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Samir was used to getting up early, so he left Anthony to sleep in while he showered and brewed himself a swimming pool–sized mug of coffee. It took Anthony a solid thirty minutes to roll out of bed—and by the time he’d shuffled into the library, Samir was already curled up in an armchair and working his way through the pages.
Over the rim of his own coffee cup, Anthony grumbled, “You are way too busy for this early in the morning.”
Samir smiled. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can send it back and forget about it.” He paused, shifting in the chair. “You, uh, don’t mind me taking over your library, do you?”
“You’re not ...” Anthony glanced around, and seemed to bristle a little. Then he cleared his throat. “No, you’re fine. How much have you done?”
“The pile over there—” Samir pointed at a neat stack on the table beside him “—that’s the edited chapters up to and including four.”
“That’s quite a bit of text.”
“You’re telling me.” Samir took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a lot.”
“It is. I think we’ll end up with two books that are roughly in line with the lengths in the second half of the series so far.”
Samir put his glasses back on and looked up. “Why did they get longer?”
“My editors stopped bitching about how I should stay below a hundred thousand.” Anthony took a seat on the armchair next to Samir’s. “I was originally looking at the fast-paced thriller type of book than a sprawling paranormal. And then the publishers started pushing for bigger books to justify price increases. Luckily, I’m quite flexible in terms of how many subplots I have running. But nothing like being told, ‘Oh, add two more subplots and you have till the end of the month, because somebody lost track of the project and now we’re getting too close to the date for the ARCs.’” Anthony clutched his coffee and looked over all the neatly organized piles of printouts and handwritten notes. “So, yeah, writing the damn thing isn’t even most of the work.”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah, well. I found a trick with this editor that works quite well to keep him off my case. I make it all as perfect as I can, put in a really obvious and serious mistake—like starting with the wrong chapter. He of course finds the problem, I resist a bit, for show, but then I yield. He’s happy, I’m happy because he doesn’t fuck with the things that are important to me, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”
“What do you mean, start with the wrong chapter?”
“Well, he has this thing about what he wants the first chapter to accomplish, and that usually meant a bloodbath in edits. Now I give him a first chapter he can slice and dice, and I sneak all the other stuff past him without any trouble.” Anthony tapped his temple. “Psychological warfare. What does the editor want to accomplish? Some of them just want to see their paw prints all over the manuscript. It’s an ego thing. Those types are often failed writers. If I give them something they can feel is a major improvement, they won’t go out of their ways looking for places to print their paws.”
Samir shook his head, but as sick as he felt about having to make such major changes to Axis Mundi, he still grinned at Anthony’s devious little smile that accompanied those words. “Why do I get the feeling you enjoy these games?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure you don’t.”
Anthony chuckled and kissed Samir’s forehead. “All right, so what do we need to do next?”
“Well, you’re deeper into integrating the stories than I am, so why don’t you continue with that, and I’ll go over what you’ve finished?” He gestured at the pages of work Anthony had already done.
“Good idea. First ...” Anthony held up his coffee cup. “Refueling.”
Samir looked into his own mug. “Hmm, I could stand a little more myself.”
“I’ll get it.” Anthony kissed his cheek. “You stay here and keep slaving away.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Anthony rolled his eyes and laughed.
With freshly topped-off coffee cups, they settled in to work. Usually, Samir wasn’t a fan of writing or editing with someone else in the room—having a roommate in college had driven him out of his mind—but it was surprisingly pleasant with Anthony. They both disappeared into their own worlds, focused on printed pages and word processing screens. Pens scratched on paper, fingers clicked on keys, pages brushed pages, itches were scratched, positions were changed—and somehow, they both stayed completely relaxed.
Ever mindful of Anthony’s territorial side, Samir carefully kept his “footprint” to a minimum. The fan of pages and scatter of pens were always corralled. He never let his toothbrush or razor stray far from his travel bag, and he varied his coffee cups so he didn’t risk establishing one as his. It didn’t bother him much—he was pretty guarded with his own condo, and got annoyed if someone adjusted a seat or a vent in his car. Must be a writer thing. Either way, he enjoyed being in Anthony’s house, and was happy to toe the line.
Every once in a while, one would get up to stretch or get a cup of coffee, and they’d both shake themselves out of that trance long enough to exchange a few words before slipping back into work mode.
Before Samir knew it, his stomach was grumbling, signaling that coffee was not enough to keep him in optimum condition.
Anthony leaned back in his chair, stretching his neck and rubbing his eyes. “Okay, I need to eat something before I start chewing on the furniture.”
Samir laughed. “I think I’d pay to see that.”
Anthony threw him a playful glare as he set his chunk of the manuscript aside. “What do you say we go into town and grab some food?”
“I am one hundred percent on board with that.” Samir neatly stacked the papers he’d been working on, set his pen on top, and stood. “Holy crap, I’ve been sitting too long without moving.”
“I know the feeling.” Anthony groaned. “I am getting way too old for this shit.”
“I am not touching that.”
“Good. See that you don’t.” Another glare, and then Anthony wrapped his arm around Samir’s waist. “You seem to be holding up all right.”
