Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Mm-hmm. Sure you don’t.”

  Anthony chuckled and kissed Samir’s forehead. “All right, so what do we need to do next?”

  “Well, you’re deeper into integrating the stories than I am, so why don’t you continue with that, and I’ll go over what you’ve finished?” He gestured at the pages of work Anthony had already done.

  “Good idea. First ...” Anthony held up his coffee cup. “Refueling.”

  Samir looked into his own mug. “Hmm, I could stand a little more myself.”

  “I’ll get it.” Anthony kissed his cheek. “You stay here and keep slaving away.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Anthony rolled his eyes and laughed.

  With freshly topped-off coffee cups, they settled in to work. Usually, Samir wasn’t a fan of writing or editing with someone else in the room—having a roommate in college had driven him out of his mind—but it was surprisingly pleasant with Anthony. They both disappeared into their own worlds, focused on printed pages and word processing screens. Pens scratched on paper, fingers clicked on keys, pages brushed pages, itches were scratched, positions were changed—and somehow, they both stayed completely relaxed.

  Ever mindful of Anthony’s territorial side, Samir carefully kept his “footprint” to a minimum. The fan of pages and scatter of pens were always corralled. He never let his toothbrush or razor stray far from his travel bag, and he varied his coffee cups so he didn’t risk establishing one as his. It didn’t bother him much—he was pretty guarded with his own condo, and got annoyed if someone adjusted a seat or a vent in his car. Must be a writer thing. Either way, he enjoyed being in Anthony’s house, and was happy to toe the line.

  Every once in a while, one would get up to stretch or get a cup of coffee, and they’d both shake themselves out of that trance long enough to exchange a few words before slipping back into work mode.

  Before Samir knew it, his stomach was grumbling, signaling that coffee was not enough to keep him in optimum condition.

  Anthony leaned back in his chair, stretching his neck and rubbing his eyes. “Okay, I need to eat something before I start chewing on the furniture.”

  Samir laughed. “I think I’d pay to see that.”

  Anthony threw him a playful glare as he set his chunk of the manuscript aside. “What do you say we go into town and grab some food?”

  “I am one hundred percent on board with that.” Samir neatly stacked the papers he’d been working on, set his pen on top, and stood. “Holy crap, I’ve been sitting too long without moving.”

  “I know the feeling.” Anthony groaned. “I am getting way too old for this shit.”

  “I am not touching that.”

  “Good. See that you don’t.” Another glare, and then Anthony wrapped his arm around Samir’s waist. “You seem to be holding up all right.”

  “Of course I am. I’m not as old as you are.”

  “Fuck you,” Anthony muttered.

  Samir snickered and kissed him. Then they went downstairs, and Anthony grabbed his car keys.

  On the way up the driveway—when the fuck had it gotten dark?—Samir stretched some more stiffness out of his joints. “So is this what editing and deadlines are like? Balls to the wall until you forget to eat?”

  “Pretty much. Sometimes it’s not so bad, but ...” Anthony shrugged. He rested a hand on top of the wheel and put the other on Samir’s leg. “It still beats the fuck out of a nine-to-five as far as I’m concerned.”

  Samir pursed his lips. Though he worried about the rug being pulled out from under him, he couldn’t help getting into this whole full-time writing arrangement. There was a certain attraction to lounging around while he was working. No listening to other people arguing on the phone. No wondering what the fuck had died in the company cafeteria and why on earth they’d deep-fried it. No meetings. No fucking meetings.

  More and more, the idea of walking out of that office with his middle fingers held high appealed to him. The multimillion-dollar paycheck certainly cushioned the whole thing in his mind. But maybe he’d wait until the check had actually cleared before he flounced out of work. In fact, he’d wait until he had the titles for his condo and car, not to mention the statements with “zero dollars owed” for everything else. God forbid the whole thing went up in smoke and he had no money. He wasn’t sure how an oral surgeon repoed wisdom teeth, but he doubted it was pleasant.

