Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  As his trainer walked away, Anthony exhaled. Damn it, now his workouts were going to be awkward for a while. And he felt bad for breaking it off with Ryan. The sex with him had never been disappointing, and he really was a great guy. But with Samir on the brain, Anthony could barely focus on tormenting the fictional people in his head, never mind getting intimate with the flesh-and-blood ones.

  He didn’t dare tell Samir, though. Samir was already overwhelmed by everything in his life moving at warp speed. He might not have taken issue with Anthony having a harem of booty calls on the side, but cutting those booty calls loose might imply their relationship was exclusive. Serious. Important. At this point, that would probably make the poor kid break out in hives. Or give him expectations that Anthony wasn’t ready or willing to live up to.

  Ryan returned and while it was awkward, especially when they had to touch, Ryan was perfectly professional about it. He simply rolled matters back to the first day they’d worked out together, although that frisson of “maybe something more” was now replaced with a mutual attempt to put the sex behind them without being dicks about it. If anybody in the gym noticed they were bantering less and more focused on the routines and numbers of reps than normal, nobody gave any indication. They’d get over it, though. Anthony valued Ryan too much as a trainer and friend to just cancel on him and find somebody else. He wasn’t that kind of coward.

  It did get a bit strange again in the locker room. Normally, sexual tension was already ramping up at that point, so today Anthony took more time than he strictly needed, extending the seven-minute shower to about fifteen minutes. When he got out, Ryan was already dressed and heading toward the exit. They exchanged a “See you Tuesday” that was friendly enough, but once Ryan was out of the door, Anthony grimaced to himself and rubbed his face. It could have been much worse, though. Hopefully Ryan would get over it quickly, and they could focus on being workout buddies.

  He definitely needed the exercise, because that was the only time he wasn’t thinking about books eight, nine, and ten. Over the last few days, he’d lapsed into his irregular schedule and odd hours that undoubtedly told Chas he was writing and couldn’t be spoken to like a normal human being.

  It was a form of lucid sleep paralysis—he wasn’t exactly unable to move, but he ended up thinking of his environment and the whole world as something he’d created in his head. When it got really bad, he saw conversations he had with flesh people formatted as dialog. A ringing phone triggered a response of “Why is that thing ringing? I didn’t write it to ring now” rather than wondering who called and what they wanted, and the funniest thing was, it usually took him several moments to realize just how close to madness that state was. Exercise centered him in his body and made him leave his writing cave.

  On the way home, his brain picked up where he’d left it and pondered a couple dozen problems and questions. Once he was situated on the ferry, he scribbled notes and tweaked the outline, then worked on the more immediate problems arising in the scene he was currently working on. Wisely, he remembered to pick up some food along the way. It would be mostly cold by the time he got home, but cold calories beat no calories.

  His office was exactly as he’d left it, of course, and as soon as he’d taken a seat in his black leather chair, he was part of the Triple Moon universe again, the outside world a million miles away and totally irrelevant. His coffee cooled. His sandwich sat mostly uneaten, though once in a while he remembered to take a bite. Usually when a slight headache reminded him that food was necessary for survival and, more importantly, concentration.

  Ping.

  The soft sound from his laptop’s speakers startled him as if a gunshot had gone off. His head snapped up, and when he saw the chat window blinking at the bottom of his screen, he was jolted back into the real world.

  SirMarrok: Hey.

  He put his notes aside and wrote back, How’s it going?

  Not bad. Tired b/c I couldn’t sleep.

  Anthony grimaced. Sorry to hear it.

  It’s ok. I think this weekend = exactly what I need. He paused, and before Anthony could type a reply, added, Do we have time to take the weekend off, though? What about combining our books?

  Anthony smiled. Already 10 steps ahead of you.

  ... really?

  Yep. Been working on it all week. Relax, I’ve got this.

  Hate to have you doing all the work.

  It’s ok. You have a job, and you’re saving my hide. I can do the legwork on this part, and I’ll send it to you for approval/changes as soon as I can.

