The time has come to unleash Beth the Bitch, a.k.a. MistressViper on the unsuspecting masses at Philly Comic Convention. We caught glimpses of Beth interacting with Jen in Confessions of a Fangirl and the rest of the online fangirl group when they meet in person at the Convention.

I’ve had readers tell me they weren’t particularly fond of Beth, with her abrasive personality and opinionated nature, but she deserves a happy ending too. As all fangirls do.

This is where Scott comes in. A military veteran and freelance security guard, he comes face to face with Beth and sparks fly–both literally and figuratively. Their chemistry is undeniable but extremely volitile. When their paths cross after the incident at the comic convention, Beth and Scott get a chance to start over with a new perspective.

I make people uncomfortable. My big mouth has gotten me in trouble more than once, and this comic convention proves to be no different. When I go through security, I get the grumpiest guard on duty—never mind the fact that he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

He immediately becomes the villain of my fantasies. I hate him, and it’s obvious he’s no fan of mine either. Every time we cross paths, sparks fly. But the shit hits the fan when I accidentally cause an incident, punch said guard in the face, and get kicked out of the convention.

Regret gives way to determination when I sign up for self-defense classes with a personal trainer. I refuse to be vulnerable again. But when I walk into the gym, I can’t believe my luck.

My new trainer is the bodyguard who got me kicked out of the convention. Anger and attraction make for some spectacular fireworks, but someone is bound to get burned.

Here’s the first chapter of The Bodyguard, which released yesterday. It’s on sale for a limited time. Only $0.99 this week. Yes, it’s Book 3 in the Fangirl Confessions Novella Series, but it can easily stand alone. Enjoy and remember, Beth is a feisty one so her language is a little coarse. 🔥😘💥

Chapter One

I adjust the strap on my top, managing to wrangle my cosplay into place, and take a deep breath as the line shifts forward. Maybe I should have worn my Space Vendetta outfit today instead of this SteamPunked one. It doesn’t matter, I’m invested. But this irritating strap just might be the thing that pushes me over the edge.

I look at the other attendees waiting to enter the convention center. Some are in costume, others wear merch from their favorite fandom. And then there are those who look like they walked in off the street on any average day. Fans come in all shapes and sizes, but few understand how important this community is to someone like me.

It literally saved my life.

No one takes me seriously. After ten years of dedication to fandom life, it still bothers me that there isn’t a soul alive who understands the depth of my commitment to this community. Sometimes I take it too far, which is how I earned my nickname—Beth the Bitch—in online forums. Many recognize me as MistressViper, a title I’ve earned by being a little too critical of my fellow fangirls.

I don’t mean to be this way. It’s who I am. I embrace it.

Meeting our little group of fangirls at the Philadelphia convention is a huge step outside my comfort zone, and I wasn’t sure I’d be welcomed by everyone in the group. Some comments I’ve left on the groups’ fanfics were more critical than constructive. It ruffled some feathers with some members. Seeing how I’ve never met any of these women in person, I may have crossed a line. Regardless, I feel like I’ve known them my whole life.

When we met for dinner last night, I wasn’t sure what would happen. Jen didn’t seem too excited to see me, and Jessica kept to herself. Vicky and Ginger welcomed me without hesitation. Madre and Ronnie were friendly but maintained their distance. Not that I blame them. I’m an acquired taste.

The strap pulls and twists against my skin when I shift my bag on my shoulder. “Goddamn son of a bitch,” I grumble under my breath as I enter the narrow entrance, fumbling with my badge.

An affronted grunt rumbles beside me.

I glare at the prude asshole, but my caustic reply turns to ash.

Fuck. Not a prude.

I meet the dark gaze of a black-clad security guard with an earpiece and an unwavering frown. A quick assessment of him tells me all I need to know. This guy is smoldering hot—I’m talking five-star villain material, from his dark hair to a piercing judgmental stare. Just give him a dark cloak and a scar and he’d fit the part of every dark romance girl’s fantasy.

