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“Telling.”
My brother shakes his head like I’m the world’s biggest disappointment. “Wrong. It was Carlton and the Roos.”
Dammit. I knew it was one of the teams with the striped guernseys. “Okay, fine. I worked. You got me. Sorry for giving a shit about our business.”
“Come on.” Glen motions for us to head into the section marked Hall A. It’s crowded, noisy and everyone is dressed up. There are stalls lining the room, with rows of trestle tables running down the middle where people sit and play games. “Don’t give your brother such a hard time.”
“Yeah,” I grouse. “Listen to Glen. He gets it.”
“I’m just saying,” Dom says as he slaps a hand on my back. “Life can’t be all about work.”
“Most people wouldn’t call going to clubs and fancy restaurants work,” I point out.
Every night of the week that we don’t have an event on, I’m wining and dining. It could mean making a connection with someone in the industry, building a relationship with a client or doing something to build our gallery’s profile, like getting interviewed or sponsoring something. Everything I do is for our family business, because I don’t want the thing my mother cared about most in the world to be anything less than perfect.
“Big brother, I know you like to let people think you’re this epic playboy who’s out partying all the time and living your best life. But you can’t bullshit me.” Dom nails me with a stare that’s so honest and so open I feel it lance right through me. “We’ve been through some stuff. Iknowyou.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking around the room. “I missed the sign that said we were entering the psychoanalysis room. I came here for the hot chicks in tight outfits.”
Dom rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. To make my point, I wander over to a booth that’s being manned by a woman masquerading as the fantasy I didn’t even know was lurking in my brain.
Her tight body is poured into a fitted black catsuit that shows off every shapely line, from her perfect legs to the tempting dip at her waist. She has a long black cape with a hood that sits back on her head, exposing red hair tied into a long braid. Two electric violet eyes stare at me—theyhaveto be contact lenses because the colour is otherworldly. Heavy lashes frame her eyes and a cool leather-looking mask covers a good portion of her face, from her chin all the way up to where it creates a sharp point between her eyes. There’s a cleverly placed mesh panel across her mouth, so she can breathe and speak easily, without ruining the mysterious effect of the mask.
She’s talking to a reedy guy in a costume that is beyond my comprehension. See, my knowledge of dressing up kind of stopped around the age of ten when I went as Edward Scissorhands to a friend’s birthday party.
You best believe I rocked that black eyeliner.
But cosplay is...a whole other culture. Some of these costumes are so professionally made they look like they’ve been plucked from a movie set. Most of them, I don’t even recognise. Maybe Glen was right.
Batman is a bit basic bro.
“How do you explain why the game is still so shit when it’s this close to production?” The guy leans forward, getting up in the woman’s face. “I backed this project on Kickstarter and what I can see now is that it’s a hot mess.”
“As I said before, this is a prototype of the finished product. The pieces are still being made and these represent thefeelingof the game, without being identical to what you will receive in the final product.” The woman speaks calmly and slowly, but I can see tension knitting her brows together. “We absolutely won’t release a game unless it’s 100 per cent to our standards.”
“Ha!” The guy tosses his hands up in the air. “What do you call that last piece of shit you guys released?”
“Look, I understand you’re frustrated, however—”
“No,youlook. I’m a game blogger, okay? I’m going to write this up and tell all my followers not to back your game. You’re unprepared and I can already tell this is going to be as bad as the last one. You can tell your boss lady that she’d better be prepared for my scathing review.”
“Hey, dickhead.” I step up to the scrawny bloke and clamp a hand down on his shoulder. “How about you learn some manners, okay? Fill in a fucking feedback form or something. There’s no need to harass the staff here.”
“Ofcourse, you’re dressed as Batman.” The guy shrugs me off and rolls his eyes. “What a perfect costume for a guy with a god complex.”
“Exactly. Now get the fuck outta here before I show you why I’m not the hero this lady wants.”
“Ugh,dude. That’s not even the quote.” The guy looks at me in disgust. “What kind of nerd are you?”
A bad one, apparently. But my inability to correctly remember movie quotes is enough to encourage the guy to move on, no doubt to badger another poor unsuspecting vendor. I plant a hand on the booth’s table and look at the woman in the assassin-type outfit.
“Pretty smooth, huh?” I joke.
“Like forty-grit sandpaper.” She laughs, but there’s a warmth to the sound. It’s like a finger curling, beckoning me closer. “But I appreciate you jumping in. We have to live the customer-is-always-right motto.”
“Even when it’s clear they’re just a wanker using a costume to feel powerful?”
“Aww, you’re notthatbad,” she quips and I laugh, the throaty sound shocking me. She’s quick-witted. I find that as hot as the skin-tight outfit. “Most of the people here are great, though. It’s just a few bad eggs.”