“Of course I am. I’m not as old as you are.”
“Fuck you,” Anthony muttered.
Samir snickered and kissed him. Then they went downstairs, and Anthony grabbed his car keys.
On the way up the driveway—when the fuck had it gotten dark?—Samir stretched some more stiffness out of his joints. “So is this what editing and deadlines are like? Balls to the wall until you forget to eat?”
“Pretty much. Sometimes it’s not so bad, but ...” Anthony shrugged. He rested a hand on top of the wheel and put the other on Samir’s leg. “It still beats the fuck out of a nine-to-five as far as I’m concerned.”
Samir pursed his lips. Though he worried about the rug being pulled out from under him, he couldn’t help getting into this whole full-time writing arrangement. There was a certain attraction to lounging around while he was working. No listening to other people arguing on the phone. No wondering what the fuck had died in the company cafeteria and why on earth they’d deep-fried it. No meetings. No fucking meetings.
More and more, the idea of walking out of that office with his middle fingers held high appealed to him. The multimillion-dollar paycheck certainly cushioned the whole thing in his mind. But maybe he’d wait until the check had actually cleared before he flounced out of work. In fact, he’d wait until he had the titles for his condo and car, not to mention the statements with “zero dollars owed” for everything else. God forbid the whole thing went up in smoke and he had no money. He wasn’t sure how an oral surgeon repoed wisdom teeth, but he doubted it was pleasant.
Anthony drove out toward Viking Bay, the sun just vanishing behind the horizon as they were swallowed up by the forest. Samir remembered how the forest had seemed mysterious, even a bit threatening, but now it seemed to be sheltering the house with the two books inside. Their shared secret and treasure. Their shared ... space. Samir was careful about not using too much of that space, but Anthony hadn’t seemed nearly as territorial as he’d described.
All of this was beginning to feel like an adventure, or maybe like a new relationship, where you were endlessly fascinated and interested in every tiny detail. Since, well, it was a new relationship of sorts. A personal and professional one.
And on the professional side, he couldn’t have asked for anything better. They fed off each other. Energized each other. It was like in those NaNoWriMo writing meetings in coffee shops, where everybody was typing away and the process got turbocharged by the proximity of another writer. Usually that kind of atmosphere drove Samir insane, but with Anthony, it worked.
And Anthony was an editing machine who’d thought it all through multiple times and seemed to have five workable solutions to just about any problem the books threw at them. Samir hated editing and had never really had to make any deep or drastic edits on anything more complex than a short story. But Anthony made it look easy, or maybe not easy easy, but doable and perfectly reasonable to accomplish.
“What about pizza?” Anthony’s voice startled him.
“Bastard. Way to throw me out of admiring you.”
Shooting him a puzzled look, Anthony said, “What?”
“I was just thinking how easy you make editing look.”
“If I don’t do it, the editor will, and that hurts worse. Better get it out of the way. So what about that pizza?”
“I’m in.”
Anthony pulled up outside a pizzeria called Third Circle Pizzeria, which was right next to a slightly more upscale Italian restaurant called Modugno’s. Both places seemed to coexist somewhat uneasily with each other—no tablecloths in one, and maybe four tables with two chairs each, while the other had red-and-white checkered cloths and a full set of wineglasses on each table.
Anthony pushed through the doors of Third Circle Pizzeria, and Samir followed.
The cook was just sliding two pizzas into the oven and closed it, while the delivery driver leaned against the counter. After closing the oven, the cook wiped his hands on his apron as he turned toward Anthony and Samir. His brow darkened a bit. “Yes?”
Anthony picked up a menu leaflet from the counter and tried to hand it to Samir—who stood there, shocked. The cook was Native American, which was not surprising in this area. What was surprising was that he was the spitting image of Justin Strong, the main werewolf and extremely uneasy ally of Raphael’s.
The cook eyed him back.
Samir cleared his throat and looked at the menu in Anthony’s hand. “So, um, what’s good?”
“I’ve never eaten anything here that wasn’t good, to be honest.” He glanced at the cook, then grinned at Samir. “You want to see something funny?” He gestured at the cook. “Order a vegan supreme on a gluten-free crust with—”
“Anthony, you know I can refuse service to anyone, right?” Though the man’s expression didn’t change, there was the slightest playful sparkle in his eye.
Samir raised his eyebrows. “I’d ask who the fuck would put something like that in their mouth, but I’ve lived in Seattle too long.”
The cook threw his head back and laughed. “The only idiots worse than the Seattle yuppies are the LA ones. And they are everywhere.”
“Because of the show?” Samir wrinkled his nose.
The cook gestured at Anthony. “All thanks to this one.”
Samir tensed, terrified Anthony was going to let him in on their little secret, but Anthony just smirked and said, “Yeah, but you’re getting business, so you’re welcome.”
The cook rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything.
They eventually settled on splitting a margarita with extra mozzarella, and found a table near the back, far from the windows.
Samir took a drink from his soda. “Okay, I have to know something.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you come up with Justin Strong while you were, I don’t know, eating pizza?”