Good thing that shit doesn’t affect me.

“What?” I snap.

“The bag.” He points to the table beside him.

“What about it?” I ignore his unspoken demand.

He grinds his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort. “Security protocol. We inspect the contents of every bag upon entrance to the convention.”

With a huff, I pull the bag off my shoulder, which retwists the strap and pinches my skin in the process. I slam the bag on the table before—again—fixing my costume.

He purses his lips and opens the bag. As he rifles through my personal items with the grace of a hippopotamus performing ballet, I study his profile and mentally curse whoever thought it was a good idea to put a handsome fucker with a shitty attitude on security duty at a comic convention. This is supposed to be a happy place, but my mood is shot to shit because of this grumpy asshole. This delectable grumpy asshole.

I’m torn between irritation and attraction. He shoves the bag at me and jerks his head toward the entrance, telling me, without the consideration of words, I can enter the convention.

“Grumpy fuck,” I mutter beneath my breath and snatch my bag.

His grip tightens as he pulls it—and me—closer. “This is a family event. Keep it up, and I’ll make sure this convention is your last.”

My breath catches at the implication of his words. “Did you just threaten me?”

“Not a threat. A promise.” His eyes darken. “Behave, princess.”

The audacity of this prick burrows beneath my skin.

“If anyone needs goddamn manners, I suggest you look in a fucking mirror.”

His brow arches, amusement flickering in the dark depth of his eyes, but his demeanor remains etched in stone. We lock in silent battle for what feels like an eternity, but he finally releases my bag and turns away in dismissal.

“Next,” he calls.

Heat blossoms inside me and transforms to a full-blown volcano of hate. His casual dismissal left me speechless—which is an accomplishment—but the fact that he didn’t respond to my comment leaves me fuming. I stare at him for a long moment while he completely ignores me. What an asshole!

I stomp forward, stifling the urge to turn and glare daggers at the insufferable dickhead as I weave deeper into the crowd and pull out my phone. A text from Ginger lets me know their location. I make my way toward the vendor entrance.

Once I find a quiet spot, out of the way of traffic, I lean against the wall and scan the crowd. Irritation floods me as I switch the bag to my other shoulder. Damn this fucking strap, I curse repeatedly and attempt to fix it in place. Maybe Vicky has some tape or something. I don’t know if I can stand any more inconveniences today. Especially one that follows me and consistently puts me in a pissy mood.

Ginger appears, her auburn waves catching the light, followed by Jessica and Vicky. I manage a tense smile and ignore my costume frustrations.

“Hey, Beth.” Ginger hugs me.

We exchange greetings and sort out the details of everyone’s agenda. Tomorrow, Ginger and I have scheduled events—she has a panel and I have two photo ops, one with Raven Stark, the other with Vincent Mallard. But today, we’re free to roam the convention until we meet up with Madre and Jen later.

“Hey.” I greet Vicky.

As we lay out our plans for the day, Vicky and Ginger to eye me suspiciously.

“Who pissed in your cereal?” Ginger calls me out.

“A handsome fucker posing as a security guard. Asshole threatened to ban me from the con.” I scoff. “I’d like to see him fucking try.”

Vicky’s eyes widen. “He said that?”

“Yeah, kind of a dick move.” I tug the offending strap again and squirm with frustration.

“Looks like you have an issue.” Vicky points at my shoulder.

“In more ways than one,” Ginger teases, but she sobers at my scowl. “Sorry, it’s just…only you could make an enemy the first day of a fandom convention.”

I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Girl, you know we love you to death…but you can be intense. Some people struggle to know how to handle your…”

“Passion,” Vicky supplies with a nod. “It’s not a bad thing. You’re just an acquired taste, like Jaegermeister.”

“Did you just compare me to questionable liquor?” I gag at the thought of the taste, not to mention a hazy memory of getting shitfaced on it in my early twenties.

