Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Another knock. Chip opened the door, and this time it was Chas. “Guys, I have the car outside, so we should get going. Maybe we can get out of here unseen.”

  In the day of social media and cell phones, one fan spotting them meant dozens knew, so Frankie herded them all outside and to the service elevator. Downstairs in the garage, the limo was waiting and they all slid inside.

  The driver got them to a restaurant a few miles away and parked in the side street near the entrance. Total exposure to any potential witnesses: less than five seconds.

  They got into the restaurant and continued onward to a private area right at the back, as requested, without windows. Their waitress introduced herself and brought the first round of drinks, and only then did everyone start to breathe a little easier. Even Samir got a bit livelier—probably because the others treated him like they treated any other new addition to the cast, be they crew or guest star. It simply wasn’t a big deal to them, and they gave him space until they knew him better and how much teasing or banter he was okay with.

  For all the craziness of the franchise and his life in general, Anthony loved the crew. He loved pretty much everybody involved with Triple Moon, apart from the suits in Hollywood who financed it all. These were people passionate about something that was entirely fiction, dreamed up in long, coffee-soaked nights, and then translated onto the screen by people who dropped their own identities to interpret the characters he’d created. It was all a fucking miracle, that was what it was.

  And Samir seemed to like it too. By the time the main courses had arrived, he and Chip were lost in a discussion about a soon-to-be-released video game, and all of his earlier tension had, at least on the surface, melted away.

  “Hey.” Anthony touched Samir’s leg during a brief lull in the conversation. “You doing okay?”

  Samir smiled. “Yeah. I think I just needed to get away from the crowds and stuff for a while.” He put his hand on top of Anthony’s. “I’ll be fine.”

  Anthony returned the smile. Any other evening, he might’ve made a quip about doing it all over the next day, but not tonight. The kid could finally breathe again. No sense ruining that.

  A hand materialized on Anthony’s shoulder, and a second later, Frankie leaned down between him and Samir. “You boys having a good time?”

  Samir raised his glass. “Considering I’m used to coming to these things and eating whatever I can grab from the concession stands? Hell yes.”

  She laughed and patted his arm. “There is something to be said for the VIP treatment.”

  “Yeah, I think I could get used to it.” His eyes met Anthony’s, and Anthony relaxed. Just because it had taken him almost a year’s worth of cons to get a grip didn’t mean the same would apply to Samir. Trust the younger dude to adapt faster.

  All through the rest of dinner, Samir chatted and joked with the others, and aside from a wide-eyed stare of disbelief when Lyle bought a round of aged cognac for everyone, he seemed to have really taken to all of this. If he stayed on this frequency for the rest of the con, he’d be golden.

  Dinner ended, and Anthony was pretty sure he’d never need to eat again. Good thing he always booked a few extra sessions with Ryan after a con. He’d have doubled his body weight two or three years ago if he didn’t have someone to kick his ass when he came home after gorging himself on the incredible food.

  “Oh my God.” Samir groaned as he stepped out of the limo after Anthony. “That was so fucking good. I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”

  “You and me both.”

  The others lingered by the car, giving Anthony and Samir a head start just in case Lyle and Chip’s fans decided to mob the actors.

  On the way into the hotel’s service entrance, Anthony said, “Just wait until dinner on the last night. The organizers always take us out to—”

  “Oh my God!” someone shrieked. “There! Look!”

  Anthony turned, and had just enough time for an “oh, crap ...” before a group of fifteen or twenty fans started toward them. He took Samir’s arm and herded him inside. “Walk fast.”

  Samir didn’t have to be told twice.

  It also didn’t do any good.

  Another group of fans hovered near the service elevator. More were trotting down the hallway, probably lured by the others’ voices.

  “Shit,” Anthony muttered. In seconds, they were the center of a huge and growing mass of people. Cameras flashed. Phones waved in their faces. Pens and photos were thrust at them. Fans talked over fans, asking questions and begging for photos, autographs, and spoilers.

  Samir’s eyes were huge, and he shied away from the crowd, which pushed him toward another side of the same mob, which he also jerked away from like a terrified pinball.

  Anthony put an arm around him and kept him close, shielding him from the crowd as much as possible. Which, of course, only made things worse.

  “Are you two dating?”

  “Did you start writing together before or after you started dating?”

  “What happens to Triple Moon if you break up?”

  Samir’s muscles turned to steel under Anthony’s arm. “Just breathe,” Anthony said as quietly as he could while still being heard. “Give me a second.”

  Samir nodded and dropped his gaze.

  Anthony put up a hand. “Everybody, listen up. It’s late, and we both need to rest up for tomorrow’s panel.” He thought Samir shuddered beside him. “We’ll be happy to sign autographs and do pictures tomorrow, but for tonight, we—”

  “Hey, look! It’s Chip Schwartz and Lyle Phelan!”

  Was that Frankie’s voice?

  Every head in the mob turned, including Anthony’s. Sure enough, Lyle and Chip had just come in through the service entrance with Frankie beside them.