Anthony sat back. “I beg ... What?”
“The cook. He’s exactly how I pictured Justin Strong.”
Anthony’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit. You’re literally the first person I’ve known who’s made that connection.”
“So I’m right?”
“Right on the money.” Anthony glanced toward the front of the restaurant. “I’d been kind of shying away from using Native American characters because I thought I would catch hell for stereotypes or appropriation, but you really can’t write about this region without including some Native Americans. You just can’t. And when I saw him, and went back to my notes about Justin ...” He shrugged. “He was perfect.”
“I can see that. And he’s such a fucking cool character.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you killed him?”
Samir almost choked on his soda. “Uh. Sorry.”
“Well, to be fair, it did fit the scene. And he’s not technically dead. But damn, I was looking forward to playing with him some more.”
“It isn’t canon until the book is actually published. We could—”
“No, no. I think it should stay as is. To tell you the truth, I was going to kill him sooner or later anyway.”
“Oh, there’s a shock.” Samir rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. “With as many as you killed off in book five, I started wondering if I was reading Game of Thrones With Wolves. Or really With More Wolves.”
Anthony laughed. “I only killed, what, six people? It wasn’t that bad.”
Movement caught Samir’s eye, and he turned to see a middle-aged couple carrying drinks. They’d both stopped midstep, staring at Samir and Anthony.
“Six characters.” Anthony cleared his throat. “In the book.”
They still peered at him warily, and then backtracked to another table closer to the front of the restaurant. Probably closer to the nearest exit.
“Anthony Rawson, terror of civilians everywhere,” Anthony muttered to himself, and Samir chuckled.
Just then, the Justin Strong lookalike showed up with their drinks and pizza. Apparently the usual waiter niceties didn’t apply in this place—no “would you like anything else,” no extras or frills, and even the paper napkins and cutlery were more of an afterthought; as far as the cook was concerned, his only job was to provide food and leave them alone.
The pizza, however, was pretty damn good—simple, hot, great crust, but not dry. It took two bites for Samir to register just how hungry he was, and for a few minutes, they both fell silent and concentrated on eating. Anthony was probably still mentally in the book, and Samir found himself prodding at some issues he wanted to resolve before he could tackle the big changes tomorrow. The schedule was still merciless—editing and completely restructuring two books and blending them together in a week? Crazy.
“I could take a week’s vacation.”
Anthony looked up from the last few slices. “I can do this. The only thing you really need to do is read the changed manuscript.”
“Yeah, but if I’m going to quit anyway, I might as well use my vacation time for doing the job that gets me out of there.”
“True.” Anthony nodded. “Another urgent thing to do is get an accountant.”
“For?”
“Taxes. I know too many authors who were making money, underestimated how much the IRS wanted of the pie, and ended up in trouble. An accountant helps you not go broke right after you got rich. Happens all the time.”
“Mostly I’m just going to pay off my debt and the condo and the car.”
“And what are you doing with the other millions?” Anthony grinned. “I can always hook you up with my investment adviser and my accountant, unless you can find somebody local. But if you’re going to stop working, you’ll have to think about retirement and income even if the pickings are slim or your career ends in the next couple of years. There are no guarantees in this business, and I tend to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Plan like this is the last money you’ll ever make off writing, then everything else is just a bonus.”
“The life of an author is a lot more complex than I thought. I was thinking more lounging on beaches and having cocktails.”
“We do that after the book’s done.” Anthony finished his drink and waited while Samir finished his. “And with that, back to work.”
“Slave driver.” Samir didn’t get up yet, though. “So, um, before we go back ...”
“Hmm?”
Samir tapped his thumb on the table. “You’re really okay with me being in your hair like this?” He gestured out at the street, as if that somehow indicated Anthony’s house way back in the hills. “Having me at your place, day and night?”
Anthony shrugged. “We don’t have much choice at this point.”
“That isn’t exactly a yes.”
“No, but ...” Anthony sighed, then folded his hands on the table a few inches from Samir’s. “Look, I’ve been in close quarters with people during combat ops. You don’t really think about space and elbow room at that point, you know?”
Samir cocked his head. He wanted to reach for Anthony’s hands, but held back, suddenly afraid Anthony might recoil. “Is that what this is? A combat op?”
“Well, with fewer explosions.” They both laughed, and then Anthony took Samir’s hand, sending a ripple of relief through him. Combat op or not, we can still touch.
Holding Samir’s gaze, Anthony continued, “We’ve got a book to finish, and we’re doing that on top of getting into the groove of whatever this is. We’ll figure everything out as we go, but I’ll tell you right now that I don’t want to change anything. I like having you there.”
Samir studied him. “For editing? Or ...?”
Anthony brought Samir’s hand up and kissed the backs of his fingers. “What do you think?”
Samir hesitated, but then smiled. Maybe he was overthinking this whole “space” thing. He knew damn well what it was like to have someone encroach, and how exhausting it was. It occurred to him then that if Anthony felt even a little bit suffocated, they probably wouldn’t have been going through crates of condoms and gallons of lube. Especially as tired as they already were from working—if Anthony still felt compelled to make out and touch and fuck and fall asleep in each other’s arms, then yeah, Samir was worrying about nothing.
