Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Samir swallowed. “Such as?”

  “Edits. Public appearances on their schedule, not yours.”

  “You’re not exactly selling me on this whole thing, you know.”

  Anthony chuckled. “It’s not that bad. And you’ve got both Leanne and me to guide you.”

  Samir grinned. “So I’m your padawan now?”

  “Something like that.” Anthony pulled him closer and kissed his forehead. “And really, I think you’ll be fine. The Force is strong in you, young—”

  “Oh my God.” Samir snorted and rolled his eyes. “Really?”

  Anthony laughed.

  Samir met his gaze and turned a little more serious. “Listen, uh ...”

  Anthony’s humor faded too. He ran his hand through Samir’s still-damp hair. “What’s wrong?”

  Samir laced his fingers behind Anthony’s neck. “What happens after this weekend?”

  “With ...” Anthony glanced down at the narrow space between them. “Oh. Right.”

  “We don’t need to have everything all mapped out or anything. I’m, I guess, wondering what we’re doing.”

  “Do we need to define it yet?” Anthony trailed the backs of his fingers down Samir’s cheek. “I’d be perfectly happy running with it and letting it define itself.”

  As long as I don’t overstay my welcome, right?

  Samir chewed on the thought. “Yeah, I guess we could do that. With everything Leanne’s working on, we’re kind of going to be chained together for a while anyway. Professionally and creatively at least.”

  Twin creases formed between Anthony’s eyebrows. “Would you prefer to keep it to professional and creative, then? And friends, of course?”

  “Before last night, I might’ve said that’s a good idea.” In spite of his reservations, he drew Anthony a little closer. “But somehow I don’t think we’d be able to keep our hands off each other.”

  “Well, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I don’t want to keep my hands off you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Boys. That’s not the kind of work I meant. Twenty pages, by tonight, Anthony.” Leanne stood in the kitchen entrance, phone in hand, scrolling her screen. “Just do something weird and wonderful with that portal.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Anthony nodded to Samir. “To the office, then, Robin.”

  Anthony’s office was large enough to contain Samir’s entire condo. The whole place was clad in wood and looked like the inside of a log cabin. The bookshelves fitted into the walls were made of wood that had the bark still on, and as far as Samir could tell from a glance, were filled with books directly related to Triple Moon and reference books. There was a comfortable-looking couch and a small table next to it, both on white sheepskin rugs. One side of the office was all glass with a stunning view of the forest and the mountains.

  But maybe the most impressive feature of the room was an enormous desk seemingly made of gnarled driftwood, as if it had been carved from a tangled root system that had been lying exposed in the scorching sun for a generation or so. It was topped with a sheet of glass, on which sat a vast screen, a wireless keyboard, and a stack of notepaper, as well as a line of well-thumbed copies of the last hardcover editions of Triple Moon.

  Anthony pulled the door shut behind them. “So this is where the magic happens. Or doesn’t, as it were.”

  Samir drank it all in. “Certainly not a sterile cubicle environment.”

  Anthony scoffed. “Put me in a cubicle farm, and I will bludgeon myself to death with a laser printer.”

  “Yeah, I’ve considered doing that a few times. Death by ink-jet.”

  Anthony laughed. “I don’t know how you put up with it all day long.”

  “The paycheck soothes the pain a little.”

  “Well.” Anthony rested a hand on Samir’s shoulder. “Maybe if this deal works out, you won’t have to put up with it much longer.”

  Samir tried not to notice the excitement swelling in his chest at the mere thought of a giant advance for a Triple Moon book. Anthony was the second person to mention it in the past hour, and it was almost like an incantation. An odd little mantra—seven figures, seven figures, seven figures—that would become real if enough people repeated it.

  “We can hope,” he said softly.

  “Don’t downplay it.” Anthony moved his hand to Samir’s waist and drew him closer. “This is big, Samir. One way or another Axis Mundi is going to get out there, and you’re going to get credit and a paycheck.”

