, giving the judges every angle of my costume design while acting as though I were the super-sniper herself on the job, instead of modeling an outfit.

  With a little prayer that the stage tech was where he was supposed to be, I launched the tiny paracord straight up to the catwalk. It hit something at the top, and I felt a catch in the line. With a deep breath, I pressed the button to retract, and my body jerked up as the stage hand helped the small motor lift me, and I was hoisted smoothly as he pulled the line over the steel rail until I pushed the button again dramatically to show him I wanted to stop. He held me in place and I swung gently on the end of the two hundred-pound test line. The audience went wild. I made eye contact with each of the judges in turn before the stage hand released me slowly and I was lowered back into place, the paracord zipping back into the utility belt.

  It had worked, so all that remained to be seen was if it got me a win, or a disqualification. I crossed my fingers and stood front and center to answer the obligatory questions about my design and execution of the character.

  I waited for the applause and cheers to die down, and the judges finally began questioning me. Still in character, I answered in the heavy French accent the Widowmaker would use and cheers erupted again. The announcer called my name one more time, signaling me to wave and leave the stage. With my rifle still in my hands, I managed a front flip and a round off as I exited stage-right, elated with the absolute cacophony of cheers and stomping from the audience. It no longer mattered if I won or not, I had the crowd, and in the end, that was what made the best and most memorable cosplay models.

  An hour later, the judges had finally seen all the entrants in the cosplay pageant. The Las Vegas convention center was packed. It seemed like every gamer geek and cosplayer west of Utah had shown up for the first gamer convention of the fall. Grateful I’d secured my room months before, I listened to frustrated Gamercon goers, whose rooms had been double booked, or worse, hadn’t had the foresight to reserve rooms weeks before.

  It was easy to kill time, posing for pictures with fans of the character I was playing, and a hundred others who either knew who I was in the world of modeling, or just wanted their picture taken with a half-naked lavender-skinned chick. I snuck off to the restroom before it was time for the winners to be announced. My wig had held up well even in the barn-like heat caused by too many bodies in an enclosed space, but my make-up was smudged at my hairline on the sides of my face from the sweat that kept beading up there.

  I dabbed at the damp skin with tissues, then blended on some fresh theatre makeup from the fix-it kit stowed in a pouch on the utility belt. A quick glance at the black rubber watch I wore on the underside of my wrist had me scrambling for the main stage with only minutes to spare before they announced the winner of the cosplay contest.

  Lacey scowled at me as we lined up, single file, back stage while waiting to be called out as a group for the presentation of the awards. I shook out my shoulders and bounced on the balls of my feet, earning me another glare from the Poison Ivy pinup girl. I made a face at her and before she could retort, I motioned her forward with the rest of the group. She snapped her mouth shut and spun on her heel, rolling her hips for effect as she walked out on the stage.

  I followed and, as before, stayed in character, gun at the ready, no smile on my face. The crowd welcomed me back onto the stage like I’d just performed another unexpected feat and the red-hot stare from Lacey was worth a dozen awards all on its own. The third-place prize was given to a guy who had masterfully incorporated leather and gear-works into a Star Wars storm trooper character. My palms were damp and I was grateful I’d gone for the full gloves that would hide my nervous sweat from the world. If he’d only placed third, I couldn’t imagine what chance I had of coming in first, if I wasn’t chased out of the cosplay world for my on-stage antics.

  I was so engrossed with my mental calculations and second guessing, that I completely missed the announcement of second place, until a flushed and grinning girl in a hand-forged metal Iron Man suit almost dropped the trophy she carried while juggling it and her costume helmet. As we waited to hear the final name called, Lacey’s nerves got the better of her hate and she reached out and clenched my hand so tightly in hers I thought my fingers would break against each other.

  “And with no further ado,” the leggy blonde MC continued, “first prize, including a ten-thousand-dollar check and one Bob Mackie consultation and design assistance…” she paused for effect and the crowd responded with stomps and whistles. “…goes to our very own Ms. C.J. Rivers!”

  I froze, shocked, and stood stock-still, unsure of how to disengage myself from the woman still gripping my hand in hers.

  “Carina, come on over,” Jay Maynard, one of the judges and former cosplay artist, called out. One of the scantily clad elvish attendants helped me shake Lacey free and another escorted me to the center front of the platform to receive my prize. My jelly knees almost sent me tumbling, but a strong hand around my upper arm kept me on my feet long enough to accept the sm
all trophy; a golden statue that mimicked an Oscar, if the Oscar had long, elvish ears and a flowing robe. I curtsied and held the statue up in the air, to the uproarious standing, stomping ovation.

