Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  He turned the corner at the end of the block, and the effects of caffeine, the wind, and a hypothetical face-plant were rendered moot.

  Anthony.

  His back was turned, but Samir recognized that black jacket and the more-salt-than-pepper hair from a mile away. As he walked toward Anthony, he let himself subtly ogle the man because why the hell not? An ass like that was made to be appreciated.

  Wouldn’t mind doing more than just appreciating—

  Ahem.

  Anthony turned around, holding his phone to his ear, and when he smiled, Samir returned the smile and hoped he didn’t look like a total idiot.

  “Oh, what do you know?” Anthony stepped toward Samir. “He’s right here. You want to talk to him?”

  Samir stopped so abruptly he almost fell on his ass.

  Anthony held out his hand. “You want to talk to the woman who wants to be our agent?”

  He wanted to, but whether or not he could ...

  “Uh, okay.” Samir took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Samir, my dear, where the hell have you been, and why aren’t you submitting original stories to me so I can make you rich and famous?”

  “I was just, uh, fooling around with some characters?” Great first line. Now she’ll think you can’t or won’t write original fic. “I mean. I was just playing? Just enjoying myself.”

  “You don’t exactly write like this is your first, though. Your voice is too mature for that.”

  “I’ve written some short stuff.”

  “I see. How long did this one take you?”

  “About eight months, but I got stalled in the middle, just before the second big plot point. So, more like six.”

  “Well, hon, tell you what—I’ll make some phone calls and test the waters, and then I’ll come over to Seattle so we can all have a long chat and get to know each other better.”

  “Okay. Sounds great.” If his heart beat any harder, it was going to burst.

  “Excellent. What about next Saturday? By then I should have a clearer idea of our options. Do you mind if I show this to some people?”

  “That’s fine. And Saturday sounds great. I’m working weekdays.” Did he sound like an idiot? He’d definitely take a day off if Anthony Rawson’s agent wanted to see him in person. “Anything I should do until then?”

  “Yes. Keep writing. And get me a list of your other projects. Publishers like authors who keep writing.”

  “Okay.” There went his peace of mind. He’d poured the better part of the last three years of his life into the Triple Moon fandom, and nearly everything he’d written besides had stalled out or was so awful it was in no condition to be shown to anybody.

  “Don’t worry too much about it,” Leanne said. “We can focus on this book first, but it’s good to have a medium- to long-term plan. I’ll send you my email address and will be in touch about Saturday.”

  “Great. Looking forward to it.”

  “Excellent. Now could you give me back to that ruggedly handsome male specimen who’s likely trying his level best to overhear our conversation?”

  “Uh. Sure.” He turned to Anthony—who was craning his neck a bit—and held out the phone. “She wants you.”

  Anthony snorted as he took it. “Somehow I doubt that.” To Leanne, he said, “Yes, darling?” They spoke for a moment, which mostly consisted of Anthony giving “uh-huh” and “okay” and “right, I’ll let him know” multiple times until she must’ve finally dismissed him. He hung up and put the phone in his pocket as he met Samir’s eyes. “So. Coffee?”

  I don’t think I will ever need coffee again. “Sure.”

  They went inside, and both looked up at the giant menu handwritten in chalk on a slab of black slate.

  “So, um.” Anthony’s eyes widened as he scanned the millions of options. “Any recommendations?”

  “Depends. You in the mood for something sweet?” Why does that sound dirty? Christ, I’m losing my mind. “Or, um—”

  “Something sweet could be good.” Anthony glanced at him. “What do you like?”

  “The Black Forest cherry hot mocha is really good. Not very strong, caffeine-wise, but it’s good.”

  “Hmm, I’ll have to give that a try. What about the food?” He gestured at the case crammed with every imaginable variety of pastry.

  “I like the crepes. But don’t go for the super sweet ones”—he gestured toward the triple-chocolate crack-laced cupcakes—“if you’re getting the cherry hot mocha. It’ll put you in a sugar coma before you even get to the table.”