  Samir couldn’t help smiling. “Guess we’ll see how it plays out, right?”

  “Yeah. We will.” Anthony cupped his cheek, and then kissed him gently. He paused like he was about to say something, but then pulled Samir in for another, longer kiss. He was still shirtless, and his body heat radiated through Samir’s T-shirt, especially as they wrapped their arms around each other.

  “We’re not ... You’re never going to get any work done if we keep ...”

  “I’m never going to get any work done anyway.” Anthony’s hands slid over Samir’s hips. “Not with you in the house.”

  “Are you saying I should leave?”

  Anthony’s fingers curled, bringing Samir in closer. “No, definitely not. I’m just thinking I’ll write twice as much on Monday to make up for whatever I don’t write this weekend.” He dipped his head and kissed the side of Samir’s neck. “Unless you want to go.”

  “N-no. But we should ...” He closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side and letting his fingers run down Anthony’s back.

  “We should, what?”

  Samir’s balance wavered. He stepped away, and his hip bumped the desk. He grabbed on to it for support, holding the back of Anthony’s neck with the other hand. “We should go to your bedroom. Where there’s ... condoms.”

  Anthony groaned softly. “We should. But this house is too fucking big.”

  “First world problems?”

  “Mm-hmm. There’s also a high-powered New York she-wolf guarding the door.” Anthony kissed beneath Samir’s ear. “Anything we do will have to be in here. And quiet.”

  Chapter 11

  Anthony spent all day Monday and the better part of Tuesday morning banging his head against a manuscript he didn’t want to finish anyway. After reading Axis Mundi, the original book eight was dead in the water. Leanne wanted him to work on book nine, but he really couldn’t until he knew for sure if Axis Mundi would be acquired, so the only thing he could do now was write the fallback. All one hundred sixty thousand excruciating words of it.

  It was painful. It was slow. Everything, including rearranging his library numerically by ISBN, sounded more enticing. So after five pages of very mediocre writing (and he knew it), he printed out the new pages, didn’t look at them even once, just put them facedown on the pile next to the screen, and opened a new document.

  Since reading Axis Mundi, he’d seen the characters go off on a million tangents, and just this morning under the shower, he’d brainstormed what he could do with Samir’s plotlines. Which characters were going where, and why, and how it was moving their personal arcs along. So instead of dragging himself through a book eight that would never get published anyway, he jumped right into outlining book nine, just throwing all his ideas on the page, though only sixty or maybe sixty-five percent would survive the actual writing.

  At three, he broke for a late lunch of coffee and scrambled eggs before he went back to put down more thoughts. The result wasn’t perfect, but it would do as a very loose road map.

  Leanne emailed to ask whether he was writing, and for once Anthony could tell her honestly that he was, though he added somewhat dishonestly that he was working on the outline based on Sunday’s “brainstorming” session with Samir. In truth, they’d ended up necking and petting and then exchanging blowjobs right there by the couch. Afterward, they’d just idly talked books and literary heroes and plans for their creative futures.

  He wished Samir had more of a body of work so h
e didn’t end up relying too heavily on Axis Mundi. Then again, the opportunity was now, and it would be a crime to waste it. Samir was at the right place, at the right time, and he was saving Anthony’s ass and launching his own career. Nothing should go wrong, right?

  Anthony didn’t allow himself to linger too much on the memories of the too-short, too-hot weekend. The sex was really good, and he liked the kid—Samir was an unpolished gem of a writer, with none of the neuroses that haunted most in the profession, and they had the exact same ideas about those characters and where they should go. It was like getting a second brain—attached to a very hot package that also included one of Anthony’s few friends.

  Admittedly, he was happy to have his house back. He enjoyed visiting with Leanne, and he loved Samir’s company, but sometimes a man needed his cave to himself.

  He was torn about whether he liked the distance between his home in Viking Bay and Samir’s in Seattle. On one hand, it meant long drives for each of them, and probably long periods between visits. On the other hand, they weren’t tripping over each other. The distance would keep them from suffocating and stifling each other. Maybe, like it had with Ryan, it would help keep their expectations reasonable—sex, friendship, creative collaborators. Perfect, as far as he was concerned.

