The Gamer and the Geek (Gone Geek, #4) Read online

  The Gamer and the Geek

  Gone Geek 4

  Sidney Bristol

  Inked Press

  The Gamer and the Geek

  Gone Geek 4

  Rashae Grant should be over the moon. Her life-long dream of creating original art for a board game is finally happening. Except the campaign manager, a sinfully sexy Irishman, can't seem to stand her. At every meeting she's talked over and her designs picked apart. What's the point of getting to work on her dream if she doesn't even recognize it anymore?

  Declan Loveridge has staked everything on the success of this project, and if pulling it off means he has to breathe down Rashae's neck, he'll have to ignore the way she smiles, the twinkle in her eye and how she makes him laugh when he shouldn't. One ill-advised kiss turns into many, and soon the holiday nights are heating up from more than just the kettle.

  Friends with benefits is the perfect solution to their problems. Disagreements are better solved between the sheets, but Declan has never been a man to settle, and Rashae doesn't know how to lead without her heart. While the lovers are busy creating a masterpiece, another kind of artist is out to take them for everything they've got. A scam turns into a scandal this holiday season in The Gamer and the Geek.

  For Nina, because.

  <3

  Maireann lá go ruaig ach maireann an grá go huaigh.

  A day lasts until it's chased away,

  but love lasts until the grave.

  ―IRISH PROVERB

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  Epilogue.

  1.

  D

  eclan Loveridge was going to piss his pants if she didn’t hurry up already. After weeks—months—of setting up this meeting, the last place he wanted to be when the new artist arrived was relieving himself. Besides, he didn’t trust the game designers not to be complete asses out of the gate.

  He checked his watch and paced toward the window. The parking lot was blanketed in snow and ice. It was a chilly evening in DC, though most of the streets were lit up with little twinkling lights heralding the holidays. At least the communal meeting space had a furnace and fireplace.

  Maybe he could get away with turning on a little music?

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Yeah, probably not.

  The two men sitting at the long, parson-style table were not Declan’s typical clients, but they brought something unique to the game. If they could make this work, it could be huge. But they needed a new artist. So, where the bloody hell was she?

  He turned and peered out into the softly falling snow.

  A figure moved in the shadows.

  He squinted, watching the person’s progress.

  This late, the area was usually dead, so a lone individual out walking was...out of the ordinary.

  She wouldn’t walk all this way...would she?

  He held his breath as she passed under a street light.

  Fucking hell.

  He’d never met Rashae Grant, had only seen her in pictures and there was no mistaking her. Curvy, generous mouth, dark skin and hair he wanted to tangle his hands in.

  No, she was a gifted artist, designer, and someone he was prepared to give his left nut to work with. Just because he was physically attracted to her didn’t mean shit. The last thing he wanted was to let her know just how much of a God damned fanboy he was.

  Declan turned on his heel and flipped the switch on the electric kettle. The closest bus stop or metro station was a half mile away, and it was bitterly cold out there. She’d never mentioned the trek, when he set the time and place. Why hadn’t she said something?

  He’d just assumed...

  If she died of frostbite because of him...

  He paced back to the window. This was it. He was about to meet her. What the hell did he say?

  Rashae climbed the three stairs to the stoop.

  Shit.

  The ice!

  He pushed the door open.

  “You wanna—” watch those stairs.

  Rashae’s eyes widened and she tipped backward.

  He had a momentary vision of her cartwheeling down the stairs and busting her head open. He’d just killed the Secretary of State’s daughter. The immigration office would surely frown on that.

  Bloody fucking hell.

  He grabbed a handful of her puffy, red coat and yanked her forward. It wasn’t the way he’d have preferred to end up with her in his arms, but he’d damn well take it over her cold corpse. She was shorter than he’d expected, hitting him right at shoulder height. A nice place to have a woman tucked up against him.

  For a second, they stared at each other, her lips parted, eyes wide in surprise. He rather liked her up close and personal.

  Rashae straightened, but only for a second. Her feet slipped, and she pitched forward, her arms wrapping around his waist. Her momentum pushed him to the side, off the rubber mat.

  One moment they were standing, and the next, his ass was planted in the snow drift on the stoop with an armful of curvy woman across his lap.

  He didn’t even care that his bladder was screaming at him. This close...he could see that the sparkle was real. He’d always assumed that the way Rashae was photographed, with that mischievous twinkle in her eye, was manmade. But no. It was real. Ma would have said she was fairy touched.

  Photographs didn’t do Rashae Grant justice.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re Mr. Loveridge.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She straightened the hat that had slipped back off her halo of dark curls and shifted.

  “Mr. Loveridge was my father. I’m Declan. That last step’s tricky.”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry.” Rashae grabbed the rail and rose a few inches before her feet slipped out from under her and she plopped back down in his lap.

  If he hadn’t had to pee, having her in his lap wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend an evening. And he should not be having those kinds of thoughts about someone he hoped to work with.

