Anthony grimaced and forced his tired muscles to obey. The dumbbell in his hand did not want to move, but it finally did, and he completed another curl.
“One more. No breaks. One more.”
Gritting his teeth, Anthony managed the last rep, and then exhaled hard as he set—almost dropped—the dumbbell on the bench.
“Nice job.” Ryan grinned. “Thought you were going to wimp out on me during that set.”
“I never do.” Anthony dabbed at his face with a towel. “Wouldn’t be so hard if you didn’t give me so much weight.”
“Uh-huh. It’s my fault. Right.” Ryan touched his shoulder. “You sure you don’t want to stay tonight? Your arms might be a bit tired for the drive home.”
“I would, but I’ve got company coming into town.” He glanced at the clock on the gym wall. “In fact, I may have to cut out a few minutes early so I make the ferry.”
Ryan nodded, but his shoulders fell a little.
“Sorry,” Anthony said. “But Monday night, I’m all yours.”
Ryan’s face brightened. “I’m holding you to that.” He tapped the dumbbell. “One more set. Go.”
“Bastard,” Anthony muttered, and picked up the weight.
After he’d finished his last set of curls, not to mention blowing through a few more methods of torture that Ryan had likely taken right from a CIA interrogator’s handbook, Anthony took a quick shower, changed clothes, and headed out. He made the next ferry by the skin of his teeth, and threw back a couple of Dramamine so he could catch up on emails.
As he scrolled through his overflowing inbox, SirMarrok’s name caught his eye. And when he saw the subject line, he almost choked on his soda.
RE: You wanted to see these
He’d sent the email three days ago, and neither of them had mentioned anything about it since. All day today, he’d been so excited about Samir coming to Viking Bay, he’d all but forgotten about what he’d sent.
Or the attached files.
Or the brief message he’d written: In case you didn’t believe me, here’s the slash I wrote. Enjoy.
He swallowed hard and opened Samir’s message, fully expecting a last minute “Maybe I’ll just come over when Leanne gets into town.”
He didn’t expect: Holy fuck. I thought mine were dirty. I didn’t even think Dima Sobakin was that flexible.
Anthony laughed nervously and wrote back, You’d be amazed how acrobatic these boys are in my head.
He was tempted to ask if they were still on for this evening, but since Samir hadn’t explicitly stated he was bailing or he’d be late, Anthony assumed he was on his way. And he must’ve been—this time of night, he was usually goofing off on the forum, but when Anthony signed in, there were no recent posts from him.
Well, none except the one from a few hours ago.
SirMarrok AFK until Mon.
Holy shit. He was really coming over to Viking Bay. To Anthony’s house. And he wasn’t weirded out by the smut. Well, that had been the idea, of course. Since Samir had been horribly embarrassed by the fact that Anthony had read his slash fic, it seemed only fair to level the playing field. You showed me yours, I’ll show you mine, and then we can have an incredibly awkward weekend together while I try not to accidentally blurt out the fact that my mattress is more comfortable than any of the guest beds.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. He wasn’t that awkward with men. Maybe not as smooth as someone like Ryan, who could flirt his way into pretty much any pair of pants he wanted, but he held his own. Most of the time. When it wasn’t a guy who wrote erotica based on characters Anthony knew better than he knew himself, pushing buttons Anthony didn’t know he had.
Samir was a literary genius and one hell of a twisted pervert.
In other words, Anthony’s catnip.
He answered a couple of emails from Chas, who’d asked him about some PA-related stuff: con bookings, whether he wanted to go out for dinner with this or that crowd at the next Comic-Con, and whether he was willing to sign five hundred copies of the next hardcover. Considering the manuscript wasn’t even finished, the last request did strike Anthony as somewhat premature, but he agreed to do it as long as he got two weeks. Not one day, like last time, at the end of which Anthony’s signature had morphed from his full name to something barely resembling his first initial.
