Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Being alone in Samir’s office was even stranger than leaving him to sleep by himself. It was the smallest room in the house, full of books and papers, and Anthony was afraid to disturb anything. He’d have lost his mind if someone rearranged so much as a pen or a tape dispenser in his office.

  A Triple Moon mug stood on a Triple Moon coaster, and from a Triple Moon poster, Raphael scowled down at whoever sat in front of the computer. A whiteboard to the side held some plot points and Post-its and magnets holding ticket stubs of Triple Moon cons. It wasn’t an over-the-top-type fanboy abode, but definitely fannish.

  The computer was just asleep, so he woke it with a touch of the keyboard, then typed in TooWerewolfForMyShirt.

  The desktop was taken over by a National Geographic–type photo of two wolves in a fall landscape—one white, one black. Several shortcuts went to a number of programs, but there was one Word file, “AM_final.docx.” Anthony opened it and saved it immediately as “AM_Anthony_outline_fulltext” on the desktop.

  From the drawer Samir had described, he reached for a legal pad from the pile of about ten, but then hesitated. Samir really didn’t mind him pulling stuff out of drawers and using his work space? Apparently he was okay with it, so Anthony shrugged and withdrew the notepad. He selected a couple of colored gel ball pens from a wooden penholder. Skimming Axis Mundi on the screen, he started building the outline from scratch, and made notes where he thought he could fit in pieces of his attempt at book eight or where things were missing that he thought they’d need.

  Hours later, Anthony sat back and stretched a crick out of his neck. Then he read and reread the crude outline.

  I’ll be damned.

  Samir hadn’t even read Anthony’s version, but he was right. The two stories did fit together.

  They fit together perfectly.

  Chapter 14

  The screeching alarm dragged Samir out of peaceful, blissful sleep. Fucking thing. He’d been having an awesome dream, too. About Anthony. And sex. And bantering. And—

  “Tell me that thing shuts itself off.”

  The grumbling beside him woke Samir up completely. Okay, so much for it being a dream. He grabbed his phone and shut off the alarm, then rolled over. Sure enough, Anthony was really there. He looked like someone had thrown him across the side of the bed, his face buried in the pillow and one arm hanging off the edge of the mattress. Gorgeous naked shoulders. The sheet draped over him just above that amazing ass.

  In spite of being awake at such a shitty hour, Samir grinned. He leaned down and kissed the back of Anthony’s neck. “I have to go to work.”

  “’Kay.” Funny how a single syllable could be so cute, and yet filled with so much “shut up and let me go back to sleep.”

  Laughing softly, Samir dropped another kiss on Anthony’s shoulder. Anthony grumbled and burrowed deeper into the pillow.

  Samir took his work clothes into the bathroom with him. He showered, shaved, and dressed in there so he’d disturb Anthony as little as possible, and then left him a note telling him he was welcome to the coffee in the pot and that the front door would lock behind him on his way out.

  Then he went into his office to gather up his laptop and—

  Holy fuck. Anthony had been busy last night. Everything he’d worked with was in a neat stack, and shit, he’d written a lot, filling better than half a legal pad with his angular handwriting. Curiosity almost got the best of Samir, but he loathed when someone read his own work without permission, so he left the pad well enough alone. Besides, if he didn’t get the hell out of here, the morning Traffic Apocalypse would catch him out, and he’d be late.

  With his travel cup filled with unpolluted coffee, he left the condo and headed toward the office. It felt weird leaving Anthony in his bed. Most booty calls were herded out with the rising sun, assuming they stayed overnight. Then again, Anthony wasn’t exactly the most graceful riser, and he had been up half the night writing, but still. This was weird. Like they were already moving into that territory where toothbrushes and razors started taking up semipermanent residence in each other’s bathrooms. The next step was a drawer of clothes and a section of closet rack, followed by names materializing on utility bills.

  It made Samir nervous, but would scare the fuck out of Anthony.

  We’ve known each other less than two weeks. This is insane.

  Even when he reminded himself they really had known each other longer than that, they’d only been seeing each other—in every sense of the word—for a short period.

  Everything about this made Samir want to slam on the brakes and shout, “Wait! Stop!” But at the same time, he wanted to see where it could go. He was the undisputed lord and master of making fledgling relationships fall flat on their faces, and it had been a while since he’d made it past a third date, never mind ... whatever this was.

  And Anthony had all kinds of lines drawn in sand and strung up in razor wire. He liked being with Samir and probably other men, but on his terms, and only until he decided he needed the whole world to give him space.

  Samir pulled into the parking lot at work and headed inside. It was the same routine as every day—badge against the card reader, in through the front door, across the lobby, and past the giant ostentatious metal logo that probably cost as much to make as the company had paid one of the designers they’d laid off last year. Into the elevator, up to his floor, down the hall, into his office. Turn on, log on.

  He sat at the familiar L-shaped desk, staring at his familiar wallpaper—wolves, naturally—and drank in his surroundings as if he’d never seen them before. Or, more to the point, as if he might never see them again. He’d done that during two rounds of layoffs already. Sitting there, counting his blessings and memorizing every paper clip and half-dried pen as if this might be the last time he ever took them all in.