  I’d been a player in the world of cosplay ever since I’d started making enough money with my modeling career to pay for the insanely expensive hobby. After a couple of years making the rounds on my own dime, I’d started getting invited to these conventions by the hosts, and paid for my time and photos. Even at the Las Vegas Gamercon, I had made my reservations, dropped the hint that I planned on attending, and been reimbursed at retail for the tickets, which put a few extra dollars back I my pocket. Winning the cosplay pageant only cemented my value to the big game developers and the entire entertainment industry.

  I kissed the little robed statue and waved as I sashayed off stage, shook my head back to push the heavy dreadlocks behind my shoulder and performed my best runway strut off the stage, to raucous clapping and catcalling.

  I killed time for a couple more hours posing for more photos and at the convention center, if for no other reason than to get the most out of the trouble I’d taken with my Widowmaker costume; it had taken me two hours to get into my costume, even with the help of my friend and stylist, Shelby Grey. Shelby was a professional makeup artist I’d met when I worked for Ford models, who wanted to break into movies, with the help of a few cosplay awards, one of which she’d be able to add to her portfolio after my win. I had a second, less involved getup for the next day.

  The afternoon rushed by in a blur of photo ops, Q&A panels discussing women in gaming, cosplay, and my new favorite pastime, streaming my gameplay. At the end of a long ten-hour day of stumping, interviews, and a thousand more photo opportunities, I was just happy to get back to my room, alone. I touched my statue for good luck and stripped down to a pair of men’s boxers and a tank top. The next part of my day was always my favorite, and I didn’t need prosthetic cheekbones or wigs or push up bras to make it work. Not that the guys who watched me minded a push-up, mind you, but they prided themselves on paying their subscriptions to see the “real me,” hair pulled back, glasses on, swearing like a sailor. Me.

  I turned on my laptop and started my stream preview, while I stepped away to use the bathroom and pour myself a stiff drink. Usually, the strongest thing I drank online was beer, but it had been a long-ass day and I needed something with the medicinal ability to calm my jangling nerves. Headphones on, I did a quick camera check to make sure I wasn’t giving my viewers too much skin, and started my one-woman show.

  2. Jackson Dean Hargrave

  I only had a few days of freedom left before classes started, so I let my brother drag me out for an evening ride on my favorite old nag, Coddle Me. Daniel was good to ride with. He never had much to say, and this ride was no different. It was a companionable silence, one reason I chose to stay on the ranch every summer instead of with Tucker, despite his frequent invitations, was the amount of silence you could find in the wild of the pastures and the forest.

  Coddle was usually sweet natured and calm, but not too far into the ride she began to sidestep and pull against the bit. I fought her at first, but after a couple of minutes, Danny agreed that we should stop and check her out. It only took a cursory check to see that somehow she’d thrown a shoe, and the rocky trail we were riding was all sharp edges in her poor foot.

  We opted to take a short cut through the tall grass of the dormant hayfield both for the softer terrain and the quicker distance to home. She was much happier for the remainder of the ride, and as I took care of her tackle, Danny let our longtime horse master, Pete, know about her foot so she could be reshod the next morning.

  It was only dusk and, left to my own devices, I knew just how I wanted to unwind. I showered off the smell of barn and turned on my computer. I debated whether I wanted to be social and get online for a little first person shooter with Billy, my roommate back at Texas Tech, or just kick back alone. Deciding on the second, I threw on a tee shirt and some cut off sweats I wore to work out in and logged into my account on Twitch TV, a site for gamers to hang out and either live stream their game play, or watch others play instead. I chose the latter and browsed through some of my favorite streamers. There was a former pro-football player who, as it turned out, was great at video games, and his fame had garnered him a decent following. There were stereotypical gamers who had so many people subscribing to their channel that they scored sponsorships and advertising space.

  I wasn’t into being on camera, but I subscribed to a couple of gamers who were more interesting to listen to and watch than they necessarily were at gaming. One girl, more than the other gamers, kept me coming back for more. She’d been a successful fashion model, but had spoken out against her industry for the harsh ways they treated women. She’d ended up with no work and a lot of time to sit around playing video games and feeling sorry for herself. Now she was one of the most followed and subscribed to streamers on the internet and, apparently, had found a new way into modeling through character costume play.