The ferry reached Port Angeles, and he managed to go with the flow and disembark without being That Guy again, although he was half-distracted worrying which of the stories Samir liked best. He had a couple of personal favorites, but they were all hot and explicit and unfiltered—a few were the result of a bottle of Scotch and his internet being down so he couldn’t access his porn site account. As if he hadn’t fantasized about those characters ever since they’d shown up in his head demanding his attention.
Asking Samir about the stories, though? The kid was already flustered by discussing this stuff. If he asked him right away, Samir might just decide Anthony was an old pervert trying to turn him on. He might run for the hills, at which point Leanne would skin Anthony alive and rub him with salt.
When he finally got home, it was already completely dark, but the timer on the lights upstairs and in the kitchen made the main house look inhabited. It was one of those quirks—much as he liked sitting in his dark office looking at the moon, he really didn’t like coming home to an empty dark house after he’d been around people.
Living this far outside town meant he owned some actual land and few people ever made the trek to his front door. Most never ventured past the gates and the NO TRESPASSING sign. From there, they couldn’t even see the house. That fact had circulated through the fan community, and now they mostly didn’t bother stalking him at home, trying instead to catch him in Viking Bay proper. Where there were actors to watch and sets to find, not to mention merchandise shops, so visitors got their money’s worth without catching a glimpse of Anthony in a bathrobe cooking eggs in his kitchen. He really wasn’t that interesting.
He dropped his keys in the kitchen and checked Samir’s guest room. It was across the hall from his own—with plenty of corridor between them, but still kind of close compared to the distances possible in the house. The bed was made, towels in the bathroom were nice and fluffy. Chas had told him the housekeeper had taken care of it, but Anthony was trying to kill an hour or so until Samir arrived.
Down in the living room, everything was in place too. The large panorama windows opened up to the dark forest, and a few lights out there turned the darkness into gloom and extended the vision into the actual trees. Easy to imagine a giant wolf/man beast lumbering through the woods, watching.
Anthony grinned to himself and started the fireplace. Just in case they ended up in here at some point tonight.
Light from outside flickered across the mantle, and when he turned around, he saw a pair of headlights coming up the driveway. His heart jumped—he’d been itching for Samir to get here, but now that he’d arrived, a mix of nerves and sheer panic made him shiver. Was this going to be weird? Had Samir read between the lines of Anthony sending him the slash fic, and maybe seen it as a not-so-subtle “I’d love to do this to you” rather than just “hey, don’t be embarrassed, you’re not the only one who’s written this stuff”? Because Anthony would’ve been hard-pressed to deny that interpretation. Especially since his cheeks were prone to calling bullshit on any attempts he made to weasel out of awkward moments of his own creation.
Outside, a car door slammed. Anthony closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d be fine. This wouldn’t be awkward. Not awkward at all. Fuck.
Thanks to the house’s acoustics, he could hear Samir’s sneakers on the gravel, and then on the concrete, and then coming up the front steps, and holy crap he so hadn’t thought this through.
Too late now.
He opened the door, and in an instant, their eyes met under the porch light. Samir stood on the Welcome to Triple Moon mat, hands in his jacket pockets and his dark eyes
sparkling in the shadow of a Seahawks cap.
Anthony cleared his throat. “Uh, hey.”
Samir smiled. “Hey.”
“Come on in.” Anthony stepped aside, gesturing for him to go ahead.
And with that, SirMarrok was in his house. Anthony gulped as he closed the door, and when he turned, Samir was shrugging off his jacket. Good Lord. The guy was lean and narrow, but that snug T-shirt hinted at a lovely pair of shoulders underneath. He could already hear Ryan quietly scrutinizing him:
“Look at those arms. He obviously works out.” And then the whispered, “Bet you anything he’s two sets of crunches away from a six-pack.”
Anthony shivered hard. Let’s get that shirt off and find out, shall we?
He cleared his throat again. “Can I, um, take that for you?”
Samir turned around and handed him the jacket. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Shoes on? Shoes off?”
Anthony waved a hand. “However you’re comfortable. Do you have a bag or anything?”