  Anthony drove out toward Viking Bay, the sun just vanishing behind the horizon as they were swallowed up by the forest. Samir remembered how the forest had seemed mysterious, even a bit threatening, but now it seemed to be sheltering the house with the two books inside. Their shared secret and treasure. Their shared ... space. Samir was careful about not using too much of that space, but Anthony hadn’t seemed nearly as territorial as he’d described.

  All of this was beginning to feel like an adventure, or maybe like a new relationship, where you were endlessly fascinated and interested in every tiny detail. Since, well, it was a new relationship of sorts. A personal and professional one.

  And on the professional side, he couldn’t have asked for anything better. They fed off each other. Energized each other. It was like in those NaNoWriMo writing meetings in coffee shops, where everybody was typing away and the process got turbocharged by the proximity of another writer. Usually that kind of atmosphere drove Samir insane, but with Anthony, it worked.

  And Anthony was an editing machine who’d thought it all through multiple times and seemed to have five workable solutions to just about any problem the books threw at them. Samir hated editing and had never really had to make any deep or drastic edits on anything more complex than a short story. But Anthony made it look easy, or maybe not easy easy, but doable and perfectly reasonable to accomplish.

  “What about pizza?” Anthony’s voice startled him.

  “Bastard. Way to throw me out of admiring you.”

  Shooting him a puzzled look, Anthony said, “What?”

  “I was just thinking how easy you make editing look.”

  “If I don’t do it, the editor will, and that hurts worse. Better get it out of the way. So what about that pizza?”

  “I’m in.”

  Anthony pulled up outside a pizzeria called Third Circle Pizzeria, which was right next to a slightly more upscale Italian restaurant called Modugno’s. Both places seemed to coexist somewhat uneasily with each other—no tablecloths in one, and maybe four tables with two chairs each, while the other had red-and-white checkered cloths and a full set of wineglasses on each table.

  Anthony pushed through the doors of Third Circle Pizzeria, and Samir followed.

  The cook was just sliding two pizzas into the oven and closed it, while the delivery driver leaned against the counter. After closing the oven, the cook wiped his hands on his apron as he turned toward Anthony and Samir. His brow darkened a bit. “Yes?”

  Anthony picked up a menu leaflet from the counter and tried to hand it to Samir—who stood there, shocked. The cook was Native American, which was not surprising in this area. What was surprising was that he was the spitting image of Justin Strong, the main werewolf and extremely uneasy ally of Raphael’s.

  The cook eyed him back.

  Samir cleared his throat and looked at the menu in Anthony’s hand. “So, um, what’s good?”

  “I’ve never eaten anything here that wasn’t good, to be honest.” He glanced at the cook, then grinned at Samir. “You want to see something funny?” He gestured at the cook. “Order a vegan supreme on a gluten-free crust with—”

  “Anthony, you know I can refuse service to anyone, right?” Though the man’s expression didn’t change, there was the slightest playful sparkle in his eye.

  Samir raised his eyebrows. “I’d ask who the fuck would put something like that in their mouth, but I’ve lived in Seattle too long.”

  The cook threw his head back and laughed. “The only idiots wor
se than the Seattle yuppies are the LA ones. And they are everywhere.”

  “Because of the show?” Samir wrinkled his nose.

  The cook gestured at Anthony. “All thanks to this one.”

  Samir tensed, terrified Anthony was going to let him in on their little secret, but Anthony just smirked and said, “Yeah, but you’re getting business, so you’re welcome.”

  The cook rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

  They eventually settled on splitting a margarita with extra mozzarella, and found a table near the back, far from the windows.

  Samir took a drink from his soda. “Okay, I have to know something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you come up with Justin Strong while you were, I don’t know, eating pizza?”

  Anthony sat back. “I beg ... What?”

  “The cook. He’s exactly how I pictured Justin Strong.”

  Anthony’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit. You’re literally the first person I’ve known who’s made that connection.”

