Free Con Job by Laura VanArendonk Baugh Page A

Jacob.
    “So what is this freak show, anyway?” asked the one who hadn’t spoken yet. “I thought if we came in the day before the game we’d beat the crowds.”
    “It’s a convention,” Jacob said. “For fans.”
    “Fans?” echoed the man with a sneer. “Fans tailgate. Fans cheer and support the team. Fans don’t play dress-up.”
    “That’s funny, coming from you,” said a slender woman with a dark pixie cut from behind him. She had a yoga figure beneath her jeans and fitted green t-shirt, and her casual posture emphasized every curve. “Or are you both really pro football players?”
    They turned to the new woman in line. “Are you with this con thing?”
    “Hm? Oh, no. No badge, see? I’m here for lunch, same as you.”
    “Yeah.” His eyes ran over her, resting on the emerald curves. “You need someone to walk you around, maybe keep the freaks back?” He jerked his head to indicate the lines of costumed attendees on either side of them. “Sometimes people can get a little — well, anyone who dresses like that. Kind of runs up a flag, you know.”
    “Oh, I do,” she said. “But it’s pretty easy to pick out the scary ones, if you keep your eyes open.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Oh, yeah, you just look at what they dress as. For example—” she pointed at the elf — “that’s one of Haldir’s archers. He came to defend a bunch of trapped innocents and fight to certain death, just because it was the right thing to do for a former ally.” She pointed further ahead in line, where others were starting to notice the conversation. “That guy in the plaid shirt and vest, next to the redhead? He waited two thousand years for her to wake up and remember him, protecting her all that time.” She turned to the next line, where Tony Stark was paying for a Ham Solo sandwich. “That guy carried a nuke through a rift, thinking it was a one-way trip, to save his friends. In the cine-verse, anyway.”
    “What?”
    “See the group over there? The tall one, he gave up his elite medical career and cushy privileged lifestyle to rescue his abused sister and hide her on the ragged frontier of space.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    She turned back to face them. “And you’re dressed like a man charged with real-life murder. And you, you’re wearing the number of a man convicted of felony assault against a police officer.” She crossed her arms. “So yeah, some people can really send a message.”
    The men squinted at her. “What are you saying?”
    “Me? I’m not saying anything in particular, just pointing out who people are dressing up like.”
    “Why can’t I wear this? I’m a fan!”
    “Hey, I think people can wear just about anything they want. And this guy chose to dress as a selfless hero.” She met the elf’s eyes and smiled.
    “Bitch,” said one of the men.
    Her eyes didn’t flicker. “I was right, wasn’t I? Helm’s Deep?”
    The elf hadn’t expected her to speak to him. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, you were right.”
    “I thought the color was right.”
    “Are you a costumer?”
    “No, but I do have some figures. I’m sort of an uncommitted collector.”
    “Forget this,” snapped one of the jersey men. “This line’s too long anyway.”
    “Bitch,” repeated the other one, following.
    The woman rolled her eyes and glanced at Jacob. “Sorry, didn’t mean to jump in. I’m sure you guys had it all sorted until he started eyeballing me.”
    “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy pulling both fandom and football on him, just a little bit,” Jacob said. “And by the way, hi, Aunt Lydia.”
    She grinned. “Maybe just a little. What’s for lunch?”

Chapter Twelve
    Jacob ordered an Expecto Pastrami, and Lydia got the Howl’s Moving Casserole. The elven warrior insisted on buying her a Game of Scones dessert as well before leaving them. “You didn’t have to come,” Jacob said as they started toward the hotel doors.
    “I know.”
    Jacob hesitated and then said, “But I