He squeezed Anthony’s hand. “So. Back to work?”
“Back to work.” Anthony groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. “No rest for the writers.”
“I thought it was ‘No rest for the weary’?”
“Same thing.”
“You’re really selling this whole full-time writing gig, you know that?”
“Oh, it’s not that bad.” On the way out to the car, Anthony held the door for Samir. “It’s not always this crazy though. I promise.”
“Thank God for that.” Samir slid his hands into his pockets. “So, the con ...”
“Mm-hmm?” Anthony glanced at him as he took out his keys.
“What’s that like for you? I mean, I’ve gone as a fan, and that can get pretty wild. But you’re one of the big features. That has to be ...”
“In some ways, it’s as crazy as you’re imagining it.” Anthony unlocked the car, and they both got in. “In other ways, it’s not. We’ll get a schedule that’ll tell us where we need to be and when, and in between, we can either disappear to our room or—”
“Our room?”
Anthony glanced at him. “Uh, well, I figured we ...”
“I was hoping we would.” Samir winked, chuckling when Anthony blushed.
“Good. Good. Though they might have us rooming separately. Since Leanne’s the only one who knows about ...”
“But the hotel’s been booked solid for months. Where would they put me? In the parking garage?”
Anthony laughed, patting Samir’s leg. “The hotel is sold out to regular attendees. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they always make room for someone with VIP status.” He shook his head as he put the car in reverse. “And I still can’t believe I get VIP status at these things.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
On the way back to Anthony’s, Samir stared out the window. This was definitely getting surreal. Something about rooming together at a convention where they’d also be announced—in front of thousands of fans—as working together was just ...
And to think I was panicking about the idea of leaving a toothbrush at his place.
He stole a few surreptitious glances at Anthony. How would this work out?
Don’t question it. Just breathe and hope for the best.
Because they both had a lot of work to do.
***
If Samir had had any lingering doubts that his entire world had changed over the last couple of weeks, they all evaporated when he walked into MoonCon.
Not that he had many doubts left. That express-mailed cashier’s check with an eye-watering number of zeros had blown his mind. When those zeros showed up on his available bank balance, he actually sat down and cried, laughed, cried, and laughed again because his financial worries were over. He still didn’t know which moment had been cooler—when he’d walked into the bank and paid off his mortgage, or when he’d marched into his boss’s office with his two weeks’ notice. Okay, so he could’ve just walked off the job, but the paranoid side of him still believed things could change overnight and he might need a real job again. Best not to burn bridges. That, and the civil, professional departure had been well worth it if only for the look on his boss’s face when Samir casually informed him of why he was quitting.
But there’d still been an element of disbelief. A feeling he was in a bubble that was one phone call away from bursting. He had the money. He had the finished books that he and Anthony had slaved over for eight days—so they’d handed it in one day late; Leanne would get over it. And then the second round of edits had come in, and the two of them had busted their balls to finish it with just hours to spare before they’d had to pack and get on a plane. Oh yes, those were some real edits, some real frantic phone calls from real publishing people, and some real panic right there at the end when he and Anthony hadn’t been sure they’d pull it off.
But the whole situation still wasn’t quite real.
Not until Samir walked into MoonCon.
The place was absolutely empty except for some workers who were putting up banners and setting up tables. He and Anthony had arrived last night and settled into their hotel room, and now they were strolling through the deserted convention hall on their way to find coffee. In three hours, the doors would open, and this place would be filled to the gills with fans in costumes and Triple Moon T-shirts, all wide eyes and excitement as they waited in line to get merchandise, autographs, panel tickets, or even just a glimpse of one of the stars walking by.
But not yet.
The coffee shop was nearly empty too, but the dozen workers behind the counter were testimony to how much traffic they expected soon enough. For the moment, there were only three people in line.
Chip Schwartz.
Lyle Phelan.
And Frankie Murray.
Two stars of the show, plus the director-slash-executive producer, dressed down and bleary-eyed, waiting for their coffee with VIP badges hanging around their necks. Just like the one Samir had around his neck.
It was real. He was one of them. He was part of Triple Moon.
Lyle was just giving the order when he turned around and looked at Anthony next to Samir. “Jesus, necromancy is real. Anthony Rawson up before ten.”
“Heresy,” muttered Anthony. In his defense, he and Samir had been up until about two, but mostly because the hotel beds were really nice and Samir was too excited to sleep. “The things I do for my fans.” He introduced Samir to the others and added after their names, “I’m not sure how they slipped past their handlers and got out without supervision.”
Frankie shrugged. “We locked them in Lyle and Chip’s room, but don’t tell.”
“That one douche bag is lucky I didn’t drown him in the bathtub,” Chip said.
Lyle laughed. Then he took the first coffee and handed it to Frankie. “What can I get you two?”
“I’ll have an IV,” Anthony said. “Samir?”
Samir nearly swallowed his tongue. “Uh. Cappuccino.”
Lyle nodded and waved them off. “I got this. Get a table.”
