Against Fate: A Prince Castle Novel

by Damian Bloom

  He chuckles sweetly, and the comments that pour in after that are significantly richer in heart emojis than usual. It’s interesting to observe how differently my viewers interact with Luis as opposed to me. Used as they are with my rather brooding, much more somber and skeptical energy, Luis must be a sweet breath of fresh air for them. The human equivalent of a golden retriever, with big, wondrous eyes that twinkle like sunlight reflecting off stainless glass, Luis oozes innocence, sweetness, warmth. He just makes you want to scoop him up in your arms and protect him from all harm.

  “I’ve warmed up to romance lately, too,” I confess. “So I guess you’re not the only one in the minority here, Sam.”

  The comments stop for a second, like the chat is holding its breath, and then they gush in, expressing disbelief. Are you kidding?

  “No, I’m not kidding. I think Luis here—who’s a huge romantic—might have passed me the virus, but there’s been other events in my life lately that have helped me change my mind about romance a little.” I can’t help shooting Luis a glance from the corner of my eye, and when he meets my gaze, we smile at each other like the idiot lovebirds that we are.

  The comments go crazy in response. Most people suspect I’ve fallen in love. A select few have caught on that there might be something going on between me and my “friend”.

  Since meeting Luis turned my world upside down, I’ve been neglecting my Youtube channel for the past couple of months. Created out of the desire to hang out with my readers, I mainly use this channel for live streams of different kinds. What I’ve discovered my fans seem to enjoy the most is writing alongside me. It turns out many of them love writing themselves, and, as any writer can tell you, having someone to write with is the most efficient weapon against procrastination. I guess not everyone is lucky enough to have a constant writing buddy, like Luis and me. “Because it’s been a while since I last did one of these write-with-me streams,” I say, “I know you guys must have plenty of work to get to. Well, so do I, so I’ll go ahead and set a five-minute timer for our chat so we don’t lose track of time. After that, as always, you get to decide on the length of the sprints.”

  The five-minute chat flies by as people continue to bombard me with their personal questions and guesses about the current state of my love life. I successfully dodge them by distracting everyone with talk of the book that’s hitting the bookstores next week. I was planning to introduce Luis as my boyfriend, but now that I’m in front of so many pairs of eyes, I squirm with discomfort at the thought. A look at Luis’s tense shoulders lets me know he probably feels the same way. For the most part, he continues to keep to himself—an inconspicuous presence at the edge of the screen.

  The timer beeps. “Okay, time’s up,” I say. “Everyone, leave your suggestions for our first sprint in the comments.” The majority seems to agree on twenty-five minutes, so that’s how long I set the next timer for. “You ready?” I ask Luis. He cracks his knuckles, straightens his back, and nods.

  When I say start, everyone sprints.

  Writing sprints are timed bursts of fully focused writing. The two rules for my writing live streams are No distractions and No excuses. Still, as I struggle with my scene, I find it hard not to break my own rules.

  I’m dropped in the shadowy, cold space of the hotel room Emma and Stephan have found themselves trapped in. It’s an intense scene, the mysterious killer’s steps clanging up the staircase beyond the door. Their hearts are so loud they fear he might hear them. Not that he doesn’t know exactly where to find them—fallen as they are in his trap. He’s taking his time, savoring every second as he plays with them like a cat with two incapacitated mice. As I read a few of the previous lines to freshen up my memory, I remember the goosebumps I got writing those words. And the scene should only get scarier.

  But now, I’m not in the mood to write anything scary. I don’t feel like torturing my characters or scaring my readers. I shudder when I read the rest of my notes for the scene. The whole thing is just so…gruesome. I continue to scroll and skim over other scenes I wrote in the past weeks, and I’m both proud of and disturbed by what I read. Possibly some of my best work, but damn, I must have really been in a bad mood to write something so dark.

