by J. M. Frey
“Jesus, Reed,” Gil says, startled. He reaches up and lays a gentle hand over Elgar’s. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Elgar grits out. “I’m . . . there’s someone . . .”
“Stalker?” Gil asks kindly, and the concern on his face makes Elgar feel ashamed enough to release the man’s shirt. But Gil doesn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he claps it between both of his in a gesture of friendly solidarity. “All right. No, it’s fine. I get it. It’s the biz, man. We all have to be careful. It’s just me, you, your guy, Olivia from marketing, and Stan and Andy.”
“Stan and . . . the showrunner and the director? What for?”
“We’ve got an idea to pitch you. But tonight. For now, go back to the hotel. Unrumple. Have a drink. We’ll send a driver for you guys, okay? No worries. We’ll take care of all of it.”
Elgar considers this for a moment. “I’d rather have my own driver, if that’s cool,” he says, not adding that their driver is a cop.
“That’s cool, I get it,” Gil says. With another firm handshake, he releases Elgar and is out the door, trailed by his own PA.
On the ride back to their hotel, Elgar tells Juan the name of the place they’re eating. Juan’s mouth drops open, and he makes a pleased little gasp. As soon as they are in the suite, Juan bustles over to the shopping bags and unearths Elgar’s new red velvet jacket. He shoves the blazer at Elgar with a stern look that brooks no argument.
They each shower, Juan shaves, they indulge in a drink of the disgustingly lavish whiskey that had been in the welcome basket from Flageolet, and soon enough, they’re sliding into the navy-blue leather seats of their corner booth reservation. The Chateau Marmont is made for deal-making, it seems. The backs of the banquettes are tall enough to block out the sight of the people at the table over; the lights are tastefully dim, but bright enough over the tables to read the menus (and potentially any contracts or plans); and the music is just loud enough to create a muffled din of calm white noise, but not so loud that voices are drowned out, or secrets have to be shouted.
Gil is already at their table when they arrive, a sweating bottle of something that is no doubt expensive sitting in a silver bucket stand beside it. Juan admires the wine when Gil pours it out, and while they wait for the other three people, Juan and Gil get into a discussion about vineyards, which leads to wine pairings, and the revelation that both men have an absolutely embarrassing crush on a celebrity chef with a reportedly dishy Australian accent.
Olivia from marketing arrives next, a confident, attractive African-American woman with a waterfall of gorgeous twists done in her naturally black hair and wefts of an unapologetic purple. As Elgar has never met her face-to-face before, he swaps his bench seat for the chair closest to hers so they can chat about the re-release of all the Kintyre Turn books with screencap images on the covers.
Andy and Stan show up within minutes of each other, Stan bidding what turns out to be his son goodnight on the phone as he approaches, and Andy still stripping off his motorcycle gear. He shoves his gloves in his helmet, and hands both that and his jacket to a waiter to take away to the coat check. Stan the showrunner looks so much like a “dad” that he is practically a parody. Andy is a skinny guy with an infectious grin, which he turns immediately on Elgar as he plops down into the seat beside him.
It isn’t until Andy is beside him in the booth that Elgar has a chance to get a good look at his face. They’ve met before, of course, over contract negotiations and for drinks events, but this is the first time Elgar is close enough to catch the color of Andy’s eyes.
They’re green.
The familiar knot of exhausting terror forms behind his ribs so quickly, and so unexpectedly, that Elgar is suddenly afraid he’s going to vomit, right there on the table. Gulping at the air, he shoots to his feet and, in the quickest wobble he can manage, makes for the gent’s.
In the washroom, Elgar rushes by the wall of urinals and locks himself in the accessibility cubicle. Then he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, and searches for Andrew Sammet. He pushes the toilet seat down and sits heavily while the browser searches, switches to the images page, and clicks on the first picture. It loads infuriatingly slowly, the image resolving pixel by agonizing pixel.