“Crap.” Samir laughed. “I left it in the car. Space cadet moment, I guess.”
I’ve had a few of those recently.
“It’s okay. Might rain later tonight, though, so I’d grab it now.”
“Good idea. I’ll be right back.”
Samir slipped outside, and Anthony took advantage of the momentary break to gather what was left of his wits. He’d had attractive men in his house plenty of times without losing his mind. Granted, he’d fucked most of those men and sent them on their way. For that matter, none of them had read about his fantasy of Dima tying Raphael up and blowing him in the interrogation room. So, okay, maybe this whole arrangement was a bit unprecedented, but—
“You’re right, I think it is going to rain.”
Anthony jumped as Samir stepped back inside. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Smells like it’s about to.” He tapped the backpack strap on his shoulder. “Where should I put this?”
“Upstairs.” Anthony gestured at the staircase. “I’ll show you to the guest room.”
At the top of the sweeping staircase was one of Anthony’s favorite parts of the house: the corridor led past a very large window that lent the place something of an ecclesiastical air. The house was beautifully incongruous, while presenting an old-fashioned English manor facade to the world. Part late-eighteenth-century style, part mountain lodge, it combined a number of atmospheres that he liked.
“So here’s the guest room. There’s a bathroom over on the other side, a closet if you need one ...”
“It’s a bit late for me in that department.”
Uh. About that ...
Anthony laughed. “I mostly use them to store the bodies of trespassers, but that one’s empty.” At Samir’s guffaw, he added, “There is that story of me allegedly chasing away a guy with a shotgun.”
“Is it true?”
“Do I look like I’d threaten a fan?” Anthony gave his best impression of innocence.
“Not buying it, Rawson.”
“Okay, fine. But no, that story isn’t true. I just call the cops if someone gets past the gate.”
“So all the stories of you getting pissed off, those aren’t true? Or are they just from the early years?” Samir’s eyebrow arched. “There hasn’t been a story like that in the press since I joined your minions, but there were a few before then.”
“Oh, I’d get mad and send people off, but never with a gun.” He shrugged. “And then I bought a house out in the ass-end of nowhere, deep in some dark forest that may or may not be infested with werewolves, and haven’t had to tell anyone to get off my lawn since.”
Samir laughed. “I could actually see you doing that. Shaking your cane and everything.”
“Hey!” Anthony rolled his eyes. “Well, some fans—I mean the crazy ones who actually believe it’s all real and I channeled the whole thing directly from Jesus and Krishna—can be really suggestible, and none of them ever lasted the night outside. The forest can be pretty damn creepy.” He looked around, checking mentally what else Samir needed—apart from getting his lips bruised in a long kiss and a blowjob. Ahem.
“Anyway. The room is yours for the weekend. There’s Wi-Fi all over the house. Password is W0lfhunt, capital ‘W,’ zero instead of ‘O.’ There’s only my system showing up anyway, so feel free.”
“I don’t think I’ll be writing for a while, but good to know so I can check my email.”
Anthony cocked his head. “Not writing?”
Samir shrugged. “I haven’t been able to even look at a word processor since I talked to Leanne.”
“Nerves?”
“Nerves, excitement, just kind of freaking out on every possible level.”
“Understandable.” Anthony grimaced. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Samir smiled. “There are worse things to be freaking out over.”
“True.” The silence threatened to move in and stay put, so Anthony gestured at the chair beside the dresser. “If you want to leave your bag up here, you’re welcome to settle in or come downstairs for a drink or something.”
“That would be nice.” Samir dropped the bag off his arm, grunting softly as if he’d just been relieved of a tremendous weight—Jesus, kid, what did you bring?—before he set it on the chair. “I was about to road rage the hell out of a few people on the way here, so I’m definitely game for a drink.”
Anthony laughed. “A strong one, then?”
“Just something of the adult variety. But don’t tell my dad.”
As they headed back out into the hallway, Anthony asked, “He doesn’t approve of drinking?”
“We’re Muslim.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t realize— Anyway. You drink, though?”
“On occasion.”
