Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Anthony faced the crowd again. “So, who wants to know how book eight ends?”

  Immediately, the whole crowd collectively shook their heads and shouted, “No! No! No!”

  Samir smirked. Into his mike, he said, “So I guess they don’t want to know about the leprechauns.”

  The shouts turned to laughter, and Anthony chuckled. “All right, well, you’ll all get blurbs and previews of this one later. How about some questions?”

  These cons were surprisingly well organized, and a dozen or so fans had either bought or won the privilege of coming up first. They formed a single file line behind a microphone in front of the stage. As they stared at the cover art and the authors, Samir couldn’t help smiling. He remembered all too well what that was like.

  First in line was a blonde girl who couldn’t have been older than fifteen or so, dressed in a pantsuit exactly like the ones Maria Guerrero wore in nearly every episode. She even had her hair pinned back and an FBI badge, all done perfectly. It wasn’t the most elaborate cosplay in the world, but she’d definitely nailed the character.

  She cleared her throat. “Do you—” She jumped back, eyeing the microphone as her face glowed red.

  “It’s okay.” Anthony smiled down at her. “If you don’t want to use the mike, we can hear you.”

  She nodded and stepped around the microphone. As she did, Anthony knelt, bringing him closer to eye level with her.

  She coughed again. “Do you really get to choose who’s on the show?”

  Anthony stood. “For those who couldn’t hear, she asked if I really get to choose who’s cast on the show.” He smiled at the girl. “I don’t get final say, but yes, I influence it.”

  From a few rows back, someone shouted, “Was Lyle Phelan your choice?”

  “Hey!” Anthony pointed at the person. “Wait your turn there, buddy.” Laughter rippled through the crowd. “But to answer your question, yes. Lyle was my choice.”

  That brought a roar of applause from the fans.

  He looked at Samir. “Guess they approve.”

  “Guess so.” Samir glanced past Anthony, and saw Chip and Lyle hovering backstage, playing on their phones as they waited for the next panel. Into his mike, he said, “Has Lyle ever thanked you for casting him?”

  Lyle’s head snapped up.

  Anthony eyed Samir, then looked backstage. Lyle’s eyes widened. He shook his head, mouthing, “No.”

  Which may as well have been an engraved invitation.

  “You know,” Anthony said, “I don’t think Lyle has ever thanked me.” The fans caught on immediately and went crazy, chanting Lyle’s name.

  Chip laughed and nudged Lyle. Lyle rolled his eyes, pocketed his phone, and in a split second, his game face was on. He strolled onto the stage, and the fans went absolutely batshit.

  While Anthony and Lyle bantered and entertained the fans, Samir took the opportunity to breathe. The scrutiny of three thousand people was a strange thing to cope with, and a moment to gather his wits was more than welcome.

  As he looked out at the crowd, he caught the occasional fan’s eye. Most were focused on Lyle and Anthony, but some watched him with odd expressions. Curiosity. Interest. One might’ve been sneering, but it was entirely possible Samir had imagined it because his brain was short-circuiting.

  It was harder to gauge where a camera lens was pointed. One aimed at the stage could easily be zoomed in on Anthony, Lyle, or Samir, or be focused on all three of them. That created an uncomfortable sensation of being watched by hundreds of lifeless glass eyes, some tiny and some huge, and Samir was quickly starting to understand the concept of stage fright.

  Lyle and Anthony finished with their impromptu banter-fest, and Lyle waved at the crowd before disappearing backstage. Anthony glanced at Samir, eyebrows up in an unspoken, Doing okay?

  No. I’m not. I don’t think? Maybe. I’m ...

  But he just nodded.

  The Q&A didn’t last much longer, and Anthony handled most of the questions. When the time slot was finally up, Samir followed Anthony backstage, and the second he was out of sight of the crowd, he sank onto a chair, cradling his face in his hands.

  Someone gently rubbed the back of his neck. Anthony, he assumed, which was confirmed when he heard a quiet, “You okay?”