And then, finally, Elgar is able to zoom in and get a good look at Andy’s face. His eyes are green. Elgar closes the photo, noting that it had been taken six months ago, and loads another, from last year. Then another, then another. Two years ago, before Elgar had ever met Forsyth, before he had known that he had accidentally created a magic system so perfect it actually worked. Three years ago, back before the TV deal had even begun. Four, and seven, and twelve years ago, when Andy was doing crappy commercials for instant rice, and dreaming of his first feature film. In all the photographs, Andy’s eyes are the same: a hazel that tended toward green, with flecks of dark brown around the outer edge of the iris.
Relief rushes through Elgar like someone has opened the top of his skull and poured vodka straight in. The tingle of it splashes down his limbs, and he feels suddenly lightheaded with giddy relief.
Oh, thank god.
He’s even relieved enough that the slight embarrassment that comes from the realization that he had shot off without even excusing himself isn’t enough to dull the sensation. He exits the stall, washes his hands, and returns to the table with a mumbled excuse about too much water at the reading today. Everyone accepts it with a little nod, and then resumes the habitual complaining about how hellish the traffic had been on the way to the restaurant—a perennial LA favorite for small talk.
A quick glance at Andy sweeps away the last lingering cobweb of doubt—his eyes, while green, have the hazel undertones and the brown flecks he’d seen in the man’s photos. They’re not the bright, burning emerald that Forsyth’s described.
As the adrenaline begins to seep away, Elgar finds his hands trembling. Juan shoots him more than one concerned glance, but Elgar just shakes his head, and listens to the small talk happening around him. He sips his wine until dinner has been ordered, eaten, and the dishes cleared away. That’s when the real conversation begins.
“So, here’s the thing,” Gil says, once the last plate has been removed. He sits forward to pour more wine out for everyone, finishing their second bottle. “Olivia and I have been back and forth a lot about audience demographics, and the reality is that the majority of your fan base is white dudes over the age of forty.”
Juan makes a confused noise, and looks as if he wants to raise his hand for permission to cut in. Gil smiles at him, and Elgar is struck with the impression that Gil might have developed a bit of a crush on his assistant. If he isn’t careful, Juan might be pinched out from under him and swept off into a fantasy romance of Hollywood parties and all-you-can-shop trips to Rodeo Drive.
Elgar hadn’t known that Gil was gay when he’d signed the contracts with Flageolet. But if he actually is, then all the concern he’s had with having to convince the producers of the series to add in the Kintyre and Bevel romance in the later seasons would evaporate. If they’d fought it, he’d planned on throwing Lucy at them, but now, maybe all he’d have to do to get it to happen is “accidentally” let it slip at their next story meeting.
Excellent. Fortuitous. Useful.
“I thought that was good, though?” Juan asks. “I mean, dudes over forty? That’s the exact demographic that still engages in wall-of-eyes appointment viewing.”
Olivia raises her eyebrows at Elgar, impressed by his choice of help. “True, Juan. But they’re not brand ambassadors, not the way the Tumblr generation is. And it’s the engaged, convention-going cosplayers who pulled Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit into the mainstream, far more than fans of the books ever did. The creative engagement of fans between fifteen and twenty-five, primarily but not necessarily all female, is a demographic that we need to encourage to really get a groundswell going. It’s the cosplayers, the gif-makers, the fanficcers, you know?”
Juan laughs, delig
hted. “Oh, yeah, I know. Count me among that crowd.”
“Half the writing staff on the show, too,” Gil says. “It’s nice having people so invested in the story on our team.”
Elgar blinks, startled. “You fic?”
Juan grins cheekily at his boss. “I read ’em. And, to be honest, I’ve always wanted to cosplay.”
“Then you’re gonna love this,” Gil says. He reaches out and presses his hand over Juan’s arm. It’s right over where his assistant’s bandage is, and Juan winces and shifts just enough for Gil’s touch to move off the wound, but not enough that his hand drops away completely. Gil’s smile grows softer, a little sweeter, and Elgar has to look away.
