Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Mind. Blown.

  “Wow.” Samir shook his head. “If I don’t seem excited about this, I’m just in shock.”

  “It’s okay.” Anthony smiled, obviously unaware of what that did to Samir’s ability to think. “I’ll talk to her tonight, and then I can email you. Or call you, if you want.”

  Samir almost tumbled out of his chair. “You want my phone number too?”

  Anthony smirked. “Well, I could stand on top of Mount Olympus and shout, but you probably wouldn’t hear me.”

  “Very funny.” Samir rolled his eyes. “Yeah, if you want to give me a call or shoot me a text ...” He pulled out his phone and set it on the table.

  And thirty seconds later, he had Anthony Rawson’s phone number in his contact list.

  Chapter 3

  One thing that kept surprising Anthony about fans was how awesome they were in their own rights. He’d met plenty of cool people who turned out to be fans (like more than half the show’s cast), and sometimes he was just stunned and humbled to find out who loved his work, like that USMC vet who’d been blown up in Afghanistan and told him the series had kept him sane during his very long and very tough recovery, adding, “Dima Sobakin, that’s me.”

  Well. People put all kinds of things into it. There was wishful thinking and projection, but maybe the most gratifying was when it inspired another artist. One of his favorite fan emails was from a writer who’d just landed her first deal and told him, “You were my inspiration.”

  He’d have thought it couldn’t possibly get any better than that.

  And then there were the incredibly cute fans.

  SirMarrok could have been anybody. Thanks to the internet, gender and attractiveness were virtually irrelevant. SirMarrok could have been a grandmother or a pimply fourteen-year-old, and that would have been okay, because Anthony believed only one thing about writers and that was that the proof of any writer was in the actual story, and everything else was bullshit.

  But SirMarrok turned out to be cute. Cute in a hot kind of way. Mid- to late twenties. Tall and on the lean/gangly spectrum, though it was hard to guess under the T-shirt and leather jacket. An intriguing long, pale throat. Glasses that played up the “sexy geek” image, but considering he was a fan and had clearly been shocked, he hadn’t been awkward. And Anthony couldn’t deny that Middle Eastern men had always caught his eye.

  Even before he’d seen SirMarrok, though, Anthony had found something about him attractive. He’d always been tremendously talented and enthusiastic and smart and generous—someone Anthony couldn’t not be attracted to. Seeing him in person only added to the intrigue.

  Samir had to be too good to be real. There was no way someone that sweet, smart, and fun could also be that good-looking.

  He grinned to himself on the way to his hotel room. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, and he fished it out once he’d closed the door behind him to read the text.

  For the love of everything that’s holy, please call me. — Leanne

  Well, that was a call he couldn’t avoid for much longer. He walked up to the curtains and opened them wide, looking out over the darkening sky above Seattle’s distinctive silhouette.

  And finally, he hit the speed dial.

  Angry agent freaking out in three, two ...

  “It’s about time!”

  “And hello to you too, darling.”

  He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Please tell me you have some good news for me.”

  “Well ...”

  “Damn it, Anthony. You told me you’d work on it. Have you gotten anywhere?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You want some good news, and I might have some for you. Do you want that first? Or do you want to hear about how that book is kicking my ass up one side and down the other?”

  She groaned. “Give me some good-ish news.”

  “What would you say to the idea of another author joining Triple Moon?”

  She didn’t respond immediately, then finally said, “Go on.”

  “The thing is, I know I’m technically not supposed to, but I read something written by a fan.”

  “I thought this was good news.”

  “It is good news. Kind of.” He cleared his throat. “The book is amazing. Just, utterly jaw-dropping.”

  “And?”

  “I want to add it to the series. In place of book eight.”

  Leanne should’ve known by then not to take a drink when she was on the phone with him—though maybe she needed something good and strong while they were talking—but she choked and sputtered a few times. “You want them to buy a Triple Moon installment written by a fan? When you weren’t even supposed to be reading that kind of thing?”