  “Shit. Sorry!”

  “Feet on the mat.” He grasped her hips and steadied her while she shifted and got at least somewhat back on her feet.

  “I am so, so sorry.”

  Declan hauled himself to his feet. The snow and ice had soaked through his jeans, from his hips down to his knees. His balls were trying to crawl up inside him. He crowded Rashae into the building.

  “Are you okay? Hit anythin’ on your way down?” He dusted what snow he could off and turned what attention he could on her.

  “My pride?”

  She smiled, but it was strained. Even that was—lovely.

  He needed to get his head screwed on straight. This meeting was already on shaky ground, the last thing it needed was him thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

  The kettle began to whistle, an angry, insistent sound.

  Between his soaking pants, the kettle and his bladder, tonight was off to a piss-poor start.

  Rashae dusted off the snow clinging to her coat, mentally cursing her luck the whole time.

  Holy bouncing Batman, Mr. Loveridge was h-o-t in a tall, dark and smoldering kind of way. She’d just...assumed...from their emails that he was older. Kind of grouchy in an endearing, Capaldi-as-The-Doctor, kind of way. If Declan were more than thirty-five, s
he’d eat her gloves.

  A partial wall shielded her for a few precious seconds while she shook off the last bit of snow that wasn’t already soaking her jeans and gathered her scattered marbles. At least until she caught a glimpse of Declan bending over the tea and coffee cart across the room.

  Jesus, this wasn’t fair. She should have had some sort of warning the guy on the other end of those emails was some sort of debonair-king-of-men.

  Okay, pull yourself together, girl.

  Like she hadn’t ever met an attractive man in her life?

  Guys were a time suck, no way she split it. Still, her sister’s mooning was rubbing off and Rashae wouldn’t mind a few hot, sexy nights to distract her.

  Rashae sucked down a deep breath and unbuttoned her coat. She could not entertain sweaty thoughts about the crowd sourcing manager. That was the best way to get the kind of reputation she’d avoided.

  One button on her jacket was missing, but that was the least of her worries. If she wanted to land this gig, and she wasn’t certain she did, this meeting had to go well. And that meant no more thinking about hot buns over there.

  Her bread and butter was clothing design, mostly for the theater, but her cosplay line was growing. Which was wonderful. She loved getting to create—but that line of business only fed one part of her creative hydra. When Mr. Loveridge—Declan—had contacted her out of the blue about taking over the artwork for a new board game in development, she’d nearly lost her mind.

  Board games were...they were summer nights, sweet tea and family. They were part of her history and something she loved. Getting to design one was a dream come true, but only if this went well.

  She stashed her hat and gloves in her pockets, hung the coat on a hanger in the entry closet and checked her satchel. The folders she’d prepared with prints and concepts were unharmed by her little tumble in the snow. At least one of them had come out unscathed.

  The last thing she did was shoot off a text to her friends, letting them know she’d arrived safely. She’d drop the bomb about the hottie surprise later. Right now—she was going to slay this meeting.

  Rashae pushed her shoulders back, hiked her bag up on her shoulder and strolled into the room like she owned it.

  Though they appeared to be the only ones here this close to the holidays, the facility was some sort of office co-op where people could rent rooms and use the central meeting space. There were plenty of these up north, where she lived, outside of New York City. This one had a sort of boho-chic atmosphere with plenty of heavy wooden furniture and worn-in cushions.

  Two men in slacks and sports coats sat at the central table, cups of something too pale to be coffee on hand. They had more of a corporate look to them than the usual board gamer. Declan had warned her the project was going to be different. Whatever that meant.

  “Hello, gentlemen, I’m Rashae.” She offered them each her hand, but received no names in return.

  Geeks. Sometimes their powers of conversation left a lot to be desired.

  Another door opened and Declan emerged, that scowl still on his face. Damn, she’d already screwed up with him. She needed to do something right or else this project was going to slip through her grasp.

  “Let’s get started.” Declan paused by the cart and poured two cups of what she guessed was tea. He handed one to her and set his down at the head of the table, her on one side and the other two gentlemen on the other. “Rashae Grant, this is Ayan Jindal and John Booth.”

  “Nice to meet you all.” She took her seat and slid the folders out. “After looking over Mr. L—Declan’s plan, I worked on some concept art. I think I’ve got what you were going for, but I’m open to feedback.”

  She clenched her hands in her lap while one after another, the three men opened the folders and began flipping through the pages.

  “You said you wanted clean designs with a wow factor. I took the color pallet you recommended, made a few tweaks and used that to work out a scheme for each faction—”

  “This...is...very...flashy.” Ayan’s mustache moved more than his lips.

  Rashae dug her nails into her palm and waited to see if there was any further comment.

  “The colors don’t quite pop.” Declan spread his folder out in front of him and frowned at the page with four potential box mock-ups. “We want somethin’ that’s goin’ to grab the buyer’s attention.”