Not because it’s gross, or uncomfortable, but because it reminds him sharply of how alone he is. He hasn’t had a real girlfriend since 1998, when Tiffany had told him she was sick of his condescending douchebaggery and slammed off in a huff. She’d moved to Indiana, last he’d heard, and was married, running a hobby ranch, and had three boys. Since then, it’d only been one-night stands at cons, nothing more than a bit of fun for him and a notch on a star-fuckers bedpost for the girls. But even those were growing fewer and further between. He isn’t a hot name anymore, the kind that a certain kind of young woman likes to add to their tally books. He’s aged out. He’s been coasting on the popularity of The Tales of Kintyre Turn for too long. Wanting to be important, wanting to be recognized and relevant again, that was half the reason he’d begun the Shuttleborn series at all, to be honest.
“Love what?” Juan asks. “You guys are laying the mystery on thick.”
“Listen.” Olivia leans into the middle of the table, and grins with mischievous joy. “We know some people who know some people, and if you’re willing to go along with us on this, Elgar, we can pull some strings and get you invited to ConClusion as a last-minute guest of honor.”
“Okay,” Elgar says, sitting back, and trying not to frown. “Which one is that? I don’t think I . . . have I been to that one?”
Juan’s already shaking his head, staring down at his phone, where he’s diligently reviewing what Elgar assumes is some sort of spreadsheet or something. “No,” he says musingly. “It’s the new one in Toronto. I’ve got the website up, ‘Con-Inclusion, because fandom is for everyone. This con is in a state-of-the-art, accessible facility, with braille signage, extra large elevators, audio announcements’, blah, blah, blah, every panel has an ASL interpreter, strict harassment policies, cosplay is not consent, blah, blah, blah . . . huh. Looks really good, boss.” He looks up, grinning, and turns the phone around so Elgar can see a beautifully framed crowd shot filled with faces of every ethnicity.
“It’s the ideal market,” Gil says. “The engaged fans who are using their geekery to change the world.”
“And here’s the thing, right?” Olivia says, holding up a finger. “We’d put it out that you have a special announcement to make at the con.”
“Oh, that’s how you want to break the show news?” Elgar asks, still not seeing what’s so special about this. The original plans for a splashy, full-color spread in Variety seemed like enough to him.
“Yes! But!” Olivia says before he can interrupt further. “Hear us out.”
“Yeah, instead of just announcing the news in the middle of your Q&A, you would have them lower a screen, dim the lights, and show them the clip,” Andy says, so fast that it’s nearly incomprehensible.
“What clip?” Juan asks, looking just as confused as Elgar feels, which is nice. It’s good to know he isn’t alone in this. “A bit of the show?”
“There’s no way you can pull together a trailer in three weeks, is there?” Elgar asks. “I mean, you won’t have even finished filming the first block by then.”
Stan sits forward then, adding his voice to the excitement: “We thought, if we do this, we’d push the first filming block back a month. We’d be . . . Reed, we’d be filming something entirely self-sustained. The actors have already agreed, if you do.”
Elgar scowls. “Explain.”
“We want to film a short!” Gil blurts. “Something with just Kintyre and Bevel. Something that’s not in the books!”
Elgar slumps back in his seat, wide-eyed with thought. “You . . . really? That . . . might be good.”
“More than that,” Olivia says, reaching out to lay her hand on his forearm, a mirror of Gil and Juan. “We want you to write it.”
Elgar feels his face go cold, and suddenly, he’s sliding sideways. Juan lunges across the table to grab his arms.
“Whoa, boss!” Juan says, even as Andy wraps an arm around Elgar’s shoulders and pulls him against the back of his chair. “Breathe, boss.”
“I . . . I . . .” Elgar says, and realizes that his lungs are burning. He sucks in some air, coughs, and accepts the glass of water Andy pushes on him.
“Sip slowly, man,” Gil says, also standing, concern scribbled across his face. “If we knew you’d react like this, we’d have tried to soften the blow.”
“Is this good fainting, or bad fainting?” Olivia asks Juan. “Like, hypoglycemia?”
“We just ate,” Juan points out as she shuffles aside so he can get out of the banquette. “Boss?”
“I . . .” Elgar tries again, but the rest of what he wants to say is caught in a sharp, scraping lump at the base of his throat. He swallows, and swallows, and coughs, and can’t seem to dislodge it. He sucks down another deep breath, through his nose, and covers his face with his hands.
“Is he okay?” he hears Stan ask.