  When he’d done eight hours of work and most of the outline had come together, he logged into the Rawson’s Moonatics forum. Samir was usually online at this time, and sure enough, a green dot next to SirMarrok made Anthony smile. He opened up a chat window.

  Hey.

  Hey.

  How was your day?

  I have a big project coming up so today was almost all meetings.

  The good kind or the bad kind?

  Nobody ever told me there were good meetings.

  Eww. Fuck meetings.

  My sentiments exactly.

  Anthony glanced at the time. You’re going to your crit group tonight, right?

  Maybe. Traffic’s kind of a bitch right now.

  Don’t blame you. But the group usually relaxes you.

  True. We’ll see. What are you up to?

  Anthony gnawed his lip and stared at the empty reply box. Funny how the blinking cursor had never intimidated him while talking to SirMarrok. While facing down the next chapter of a stalled work in progress, sure. While getting ready to email his estranged brother to try to reconnect, definitely.

  But with Samir? Never.

  When he could finally trust his fingers not to type out “Thinking about you a lot more than I should be” or “Trying not to check the ferry schedules for this evening,” he replied with, Writing. LOL.

  LOL. Must be going well?

  Something like that. He tapped his fingers on the desk, then added, Beating my head against book 9.

  Samir was quiet for a few minutes. Anthony had long ago stopped worrying if periods of silence meant something negative. Knowing Samir, he’d wandered off to get a cup of coffee, or he was on the phone. Still, Anthony felt weird having that particular message hanging out there unanswered. Like he’d just confessed to a crime and needed someone to either tell him it was no big deal or to go ahead and arrest his ass already.

  Then the words appeared at the bottom of the chat window: SirMarrok is typing ...

  They disappeared.

  Reappeared.

  Disappeared again.

  Anthony chewed his thumbnail, staring at the blank space where those four simple words had been, wondering what was going on in Samir’s mind.

  Finally, SirMarrok is typing ...

  Then, If you want me to take a look at what you have, I’d be happy to.

  Anthony exhaled. It’s all kind of up in the air until we know what’s going on with AM.

  Good point. Happy to bounce ideas, though.

  Anthony was tempted, but Samir’s crit group was meeting soon. If he was going to get there on time, he’d leave within the next twenty minutes or so, and Anthony didn’t want to keep him from it. If Samir was still online in half an hour, then he’d take him up on the sounding board offer.

  For now, Should be ok. Might just need a break.

  LOL. Know the feeling.

  They bantered back and forth like they always did in the evenings. It was odd, chatting with SirMarrok and knowing that Samir was the man behind the stylized blue werewolf knight avatar. Nothing about their interactions had changed. Even after the whirlwind progression from meeting to sleeping together, and all of the insanity surrounding Samir’s book, they had settled right back into their comfortable groove as SirMarrok and Ulfhedinn.

  At a little past six, Samir said, I should run. Traffic looks better, so I think I can make it on time.

  Okay. Enjoy your group!

  Will do. Pause. Will you be on later this evening?

  Don’t know, but text me if you want to chat.

  I will. TTYL.

  TTYL.

  And then the green light turned dark.

  Anthony leaned back in his chair and exhaled. Even that felt familiar. Now that he thought about it, he realized it happened almost every time they ended a conversation. Not like he was relieved that Samir was gone—hardly!—more a moment of returning to earth after being engrossed in whatever they’d been talking about. Whether it was mundane chitchat about Big Bang Theory reruns, or Samir excitedly rattling off a scene he’d come up with for one of his short stories, Anthony nearly always had the same feeling when it was over: that time had ceased to exist and he’d gone off to some other place for an undefined period.