  The crowd immediately flocked toward the two actors, and Frankie gestured for Anthony and Samir to get out of there.

  Frankie, baby, I owe you so, so big ...

  Anthony swiped his key card for the elevator, and a moment later, the doors opened. He gently pushed Samir inside and stabbed the “doors close” button before he’d even hit the one for their floor.

  As soon as the doors were closed and the elevator was in motion, Samir slumped against the wall.

  “You okay?”

  Samir ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Fuck. That was ...”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Anthony wrapped his arms around Samir, but Samir shied away. Startled and a little hurt, Anthony stared at him. “What?”

  “Sorry. I ...” Samir hugged himself and shrank back against the wall again. “Just had a few too many people too close to me all at once.”

  “Yeah, I know it’s terrifying and exhausting.” He wanted to tell him that he’d get used to it, but that wasn’t going to help right now. If anything, it would drive Samir deeper into his protective shell.

  The elevator dinged and opened, and Anthony glanced around before signaling Samir to get out of the cabin. Sometimes, fans managed to get access to the VIP floor, which made getting to one’s room an hour-long operation. But the corridor was clear, and they crept into their room, where Anthony put out the Do Not Disturb sign and then locked the door.

  Uneasy quiet settled. Anthony didn’t want to ask whether Samir was okay again, and wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch him yet. Even working together on two books didn’t mean he knew Samir that well when he was upset. So far, their relationship had been harmonious and energizing; they’d disagreed but hadn’t argued or fought. Maybe you did get to know a person best when you saw them at their worst—and decided that you could deal with that once in a while.

  Samir sat down on the bed, head in his hands. “Fuck. This is all insane.”

  Anthony squeezed his shoulder. “Is there any way I can make this easier for you?”

  “I don’t know.” Samir raised his head. “Just ... be here?”

  Touching his face, Anthony whispered, “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to stay.”
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br />   Samir’s expression hardened. “It’s in my contract. Just like it’s in yours.”

  “And everyone has their limits.”

  Samir held his gaze. Then he shook his head and stood. “I’ll stay. I’m—”

  “Samir, you don’t have to stay if—”

  “Why are you so bent on me leaving?” Samir’s eyebrow arched. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Of course not!” Anthony showed his palms. “Jesus, Samir. I just don’t want this breaking you down.”

  “I’ll be fine. I do think I’m going to call it a night, though.”

  “Me too.”

  Samir nodded wordlessly and headed toward the bathroom.

  After they’d both brushed their teeth and stripped out of their clothes, they climbed into bed. Anthony clicked off the light and went through tomorrow’s program in his head. Panels, a couple of prearranged interviews, a charity auction to “dine with an author/artist/actor,” and more signing of stock for booksellers. The schedule was full—at least Samir didn’t have to do the signing marathons yet. They were Anthony’s least favorite thing.

  Samir tossed and turned a little. The bed was so vast there was no need to touch each other, but after a few moments, Samir inched closer, and Anthony extended an arm to hug him. They didn’t say or do anything, just lay in the darkness, aware of each other, breathing.

  And Anthony wished like hell there was something he could do to make all of this easier on Samir.

  Chapter 18

  Samir didn’t want to disturb Anthony before he had to get up, but he also had nowhere to go where people wouldn’t be waiting for him. Sure that Anthony was still dead asleep, he checked his phone.

  Twenty messages.

  Five voice mails.

  Way too fucking many emails.

  His heart jumped into his throat. Emergency? He was most worried about the voice mails, but when he selected them, they weren’t from people his phone recognized. Text messages then.

  Ten of them were from Vicki; first checking whether he was there and responsive, then telling him she hadn’t quite believed it at first, but she did now.

  He checked his emails and more than 150 were from the forum, the others ... links to various online chats, Twitter threads, Instagram pictures—of him, of Anthony, of him and Anthony. The story about Axis Mundi was out too, and it seemed every journalist knew roughly how much money was involved. He tried not to follow the links—“look what they say about you here” and a link was the oldest phishing technique in the universe—but he couldn’t help it.

  Holy shit. This was madness.

  And then he made the mistake of logging into Facebook.

  Forty-seven friend requests? How the ...

  Wait, I know that guy.

  Didn’t I go to school with her?

  Oh yay. An ex. Why yes, let’s totally be friends.

  He approved some of the requests from old classmates and various friends he’d lost touch with, but ignored the ones from people he didn’t know. Then he went in and changed the settings on his profile so only his friends and family could see him. In the time it took to do that, six more requests popped up. Two had Triple Moon books as avatars. Two were names and faces he didn’t recognize. One was a friend from college he hadn’t spoken to in eons. Another was a colleague at the company he’d just left.

  Samir eyed his phone. The pseudonym hadn’t stopped some people from recognizing him, and the story had spread like wildfire. Even to the manager at the shoe store where he’d briefly worked during college. The same asshole who’d cut his hours in the name of “trimming costs” and relieved Samir of his health insurance. That was one friend request he’d emphatically denied, muttering, “Why don’t you shove a women’s size eight up your ass, dickhead?”