Frankie took her drink and settled at one of the tables in the lobby, followed by Anthony and Samir.
“So, how are you doing?” Frankie asked Anthony. “Excited about the next season?”
Anthony leaned forward on his elbows. “Doing great. And I saw the new episodes. Really good job.”
She smiled and sipped from her paper cup, then looked right at Samir, and back at Anthony. Just as she was opening her mouth, Lyle and Chip appeared with more coffees and distributed them around the table.
“She wouldn’t add more shots in yours without seeing a clean bill of health,” Lyle said as he put Anthony’s very large cup in front of him.
“Just bribe ’em—it’s what I do.” Anthony clutched his cup and pulled it closer.
Frankie smiled and then focused again on Samir. “What are you doing hanging around this grumpy old man?”
“He’s my cowriter.” Anthony put the cup down. “Which they’ll announce today.”
Frankie blinked. “Now there’s a shock. Same guy who goes ballistic over changes to the book hands over some of the control?”
“More kinetic than ballistic. You just have to push back at times when they try to mess with you.” Anthony shrugged. “Also, I trust Samir. He gets the characters.”
Samir couldn’t help grinning—it didn’t matter how accustomed he’d grown to working with Anthony, this was still Anthony freaking Rawson talking him up to ... them.
“Actual cowriter or ghostwriter?” asked Chip.
“Full credits. He got me out of a rut with the damn eighth and ninth books, so he deserves all of it. Apart from the fame. I wouldn’t inflict that on my ex-mother-in-law.”
“From the stories you’ve told,” Frankie said into her coffee cup, “I could think of a few things I’d inflict on that woman.”
Anthony grumbled something unintelligible, and took another long swallow of coffee.
Frankie laughed. “So what’s this I hear: I have to make some casting changes for one of the upcoming seasons?”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like Justin Strong will be around forever.”
Chip perked up. “Really?”
Lyle sat up a bit too, eyes wide. “Say it’s so.”
Anthony chuckled, resting his arm on Samir’s chair back. “It is so.”
“Oh, thank God.” Chip raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “I don’t like to speak ill of my cast mates, but ...”
“What are you talking about?” Lyle snorted. “You speak ill of me all the time.”
“And it usually relates to the horrible music you subject me to on the way to the set.” Chip shrugged. “Totally justified.”
“Whatever.” Lyle glanced at Samir, and took a breath like he was about to speak, but then his gaze shifted to Anthony’s arm. His eyebrow flicked upward slightly, and he met Samir’s eyes.
All at the same time, Lyle shifted his attention to his coffee, Anthony not-so-casually withdrew his arm, and Samir reached for his own drink.
“Anyway.” Anthony cleared his throat. “The arc I had for the story meant Justin would have a bigger role before I finally killed him. Samir’s meant, well, that Justin was in the wrong place at the wrong time and— Okay, we might have to adjust it per my editor, but in the current draft, he was ripped to pieces when a giant portal opened.”
Chip laughed aloud. “Oh my fucking God.” He held out his hand to Samir. “You’re my hero, man. Seriously.”
Samir shook his hand over the table, disbelief settling back in as he realized Chip Schwartz had just called him his hero over a change to Triple Moon.
Frankie looked at her watch. “Crap. I need to go return a couple of phone calls before—”
“Phone calls?” Anthony gaped at her. “At this hour? You’re going to wake people up!”
“They’re on the East Coast. Chill.” She stood, taking her coffee with her. “It was nice meeting you, Samir. We probably won’t have a chance to talk much at the con, but when we’re all back in Viking Bay, I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other.”
Samir smiled. “Looking forward to it.”
After Frankie had gone, the four of them drank their coffees in silence. Lyle draped his arm around the back of Chip’s chair, and though Anthony didn’t do the same to Samir, he did brush their knees together beneath the table.
“So are you ready for all of this?” Lyle asked Samir. “The screaming fangirls? Marriage proposals?”
Into his cup, Chip muttered, “Death threats ...”
“What?” Samir blinked.
Lyle elbowed Chip. “Shut up. He’s not supposed to find out about those until later.”
“No, it’s okay. Let him have it.” Anthony patted Samir’s leg. “He’s already signed the contract. There’s no turning back.”
“Asshole.” Samir’s blood turned a little cold even though he knew it was a joke.
Anthony chuckled. “It’s not that bad.”
Samir expected a snarky response from Lyle, but Lyle’s gaze darted toward Anthony’s arm once more, which was still firmly attached to the hand that was firmly planted on Samir’s thigh beneath the table.
Their eyes met again.
Samir put his hand over Anthony’s. Anthony didn’t pull away.
Lyle raised his eyebrows a little, but then shrugged. No judgment, then. Just curiosity. Are they? Aren’t they?
Yep. We are.
Holy shit. We are.
“You guys might also be happy to hear that Raphael’s sexuality is getting more fluid.” Anthony pointed with his cup at Chip. “I only made him straight because I had to, but I never said outright he wasn’t more flexible than that.”
“I knew it. He does have an eye for how pretty some of the men are, at least in the book.” Chip exchanged glances with Lyle as if they had a bet going on the topic.