  Didn’t alien abductees report the same phenomenon? What the hell that meant, he had no idea. Time to get grounded again. The thing about spending most of his life in his own head was that he forgot everything else, like food, other human beings, and emails. He got changed and headed to the in-house gym, where, surprise, Chas was working out too. She was using the elliptical, so Anthony got on the treadmill next to it and hit his normal program.

  She slowed down and glanced at him. “How did things go with that writer? I didn’t hear shouting and screaming from the main house, so I guess it went all right?”

  “Yep.” He took his towel from his neck and placed it on the side bar of the treadmill. “We got along well. Very.”

  “Oh? A smug grin. No dramatic sighing about having your man cave all to yourself again. Now I want details.” She reached for her water bottle and squirted some into her mouth. “What happened?”

  “Well, he’s very cute, he’s written a great book, and he seems to like me.”

  “The last time those boxes were all ticked, things didn’t go that well.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not a raging psychopath like the last one I let into my bedroom.” Oops. It was out.

  “Are you going to introduce him to me?” She slowed her pace a little more on the elliptical. “So I know whose ass to save when your fans realize you’re dating.”

  Was he? Damn it. Despite his intention to keep everything casual and not burden Samir with even more expectations while the harpies of New York City circled around his book (and him), apparently some of Anthony’s brain parts weren’t quite on board with the whole “keeping it casual” thing. After a weekend. And two years or so of chatting and flirting and reading.

  “Well, let’s not jump the gun. At least until I know where we stand. Can’t put him through all that and have him realize dating me is more trouble with the media and fans than I’m worth.”

  “Don’t be glum. I think you’re a nice piece of action.” She winked, and that conjured up a night when nature—and two bottles of wine—had decided that two lonely adults of complementary genders might as well console each other with sex. They’d both enjoyed it, but Anthony wasn’t quite bisexual enough to hope it would work out, and sleeping with your PA and bodyguard was just too weird even in the short run. After a very awkward breakfast, they’d decided they adored each other, but not in that way.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, let’s see if it’s just a weekend of action, or if i
t becomes a habit.”

  “A habit?” Chas rolled her eyes and laughed. “You’re such a romantic, Rawson.”

  Thank God he was already on the treadmill, which masked any extra color that might’ve appeared in his face.

  “So when are you seeing him again?”

  As soon as humanly possible.

  “I don’t know yet. This weekend, I hope.”

  She grinned. “You’re really going to wait that long?”

  “Isn’t like I have much choice. He’s in Seattle, and works into the evenings.”

  “So?” She folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve got a car, baby. And you aren’t constrained by hours. Why not go out there and see him for a night?”

  Anthony broke eye contact, ostensibly to adjust the treadmill’s incline. “I think things are already moving pretty quickly. I don’t want to overwhelm the kid.”

  “Overwhelm the kid? Or overwhelm you?”

  “Either/or. But I’ll see him Friday night, and we’ll play it by ear.”

  “Fair enough.” She shot him a knowing smirk. “Though I’ve got a Benjamin in my pocket who says you can’t wait that long to see him.”

  Anthony laughed. “You’re on.”

  “Good. You go see him before Friday night; you owe me a hundred.”

  “Deal.”

  She left the gym, and he continued with his run. That would be an easy enough wager to win. Samir had his critique group tonight and his other group tomorrow. Anthony himself had training sessions tomorrow and Thursday night with Ryan. That took them right up to Friday night, when hopefully Samir wouldn’t have to work late, and they could see each other.

  And then what?

  He’d body-swerved the question when Samir had brought it up. In part because he didn’t know the answer, and in part because he was afraid of the answer. Sure, they were good friends. Yeah, they were compatible as fuck in the bedroom. But ...

  Age. Distance. Career. Jaded. Clinging. Suffocating.

  Ugh. Relationships.

  Anthony was a slight workaholic in the same sense that the ocean was slightly salty. Over the course of their many, many chats, he’d gathered that Samir was fiercely independent like him. On the surface, the combination was perfect. In practice, it led to conversations about “drifting apart” and “of course you have another deadline” and “damn it, now you’re smothering me” in the same evening.