“Like when you feel like road raging someone?”
“Precisely. Or when I know my dad won’t suddenly drop by.”
“Smart man.” Anthony led him downstairs and into the massive kitchen. “You prefer any particular poison? I’ve got just about everything.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Anthony eyed him. “For all you know, I’m having Jäger bombs chased by tequila shots.”
Samir flashed him a toothy grin. “In that case, I guess I’m having Jäger bombs chased by tequila shots.”
For a second, it was actually tempting. Nothing like some Cuervo and Jäger to send a few inhibitions packing. Then again, nothing killed the mood quite like one or both parties needing to worship the porcelain god at an inopportune moment.
He gestured at the door to the wine cellar. “How about a bottle of red?”
“Followed by tequila shots?”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Yes. Of course. Followed by tequila shots.” As he headed for the door, he muttered, “Kids these days.”
“I heard that, old man.”
“Ha-ha. Be careful, or I’m going to card you before I pour your wine.”
“Have at it. I’m legal.”
Anthony stopped with his hand on the door, and glanced over his shoulder. If the look in Samir’s eyes was any indication, the double meaning was not accidental. Anthony coughed and pulled open the cellar door. “Back in a second.”
Thank God the cellar was good and cool. As he searched for just the right bottle—bullshit, Rawson, you’re stalling—he reminded himself that Samir was here to see Viking Bay and Leanne. Not to flirt his way into Anthony’s bed. Though if he wanted to, Anthony could totally—
Wine. Get the fucking wine.
With a bottle of red under his arm, he returned to the kitchen. Samir had parked himself on a barstool at the kitchen island, his ball cap sitting on the stainless steel countertop and his arms folded on the edge just right to make those narrow but solid shoulders stand out.
The kid smirked. “You’re going to do a proper wine presentation, right? Let me smell the cork and all that nonsense?”
Antho
ny set the bottle on the counter. “That depends. Would you know what you were smelling and what it meant?”
“Uh, no. I can handle that with a carton of milk, but I’m wine illiterate.” He nodded toward the cellar door. “You must be a bit of a connoisseur.”
“Not really.” Anthony dug around in a drawer for a corkscrew. “I just like a good bottle of wine, and the house came with a wine cellar. Might as well use it.”
“Came with it? I thought you built the place.”
“Yes and no.” Anthony gestured at their surroundings with the corkscrew he’d finally found. “I bought it, and then expanded the hell out of it until it was exactly what I wanted. The contractor thought I should just knock the whole thing over and start from scratch, but it had some features I liked.”
“Like the wine cellar?”
“Like the wine cellar. It’s got an amazing game room too. Billiards table, the whole nine yards.” He rolled his eyes. “One of these days I will get around to ripping out that horrible fucking carpet.”
Samir laughed. “I thought you had a PA who could take care of stuff like that.”
“The big thing about the carpet is that I can’t decide what I want there instead. Once I know, doing it is not the problem. But houses are slow things. All very deliberate.”
“Like a manuscript?”
Anthony paused—momentarily stunned by the bright-eyed, quick-witted guy he’d somehow managed to lure into his house. “Like a manuscript, I guess. A big doorstopper novel.”
“In the 250K range?”
Anthony grinned. “You did that in six months. While working.” That eye contact was getting strangely intense, and Anthony cleared his throat and concentrated on getting the cork out, then poured the wine. “You could let it breathe for a while, but it’s drinkable.” He set the bottle down and lifted his glass. “To multiverse portals saving my ass and keeping Triple Moon from dying.”
Samir lifted his glass, and kept his gaze down as he said, “Would have been a damn shame too.”
Anthony just smiled because he really didn’t know a good response that wasn’t, Want to have a good look at the ass you’ve saved? He sipped the wine, and then cleared his throat. “But to answer your question, yes. Houses and manuscripts are a lot alike. Some chapters”—he gestured around the kitchen—“come together more easily than others. If you want, I can show you the other chapters ... okay, rooms. Just so you don’t get lost while you’re here.”
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