“And fandom agrees that the Raphael/Dima eye-fucks are the sexiest scenes in the show, thanks to you guys.”
“Yeah, I saw the poll on the official fanpage. It’s rare that the write-in option actually wins.” Lyle grinned. “Though the fandom rallying around it had something to do with it. Twitter went mad that week.”
“I can’t queer him openly, but I’m happy to put in more subtext. At this stage, they won’t shut us down if we start taking some liberties.” Anthony chuckled. “Or as some of my more conservative friends would say on Facebook: it’s the gay conspiracy in action.”
Samir felt heat rise in his cheeks. “We did some organizing in my forums for that poll. Mostly because the option with the most votes was Hannah and Raphael—and I always found that pairing weird. Would Raphael really go for the damsel-in-distress type?”
Chip shook his head. “I think he really feels more like a brother. Note she’s the only woman on the show he hasn’t slept with.”
“It’s a past-life thing.” Anthony finished his coffee, and shrugged. “Just read the next books. It’ll all get clearer then.”
“Fucking tease.”
“That’s why they pay me the big money. I get people to buy the next books. Your point being?”
“C’mon.”
“It’s still subject to edits,” Anthony said. “It’s only official and canon once it’s printed.”
Chip elbowed Lyle. “We’ll just invite Anthony out and get him drunk. Or get Samir drunk. You do know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Samir?”
Samir swallowed nervously—this close, the actor charisma was definitely working. Both Chip and Lyle seemed just a little bit larger than life and could apparently crank it up at will. And then there was that strange Magic Eye effect—when he looked long enough at Lyle, he saw Dima Sobakin bleed through, and that was uncanny. If he’d met Dima in real life, he’d have just run for the hills, hoping the man’s next psychotic break didn’t happen while they were still in the same time zone.
“You can always get us both drunk.” Anthony winked. “Or come over for a bottle. You know the house is almost large enough to put the whole cast up.”
Was he flirting? Samir glanced at Anthony, who gave him a sly wink.
“What about a proper release party?” Chip indicated the con. “A bit more private, just some people from the cast, and no paps around.”
“Sounds good. I’ll get Chas on it.”
“Where’s she?”
“Talking to security, probably to plan two dozen escape routes in case people don’t like the cover of book eight.”
One of these days, Samir would learn when Anthony was joking and when he wasn’t. In this case, he probably didn’t want to know.
***
Three hours later, the doors flew open. Samir was backstage in the big auditorium, and while he couldn’t see the influx of fans, he could hear it. Maybe he was imagining things, but he was pretty sure he could feel it too—the thrum of voices, the percussion of footsteps. He’d been a part of that mass of fans before, but being here, with the swarm coming toward him, was different. Good? Bad? Surreal? He’d decide tonight after a few drinks and maybe some cock.
Anthony put an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. “You ready for this?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“You’ll be fine. I promise.” Anthony turned him a little and pulled him into his arms. “A blogger was outside doing some video interviews with fans in the line, and quite honestly, they’re all so excited there’s going to be another book, I think they’ll love all of this.”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Yeah.” Anthony brushed a few strands of hair off Samir’s forehead. “Listen, if you get overwhelmed out there and need a break, let me know, and we’ll find you a quick escape. Trust me, it can be done.”
Samir gnawed his lip. He had seen a couple of actors slip away from panels before without making a huge to-do about it. A subtle whisper to someone offstage, a smiling apology about having to cut it short because of a scheduling conflict, and they’d disappeared while the rest of the panel continued. He relaxed a bit. Knowing Anthony had his back, he could handle this.
When the unveiling was about to start, Samir and Anthony stood behind the thick black curtain, listening to people chattering as they took their seats.
Then a publicist for the publisher, who often functioned as an emcee at these things, took the stage. After quieting the crowd and then getting them all fired up again, she said, “But I’m not here to tell you about what’s next for Triple Moon.” She paused, giving just enough time for a disappointed ripple to start before she added, “That’s the author’s job.” A roar of applause rose, and Samir barely heard her say Anthony’s name.
Anthony glanced at him. “See you out there.”
Then he took a microphone from one of the crew members and stepped out onto the stage. From where Samir stood, he could see Anthony, but not the crowd, and damn, he went right back to the days when he’d been a fan in that unseen audience. When he’d stared up at Anthony Rawson and admired him and lusted after him. Some authors couldn’t pull off a stage presence very well, but when Anthony wanted to, he had a charisma that rivaled Chip’s and Lyle’s.
“So there’ve been some rumors flying around the internet.” Anthony stood center stage, a hand in his pocket and a slight smirk on his lips. “Seems like you’ve all been a little concerned that there wouldn’t be another Triple Moon.” He flashed a grin that turned Samir’s knees to water. “You can all tweet this right now. Put it all over Facebook and tell the whole world you heard it straight from the wolf’s mouth—books eight and nine will both be out before Christmas.”
The crowd exploded into cheers. Anthony stood for a moment, egging them on because why the hell not. When the noise had died down a bit, he went on. “There are some changes coming to Triple Moon, though. Turns out, some of my fans know the world I built even better than I do, and, hell, who am I to call myself the dictator of that universe? So I’d like to introduce everyone to my new coauthor.”