  KK. Is it working? Combining them?

  Surprisingly well.

  Good.

  I’ll have you read the first part when you get here. Should be mostly done.

  Thought we were taking the weekend off? ;)

  Good point. I’ll send it to you on Monday. This weekend = no work.

  Sounds good to me.

  Anthony glanced at the clock. It’s almost 1. You should be sleeping.

  So should you.

  I don’t have to catch a ferry tomorrow morning.

  If I miss one, I’ll get the next one.

  And the boss doesn’t mind you taking the day off?

  What’s he going to do? Fire me?

  Anthony chuckled. Don’t quit quite yet.

  Yeah, yeah. It’s cool, don’t worry. I should try to sleep. See you tomorrow.

  See you tomorrow.

  A moment later, the green light went gray, and Anthony sat back. He looked at his notes. The manuscript. His sandwich. The cup of coffee he hadn’t touched in, what, two hours? He’d been completely lost in the writing world all evening, but now he didn’t feel like he could slip back into it. Like when something had woken him in the middle of the night and there was no point in going back to sleep. Times like that, it only made sense to get out of bed and do something else.

  Or in this case, get up and either refill his coffee, go for a walk in the dark, or, shocking as the concept was, sleep.

  His gaze shifted toward the manuscript, which he’d left open at that troublesome scene in chapter four. Though it had driven him absolutely batshit while he was writing it, it blended seamlessly into chapter six of Samir’s book, fitting nicely into the background as a subplot to add tension to one of the few scenes Samir had written that didn’t have quite enough tension. Anthony only needed to make a few more tiny changes, and he’d be done integrating those two. There was no reason he couldn’t finish that before he went to sleep, so he picked up the manuscript and his pen, and before long, had lost himself in the work all over again.

  Ping.

  What the hell?

  He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the window, where the darkness was beginning to turn gray. On the screen, Are you STILL up?

  The clock in the corner read a few minutes after six in the morning. Holy fuck, was he still up?

  He set the manuscript aside and stretched. Then he wrote back, Heading to bed now.

  LOL. I’m heading your way in an hour or so.

  Anthony grinned. Bleary-eyed as he was, he couldn’t wait to see Samir. And at least the drive would buy him a little time to grab a catnap.

  See you soon.

  Yep. Might as well stay in bed. ;)

  Anthony shivered hard. Dear God. I’ll leave the door unlocked. ;) Let yourself in.

  Will do. See you then!

  Bye!

  Bed or couch? When he was so deeply engrossed and needed a couple of hours or even half an hour, he preferred to sleep on the couch, and a pillow and woolen blanket were ready. It meant he didn’t have to go all the way to the bedroom, and would likely sleep less deeply than in the bed, which meant getting up again would be easier. So he settled in on the couch and got comfortable.

  His brain needed a few moments to stop thinking about that difficult spot in chapter four where one transition was slightly rougher than he liked. He worried for a while about being too tired to sleep (because that sucked), and then he became dimly
aware of movement and somebody nearby. Probably Chas checking whether he was still alive, as the housekeeper had been in yesterday.

  Then he became aware of something else: the smell of coffee.

  He blinked, sat up, and stretched.

  Samir sat cross-legged on the chair, laptop on his knees and two large mugs of steaming ambrosia on the coffee table. For a split second, Anthony bristled at the realization that someone was in his space, but that quickly faded in favor of Ahh, it’s you.

  Samir looked up and smiled. “You’re all sleep wrinkled.”

  “Bad news: those wrinkles never go away.”

  “No, I meant your clothes.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Anthony reached for the coffee and took a big gulp. It was physiologically impossible, of course, but he felt more awake immediately. Maybe the caffeine molecules worked by smell, or it was a Pavlov’s dog kind of thing, or maybe this very cute young author, who’d driven for hours to see him, electrified him enough to level out the lack of sleep. “Mind if I grab a shower and get changed?”

  “Not at all. I’m just fixing something in the forum.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About two hours?”