  Anthony laughed. “Spoken from experience?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  They ordered their drinks and crepes—Anthony went for the apple cinnamon while Samir got the peanut butter and banana—and found a table in the corner. This was one of those hipster-type shops where all the wannabe poets had their obnoxious poetry slams on Friday and Saturday nights, but at least for now, it was fairly quiet. Samir wasn’t opposed to poetry, but fuck, it was like they deliberately scraped the bottom of the barrel.

  He also met with one of his critique groups here. Not the fun, laidback fanfic group—they met at the local library. Or someone’s garage if anyone felt like having some “totally legal recreational relaxation.” No, he met his pretentious group of Serious Writers™ here. Tawny even wore a goddamned beret. It was ironic bringing Anthony here to discuss publishing his fanfic doorstop. Everyone in that crit group would be so enraged by the idea, so horrified by the knowledge that Samir dabbled in such dark arts, they would become a black hole of arrogance and cause all of Seattle to implode.

  What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or all of Seattle.

  Anthony took a cautious sip of the steaming hot mocha. “Oh, wow. You’re right. This is really good.”

  “Glad you liked it.” Samir smiled, then sipped his own.

  Anthony set his cup on the table. “So did you manage to get any sleep last night?”

  “Eventually.” In spite of my elbow being a little tired. “You?”

  Anthony shrugged. “I fucked off on the forum for an hour or so after we hung up, but I did finally knock out.”

  Samir laughed to himself and shook his head.

  “What?”

  “It’s just weird. Hearing you talk about the forum. I mean, I know you’ve been there forever, but you’re ...” He picked up his mug again. “Let’s just say my world views have shifted a little since yesterday.”

  “It happens. When they invited me to panels with the authors I’d grown up with, the peek backstage meant seeing all the cogs turning. The man behind the curtain, as it were, and that can be pretty sobering. Some were perfectly nice people and some couldn’t hold their liquor and some ended up being homophobes and sexist creeps.” He shrugged. “But, for the most part, it’s still good fun. Best job in the world, if you ask me.” Anthony gave him one of those knee-melting smiles. “What do you do, anyway? I mean specifically?”

  “Uh. I’m a software developer for the same company that conveniently updates your operating system when you’re trying to edit.”

  Anthony snorted. “So I can complain about it to you?”

  “I didn’t write that part.”

  Anthony gave him a playful glare. “Good.”

  “And I’d love to write full-time, but ...”

  “It gets really weird when you go full-time, trust me on that.”

  “I don’t think you ever said what you did before you started writing.”

  “Six years ago, I was still on a military base. There isn’t much to tell—I just worked and wrote short stories and then novels because all my damn short stories turned into novels. And then the first Triple Moon book sold, and here I am.” Anthony’s eyes lost focus. “The Army was my life for twenty years, but now it seems like it was another lifetime altogether. Doesn’t feel like it was six years ago.”

  “I can imagine. Your life must’ve changed pretty dramatically.”

  “It did. It really did.
And every day I’m grateful that it happened. I was ready to move on from active duty, and I don’t think I was bred to be a desk jockey, you know?”

  “God, I know the feeling.”

  “Not happy with your job?”

  Samir sighed and sat back, idly picking at his crepe. “It pays well. I can’t complain there. Not seven figures or anything, but it’s enough to keep me going. I’m just not sure if it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

  Anthony grimaced. “Yeah, I’ve never understood how anyone manages thirty, forty years behind a desk. I think I’d rather make money doing what I love and just buy myself the gold watch instead of waiting for a company to give it to me as a retirement gift.”

  “Assuming you don’t get laid off right before you’re eligible to retire.” Samir cut into the crepe with his fork. “My dad did thirty years at Boeing, then got laid off. Nothing like trying to find a new job in your fifties.”

  “Tell me about it. When I retired, it was tougher than I ever thought it would be. I mean, I was happy, but it was still a transition.”

  “I’m sure. So did you spend any time in the Middle East while you were in?”