  It wasn’t just friend requests, either.

  Messages. So fucking many messages.

  Usually, when he friended someone new, there’d be a “Hey, thanks for the add” or something to that effect on his wall. Once in a while, it would be “Sammy! Holy crap! I can’t believe I finally found you. How have you been?” and maybe even a short chat to catch up.

  The weird part was the sheer volume of people who weren’t satisfied with simply friending him. They tagged him in old photos from parties he’d long ago forgotten and added captions like “My famous author friend, back when we were crazy kids!” or “See? I totally knew Sam Ardenghi before he was famous.” They were emailing him in droves, most acting like they were long-lost best buddies instead of coworkers who’d eaten lunch together like four times in six months.

  As Samir watched the requests and posts and messages continue to pile up, a knot twisted beneath his ribs. What was it Anthony had said? You find out who your friends are when you have a windfall like this?

  None of these people were interested in getting back in touch. Not for the sake of being friends, anyway. The requests for money hadn’t started yet, but he had a feeling they would. In amongst all those friend requests he’d gotten, there were probably some from genuine people who really did want to reconnect, but how was he supposed to tell? Even people he knew well and trusted—how the fuck could he know if his cousin Nizar wanted to grab a cup of coffee just because they hadn’t done so in a while? Or if the guys from his team at his last job wanted to genuinely congratulate him?

  But how the hell was he supposed to stay sane if he couldn’t find someone to talk to?

  Samir scrolled through his contacts. If he called Vicki right now, she’d let him gab her ear off until he’d made sense of everything, and then she’d say something silly to make him feel better. His cousin? Yeah, Samir could trust him. He felt ridiculous for second-guessing Nizar. His cousin would be the same as always. He’d let Samir vent, and he’d be there for him, and probably suggest a beer just because it would infuriate their Muslim fathers.

  Samir turned his head toward Anthony’s sleeping form. His response? Plane ticket.

  You have a great story? Let’s meet.

  You have a great body? Let’s fuck.

  You have a great book deal that’ll save my ass? Let’s edit.

  You need me to be a friend and maybe boyfriend when you’re overwhelmed? Let’s not.

  Yeah, he’d talked Samir off a ledge a few times, but that was before they’d finished the project that had saved Anthony’s ass—and his advance. And at a convention where he had to keep his image pristine in the eyes of his adoring public. When Samir had a legitimate reason to be in Anthony’s space, and when Anthony benefitted from Samir being on an even keel.

  Samir dropped his phone on the bed and rubbed his temples. The walls of this huge hotel room were closing in fast. He couldn’t leave because there were people out there who might mob him like they had last night, even if it was just so they could get to Anthony. Going home at the end of the con meant holing up in his condo, afraid to answer the phone or go out or check the internet because he had no idea who wanted to hang with Samir instead of rubbing elbows—or wallets—with Sam Ardenghi.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be flying high. Happy. Fucking giddy. He had the job of his dreams, the man of his dreams, everything, and here he was, sitting in a California king-sized bed wondering why he hadn’t yet broken out in hives from the stress of it all.

  “Samir?” Anthony’s sleepy voice startled him. He turned as Anthony unburied his face from the pillow and pushed himself up. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just ... I think I’m ...” What? Going to waltz down to the coffee shop for some caffeine? Right. The sheer paranoia between here and the shop would be enough to wake him.

  Anthony sat up, blinking a few times. Though he was adorably unpleasant most mornings, there was no sign of his usual grouchy self today. “Rough night?”

  “Just a bit.”

  Anthony swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat beside Samir. He wrapped his arms around him and kissed his temple. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of a shock the first few times.�
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  Samir leaned forward, rubbing the back of his neck with both hands. “Maybe you were right. I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Anthony tensed. “Which part?”

  The cons. The career.

  This thing we’re doing that’s never quite made sense.

  “All of it.” Samir swallowed, forcing back a wave of nausea. “I want to write, and I love working on these books.” I want to be with you. “But all of this? I don’t know if I can handle it.”

  Anthony kneaded his shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

  Samir shook his head. “I don’t know. Just thinking about going downstairs for some coffee is making me light-headed.”

  “God, I’m sorry.” Anthony kept rubbing his shoulder. “I really wish I could tell you this part’s easy, but putting an introverted writer out there like that is hard.”

  Samir sighed. He’d never even thought of himself as an introvert, but being onstage in front of a few thousand people had schooled that misconception right out of him. Now, he wanted nothing more than to hole up in his home office, disconnect the internet, and be alone. Completely alone.

  He lifted his head. “Is last night’s offer still open? About getting out of here?”

  “Absolutely.” Anthony’s hand stilled and rested on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “I’ll get Chas to book you some tickets. Just pack your stuff and head out. Go home and relax a bit.”

  Yeah, you do seem pretty on board with that option.

  “And all of this? The con? The next set of edits?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “I can cope with the edits ...”