  “Two ...” He glanced at his watch. Well past noon. “Shit. I really must have been tired.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I had to catch up with the forum—I didn’t get anything done the whole week.”

  “You’d be superhuman if you had. Right, back soon.” He grabbed the mug, had another mouthful, then went upstairs to grab a shower and a fresh set of clothes. Twenty minutes later, he returned to the office, this time less wrinkled and definitely more awake.

  Samir closed his laptop and looked at him with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not caffeinated enough, but I’ll get there. I spent the time going through outlines and trying to salvage as much work as possible. It’s raw, but I have four chapters.”

  “Do you want me to do anything?”

  “I’ll add the pieces that are missing and send you the draft. I’ll have to talk to Leanne about how much we’re changing, and she’ll want a synopsis or I’ll have a chat with the editor about the plans for book nine. Or both. He’ll want something to hold on to, I guess.”

  “How’s he going to feel that he has to read the book twice?”

  “Mostly, he’ll feel happy that the books are happening. But I will send him a bottle of something expensive as a way of saying ‘Sorry for being difficult.’ Authors rewriting everything after submission is a pet peeve.”

  “Especially when the publisher is shelling out that much money for it.” Samir looked a little green at the prospect.

  “Relax.” Anthony put his hands on Samir’s shoulders and kissed his forehead. “They wouldn’t be doing all this if they didn’t think it was worthwhile. And we’ll be making a fuckload of changes during edits anyway, so ...”

  “Really?” Samir’s eyes widened. “I thought they liked it as is.”

  “They do, but ...” He chuckled. “Well, you’ll see when we get there.”

  “How soon do you think we’ll be—”

  “Samir.” Anthony squeezed his shoulders. “This weekend is for chilling. I’m not going to lie, things are going to get crazy pretty soon. And it’s a lot of big changes, so if you have a chance to take a breather, then that’s what we should do.”

  Samir slowly released a breath. “Good point. Guess I’m eager to have everything finalized.”

  “I know the feeling.” Anthony gestured toward the kitchen. “Want some breakfast? Or, well, lunch?”

  “I could eat.”

  They moved into the kitchen, and Anthony went about assembling some ham and cheese sandwiches. Once they had the sandwiches, some potato chips, and a couple of sodas, they went out to the back deck. The afternoon—damn, he really had slept away the morning, hadn’t he?—was beautiful, so no point in wasting it by staying indoors all day like writers or something.

  Samir gazed out at the scenery as he crunched on a chip. “By the way, I signed the agency agreement with Leanne.”

  “Did you?” Anthony raised his Pepsi can. “Congrats.”

  Samir laughed shyly and clinked his own can against Anthony’s. “Thanks. I was a little nervous about it, but hell, what am I not nervous about with all this?”

  “You’re smart. A lot of people get so excited they just sign it without thinking, and the next thing they know, every word they write is bound to an agent who doesn’t know his own ass from a hole in the ground.”

  Samir grimaced. “Ouch. Experience?”

  “Not directly. But one of my old crit partners ...” Anthony groaned. “Man, did she get colossally fucked.”

  “Yeah?” Samir leaned forward, plucking another chip off his plate. “What happened?”

  “She was pissed off that I’d managed to get an agent and a book deal, so she queried anyone who’d ever hung out a shingle and called himself an agent. Snagged this guy out of, I don’t know, Philadelphia or something. Total scam artist. We all warned her, but”—he rolled his eyes—“nobody tells her what to do.”

  “I’m surprised somebody like that even found an agent.”

  Anthony shrugged. “Put your soul up for sale, sooner or later you’ll find a buyer.”

  Samir snickered. “Point taken.”

  Anthony took a drink and set the can down. “Anyway, he sold her first trilogy to this backassward publisher that demanded all rights globally for life of copyright and first refusal on everything she ever writes. Some publishers don’t sign authors so much as acquire indentured slaves.” He shook his head and muttered, “I’m surprised they didn’t ask for limbs off her firstborn or something.”