  “So I’m right?”

  “Right on the money.” Anthony glanced toward the front of the restaurant. “I’d been kind of shying away from using Native American characters because I thought I would catch hell for stereotypes or appropriation, but you really can’t write about this region without including some Native Americans. You just can’t. And when I saw him, and went back to my notes about Justin ...” He shrugged. “He was perfect.”

  “I can see that. And he’s such a fucking cool character.”

  Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you killed him?”

  Samir almost choked on his soda. “Uh. Sorry.”

  “Well, to be fair, it did fit the scene. And he’s not technically dead. But damn, I was looking forward to playing with him some more.”

  “It isn’t canon until the book is actually published. We could—”

  “No, no. I think it should stay as is. To tell you the truth, I was going to kill him sooner or later anyway.”

  “Oh, there’s a shock.” Samir rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. “With as many as you killed off in book five, I started wondering if I was reading Game of Thrones With Wolves. Or really With More Wolves.”

  Anthony laughed. “I only killed, what, six people? It wasn’t that bad.”

  Movement caught Samir’s eye, and he turned to see a middle-aged couple carrying drinks. They’d both stopped midstep, staring at Samir and Anthony.

  “Six characters.” Anthony cleared his throat. “In the book.”

  They still peered at him warily, and then backtracked to another table closer to the front of the restaurant. Probably closer to the nearest exit.

  “Anthony Rawson, terror of civilians everywhere,” Anthony muttered to himself, and Samir chuckled.

  Just then, the Justin Strong lookalike showed up with their drinks and pizza. Apparently the usual waiter niceties didn’t apply in this place—no “would you like anything else,” no extras or frills, and even the paper napkins and cutlery were more of an afterthought; as far as the cook was concerned, his only job was to provide food and leave them alone.

  The pizza, however, was pretty damn good—simple, hot, great crust, but not dry. It took two bites for Samir to register just how hungry he was, and for a few minutes, they both fell silent and concentrated on eating. Anthony was probably still mentally in the book, and Samir found himself prodding at some issues he wanted to resolve before he could tackle the big changes tomorrow. The schedule was still merciless—editing and completely restructuring two books and blending them together in a week? Crazy.

  “I could take a week’s vacation.”

  Anthony looked up from the last few slices. “I can do this. The only thing you really need to do is read the changed manuscript.”

  “Yeah, but if I’m going to quit anyway, I might as well use my vacation time for doing the job that gets me out of there.”

  “True.” Anthony nodded. “Another urgent thing to do is get an accountant.”

  “For?”

  “Taxes. I know too many authors who were making money, underestimated how much the IRS wanted of the pie, and ended up in trouble. An accountant helps you not go broke right after you got rich. Happens all the time.”

  “Mostly I’m just going to pay off my debt and the condo and the car.”

  “And what are you doing with the other millions?” Anthony grinned. “I can always hook you up with my investment adviser and my accountant, unless you can find somebody local. But if you’re going to stop working, you’ll have to think about retirement and income even if the pickings are slim or your career ends in the next couple of years. There are no guarantees in this business, and I tend to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Plan like this is the last money you’ll ever make off writing, then everything else is just a bonus.”

  “The life of an author is a lot more complex than I thought. I was thinking more lounging on beaches and having cocktails.”

  “We do that after the book’s done.” Anthony finished his drink and waited while Samir finished his. “And with that, back to work.”

  “Slave driver.” Samir didn’t get up yet, though. “So, um, before we go back ...”

  “Hmm?”

  Samir tapped his thumb on the table. “You’re really okay with me being in your hair like this?” He gestured out at the street, as if that somehow indicated Anthony’s house way back in the hills. “Having me at your place, day and night?”

  Anthony shrugged. “We don’t have much choice at this point.”

  “That isn’t exactly a yes.”