The collective startled gasp made Samir’s heart skip, but also made him chuckle.
“Triple Moon fans, I’d like you to meet”—Anthony gestured toward where Samir was standing—“my new coauthor, Sam Ardenghi.”
Somehow, Samir managed to set his feet in motion without falling over, and he made it to Anthony’s side without hurting himself or anybody else and then stood there, looking into the glowing and excited faces. Do they expect me to say anything? “Hey, guys.”
Anthony grinned and stepped right next to him. “So, Samir, how was working on the books?”
“Ask me when I’ve recovered.” Samir grinned back. “No, it was fun. Really great.”
Especially the falling-asleep-in-each-other’s-arms part once we reached the milestones.
The audience seemed to like the answer—some people chuckled, others kept recording the presentation on their cell phones. Samir tried hard to convince himself that he wouldn’t look weird on camera and that, as a fan, he really hadn’t minded if Anthony or one of the actors had seemed unguarded or unprofessional. If anything, he’d found it endearing. Hot, usually, in Anthony’s case. Anthony had a reputation for being grumpy and guarding his privacy, but even when he joked about his handlers blocking the exits, people just loved him.
“So,” Anthony said to his adoring fans, “you all probably want to know what’s going to happen next.”
The crowd shouted “yes” and other affirmatives, until Anthony raised his hands and quieted them down again.
“Well, first, we have the new cover art. Do you want to see the new cover?”
Again, shouts of yes.
Anthony signaled, and the wall behind him lit up with a crude, vaguely phallic sketch of a gate with a grim-faced stick figure. Arrows indicated “Raphael” and “big-ass gate.” The crowd guffawed, and Anthony made a show of looking confused and then looking back at the screen.
Samir was getting into it now. “I knew they’d go with that one. Love it!”
Anthony cast him a glance and a wolfish grin. “Oops. I guess at least I can write. This is actually my, ah, cover concept.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Anybody want it?”
Hands shot up, and Anthony stepped to the edge of the stage and handed it to the nearest reaching arm. “See you on Tumblr, little drawing,” he said into the mike and stepped back. Samir swore somebody in the first row swooned. Or maybe they’d been stabbed in the kidneys by whoever stood right behind them.
“I guess it really proves Yvonne Silver’s genius that she can turn that ...” Anthony gestured behind him. “Into that.”
The images changed. The next one was a picture of a very cute kitten with fake wolf ears sitting on a pile of Triple Moon books. Samir’s name was in the same text as the title, while Anthony’s name was in rainbow-colored crayon.
The crowd laughed, and Anthony made another show of confusion before he turned around again, then fixed his gaze on somebody backstage. “Really, Jake?”
The image changed again, and there it was, the actual cover art. Samir’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the final version on that big screen. There it was. His name. Anthony’s name. Axis Mundi. Right up there for all to see, with him standing under it like an idiot, next to the man who’d created this entire empire. No turning back now.
Anthony faced the crowd again. “So, who wants to know how book eight ends?”
Immediately, the whole crowd collectively shook their heads and shouted, “No! No! No!”
Samir smirked. Into his mike, he said, “So I guess they don’t want to know about the leprechauns.”
The shouts turned to laughter, and Anthony chuckled. “All right, well, you’ll all get blurbs and previews of this one later. How about some questions?”
These cons were surprisingly well organized, and a dozen or so fans had either bought or won the privilege of coming up first. They formed a single file line behind a microphone in front of the stage. As they stared at the cover art and the authors, Samir couldn’t help smiling. He remembered all too well what that was like.
First in line was a blonde girl who couldn’t have been older than fifteen or so, dressed in a pantsuit exactly like the ones Maria Guerrero wore in nearly every episode. She even had her hair pinned back and an FBI badge, all done perfectly. It wasn’t the most elaborate cosplay in the world, but she’d definitely nailed the character.
She cleared her throat. “Do you—” She jumped back, eyeing the microphone as her face glowed red.
“It’s okay.” Anthony smiled down at her. “If you don’t want to use the mike, we can hear you.”
She nodded and stepped around the microphone. As she did, Anthony knelt, bringing him closer to eye level with her.
She coughed again. “Do you really get to choose who’s on the show?”
Anthony stood. “For those who couldn’t hear, she asked if I really get to choose who’s cast on the show.” He smiled at the girl. “I don’t get final say, but yes, I influence it.”
From a few rows back, someone shouted, “Was Lyle Phelan your choice?”
“Hey!” Anthony pointed at the person. “Wait your turn there, buddy.” Laughter rippled through the crowd. “But to answer your question, yes. Lyle was my choice.”
That brought a roar of applause from the fans.
He looked at Samir. “Guess they approve.”
“Guess so.” Samir glanced past Anthony, and saw Chip and Lyle hovering backstage, playing on their phones as they waited for the next panel. Into his mike, he said, “Has Lyle ever thanked you for casting him?”
Lyle’s head snapped up.