  Anthony nodded. “Two Iraq tours and some time in Kuwait. They were all pretty uneventful, though, compared to what they could have been.” He cocked his head a little. “Out of curiosity, where is your family from? I’ve been trying to put my finger on it, but I’m drawing a blank.”

  Samir laughed. “Good luck with that. Everyone tries to guess, but I got some Italian from my mom that throws people off.”

  Anthony snapped his fingers and chuckled. “That makes sense, then.”

  “My dad’s Syrian, though.”

  “I see. Looks like you got the best features from both sides.”

  Samir tensed. It was obviously meant to be a compliment, and he took it as one, but was Anthony flirting? A book deal and Anthony flirting with him? He might be able to fit one of those things into his skull. Both, though? He tried to think of a response. What would SirMarrok do, since he’d be talking to Ulfhedinn and wouldn’t be half-intimidated, half-aroused by sitting across from Anthony Rawson?

  Anthony glanced to the side as if gazing at the menu, and Samir could have kicked himself for not coming up with a SirMarrok–style answer like, You’re not too bad yourself, yo. Bantering with a close friend was one thing. Talking to his idol like that without stumbling over his own teeth was another.

  Anthony faced him again. “So, about Axis Mundi. I have to say, I really like how you made Raphael’s sexuality a lot more ambivalent.”

  Samir nearly choked. Yeah, let’s talk about Raphael’s sexuality. Right now. Awesome. He shifted in his chair. “Do you? I always got kind of a ...” He searched for the right word. “Kind of a ‘not straight’ vibe off him.”

  “Perceptive.” Anthony smiled. “He’s set up as straight and all that, but that’s not how he started out in my mind. Just back in the day, going with a bisexual lead in a thriller series was an absolute no-go area. Leanne said she’d be able to sell it to much bigger houses if I cut all that out, so I gave in and took it out.” His smile got a little wider. “You put it back in though.”

  “Will they make me change it?”

  “I think it’s subtle enough that people looking for it will see it and all the rest will just get the type of alpha male that they like. Let them guess. Considering just how many queer fans there are, I’d say the message will be understood.”

  “I just saw that whole quest for his own identity, and he’s running from his past, and there’s clearly some serious anger issues that he can’t deal with. I thought it wasn’t so much about finding out you’re a werewolf and a lot more about who he is as a person.” Thinking, Samir played with his spoon. “Shit, that makes sense. Considering you were in the Army under DADT.”

  “It’s not really any more autobiographical than any other fiction.” Anthony leaned a little closer and winked. “Or at least that’s what I tell people. I make stuff up. I mean, hey, werewolves don’t exist, right?”

  “Right.” And that wink? Anthony was definitely flirting. Online, that had given him a sexy little tingle. Offline though, he was overwhelmed. Did Anthony flirt because he wanted him? Or because it was just a habit from interacting online? Either way, it was just flirting. Right? Didn’t mean anything would come of it. Samir couldn’t possibly sleep with his idol and one of the hottest men he’d ever met. That would be too weird. Wouldn’t it?

  Sleep with him? Getting a little ahead of myself here.

  “Samir?” There went that head tilt again. “You kinda zoned out on me.”

  “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Just a lot to take in since yesterday.”

  Anthony gave a slow nod. “Yeah. It is. And I’m not gonna lie—there’s going to be a lot more to absorb once we sit down and talk with Leanne.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Samir muttered, and took a bite of his nearly cold crepe.

  Anthony watched him for a moment. “Do you want some more time to take it all in? We can move slower if need be.”

  “Isn’t your publisher chomping at the bit for the next book?”

  “Yeah.” Anthony shrugged. “But I’ve stalled for this long, I can dazzle them with some bullshit to buy you a few weeks. You know, if you need it.”

  “Seems a bit silly to postpone success, doesn’t it?”

  Anthony grinned broadly. “I suppose it does. Sounds like you’re already starting to get your head around things.”

  “Kind of. Some of it has sunk in. Some of it hasn’t.” Like the fact that you’re him. And you’re here. And you’re looking at me like that. Again.