  “I think so.” Samir rubbed his temples. He didn’t even know what he was feeling. Cold sweat dampened the back of his neck. His knees were shaky. A subtle wave of nausea—as if he wasn’t sick yet but could get that way in a hurry—rolled over him, and he closed his eyes until it passed.

  Hand still on Samir’s neck, Anthony sat beside him. “Just take a breather. You’ll be fine.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Trust me.”

  Samir lifted his head, and when he met Anthony’s eyes, sudden anger joined all those other feelings. “You keep telling me I’ll be fine, but every time I turn around, it’s getting crazier.”

  “I know. And this ... It’s happening at a million miles an hour.” He stroked Samir’s hair. “Just take it one thing at a time, and—”

  “One thing at a time?” Samir shook his head and, for the first time since they’d known each other, he pulled away from Anthony’s touch. “A couple months ago, I was nobody. Now ...” He waved a hand toward the stage. “This.”

  Anthony studied him, but didn’t try to make contact again. His voice soft, he said, “I understand. I do. And you’ve been handling all of this much better than you think.”

  “How much more do I have to handle?”

  “I don’t know.” Finally, Anthony reached for him again, and even though Samir had been the one to pull away last time, he was grateful for the comforting weight of Anthony’s hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to think any further ahead than the end of the con. And you’ve got a break for a couple of hours before you have to show your face again.”

  “What about the signing and everything?”

  Anthony squeezed his shoulder. “Let me handle that. You take a break. Go on up to the room and chill for a bit.”

  Samir exhaled. As much as he didn’t want to admit defeat this early in the convention, a break sounded like exactly what the doctor ordered.

  He went up to the room, and as he sank down on the foot of the bed in the silent suite, an odd feeling gnawed at him. His name was out. Even with the pseudonym, it wouldn’t take much for people to find him. If there’d been any chance of turning back before, there wasn’t now. He was in this.

  They were in this.

  He turned his head toward the door and stared at it as if Anthony might suddenly come in. But he wouldn’t. Samir knew he wouldn’t. Not with his adoring public and his contractual obligations downstairs.

  If he didn’t have those, though, would he be up here?

  The base of Samir’s spine prickled. They’d been joined at the hip recently, combining their drafts, splitting them into books eight and nine, and discussing book ten. Not to mention editing. They’d gotten along just fine, but now that the books were finished—or at least, the super-urgent versions were finished—was that going to end?

  Had it already ended?

  Samir had gotten overwhelmed, and Anthony’s first instinct was to dismiss him. For whose benefit, though? From any other man, Samir would have assumed it was altruistic. But Anthony had mentioned so many times how much he needed space, didn’t like to be crowded, didn’t like men who clung to him. Did that mean ...?

  The last few weeks had been all about writing and editing interspersed with sleeping, eating, and having sex when they had the energy for it. Anything more complicated had been on pause until the work was done, which, considering all the last-minute emergencies and editorial battles, was literally hours before they’d left for the convention.

  But that was combat. Anthony had said himself that he could deal with being in close quarters when the bombs were dropping and asses were on the line. Once the war was over and things had gone quiet, then what?
/>   All Samir knew was that they’d finished the work, and now they were here, and he had buckled under stress, and while his instinct was to hold on to someone, Anthony’s had been to offer him space.

  But who was the space for?

  Samir? Or Anthony?

  Chapter 17

  With all the fans eagerly waiting to have their books signed, Anthony had no time to check on Samir. He did send Chas up with him to be certain he reached the room and to put out the Do Not Disturb sign while Anthony stayed downstairs, made sure his rollerball pens were all full and working, and got to work on signing books.

  After this many years, he’d developed a routine for it, making sure to write the name of the fan on a piece of paper to account for all variant spellings and all names that sounded similar but weren’t. He took a moment with every reader, asking them whether they liked the new cover or who their favorite character was. In a very real sense, they all helped to pay the bills—if he was an employee to anybody these days, it was to his fans.