  Of course he wasn’t in danger of getting laid off right now. He was in “danger” of getting a huge book deal. A life-changing deal that could, in one fell swoop, wipe out his student debt, mortgage, car payment, credit cards, and the wisdom tooth removal he was still paying for six months later. He’d have money to spare. A lot of money to spare. His current career would become irrelevant and unnecessary.

  And Samir had no idea how to feel about that. So much of his life had been about growing up to get educated, putting himself into debt so he got paychecks that would get him out of debt and afforded him financial independence, and the only thing to look forward to was maybe the occasional promotion, a bonus if the company did well, health insurance, and a 401(k) filled with enough money so he could retire in his sixties. Other than that, fixing bugs and problems and spending his free time with geeks and writers in between writing stories to activate the right side of his brain once in a while. Ten years in the future, he’d expected to have a decent career (he wasn’t overly ambitious after he’d seen what it did to people and how quickly they burned out), and possibly have a boyfriend. Or be married, though that would open up some issues with his extended family. In short, a nice, normal career and life—and the book deal would change all that.

  Anthony changed all that.

  And while Samir liked where things were going, it scared him too. How would this affect his coveted independence if his writing success was tied to Anthony and the Triple Moon series? The two of them would be inextricably tied to each other. And hadn’t he always heard that mixing business and friendship was a recipe for disaster? And adding sex—or love, if it came to that—to the mix was just asking for it, even when the other party wasn’t so guarded about the space and breathing room that a collaborative project and a relationship could easily intrude on.

  Anthony had assured him they could do this and it would be fine. Ever the pessimist, Samir wasn’t so sure.

  He sighed and opened up his inbox. Twenty emails, and more coming. The routine kept him sane—as long as he was busy, he had no time to fret over anything that didn’t have to do with the job. At lunch, he checked in with his forum ema
ils, then made sure the writers’ meeting at the coffee shop would still take place later. Much as he was tempted, he didn’t want to cancel on the group. They were all Serious Writers, some of them MFA students, and their merciless critiques had done wonders to his style over the last two years. Granted, none of them had ever met an adverb or adjective they liked (or allowed to exist), but they were earnest and hardworking, not to mention hard-hitting, much more so than the well-meaning fan fiction group which got more incensed about canon breaches than dangling modifiers.

  And while he was at it ...

  I assume you found your way out of my condo?

  Anthony replied in no time. I did. Didn’t want to pester you at work, though. BTW, thanks for a great evening. ;)

  Samir shivered. It had been a great evening, hadn’t it? As if that was a surprise. He didn’t necessarily enjoy everything Anthony did to Raphael and company in his books, but in real life, the guy certainly knew his way around the willing male body.

  Before he could overthink it, he responded, We should do it again. Soon.

  His lunch break was just about over, so he switched his computer back to the window where he’d been working, but kept his phone next to the keyboard.

  Anthony replied, Friday’s probably the soonest I can manage.

  As much as Samir kept worrying himself stupid over everything, the thought of waiting until Friday to see Anthony again made his heart sink. He was about to send a playful text when the phone suddenly came to life with his generic ringtone.

  And Leanne’s name on the caller ID.

  Samir’s throat constricted. Oh fuck.

  He picked it up and said, “Hi, Leanne.”

  “Hey, sweetheart. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Um, well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m at work. I could step outside and call you back in like two minutes.”

  “I can wait. Talk to you shortly.”

  “Okay.” He ended the call and stood up on his tiptoes to lean over the next cubicle. “Hey, Carol? I’m stepping out for a sec. Cover for me if the boss comes by, will you?”

  She gave him a thumbs-up but didn’t say anything.

  Clutching his phone like it was the prize at the end of every game known to man, like it was Princess Toadstool holding a goddamned Triforce, he hurried out of the office. He jabbed the elevator button with his thumb a dozen times, as if that would make the perpetually sluggish elevator rise faster.

  While he waited, he replayed Leanne’s words in his head. She wouldn’t have randomly called him to tell him there was a new Star Trek movie coming out, and the only other thing that could possibly warrant her calling him in the middle of the day with a barely contained squeal in her voice was ...

  Oh. God.

  The elevator finally arrived, and took its sweet time getting him to the first floor. Then he jogged across the lobby, not even caring if his boss noticed or if the owner of the fucking company showed up just then. He had to call his agent—his agent?—back rightfuckingnow.

  Before he’d even reached the door, he had his thumb hovering over Call, and as soon as he was outside, he hit the button.

  She picked up immediately. “You can talk?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  He found a concrete planter near the front door. “I am now.”

  She took a breath. “Listen, we’re still negotiating some details, but, honey, you’re in. And we’re looking at an advance of just over a million. Each.”

  The world listed, and Samir was glad he was sitting. The polished stone suddenly became hyperrealistic and hazy. Was he going to pass out? “A million ...”

  “It does contain an option for the next book, but it’s the biggest deal I’ve seen for quite a while outside a hot auction.”

  “Right.”