  “To be honest, at this point, it’s either that or wait until Armageddon for my version.”

  “It’s giving you that much trouble?”

  “It’s driving me insane. And this kid’s book is unbelievably good.” He ran a hand through his hair as he gazed out at the skyline. “It’s like he reached into my head, stole all my characters, and made them his collective bitch.”

  “But Triple Moon is your series. People are expecting Anthony Rawson to write the books.”

  “I could always fake my own death and will the series to him to finish.”

  “Keep delaying the book, and you won’t have to fake it.”

  “Exactly. But I’ve got a solution to all of our problems, which is a way better book than I would have written myself.”

  Leanne was quiet for a moment. Possibly drinking something again. “Does he know you’ve read it?”

  “He sent it to me.”

  “What? When the hell did you start—”

  “Relax. This is the only guy whose work I’ve read.”

  Another long pause. “And it’s really that good?”

  “It’s two hundred and fifty thousand words, and I read it in two days.”

  “Two days when you could have been writing.”

  He blew out a breath. “Not likely, given how badly I’ve stalled. Listen, let me send you a few chapters. Give it a read, and if you hate it, I swear on my mother’s grave I will have the eighth book to you by the end of the month.”

  “Whoa. You’re really that sure I’ll like it.”

  “Yes. In fact, if you don’t like it, I’ll finish the book by month’s end and I’ll sell the Ferrari.”

  “You’ll ...” She sighed. “Okay, fine. Send me the first ninety pages or so.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Well, just in case, I’d suggest you get cracking on your book right after you write the ‘for sale’ ad for the car.”

  “Nope.”

  She laughed, though it was a tense sound. “Okay, send it. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, and so help me, if I get your voice mail, I will be on your doorstep on Monday morning. And you will not like that.”

  “I’ll keep my phone with me, and it’ll be turned on. Promise.”

  ***

  An obnoxious buzzing combined with a shrill beep dragged Anthony out of a sound sleep. Worse, he’d been dreaming. About Samir. Fuck you, whoever interrupted that dream.

  He felt around blindly and picked up his cell phone. Below the clock, which announced it was almost three in the goddamned morning, was Leanne’s name. Closing his eyes, he put the phone to his ear. “Do you know what time—”

  “I need the rest of that book.”

  “What?”

  “The book. Axis Mundi. Send the rest of it now.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “But it’s three in—”

  “I swear to God, if I don’t have that book in the next two minutes, I will rewrite your next contract to make you come to every convention dressed like Hello Kitty. Send. The fucking. Book.”

  “I’d have a witty repartee for you, but it’s three in the morning.” And I have Samir on the brain. The little brain.

  He picked up his iPad, selected his inbox, and forwarded her the email with the file attac
hment. “There. It’s on its way to—”

  “Okaythanksbye.” The line went dead.

  Damn. Replaced in his agent’s affections already. After ninety goddamned pages. He couldn’t help but laugh at the idea that after seven books and all the money she’d made off him, she’d shut him down like that. But Leanne was a huge geek herself, and when they’d had that first, “Let’s see, dear writer, if you’re insane” face-to-face vetting meeting, they’d descended into arguing the merits and flaws of every Star Trek version and all of its spin-offs. A woman who could quote the Star Trek technical manual at him even while drunk at a hotel bar impressed the hell out of him in geek terms.

  He lay back in bed and turned off his iPad. The room went dark again, or as dark as it got with the nearly full moon shining right into his window. And the hotel staff had looked at him funny when he’d insisted on a room from where he could see the moonrise. With the disturbance taken care of, his mind went back to the dream he’d been having before she’d called.

  Anthony closed his eyes. He pushed the covers away and ran a hand down his body. The interrupted dream had been a strange mix of Axis Mundi and Samir and him at some nightmarish convention where none of the panels happened in the rooms given in the program—there’d been some reality jumping, and then some hot and heavy sex. And werewolves, though that part had blurred by now.

