I recognized a few usernames from the fanfic forum:
Omg such a good idea to make the captain a woman. Sounds like a home run to me.
This one has my vote for sure.
Finally. We need more female rep in sci-fi!!!
Not all of them were positive. Some accused me of being "woke". Of being “different for attention.” I skimmed past those. I wouldn’t let them ruin this.
Not now.
Then I sawhispost.
John.
Goddamn.
It was a black-and-white photo too—but crisp and intentional. Arms crossed, his watch catching the light just below a perfectly rolled sleeve. Even without color, his eyes were sharp and cutting. The whole thing looked like it belonged on the cover ofGQ.Sexiest Man Alive: The Sci-Fi Edition.
And of course, he was leading.
Sixteen thousand likes. Eight thousand comments. Thousands of shares.
His blurb? Generic. Paint-by-numbers sci-fi. No heart. Just action and stakes and scale.
But numbers don’t lie. There were a whole lot of readers I needed to win over.
I swallowed hard, tossed my phone across the room, and flung myself onto the bed.
Chapter Eighteen
Skanky dresses make uncomfortable nightgowns.
If you’re in doubt, drink more.
Nora shouldn’t text at night.
Otis had dragged me to Garland’s —the only gay bar in town—after work to meet his castmates. While he was dancing and tossing invisible lassos to pull me to him, I tried hard not to scan the selfies of me and John again. I had deleted them twice. Then thought—what if I need them in the future for some form of blackmail?
I rechecked the social media numbers again. The steady climb of John’s made my head ache. I needed a distraction. Maybe some colorful drinks and a few kisses. Anyone hot, really—just as long as they looked nothing like John.
“What are you doing?” Otis leaned over my shoulder, peering at my phone. I quickly snatched it out of sight, hiding the Google search for John Kater I hadn’t even realized I’d typed. My body parts seemed to have a mind of their own.
“Oh, girl,” Otis said, squeezing into the sticky booth beside me.
“What?” I took a large sip of the drink he presented me with. This week’s Garland’s special was a pink cocktail with a cherry and cotton candy on top. It was an abomination, but packed a punch. I took another sip.
“I know that look,” Otis said, stealing the cotton candy.
“What look?”
“The look you have whenever Gillian Anderson pops up on TV. You...” —he pointed his straw at me in an accusatory way— “...have a crush.”
“I do not,” I protested, flicking the cherry his way. He caught it in his mouth, chewing while wiggling his eyebrows. He certainly had his talents.
But I felt the heat spreading across my cheeks, worried they matched the drink. I hoped Garland’s was dark enough for him not to notice. He’d mistake what I really felt—anger and annoyance—with something far worse.
Otis just raised a brow. “It’s a bad idea.”