“We all indulged, girl.” Ginger chuckles. “Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about the security guard. He probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“Yeah, I wish it had been my bed,” I mutter under my breath, realizing too late it should have been an inside thought.

Ginger and Vicky share a knowing look and grin.

“Don’t say anything,” I growl. “Let’s just check out the vendors.”

“Want me to fix your strap first?” Vicky opens her bag and pulls out the sewing kit.

“I got it.”

“No. You’ll just stew in a miserable mood.” Ginger gestures to Vicky. “Let her fix it. I don’t want to hang out with Bitchy Beth all day because of a costume malfunction.”

“Fine.” I hand Ginger my bag and straighten so Vicky can assess the damage.

Within minutes, she’s got the strap pinned in place and soft cotton fabric hidden beneath it. The irritation slowly fades, both in my mood and chafing skin.

“That better?” Vicky asks as she steps away and replaces the kit in her bag.

“Much.” I smile, feeling tension ebb. “Thanks.”

Vicky beams. “Of course.”

“Now, let’s go. There’s a lot of ground to cover.” Ginger links her arms through ours and pulls us into the vendor area.

My bag settles against my hip as relief fills me. It’s weird how something so minute as a twisted, fraying strap can throw me into such a miserable mood.

We meander from booth to booth, taking in the awesome items for sale. It never fails to amaze me how creative the fandom community truly is. I scan items, admiring them, but nothing calls to me, begs me to take it home.

My thoughts shift, and without warning, an image of the sexy security guard pops up in the shadowy reaches of my brain. Dark hair, dark eyes, deep scowl. Fuck, he’d make a damn fine villain. But it’s his voice…fuck, that voice could command armies. Decimate villages. Incinerate panties! I shiver at the thought, then shove the unbidden heat aside.

No, he’s a first-class asshole. I should not be absently drooling over a jerk who threatened me. Truth is, this is a huge event, and the odds of us crossing paths again are a million to one. Part of me wilts at the knowledge, but I ignore it.

“You keep scowling like that and people will think you’re contemplating murder,” Ginger mutters beside me. “Are you?”

I snap from my thoughts and realize she’s leaning close so people won’t overhear. “Maybe.”

“Whose demise are you plotting?” she asks with a lopsided smile.

“That damned security guard.” My head aches just thinking about our earlier interaction.

“Interesting.” Ginger arches a brow.

“What?”

“That some random man burrowed under your skin so easily.” Ginger taps a finger on her jaw. “I’ve seen you take on internet trolls and convention hecklers without breaking a sweat, but this guy has you twisted up. What’s different?”

“I–I don’t know.” I huff, exasperated he has this effect on me. “Aside from the fact that he is by far the sexiest man in this building—which is saying a lot, considering the number of celebrities in attendance. He just pushed all my buttons.”

“Or you’d like him to push different buttons.” Ginger winks.

“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affects me.” I pause, inspecting a purse hanging from a rack in a neighboring booth.

“I love a good enemies-to-lovers trope.”

With a side-eye at my friend, I shake my head. “You’re hopeless.”

“You write the best enemies-to-lovers fics,” she says with a smirk. “It’s only appropriate you get to experience one firsthand.”

“We’re not enemies, and I’ll never see his surly ass again.” I sniff. “End of story.”

“We’ll see.” Ginger sighs. “Strange things happen at fandom conventions.”

“Yeah.” A derisive snort rips from deep within me. “We’re all going to meet our husbands at a fandom convention in the City of Brotherly Love. You’re a goddamn hopeless romantic, Ginger.”

“And you love me for it.” She blows me a kiss.

Vicky reappears after helping a cosplayer with a wardrobe malfunction, and the conversation shifts to Throne of Ashes as a burly cosplayer, dressed as the Forgotten Knight, stalks toward us.

I glance around, my spidey senses tingling. That guard is here. Somewhere.

I can’t tell if the thought infuriates me more than it turns me on. Damn him.