  None of it made sense except for a memory of Samir’s lips and heavy breaths and lots of skin on skin. Replaying that in his mind was probably a bit weird, so he changed the mental program to Tell Me, his favorite SirMarrok story, one that had featured surprisingly consensual hate-sex between Dima and Raphael before they formed their tense alliance. That was safer. Anthony gripped his erection harder and stroked, arching off the bed when he got close. But even that rough against-the-wall sex image didn’t last— There was still Samir, slipping back into his fantasy, kissing and stroking and grinding on him. Hey, it was just a fantasy, not the real guy; a fantasy of a multiverse kind of Samir rather than a weird kind of groupie fantasy. Same hot guy though, same enthusiasm and spirit, same generosity. Anthony worked himself harder, imagined trading breathless, near-choking kisses with Samir, and finally came.

  Usually, he’d immediately start feeling around for some tissues to clean himself up, but for a moment, he just lay there, eyes closed and hand still as he caught his breath.

  Finally, he sat up and found the tissues. Once he’d cleaned himself off, he settled back onto the sheets and stared up at the ceiling. The postorgasm fatigue was there, relaxing his muscles and trying to drag his eyelids shut, but his mind was going a million miles an hour. Even now that he’d scratched that itch, he couldn’t stop thinking about Samir. The dream Samir. The real Samir. The Samir who’d penned those insanely hot stories about Anthony’s own characters.

  The Samir who’d turned out to be an irresistible combination of sexy and cute, with a voice Anthony could’ve listened to all day—night—long. And that little bit of shyness had been so adorable Anthony could barely stand it, especially knowing what kinds of things lurked inside that brain of his. Yeah, maybe he blushed as easily as Anthony himself, and yeah, maybe he’d been starstruck (though for werewolf authors that was likely moonstruck), but he’d also written at length and in great detail about Raphael bending Dima over the trunk of a cop car and fucking him senseless while the guy still had his hands cuffed behind his back. And that was one of his tamer stories by a long shot.

  Anthony shivered. He was probably well out of Samir’s preferred age bracket. After all, a guy that hot could probably snag himself someone outside of the cradle-robbing, old-enough-to-be-your-father, twice-your-age, oh-my-God-that’s-creepy range.

  A guy could dream, though. And Jesus, Anthony had dreamed.

  Not that he’d be dreaming again anytime soon, since he was wide awake. Which didn’t usually happen after he’d jerked off, but then again, he wasn’t usually this caught up in whoever he’d jerked off to.

  He sat up and pulled his iPad off the bedside table again. Might as well see what was happening on his various forums.

  He logged into Rawson’s Moonatics and scrolled through the threads he was following. The sidebar showed the handle of whoever had posted most recently in each, and ...

  SirMarrok.

  SirMarrok.

  SirMarrok.

  Odd. Samir wasn’t usually much of a night owl. In fact, he almost religiously logged out of their chats at ten o’clock unless he didn’t have to work the next day. Even on weekends, he was usually asleep by midnight.

  Anthony clicked on Samir’s handle, and the green light was on. He hesitated, then pinged him on chat. You’re still awake?

  Nothing for a few moments, then the response: Sorry, was getting a drink. Yeah. Awake. You too?

  Not sleepwalking. I think. Ask me tomorrow.

  Another long pause. Anthony realized that he’d made an invitation there. Formulated openly enough to count as an invitation to meet in the flesh.

  Okay. When & where?

  Oh. Well. All right, then.

  Your choice. You prob know the area better than I do.

  And when?

  I’m free. Maybe not super early.

  Heh. No. Noon again? We, IDK, could get some food?

  Sounds good. Did this feel a bit stilted and unnatural? Guarded? Weird for SirMarrok and Ulfhedinn to be that way, but he supposed it was normal after meeting face-to-face for the first time.

  Samir went on, Mind’s still blown. Have you talked to your agent?