  Now that Luis is back where he belongs—by my side—slipping into that sinister space of mind again is a challenge. Just like simply focusing on work is challenging when all my eyes want to do is drift in his direction. I need to look at him the way a diver needs to come up for air. His eyebrows approach tentatively in the beginning of a frown. He only taps the keyboard now and then, adding no more than a sentence at a time.

  By the end of the first sprint, I notice, to my dismay, that I’ve made no progress—not a single word. “How was the sprint for you guys?” I ask like I always do. “Let me know in the comments.”

  A few people show off their stats—written words, outlined scenes. “Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing. Eddie, seven hundred words. Well done.” Clasping my hands behind my head, I lean back in my chair. Luis is still staring at his screen, his mind clinging stubbornly to an idea. “How was it for you, Luis?”

  He frowns at his work and bites his lip. “It was okay. Not half as good as some of the people watching, but I managed to draft about three hundred words.” He shrugs, then lifts his head to check the big screen for what the viewers have to say. “Endings are hard,” he concludes.

  “Three hundred words is still great. That’s three hundred words that you didn’t have before.’ I look at my own empty page. “I, on the other hand, was very unproductive. I’m not in a very thriller-appropriate mood, it seems.”

  In the next few sprints, I need to get some work done. That’s what motivates others to be productive. People join my write-with-me live streams to see me write, not stare at an empty document.

  The next writing sprint is thirty minutes long, and when the countdown starts, I’m still no closer to having figured out what to work on. I could try editing some of the previously written scenes or update the novel outline, but as I reread the start of this current scene, I come up with a better idea: If I only rewrite a few paragraphs and postpone the appearance of the murderer, I can soften the atmosphere of the scene for at least a few pages—a pocket of silence in the middle of a raging storm. Which, I discover as I think the idea through more thoroughly, would make my characters’ desperate horror pop, the way a pinch of salt brings out the sweetness of chocolate.

  Yes. If Stephan and Emma find themselves trapped in a room together for what could be the final hours of their life, with one last chance to make confessions they’ve been putting of, something might happen. Something that I know my readers have been waiting for but, until now, I haven’t been able to deliver.

  So I delete the previous five paragraphs and pursue this new, almost romantic idea. Once I do that, as if a door has been flung wide open, inspiration flows through me and sends my fingertips skittering over the keys.

  And I instantly like what I’m writing. It’s sweet and emotional but laden with sexual tension. And when the characters finally find their way into each other’s arms, it feels natural and meaningful. Although steamy enough to make me break a sweat, it’s not just a quick fuck—they’re making love.

  My hands stagger above the keyboard for an instant as I reel with surprise over how much I’ve changed. That I would come to perceive a difference between fucking and making love is nothing short of a miracle.

  There’s two more writing sprints after this one, all of them equally productive and fun. I write in a frenzy, galloping over typos. Stopping to edit isn’t an option. As my characters race toward a much-deserved climax to their, so far, only implied romantic storyline, I struggle to keep up. I feel more than see Luis’s questioning look, and I wonder what expressions might flow over my face as I churn all of this out. Without tearing my eyes from the screen, I smile in Luis’s direction, and, from the corner of my eye, I see him smile back.

  Finally, the last timer beeps, and I
pry my aching fingers from my laptop with a sigh, allowing myself to slouch with relief. Limbs vaguely sore from tension, breath fluttering irregularly, it feels like I’ve run a marathon. “Okay, I have to admit, for how unproductive the first sprint was, the last three were a godsend.” I stretch my fingers, then my back, raising my arms high over my head. “I made huge progress during this live stream, guys,” I say. “And from what I’ve seen in the chat, so did you. I think we can all feel proud of ourselves for coming together and getting all this work done, coming a little bit closer to our dreams.”

