FanGirl Read Online Free PDF Page A

several turn in my direction, leering smiles on their made-up faces.
    “Excuse me,” I say, trying to push through the guys without actually touching anyone. But then it starts. The pick-up lines.
    Viking: “Do you have any zombie in you? Would you like some?”
    Gross.
    Spiderman: “Someone must have shot you with a phaser set on stunning.”
    Eyeroll. That one’s not even a zombie joke.
    Fabio-esque demon hunter: “If I told you that you had a great body, would you hold it against me and let me eat it?”
    Okay, that one got a laugh. I’m the type of girl you can impress with zombie pick-up lines. But then they get a little too close and the room feels way too stuffy. A guy dressed like The Hulk grabs the back of my shirt and another pushes his hips into mine.
    “Hey!” I warn, holding up my hands to push them back, but this only encourages them. I’m in a room of predators; pervy guys who spend more time online than they do in reality. It’s like the time Wyatt and Alexandra found themselves in the middle of a deserted school surrounded by a swarm of the Living Dead [1] . I reek of teenage sex and comic book fantasy and, from the looks on their faces, they can smell the fear on me.
    “Once rigor mortis sets in I can go all —,” My eyes flash to the hand cupping his junk.
    “Shut up, moron.” A strong hand clasps around my wrist.
    “But, that’s Alexandra!”
    “I know who she is.” The guy’s free hand pushes him out of the way and he whispers in my ear, “This way.”
    I am not in a place to object, so I follow him, tripping over the feet of everyone around us. This guy could be as much of a creeper as the rest, but getting out of that situation is crucial. My savior (I’m calling him that until he proves otherwise) is on a mission and I let him drag me through the crowd. All I can see is the back of his head. He’s not in costume, but a baseball cap meets the top of his ears. His dark brown hair curls at his neck, and his hand pinches the skin on my wrist because he’s holding on so tight.
    “Slow down,” I say, stumbling over a pair of red platform shoes stretched across the carpet by a girl sitting on the floor. “Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
    The wrist-grabber doesn’t stop until we’re in a quiet(er) corner. When we get there, I yank my arm away and step back. Although I appreciate his help, the last thing I need is to be alone with a psycho.
    “Are you okay?” he asks. I stop short. I peer at him. I know his voice. And his face. And his favorite book, movie and birthday.
Book: On The Road by Jack Kerouac
Movie: Attack of the 50 Foot Woman
DOB: August 11
    “Oh my God. You’re Gabe Foster.”
    “And you’re Ruby Miller.” He picks up my arm again and touches the red skin. “I’m sorry. I saw you in that crowd and you looked like you needed some help.”
    “Excuse me, what?”
    “Um, you’re Ruby. I’m Gabe. Needing help?” I stare at him. Gawk really. And he stares/gawks back, kind of shuffling his feet in all the awkwardness. 
    To break it, because I’m smooth and all, I say, “I love your novels!” The pitch of my voice is two octaves too high.
    He eyes me head to toe. “Yeah, I guessed as much.” Then he gestures to a red velvet couch near the glass-walled balcony that overlooks the second floor. “I’m sitting over there, watching the crowd. Want to join me or get a drink or something?”
    “I’m not 21.” Damn compulsive confessor. His eyebrows raise and I realize he didn’t actually ask me that. He’s not 21 either, but he lives in New York and is famous so he must to go to bars and stuff. “I’m mean, I’m 18 and out of high school. So, technically not jailbait anymore but…”
    “Good to know,” he says, and walks to the couch.
    I follow him because Gabriel Foster, creator of Zocopalypse , my hero and inappropriately-out-of-my-league-crush, wants me to sit with him and there’s no way in hell I’m going to say no.
    “How do you know my