  Briefly. She’s reading it.

  Another pause. Then: Holy shit.

  You’ll be fine. I think the only way she’ll love it more is if you worked in some Shatner/Nimoy slash.

  !!!!

  I know. I prefer the new cast too, but don’t tell her that.

  ... You’re serious.

  Anthony laughed into the stillness. Well, she is a Trekkie. But yes, she’s loving the book. I sent the 1st 90 pgs last night, & she woke me up at 3am to threaten me if I didn’t send more. He paused, then added, That’s why I’m awake.

  For almost a full minute, Samir said nothing. Then he posted, Holy shit.

  Still can’t promise b/c of legalities & stuff, but it’s a step.

  Silence.

  Then his phone buzzed, startling the hell out of him. “Seriously, Leanne?” He grabbed the phone and—

  Nope. Not Leanne.

  “Hey, Samir.”

  “You’re fucking serious.” He sounded shaky. “This is really happening.”

  “It is. Just breathe. Leanne is really reading it, and she’s loving it. What happens next is out of my hands.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, she even threatened me with Hello Kitty over it.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, inside joke. Anyway. I can’t promise a thing. This stupid business is half writers’ tears and half utter chaos where nobody knows what the other’s doing, but sometimes people get lucky. Especially if they’re talented.”

  “And well connected.”

  “I guess it helps, but talent is important, too. Just keep in mind it’s still the publisher who needs to be won over. It’ll take time and might involve a battle and the sacrifice of a firstborn, but I’d rather have Leanne on my team than against me.”

  “Okay. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll just publish it on my website. Some people have been asking about it. Should I take the teaser down?”

  “No, just don’t say anything in public yet. I don’t know how Leanne will want to play it and that leaves all her options open.”

  “Okay. Wow. How ... I mean, could you sleep when you had your first book out there with an agent?”

  “At that point I was busy with some other books and did my damned best to forget that first one even existed. But no. Lots of stress and tension. The only thing that’s good about getting older and having a pile of books under your belt”—under your belt, Anthony? Really?—“is that it becomes much more rout
ine and you take less shit from all the parasites making a buck off your work.” He snorted. “I guess that makes me sound like a bit of an asshole, but God knows I’ve signed some awful contracts to get my books out there.”

  “I’ve heard some of the contracts can be pretty shitty.”

  “You’ve heard right.” He sat up and set his iPad aside. Playing with the edge of the hotel blanket, he said, “Really, don’t worry too much about it at this point. If the publisher isn’t on board, we’ll figure something out.”

  Samir didn’t respond right away. “We?”

  “Well ...” Warmth rushed into Anthony’s face. “I really want this story to succeed. Not just because it would save my ass, but it’s that good.”

  “And you own the characters and the world, so it’s not like I can do anything with it without your permission.”

  “That won’t be a problem from me. My editors and agent? Possibly. But try not to sweat over it too much right now.”

  “You know that’s easier said than done, right?”

  Anthony laughed. “Yep. I know it very, very well.”

  “So you know I’m still going to worry about it.”

  “I do. Try to get some sleep, though.”

  Samir huffed. “If I could sleep, we wouldn’t be talking at three in the morning.” He paused. “Why the hell are you still awake, anyway? Oh, right, because your agent called. I forgot. Sorry. Tired.”

  “It’s all right.” It’s only half the truth anyway. “I guess we’ll both be drinking strong coffee tomorrow. Thank God we’re in Seattle.”

  “Right? Well, I’ll let you go. See you tomorrow.”

  Anthony smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  Three shots of espresso revived Samir from a semicatatonic state to something closer to consciousness, but he was still dragging ass. Thank God the place he’d suggested was only a few blocks from his condo. The brisk wind coming in off Puget Sound would wake him up a little more, and at least if he fell asleep walking, the worst that would happen was he’d wind up sprawled out on the sidewalk or stumbling into a parked car. Which might actually wake him up even more, so win-win.