  “Yeah,” Luis says, “I don’t know if you guys could see it from home, but Adam turned into a word machine at one point. I was getting whiplash just from watching him type.” There’s no trace of the initial shakiness left in Luis’s voice. I’m thrilled to see him relax and escape some of his shyness. Within the two hours that have passed, I felt the atmosphere grow more comfortable with every chatty break that we took, shifting from scary live stream in front of hundreds of watchers into a fun afternoon of creative work with friends. My heart warms up with satisfaction. This is what I had in mind by introducing Luis to my readers.

  Luis taps my upper back, then keeps his hand there in a subtle gesture of affectionate belonging. “So, tell us, Adam. What’s the secret? How’d you do it?” It takes superhuman effort to focus on what Luis is asking when his stunning eyes twinkle like jewels in my direction. With time, I imagined their effect would wear off, but it hasn’t happened yet—I’m as helpless under his charms as I ever was. “What do you think made the difference?”

  Blinking away from him, I collect my thoughts. “Uhm, I think I just had to figure out what I was in the mood to write.”

  Cunningly, Luis snakes a hand over my inner thigh. I jostle when my cock hardens automatically. The little devil has been learning just how much power he holds over me. Sneaking a meaningful grin at Luis, I paw at my angry erection. He’d better be ready, because as soon as this live stream is over, I’m ravaging his ass. Something I know he’ll thoroughly enjoy.

  It’s not only me that’s changed a lot since we met. Comparing the Luis that first knocked on my door to the Luis I’ve got next to me now sometimes makes me chuckle. In mere months, Luis has grown into a self-assured man with no qualms over exploring his sexuality or articulating his bedroom needs.

  “And what were you in the mood for today?” Luis’s voice is as soft and warm as melted butter.

  “Something I don’t think my readers expect from me. Without spoiling anything, I’ll tell you that I wrote something a little more on the romantic side. I think. I hope.”

  Luis snickers as the chat goes crazy again. Everyone cottons on to what that means—Emma and Stephan finally together. While the great majority is excited out of their minds, a few express skepticism—Me? Writing romance?

  “I told you guys that I’ve changed lately.” I can’t help the grin that spreads over my face. “But going back to the recipe for my productivity today, I’ve discovered that it’s apparently much easier to write romance than scary stuff when you’re as foolishly happy as I am.”

  Man, he’s a goner, someone writes. Look at that smile.

  He’s definitely in love, another adds. Absolutely smitten.

  As my readers prove that they know me better than anyone else, I smile a little broader.

  Of course he’s happy, his book is coming out next week.

  This comment gets it partially right. As always, I am excited for my latest book to finally be read by those who love my work. But writing has stopped being the only—or even the primary—reason for happiness in my life. “It’s not all due to the book coming out.” I look at Luis with a questioning raise of the eyebrows. He nods—it’s time. “I’m the happiest man alive, and that’s all thanks to a very special person in my life.” The loving look Luis and I share is already the clearest statement we could make. I reach a hand and stroke his face. And then, cupping his chin, I bring him closer to me. In the center of the screen, on hundreds of computers at once, I kiss him. For all to see. For all to envy me. Because I’m kissing the single most amazing human being in the entire world. Luis Fowler, my boyfriend.

  31

  Luis

  “There has to be something we can do,” I whine, holding my teacup with a hand and Grandma’s hand with the other. “Books, someone we can ask—there must be answers somewhere. You sure you can’t think of anything?”

  Grandma peers at me over her thin-rimmed glasses. I’m testing her patience. “Luis, dear, I’ve lived with this gift for eighty-” Shooting a look in Adam’s direction, she realizes she’s about to expose her age and, thinking better of it, quickly corrects herself. “—uh, my entire life, and I’ve never met a single other person like me. Or, if I did, we never brought it up, so I wouldn’t know. It’s not really the type of thing you just blurt out to someone, you understand.” She caresses the yellow plastic cover of my bound manuscript. “Now, I have to admit I haven’t done much research either…I figured the best way to approach my strange condition is to ignore it. So far, it’s bothered me rarely enough to not be a huge inconvenience. All I know, I’ve learned by myself, the hard way. And that’s not very much, I’m afraid.”