Anthony eyed Samir, then looked backstage. Lyle’s eyes widened. He shook his head, mouthing, “No.”
Which may as well have been an engraved invitation.
“You know,” Anthony said, “I don’t think Lyle has ever thanked me.” The fans caught on immediately and went crazy, chanting Lyle’s name.
Chip laughed and nudged Lyle. Lyle rolled his eyes, pocketed his phone, and in a split second, his game face was on. He strolled onto the stage, and the fans went absolutely batshit.
While Anthony and Lyle bantered and entertained the fans, Samir took the opportunity to breathe. The scrutiny of three thousand people was a strange thing to cope with, and a moment to gather his wits was more than welcome.
As he looked out at the crowd, he caught the occasional fan’s eye. Most were focused on Lyle and Anthony, but some watched him with odd expressions. Curiosity. Interest. One might’ve been sneering, but it was entirely possible Samir had imagined it because his brain was short-circuiting.
It was harder to gauge where a camera lens was pointed. One aimed at the stage could easily be zoomed in on Anthony, Lyle, or Samir, or be focused on all three of them. That created an uncomfortable sensation of being watched by hundreds of lifeless glass eyes, some tiny and some huge, and Samir was quickly starting to understand the concept of stage fright.
Lyle and Anthony finished with their impromptu banter-fest, and Lyle waved at the crowd before disappearing backstage. Anthony glanced at Samir, eyebrows up in an unspoken, Doing okay?
No. I’m not. I don’t think? Maybe. I’m ...
But he just nodded.
The Q&A didn’t last much longer, and Anthony handled most of the questions. When the time slot was finally up, Samir followed Anthony backstage, and the second he was out of sight of the crowd, he sank onto a chair, cradling his face in his hands.
Someone gently rubbed the back of his neck. Anthony, he assumed, which was confirmed when he heard a quiet, “You okay?”
“I think so.” Samir rubbed his temples. He didn’t even know what he was feeling. Cold sweat dampened the back of his neck. His knees were shaky. A subtle wave of nausea—as if he wasn’t sick yet but could get that way in a hurry—rolled over him, and he closed his eyes until it passed.
Hand still on Samir’s neck, Anthony sat beside him. “Just take a breather. You’ll be fine.”
“You sure about that?”
“Trust me.”
Samir lifted his head, and when he met Anthony’s eyes, sudden anger joined all those other feelings. “You keep telling me I’ll be fine, but every time I turn around, it’s getting crazier.”
“I know. And this ... It’s happening at a million miles an hour.” He stroked Samir’s hair. “Just take it one thing at a time, and—”
“One thing at a time?” Samir shook his head and, for the first time since they’d known each other, he pulled away from Anthony’s touch. “A couple months ago, I was nobody. Now ...” He waved a hand toward the stage. “This.”
Anthony studied him, but didn’t try to make contact again. His voice soft, he said, “I understand. I do. And you’ve been handling all of this much better than you think.”
“How much more do I have to handle?”
“I don’t know.” Finally, Anthony reached for him again, and even though Samir had been the one to pull away last time, he was grateful for the comforting weight of Anthony’s hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to think any further ahead than the end of the con. And you’ve got a break for a couple of hours before you have to show your face again.”
“What about the signing and everything?”
Anthony squeezed his shoulder. “Let me handle that. You take a break. Go on up to the room and chill for a bit.”
Samir exhaled. As much as he didn’t want to admit defeat this early in the convention, a break sounded like exactly what the doctor ordered.
He went up to the room, and as he sank down on the foot of the bed in the silent suite, an odd feeling gnawed at him. His name was out. Even with the pseudonym, it wouldn’t take much for people to find him. If there’d been any chance of turning back before, there wasn’t now. He was in this.
They were in this.
He turned his head toward the door and stared at it as if Anthony might suddenly come in. But he wouldn’t. Samir knew he wouldn’t. Not with his adoring public and his contractual obligations downstairs.
If he didn’t have those, though, would he be up here?
The base of Samir’s spine prickled. They’d been joined at the hip recently, combining their drafts, splitting them into books eight and nine, and discussing book ten. Not to mention editing. They’d gotten along just fine, but now that the books were finished—or at least, the super-urgent versions were finished—was that going to end?
Had it already ended?
Samir had gotten overwhelmed, and Anthony’s first instinct was to dismiss him. For whose benefit, though? From any other man, Samir would have assumed it was altruistic. But Anthony had mentioned so many times how much he needed space, didn’t like to be crowded, didn’t like men who clung to him. Did that mean ...?
The last few weeks had been all about writing and editing interspersed with sleeping, eating, and having sex when they had the energy for it. Anything more complicated had been on pause until the work was done, which, considering all the last-minute emergencies and editorial battles, was literally hours before they’d left for the convention.
But that was combat. Anthony had said himself that he could deal with being in close quarters when the bombs were dropping and asses were on the line. Once the war was over and things had gone quiet, then what?
All Samir knew was that they’d finished the work, and now they were here, and he had buckled under stress, and while his instinct was to hold on to someone, Anthony’s had been to offer him space.
But who was the space for?
Samir? Or Anthony?