  Though it was normally the job of the handlers, Chas insisted on being the one to keep Anthony well stocked with everything he needed. She stopped by every half hour or so and brought him water, which was the only way to measure time. A quick glance confirmed that Lyle’s and Chip’s tables were similarly busy, while Frankie passed unmolested with a tray of coffees, not even trying to be anonymous. Directors just didn’t get accosted like Anthony and the actors. That was probably why she came to these things more often than most directors—all the fun and chaos without the suffocation.

  Anthony resented her up until the moment she dropped off a coffee cup at his table and asked him whether he was going to have dinner with her and the cast later, and whether Samir was okay.

  He nodded to all of the questions, finished his signature, and handed the book back to the fan who was almost dancing on her toes, then looked up into the face of the next one, who stepped closer, radiating excitement.

  Once everybody was served, he got up, drank the rest of his cold coffee and surveyed the room. Chas came over, carrying a plastic bag. “Can I store this at your table?”

  “What did you buy?”

  “There’s a stall in the other hall that sells Triple Moon–branded teas and coffees.” She beamed at him. “I told them they were lacking a one-hundred espresso strength dedicated to you.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They said they’ll send us a sample, but they have an idea for an Anthony Rawson–themed roast.”

  Anthony shook his head. “This crazy business.”

  “The idea of caffeine pills was coming up too. You seem to be almost immune to coffee by now.” She lifted the bag. “Stash it?”

  “Sure.” He grabbed the bag and tucked it between piles of books he’d have to sign for the local bookshops once he “found a minute.” “When are we meeting for dinner?”

  “Seven, Frankie’s room.”

  Anthony glanced at his watch. “That’ll give me a chance to take a breather after the next Q&A.” And check on Samir, to make sure he’d just shut down everything and was reading or catching a nap. Their schedules had been weird recently, and they were still trying to sync their natural rhythms. At some point, Anthony would hopefully manage to sleep when Samir was tired and get up when Samir was active. Or the other way around. As long as they did eventually sync up.

  After the Q&A, Anthony slipped away from the crowds and took the service elevator up to the top floor. The hotel staff had been gracious enough to give him and a handful of people access to that elevator since the main ones got too crowded. There was nothing more claustrophobic than being crammed into an elevator with twenty people who hyperventilated at the very sight of you.

  He tapped on the door so he wouldn’t startle Samir, and then put in his key. When he peeked into the bedroom, Samir was nowhere in sight, but the sound of the running shower cleared that up quickly.

  Anthony continued into the room.

  Samir’s laptop was open on his side of the bed. His cell phone was beside it. A vodka bottle from the mini fridge stood on the bedside table ... empty.

  The shower turned off, so Anthony stood outside the door. “Hey, Samir. I’m back. Just so I don’t startle you.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll be out in a second.”

  “No rush.”

  Anthony went back into the main part of the room. He picked up the empty vodka bottle and dropped it into the trash can.

  On top of another one.

  Shit.

  His heart sank. Samir had been trying so hard to be stoic, but this kind of crap took its toll. While most people would call it a first world problem—and yeah, it was—adapting to thousands of people knowing who you were was difficult. Particularly when you were crammed into a building with them and had your name plastered all over everything and hadn’t had five goddamned minutes to catch your breath after working nonstop.

  The bathroom door opened. Samir stepped out wearing a pair of jeans, but no shirt. His dark hair was wet and disheveled. Any other time, Anthony would’ve thought he looked sexy as fuck. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sexy, just that the only thing Anthony could really focus on was the bone-deep fatigue in Samir’s eyes and the way his shoulders slumped.

  “Hey.” He reached for Samir’s waist. “Doing any better?”

  Samir shrugged. A few droplets of water slid down his shoulder and onto his chest, and he absently brushed them away. “I guess. I’m not sure how ready I am to go back out there.”

  Anthony watched him closely. This was Samir’s big break. His debut. The spotlight was on him, and the people downstairs were buzzing with questions, not to mention clamoring to be the first to get a photo and his autograph. At least a hundred of them must’ve excitedly asked about him during the signing.

  So why did the kid look like he’d just been to a funeral?