  By the mantelpiece, Adam guffaws, drawing our attention. He’s found a framed picture of Peter and me as little kids. In it, I’m sporting an embarrassing bowl cut I was happy to forget. Still chuckling over it, he holds it up in my direction, eyes darting from the image to me and then back again.

  After sticking my tongue out at him, I turn my attention back to my conversation with Grandma Hattie. “What about witchcraft?” I offer, half-joking. “Maybe that could work.”

  Grandma doesn’t dignify my suggestion with a response.

  “Then maybe prayer?”

  Two hours ago, my grandmother was on cloud nine to see Adam and me together for the first time since we officially started dating. Adam only came back from his book tour three days ago. Although he insisted I go with him, I couldn’t get time off work. Luckily, it wasn’t a very long tour—only a few key big cities. Nonetheless, a few weeks were long enough to make me miss him. And I know he missed me, too, because he’d tell me that every night on our daily call. We’ve also been texting constantly, like we always do, which made things a little easier. Having Adam wear his heart on his sleeve like he does now, seeing him so obviously in love with me and unafraid to remind me of that multiple times a day, it’s all like a beautiful dream—one that I hold onto with shaky hands, like it might be pried away in a second. Grandma’s vision has been haunting me again, with a vengeance—showing up in my dreams, echoing in my ears when I least expect it. Adam has become such an integral part of me that his absence feels almost like a missing limb.

  Before he left, he made me copies of his house keys under the pretense that someone needs to take care of Hector while he’s away. In reality, I’ve already moved in with him a long time ago, without either of us noticing. Although I visit the guys at the Castle every couple of days just to hang out, I haven’t slept there since Adam and I made up. Little by little, my clothes followed me, finding empty shelves and hangers in Adam’s closets. So did some of my books, which are now neatly lined up in his bookcase, their pastel cheerfulness contrasting the bleak color scheme of his book collection.

  His latest novel was an unsurprising immediate success, propelled instantly to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List by the countless raging fans who could barely wait to get their hands on Adam’s hard work.

  But we didn’t visit Grandma just so she can see Adam again. I also wanted to read her the final draft of my manuscript. Or at least part of it. Other than Adam, who’s been revising with me and advising me through the editing process even from afar, no one’s seen it yet, and I’m so happy to have Grandma as my very first beta reader. With her years of experience as an avid romance reader, I couldn’t think of anyone more qualified for the job.

  Now, after I read her the first two chapters,
her eyes twinkle with pride. I’m leaving the rest of the printed manuscript for her to discover by herself, but so far, she’s declared herself a fan and even shed a tear.

  It was an emotional moment for me, too. Looking back on all those books Grandma read to me in my childhood, it feels surreal to have the joy of reading my very own book to her.

  Even if nothing comes of this first novel, the honor of seeing Grandma smile so sweetly is payment enough for all the months of effort that went into it. And, of course, let’s not forget I found love in the process.

  A love that I’m now worrying about again. The stronger my relationship with Adam gets, the scarier the idea grows that odds might be stacked against us. So, after our little reading session, the conversation quickly slipped into vision territory. More specifically, how to find a way to stop what she saw from coming true. I’m growing desperate, and if not even Grandma—the one with the gift—can help me, I don’t know who could. I’ve already scoured the internet, but it swarms with scammy-sounding self-proclaimed mediums.

  Adam isn’t as concerned about the vision as he is about how much importance I give it. He’s not one to believe in fate, so to him, as long as we want to stay together, nothing can tear us apart. It’s all in our hands. However, I did get him to admit that if he’d believe in something like soulmates, I’d be his, and that’s a huge victory that I treasure greatly.

  Upset that her unwanted ability has unsettled me and there’s nothing she can do to put my mind at ease, Grandma sighs bitterly.