  “No, but ...” Anthony sighed, then folded his hands on the table a few inches from Samir’s. “Look, I’ve been in close quarters with people during combat ops. You don’t really think about space and elbow room at that point, you know?”

  Samir cocked his head. He wanted to reach for Anthony’s hands, but held back, suddenly afraid Anthony might recoil. “Is that what this is? A combat op?”

  “Well, with fewer explosions.” They both laughed, and then Anthony took Samir’s hand, sending a ripple of relief through him. Combat op or not, we can still touch.

  Holding Samir’s gaze, Anthony continued, “We’ve got a book to finish, and we’re doing that on top of getting into the groove of whatever this is. We’ll figure everything out as we go, but I’ll tell you right now that I don’t want to change anything. I like having you there.”

  Samir studied him. “For editing? Or ...?”

  Anthony brought Samir’s hand up and kissed the backs of his fingers. “What do you think?”

  Samir hesitated, but then smiled. Maybe he was overthinking this whole “space” thing. He knew damn well what it was like to have someone encroach, and how exhausting it was. It occurred to him then that if Anthony felt even a little bit suffocated, they probably wouldn’t have been going through crates of condoms and gallons of lube. Especially as tired as they already were from working—if Anthony still felt compelled to make out and touch and fuck and fall asleep in each other’s arms, then yeah, Samir was worrying about nothing.

  He squeezed Anthony’s hand. “So. Back to work?”

  “Back to work.” Anthony groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. “No rest for the writers.”

  “I thought it was ‘No rest for the weary’?”

  “Same thing.”

  “You’re really selling this whole full-time writing gig, you know that?”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.” On the way out to the car, Anthony held the door for Samir. “It’s not always this crazy though. I promise.”

  “Thank God for that.” Samir slid his hands into his pockets. “So, the con ...”

  “Mm-hmm?” Anthony glanced at him as he took out his keys.

  “What’s that like for you? I mean, I’ve gone as a fan, and that can get pretty wild. But you’re one of the big features. That has to be ...”

  “In some ways, it’s as crazy as you’re imagining it.” Anthony unl
ocked the car, and they both got in. “In other ways, it’s not. We’ll get a schedule that’ll tell us where we need to be and when, and in between, we can either disappear to our room or—”

  “Our room?”

  Anthony glanced at him. “Uh, well, I figured we ...”

  “I was hoping we would.” Samir winked, chuckling when Anthony blushed.

  “Good. Good. Though they might have us rooming separately. Since Leanne’s the only one who knows about ...”

  “But the hotel’s been booked solid for months. Where would they put me? In the parking garage?”

  Anthony laughed, patting Samir’s leg. “The hotel is sold out to regular attendees. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they always make room for someone with VIP status.” He shook his head as he put the car in reverse. “And I still can’t believe I get VIP status at these things.”

  “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  On the way back to Anthony’s, Samir stared out the window. This was definitely getting surreal. Something about rooming together at a convention where they’d also be announced—in front of thousands of fans—as working together was just ...

  And to think I was panicking about the idea of leaving a toothbrush at his place.

  He stole a few surreptitious glances at Anthony. How would this work out?

  Don’t question it. Just breathe and hope for the best.

  Because they both had a lot of work to do.

  ***

  If Samir had had any lingering doubts that his entire world had changed over the last couple of weeks, they all evaporated when he walked into MoonCon.

  Not that he had many doubts left. That express-mailed cashier’s check with an eye-watering number of zeros had blown his mind. When those zeros showed up on his available bank balance, he actually sat down and cried, laughed, cried, and laughed again because his financial worries were over. He still didn’t know which moment had been cooler—when he’d walked into the bank and paid off his mortgage, or when he’d marched into his boss’s office with his two weeks’ notice. Okay, so he could’ve just walked off the job, but the paranoid side of him still believed things could change overnight and he might need a real job again. Best not to burn bridges. That, and the civil, professional departure had been well worth it if only for the look on his boss’s face when Samir casually informed him of why he was quitting.