“It’s . . .” Juan begins, makes a helpless sound, and tries again: “He hasn’t been writing. At all.”
“At all?” Gil asks.
“Not since he finished the Shuttleborn books six months ago,” Juan says softly. “He says it’s not writer’s block, but—”
“It’s not!” Elgar protests, dropping his hands to his lap. “I’m just . . . I can’t!” The urge to explain why, exactly, is like a sudden and unexpected shove against his lungs. He gasps again.
He could tell them. Right here. All of them. He could explain why he’d pulled out of writing a script, why he’d retreated to the back of the series’ digital writing room, why he’d been reluctant to start a new book series. He could confess it all.
And then watch his career go down the drain as they realize he’s a nut job, pull out of the project, and probably help him get committed as soon as Juan could arrange for his care.
No.
Everyone is looking at him. Staring. Patient, but expectant. And the worst of them is Juan, eyebrows raised in surprise, a small smile nearly there, hope shining in his eyes. Shit.
“I . . . I can do it,” Elgar says, resigned and terrified at the same time, and still so damned flattered that they’ve asked him. “I’ll do it.”
The victorious hollers are like a firecracker going off in their corner of the restaurant. Gil punches the air, then looks at Juan like he’s bummed the younger man is on the far side of the table now and out of range for an “I was just so swept up in the moment” celebratory kiss.
Andy pumps Elgar’s hand, Stan slaps his back, and Olivia, strangely, pinches his cheek. Gil waves over the waiter, orders a bottle of bubbly, and makes Olivia shove over so Juan can sit beside him again.
“So! Let’s brainstorm stories!” Gil says as they wait for the waiter to return. “I had some thoughts about—”
“No,” Elgar says, sitting up and interrupting with maybe more panic in his voice than he would have liked. “I . . . I need to talk to someone first. I have an idea, but I need to . . . vet it.”
Gil looks to Juan, who shrugs, clearly having no idea who Elgar means.
Good. That is . . . that is good.
Elgar’s a little drunk when they get back to the hotel. Juan stops at the concierge desk to make arrangements to extend their stay by a few days, while Elgar makes his tipsy way up to their suite with his cop-chauffeur shadow. The shadow heads for the vending machines as soon as Elgar i
s settled. Knowing that he won’t have the place to himself for long, he shuffles into the bathroom with his phone, sits on the edge of the tub, and calls Forsyth.
“Forsyth’s phone, his super hot wife speaking!” Lucy Piper says as soon as the call is picked up.
“Lucy,” Elgar says, and he is proud at how sober he sounds. “I have to . . . can you guys video-call? Do you have the time right now?”
A crash and a baby howl in the background answers the question better than anything Lucy could have said.
“Ah,” Elgar says softly, instead of waiting. “Guess not?”
“Hold on,” Lucy says, and the sound of the phone being set down is unmistakable. There’s an unintelligible conversation further away, and Alis is sobbing unhappily, and then the phone is picked up again.
“Elgar?” Forsyth says. “Pip says you want to talk?”
“I’d like to talk to both of you, if I can. But if it’s a bad time . . .”
“No, no, it’s just . . . more teeth. You understand. She hurts, and she can’t express herself well enough, and we can do nothing, really, to help and . . . everyone here is at their wit’s end. But perhaps a bit of face time with her Uncle Gar Gar will help soothe her. Give us a moment to set up?”
“Sure,” Elgar says, and hangs up. He nips out into his bedroom for his computer, then heads back into the bathroom. He hasn’t heard Juan come back yet, nor his shadow, but the bathroom is the furthest from the suite’s front door, just in case.
He sets the computer on the counter, and nearly as soon as he’s opened the program, Forsyth is calling. The video opens on Forsyth seated at his desk in his upstairs office, Alis on his lap, swollen-eyed and miserable, and chewing on what looks to be a small frozen plushie. Both of them are a little swollen-eyed and miserable, actually. Forsyth knuckles his eyes and grins weakly.
“We look a fright, I know,” Forsyth says, sardonic and exhausted. “It’s been a . . . a long few weeks. What can I help you with? You sounded slightly desperate.”