  Guilt twisted beneath Anthony’s ribs. He sighed. “I’m sorry this has gotten so overwhelming.”

  “Occupational hazard, right?” Samir looked into his eyes. “How do you handle it? You go up there and work a crowd like you were born for this.” He held Anthony’s gaze, his own filled with a desperate plea of Show me how.

  Anthony gathered Samir in his arms. “It’s just something you learn eventually.”

  Samir released a breath, sinking into his embrace, and Anthony kissed the top of his head. As he held him, his mind wandered back to the first few appearances he’d made. How exhilarating it had been, but also how terrifying. How many conventions it had taken before he’d no longer needed to carry the hip flask.

  His gaze drifted toward the wastebasket containing the pair of empty vodka bottles.

  Then he drew back and tipped Samir’s chin up. “I don’t want to overwhelm you any more than I already have.”

  Samir scowled. “The wheels are turning, so ...”

  “I know. But I’m giving you a break from it. All of it.”

  Samir blinked. “What?”

  “Get online.” He tilted his head toward Samir’s computer. “Buy a ticket anywhere. Starting tonight. Take a vacation somewhere, go back to your condo, whatever you need to unwind.”

  “But ...” Samir gestured at the door. “The con. I can’t—”

  “I’ll let everyone know you came down with the flu.”

  “And if Leanne finds out?”

  Anthony shrugged, combing his fingers through Samir’s wet hair. “I’ll take the heat. But you need to wind down and take a break. You haven’t been able to do that since all of this started, and pushing you through to the end of the con when you’re this close to—”

  “I can handle the con.” Samir swallowed. “I can keep doing this. I want to stay here with you.”

  Anthony stroked his cheek. “You’re exhausted. I can see it.”

  “I am, but this is a huge opportunity. The sooner I get in and learn to deal with it, the sooner I’ll be like you and just roll with it.”

  “But I don’t—”

  �
��I can handle it,” Samir growled.

  Anthony drew back. “Hey, easy. It’s your call, Samir. I’m just trying to help. I know what it’s like to be in the con spotlight for the first time.”

  Samir exhaled. “I’m sorry.” He stood up on his toes and kissed Anthony lightly. “But I can do this. Promise.”

  Anthony hesitated, but finally shrugged. “It’s your call. But the minute you need a break, or you want to get the hell out of here, let me know. Okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  Samir met his eyes. “Promise.”

  Anthony kissed him once more.

  It was almost time to head to dinner, so he had a quick shower and changed his clothes, necessary after the heat of the convention area. By the time he was ready, it was twenty to seven, so they went to Frankie’s room and knocked.

  “Just a sec!” Frankie opened the door a few minutes later, cell phone at her ear, and motioned them inside, checking the hall for witnesses, Anthony assumed. Anthony sat down in one of the chairs near the window, and Samir eventually followed suit. Frankie finished her conversation in hushed tones, indicating she had to leave now. A lover? She didn’t sound like that when talking to Barbara—there were usually a lot more sharp edges in her voice when talking to her partner.

  She shoved her phone into her pocket and turned to them. “How are you holding up, Samir?”

  “I’m all right. Just needed a little time to decompress.”

  “That’s fine, hon. We all do, believe me. Anthony?”

  “Can I get back to my computer now, Mom?” Anthony grinned. “A couple more days, and I want to start on book ten.”

  “That’s lucky, because you’ll have to.”

  “I know.”

  Another knock at the door, and this time it was Lyle and Chip, looking fairly relaxed and smiling and apparently still in that happy-couple bubble that protected them against anything else. But then, both of them were pros and had been doing this for years—especially Lyle, who’d been involved with a big franchise before, but even Chip had taken to it easily. Maybe that was the natural advantage that actors had over writers at conventions. Both professions had to find something inside and put it outside, but actors already did it with their bodies and emotions for an audience, be it fans or production crew, while writers tapped away at keyboards in solitude and were more often than not mystified that books were read by real people who then considered the writer some kind of font of magic.