  Anthony cradled his mug between his hands and rested his elbows on either side of the plate, the subtle shift in position narrowing the distance between them. “Which parts haven’t?”

  Funny you should ask.

  Samir held his gaze. “Uh, well, for one, the part where it turns out I was sending explicit slash porn to my favorite author.”

  Anthony laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “Which I guess explains why you never sent me any of your racy stories.” Samir groaned and pressed his elbows against the table as he buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

  “Samir.” A gentle hand squeezed his arm. “Do you think I would’ve kept asking to read them if it bothered me?”

  “Well, no.” Samir lowered his arms, and as Anthony took his hand back, added, “You weren’t, uh, laughing at them, were you?”

  Anthony’s cheeks reddened. “Laughing isn’t the word I’d use.”

  “It’s— Oh. Oh. You weren’t kidding about that part.”

  Good God, if the man’s face got any brighter ... “No. I wasn’t.” Anthony watched his thumb run up and down the handle on his mug. “Honestly, I kind of wanted to put more explicit stuff into the Triple Moon books, but that was pretty much moot once the TV series came around.”

  “Yeah, I guess they didn’t sign up for Fifty Shades of Gray Wolves.”

  Anthony burst out laughing. Samir couldn’t help laughing too, in spite of his weird embarrassed-flirty-uncomfortable-in-heaven feelings.

  “I’m going to have to remember that one.” Anthony wiped his eyes. “Fifty Shades of Gray Wolves. Well played, SirMarrok.”

  Samir chuckled and took a drink. “So, have you written anything like, uh, what I’ve written? Just not published it?”

  “Not much, but yeah, I have a few on my hard drive.”

  Their eyes met.

  Samir couldn’t quite make himself ask for copies.

  Anthony didn’t offer.

  When the silence became unbearable, Samir cleared his throat. “So, Leanne’s really coming to town next weekend?”

  Some tension evaporated from Anthony’s shoulders. “Sounds like it, yeah. I’m not sure if she’ll want to meet us here in Seattle or out in Viking Bay.”

  “Viking Bay would be awesome. I’ve never been there.”

  Anthony st
raightened. “What? Seriously? But you’ve nailed the setting. I mean, Triple Moon is basically Viking Bay with a few names changed to protect the innocent.”

  Samir half shrugged. “I just worked with what you gave me.”

  “Under those circumstances, I’ll have to give you the tour. Can you take some time off? There’s a lot of things in the town and around it I’d like to show you. We could even go out and find the exact location of your portal.”

  Samir’s heart was racing—out in the woods alone with Anthony, actually looking for a place where in the book ... holy shit. “I could take Friday off. Maybe come up Thursday night and leave Sunday?”

  “Great. Make sure you bring some decent hiking boots.” Another wink. Trust Anthony to punctuate an innocent conversation with flirting. Well, nothing was perfectly innocent to a writer’s mind. “If you can do Thursday, I could meet up with you in the evening after the gym.”

  “Sure. I’ll just find a hotel or B&B.”

  “Not necessary. I have more space than I can fill up. There’s guest bedrooms in my house.”

  Oh God. All kinds of possibilities when they were alone. All he knew was that Anthony lived like a recluse. There were no interview shots of him in his house—he was usually photographed outdoors somewhere, playing up his man’s man persona with moss-covered trees or rocks in the background. Or, as Samir had described it, “Anthony plus landscape” shots. He was dying to see how the man lived. Just the thought of being able to browse his bookshelves and see what kind of fiction he’d read and what kind of references he used—talk about mind-blowing. And what kind of desk did he have? Was he neat or a whirlwind of chaos? How would it feel being in Anthony’s space?

  He cleared his throat. “Great. Well, I mean, I can drive over. Just email me your address.”

  Anthony smiled. “Will do. I’m looking forward to this.”

  Samir’s mouth had gone completely dry, but he managed to croak, “Me too.”

  Chapter 5

  “Come on, Anthony,” Ryan barked in his ear. “Two more reps. Two more. Come on!”