  “How are you feeling, hon?”

  “Honestly don’t know. That’s like ... have you spoken to Anthony yet?”

  “Well, technically it’s your book, but I’ll call him right after.”

  “When do they want it? The edited version?”

  “As soon as possible, but I’ll sort that out with Anthony. He’ll know what’s realistic. If you two need more time, I can stall the brass for a few days with fine print.”

  “Okay. Because we’re talking about ... We might be able to incorporate some of Anthony’s work into mine, and split the whole thing into two books. Anthony’s already on it, I just haven’t had time yet to talk to him.” And won’t before Friday. Oh God. “It’s not a huge rewrite, I don’t think, but it’ll take some effort.”

  “Can you get it done in four weeks?”

  “I think so.” It might mean blowing through his entire reserve of vacation time, maybe even moving in with Anthony to get both books edited, but why not? If it took four weeks to get through it, he’d be happy to work 24/7 to make it happen. Nobody said earning a million dollars would be easy. “I’ll have to talk to Anthony.”

  “Call him in about twenty minutes. That’s when I’ll be done with him.”

  Samir glanced at his watch and needed to consciously tell himself what he was seeing because it didn’t register the first few tries. “Okay, will do. Thanks.”

  She chuckled. “And congratulations, Samir. Well done.”

  “Y-you are doing the negotiations ...”

  “Which reminds me. I’ll have to send you an agency agreement. I’ll send it electronically, but it would be good if you could sign it today.”

  “Of course. When I get home after my writing group tonight.”

  “It’s not that urgent. Just don’t forget it in the excitement.”

  “No. I’ll do it. Thank you. You’re awesome!”

  She laughed. “Yep. Now get to work on something of your own. Strike while the iron’s hot and so on.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  After they’d hung up, he slumped back against the planter.

  Write something new.

  One million dollars.

  Another book.

  A massive deal.

  His name—well, pseudonym—on a Triple Moon cover. With Anthony’s.

  He rubbed his hand over his face. He’d known it was coming, and yet now that it had happened, now that Leanne had gone from “I can’t make any promises” to “I need your signature,” it felt like it had come out of nowhere.

  He shifted his gaze up to the building that towered above him. He couldn’t see his desk from there, but he knew which window was closest, and that’s where he fixed his attention, as if he could bend his field of vision ninety degrees and see down the hall to the cubicle he’d just abandoned.

  And suddenly it all seemed pointless.

  He’d worked his ass off to get here. He’d paid his way through school without taking a penny from his parents because he’d insisted on doing things for himself. He’d charmed his way through the interviews, clawed his way up through the ranks, and now he didn’t even see the point of going back inside except to get his keys and get the fuck out of here.

  Of course, he didn’t have the money yet. And the contracts weren’t finalized yet, never mind signed. In the time it would take him to go upstairs and tell his boss to go fuck himself, the deal could fall through and he could be seriously up shit creek.

  He looked away from the window and stared at the grass instead. A million dollars. That was money he couldn’t even comprehend. Only three years ago, he’d been bug-eyed over a four-figure paycheck. The day the bank approved him—and only him!—for a two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage, he’d been convinced they were just yanking his chain.

  But the paychecks kept coming, and no one from the bank had come by to say “April Fools’—give us back our condo.”

  And now an agent had actually said with a straight face that he was getting a million fucking dollars in exchange for a book he’d written in his spare time about someone else’s characters, in between fantasizing about fucking that someone else. Which he was
also now doing. For real.

  He held on to the edges of the planter and swallowed hard. He’d always imagined that if this moment ever came, he’d be ten feet off the ground and ready to explode from excitement. And he supposed that would come once the shock wore off. But right now, he felt like he was tumbling deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole, and that sooner or later, he was going to land face-first at the bottom.

  Maybe he was too cynical. But good fortune always had strings attached, and those strings were always pulled at the most inopportune moments. Like when his father had made a killing in the stock market in the late 1990s only to lose it when the dotcom boom fell apart. Samir had been young then, but not so young that he didn’t feel the violent shift from the whole family rolling in money to his mother having to clip coupons to make sure they had a halfway decent packaged dinner every night.

  He wondered if Anthony had been queasy when he’d first faced down a massive advance. If the surrealism of it all had overwhelmed him like this.

  Speaking of Anthony, Samir checked his phone; it had been about twenty minutes since he’d talked to Leanne. With his heart pounding, he called Anthony.

  “Hey, hey.” He could hear Anthony’s grin all the way from the Olympic Peninsula. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Samir croaked. “It, uh, hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

  “Give it time.” He paused. “Leanne said you mentioned combining the books?”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if you’d had much luck with it last night, but I wanted her to know it was a possibility. You know, before we sign everything in blood.”

  “Good idea. And, actually, they go together pretty damned well. It’ll still be predominantly your piece, but yeah, if you think it works, I don’t see why we can’t turn Axis Mundi into books eight and nine. Which, um ...”

  Samir swallowed. “What?”

  “Well, if we combine them, then your name is on two books. Which means the bottom line is probably going to get even bigger.”