  “This looks like...what did you call it, Declan? Ameritrash?” John’s mouth screwed up on one side. “We really wanted more of that classic, Eurogame feel to the design.”

  “Well,” Rashae leaned forward, “if you—”

  “But Eurogames don’t grab your eye like Ameritrash.” Declan spoke over her, his attention focused on the other two men.

  “Actually,” she pitched her voice louder, “I did another design, if you’ll just—”

  “I don’t want our game lumped in with Ameritrash.” This time, Ayan’s words nearly jumbled all together.

  “Guys, please?” She was about ready to strangle the lot of them. The whole Ameritrash versus Euro was an argument as old as modern board games. “There is another section of design work that is the more classic, Euro style.”

  Everyone flipped through the notebooks until they landed on the section.

  “No,” Declan said after a few moments of contemplation. “It’s goin’ to look like every other game on the shelf. Can we do somethin’...sexier?”

  Rashae grit her teeth at that word. The bane of her existence. Sex sells. Even in board games. Right.

  “Sure.” She nodded and focused on keeping her energy up, though her enthusiasm for the project was beginning to dwindle. If their solution to selling the game was to slap a few scantily-clad women on the box, she’d do it. Everyone had to start somewhere, and this was her first placement.

  “Let’s go over everythin’ and make some notes.” Declan shuffled some pages around.

  Rashae pulled out her notepad. Just because the design wasn’t going to be what she’d have picked didn’t mean the game would be awful. She’d watched the play through and familiarized herself with the mechanics enough that she could see the appeal. These guys had engineered a great game, and with the right packaging and marketing, it could be huge. And she was going to be in on it, even if it meant putting a female character in high heels and a bustier, damn it.

  2.

  D

  eclan flipped the lock on the door and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. The little cottage had shit for insulation, so it was almost freezing. He set about lighting a fire in the hearth and bumped the furnace up a bit.

  At least he had four walls, a roof and some heat. It was better than what he’d had many a time growing up.

  Tonight could have gone better. A lot better. Ayan and John had their heads up their asses, as was evident by the email they’d sent him before he’d even made it home. They weren’t sold on Rashae, and he had to figure out how to convince them to take the chance. A good game could still tank, and the way they were driving this project into the ground, that was exactly what Declan feared would happen. Still, it was their project. He was just the campaign manager. Fucking lot of good that was going to do them, when the two plonkers wouldn’t listen to him.

  They were damn lucky Rashae had been interested in the first place, and willing to do the concept work without a fee or any expectation of compensation for the art she was creating.

  What a disaster. Not only was he going to have to hard-sell the guys on her, but he’d have to keep a close eye on Rashae. She should never have made such an offer to two tightwads like John and Ayan. Declan recognized that hungry gleam in her eye. She wanted this, and it was up to him to ensure the others didn’t take advantage of her.

  Hopefully, he could talk some sense into the two guys and say something to get Rashae off the fence she’d crawled up on tonight. He didn’t like how they’d left things, and they ran the risk of losing her. It wasn’t like she needed them or this gig to get by. She w
asn’t a starving artist. She was a career creator who, by reputation, didn’t suffer fools. And yet she’d sat across from two tonight.

  Christ.

  He hadn’t been much better, either.

  What a fucking nightmare.

  Tomorrow, he’d...touch base. Or something. He and Rashae had a fairly consistent chain of emails, not all of which were related to the game in development. He wouldn’t call them friends, but they were friendly. He could...call her. And what? Stare at the wall while he thought of something to say besides—please don’t leave us? Yeah, desperation didn’t sit well with him. A text then. A carefully worded, brief text.

  He checked the mail slot last. This close to Christmas he didn’t expect to have anything interesting, but the day was out to surprise him. Sitting in the bin was a red, white and blue envelope he’d come to recognize on sight.

  The U.S. Immigration Office.

  Holy shit.

  Declan stared at the seemingly innocent envelope that could change his life.

  He swallowed and carried it to the sofa, perching on the edge.

  This...this was going to be it.

  He’d begun the immigration process two years ago. It’d been a slower start, due to his deportation in his early twenties. There’d been a lot of questions, but once it got rolling, things had gone smoothly. Didn’t change the fact that he was always on the lookout for the other shoe to drop.

  Good things didn’t happen to guys like him.

  He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the pages.

  Congratulations, Mr. Declan Loveridge...

  “Holy shite.” He blew out a breath.

  It was real. Really happening.

  He stared into the growing flames. Never in a million years would he have expected...this. He wanted to...tell someone. But who? His remaining family had disowned him for turning his back on their way of life. He’d been cut off, ostracized from everyone that was left. His chest ached. It was the blood relations he missed. Sitting around the fire, talking shit, racing ponies. But everything else...he didn’t miss that. The lies. The cons. Running from cops. The glares they got whenever they left the caravans.

  Declan got up and paced into the kitchen, the letter still in his hand. He put the kettle on and leaned against the counter, re-reading the page because he really couldn’t believe it.