  Her stream was live, so I tuned in after grabbing a beer from the minifridge I kept next to my desk. I didn’t care about the game she was playing, but I figured not many of her viewers were. Listening to her talk about her cosplay, and watching new videos that had been taken of her at the Gamercon that was just wrapping up, I realized how just the sound of her voice made me feel relaxed and amped up at the same time. She was funny and laid back. There was something about her that made me want to listen to her talk all night.

  Of course, that was probably why she was so popular. A hot-as-hell girl who was good at video games and who interacted with social unmentionables like they were all just like her, or rather, she just like them. She seemed to really believe she was as awkward and unpolished as the rest of us, and she didn’t talk down to all the idiots in her chat who hit on her, even if they went too far. The rest of the chat handled those guys.

  I watched the video of her getting into costume for the cosplay pageant again. Seeing her in next to nothing as her helper wrapped, taped, and sponged pale purple makeup over her face and breasts was some of the best entertainment I’d seen in ages, and I wasn’t alone in thinking that, from the way the chat screen lit up.

  I looked away from the main video to her face in the little box in the corner of my screen. She looked bored and irritable, but I couldn’t help but notice something behind her eyes. She was lonely. I couldn’t blame her. She had the attention of all these guys, but every one of them was just here to consume her like a product, then walk away to blather about how big her tits were when she wasn’t in costume.

  I grabbed my wallet from my desk drawer and pulled out my debit card. I hit the donate button and sent her a fifty spot so I could add a message she’d be more likely to see. The character count was limited, and I stared at the screen for a minute, trying to think of just the thing she needed to hear. In the end, I opted for encouraging, with a side of flirtation. I almost laughed aloud when the text-to-voice program she used announced, read aloud the message, reading.

  “I happily support your high-octane game play, even when it is occasionally interrupted by intense moments of uncontrollable arousal.” She laughed aloud at the announcement, and paused her game to reply.

  “And thank you for your donation of fifty dollars, @lawlessJack, I apologize for any wet dreams and uncontrollable erections my gameplay causes.”

  I then privately messaged her that as a bonafide cowboy from Texas, hearing the message in the English accent she programmed them to play in, made my day. In what must have been a moment of weakness for her, she responded to my private message, and included her cell number, along with a request to call her when she was offline.

  I switched up my beer for good old Mountain Dew. I was a couple of hours ahead of her by time zones, and I wasn’t going to fall asleep before I had the chance to talk to the only professional model whose phone number I’d ever scored.

  We chatted privately some more
during slow moments in the stream, and she added me to her gaming platforms. Within an hour of sitting at my desk, I was suddenly playing computer games with the hottest girl I’d ever seen, live on her stream to be witnessed by everyone I knew. So, I sent out a group text to the guys to make sure they knew it was happening.

  Between sneaking in texts to C.J. and game play, all I could do as my phone blew up, was laugh to myself about how big this was for my friends. It was the social introvert’s perfect evening. To guys like most of my friends, a girl like her would never talk to them in real life. Not everyone had the benefit of four older brothers, like I did. It was never hard for me to talk to girls, because I was always around my brothers’ girlfriends, growing up.

  It also didn’t hurt that all that hard work out in the sun made us all look like muscular, tan, movie cowboys. I loved my friends and would beat up anyone else who told them so, but a few of them would’ve had a lot more luck with women, if they left their desks and went for a walk, occasionally.

  Around midnight my time she called it quits with her stream, and as soon as I left the game I checked out the message thread on my phone. My friends had figured out quickly that I couldn’t, or wouldn’t respond. Once that was established, I became fair game. The thread started off encouraging and hopeful that I made a real connection with this fabled creature rarer than a unicorn.

  Within a few texts, it moved past supportive and into the territory of, “Thank God my mother won’t see these…” By the end of the thread, it had taken on a life of its own and my presence was no longer necessary, which I appreciated, because I had a call coming in from one professional streamer/model named C.J. Rivers, and I wasn’t about to miss out on it for a bunch of pasty nerds, best friends or not.

  I looked down at the glowing face of my iPhone, willing the dampness away from my palms and the desert out of my mouth. I swiped right, and managed to choke out a “Hello” instead of the nervous giggle I was afraid would escape. In an instant, I found new empathy for the guys I hung out with. This, this was what nerd-dom meant to so many gamers, hackers, and programmers.