  “Yeah, and some writers would probably sign that.”

  “They so would. Honestly, I’m lucky as fuck I got Leanne. She discussed every goddamned line of the contract with me. The book deal, I mean. Her agency contract was pretty straightforward, as I’m sure you saw.”

  “Yep. It was a solid contract.” Samir took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But my God, I am getting so tired of paperwork.”

  “Get used to it. There’s a shitload coming once they’re done hammering out all the details.” Anthony grinned. “But there’s also a pretty big check coming after you sign the last of it.”

  “Which scares me almost as much as the paperwork, but ...” Samir waved his hand, nearly dropping his glasses. “This is our weekend off, right? No paperwork and no bullshit.”

  “No paperwork and no bullshit. Rainforest?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Cool.” Anthony smiled. “You’ll love it out there. I hiked miles and miles through that park when I was stuck on books five and six. Awesome for clearing the head.”

  “Sweet.” As Samir put his glasses back on, he returned the smile, and he was finally starting to relax. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Excellent. How about we get going first thing tomorrow?”

  “What do we do with the rest of today?”

  “Well, now that I’m a bit more awake ...” He gave Samir a slow up-down-halfway-up once-over.

  Samir laughed. “Maybe I should have joined you in the shower.”

  “Nah. Shower sex is overrated.” Anthony rose and gestured for Samir to follow him into the kitchen. On the way, he added over his shoulder, “I mean, it can work just fine, but condom, lube, standing up, cramps, and slippery surfaces.” He set his plate on the counter and turned around. “It’s hotter in porn.”

  “You think a lot about setting.” Samir arched an eyebrow as he laid his plate down next to Anthony’s. “Bearskin rug, shower ...”

  “You know what they say, ‘setting is character.’ I prefer to use mine right.”

  “Mm-hmm. So I’ve noticed.” Samir stepped right up to him and looked straight into his eyes. The switch from bantering to this strange intensity threw Anthony, though it was a damn sight better than seeing Samir worried or scared or freak
ed-out. Intense, he could deal with; all of this had become more serious than it had ever been with Ryan or other friends with benefits because he and Samir were still friends. Those relationships filled a very different niche in his life. That seriousness with Samir was also earnestness, and felt like a risk, and something precious that he needed to take care of. Yeah, not casual at all. Maybe it was a mentor thing (which would make him look better than hooking up with a fan). Though hooking up with a protégé was, perhaps, not very noble or chivalrous, but—

  And Samir kissed him.

  Like shower sex, chivalry and noblesse were overrated.

  When they were together—when they kissed, touched, fucked—everything made sense, and Anthony never even thought of a book, let alone remembered a certain sensation to describe it in a story or a piece of conversation for a bit of dialogue. With Samir, he was in the moment. So totally in the moment he felt almost disoriented. It was all just so damn real.

  “Bedroom?” Samir asked.

  “Don’t mind if we do. Or maybe ...” He led Samir into the living room. “This is closer.”

  “And comfortable,” Samir said as they sat on the plush couch. He grinned and started pulling at Anthony’s shirt, while Anthony plucked the glasses off Samir’s nose and put them down on the coffee table.

  Samir pushed Anthony’s shirt over his head, and then gave him a long down-up look. “Authors are just not supposed to look like that.”

  “Blame the weight lifting.” Anthony tugged at Samir’s shirt. “Took it back up when my lower back was starting to kill me, enjoyed it, didn’t stop.”

  “Your personal trainer must be proud.”

  Anthony chuckled, though it choked in his throat a bit. “Flatterer.” He drew Samir in and kissed him. “I could stand to”, he paused for another kiss, “do a little more cardio.”

  “Yeah?” Samir pushed him against the back of the couch and straddled him. “Is that why I’m here? To help you with your cardio?”

  “I’m not hearing any objections.”

  “Nope. None at all. But if you want cardio ...” He leaned down and kissed Anthony’s neck. “Then maybe I’ll be a bit rougher.”