| |
With all the fans eagerly waiting to have their books signed, Anthony had no time to check on Samir. He did send Chas up with him to be certain he reached the room and to put out the Do Not Disturb sign while Anthony stayed downstairs, made sure his rollerball pens were all full and working, and got to work on signing books.
After this many years, he’d developed a routine for it, making sure to write the name of the fan on a piece of paper to account for all variant spellings and all names that sounded similar but weren’t. He took a moment with every reader, asking them whether they liked the new cover or who their favorite character was. In a very real sense, they all helped to pay the bills—if he was an employee to anybody these days, it was to his fans.
Though it was normally the job of the handlers, Chas insisted on being the one to keep Anthony well stocked with everything he needed. She stopped by every half hour or so and brought him water, which was the only way to measure time. A quick glance confirmed that Lyle’s and Chip’s tables were similarly busy, while Frankie passed unmolested with a tray of coffees, not even trying to be anonymous. Directors just didn’t get accosted like Anthony and the actors. That was probably why she came to these things more often than most directors—all the fun and chaos without the suffocation.
Anthony resented her up until the moment she dropped off a coffee cup at his table and asked him whether he was going to have dinner with her and the cast later, and whether Samir was okay.
He nodded to all of the questions, finished his signature, and handed the book back to the fan who was almost dancing on her toes, then looked up into the face of the next one, who stepped closer, radiating excitement.
Once everybody was served, he got up, drank the rest of his cold coffee and surveyed the room. Chas came over, carrying a plastic bag. “Can I store this at your table?”
“What did you buy?”
“There’s a stall in the other hall that sells Triple Moon–branded teas and coffees.” She beamed at him. “I told them they were lacking a one-hundred espresso strength dedicated to you.”
“What did they say?”
“They said they’ll send us a sample, but they have an idea for an Anthony Rawson–themed roast.”
Anthony shook his head. “This crazy business.”
“The idea of caffeine pills was coming up too. You seem to be almost immune to coffee by now.” She lifted the bag. “Stash it?”
“Sure.” He grabbed the bag and tucked it between piles of books he’d have to sign for the local bookshops once he “found a minute.” “When are we meeting for dinner?”
“Seven, Frankie’s room.”
Anthony glanced at his watch. “That’ll give me a chance to take a breather after the next Q&A.” And check on Samir, to make sure he’d just shut down everything and was reading or catching a nap. Their schedules had been weird recently, and they were still trying to sync their natural rhythms. At some point, Anthony would hopefully manage to sleep when Samir was tired and get up when Samir was active. Or the other way around. As long as they did eventually sync up.
After the Q&A, Anthony slipped away from the crowds and took the service elevator up to the top floor. The hotel staff had been gracious enough to give him and a handful of people access to that elevator since the main ones got too crowded. There was nothing more claustrophobic than being crammed into an elevator with twenty people who hyperventilated at the very sight of you.
He tapped on the door so he wouldn’t startle Samir, and then put in his key. When he peeked into the bedroom, Samir was nowhere in sight, but the sound of the running shower cleared that up quickly.
Anthony continued into the room.
Samir’s laptop was open on his side of the bed. His cell phone was beside it. A vodka bottle from the mini fridge stood on the bedside table ... empty.
The shower turned off, so Anthony stood outside the door. “Hey, Samir. I’m back. Just so I don’t startle you.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll be out in a second.”
“No rush.”
Anthony went back into the main part of the room. He picked up the empty vodka bottle and dropped it into the trash can.
On top of another one.
Shit.
His heart sank. Samir had been trying so hard to be stoic, but this kind of crap took its toll. While most people would call it a first world problem—and yeah, it was—adapting to thousands of people knowing who you were was difficult. Particularly when you were crammed into a building with them and had your name plastered all over everything and hadn’t had five goddamned minutes to catch your breath after working nonstop.
The bathroom door opened. Samir stepped out wearing a pair of jeans, but no shirt. His dark hair was wet and disheveled. Any other time, Anthony would’ve thought he looked sexy as fuck. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sexy, just that the only thing Anthony could really focus on was the bone-deep fatigue in Samir’s eyes and the way his shoulders slumped.
“Hey.” He reached for Samir’s waist. “Doing any better?”
Samir shrugged. A few droplets of water slid down his shoulder and onto his chest, and he absently brushed them away. “I guess. I’m not sure how ready I am to go back out there.”
Anthony watched him closely. This was Samir’s big break. His debut. The spotlight was on him, and the people downstairs were buzzing with questions, not to mention clamoring to be the first to get a photo and his autograph. At least a hundred of them must’ve excitedly asked about him during the signing.
So why did the kid look like he’d just been to a funeral?
Guilt twisted beneath Anthony’s ribs. He sighed. “I’m sorry this has gotten so overwhelming.”
“Occupational hazard, right?” Samir looked into his eyes. “How do you handle it? You go up there and work a crowd like you were born for this.” He held Anthony’s gaze, his own filled with a desperate plea of Show me how.
Anthony gathered Samir in his arms. “It’s just something you learn eventually.”
Samir released a breath, sinking into his embrace, and Anthony kissed the top of his head. As he held him, his mind wandered back to the first few appearances he’d made. How exhilarating it had been, but also how terrifying. How many conventions it had taken before he’d no longer needed to carry the hip flask.
His gaze drifted toward the wastebasket containing the pair of empty vodka bottles.
Then he drew back and tipped Samir’s chin up. “I don’t want to overwhelm you any more than I already have.”
Samir scowled. “The wheels are turning, so ...”
“I know. But I’m giving you a break from it. All of it.”
Samir blinked. “What?”
“Get online.” He tilted his head toward Samir’s computer. “Buy a ticket anywhere. Starting tonight. Take a vacation somewhere, go back to your condo, whatever you need to unwind.”
“But ...” Samir gestured at the door. “The con. I can’t—”
“I’ll let everyone know you came down with the flu.”
“And if Leanne finds out?”
Anthony shrugged, combing his fingers through Samir’s wet hair. “I’ll take the heat. But you need to wind down and take a break. You haven’t been able to do that since all of this started, and pushing you through to the end of the con when you’re this close to—”
“I can handle the con.” Samir swallowed. “I can keep doing this. I want to stay here with you.”
Anthony stroked his cheek. “You’re exhausted. I can see it.”
“I am, but this is a huge opportunity. The sooner I get in and learn to deal with it, the sooner I’ll be like you and just roll with it.”
“But I don’t—”
“I can handle it,” Samir growled.
Anthony drew back. “Hey, easy. It’s your call, Samir. I’m just trying to help. I know what it’s like to be in the con spotlight for the first time.”
Samir exhaled. “I’m sorry.” He stood up on his toes and kissed Anthony lightly. “But I can do this. Promise.”
Anthony hesitated, but finally shrugged. “It’s your call. But the minute you need a break, or you want to get the hell out of here, let me know. Okay?”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
Samir met his eyes. “Promise.”
Anthony kissed him once more.
It was almost time to head to dinner, so he had a quick shower and changed his clothes, necessary after the heat of the convention area. By the time he was ready, it was twenty to seven, so they went to Frankie’s room and knocked.
“Just a sec!” Frankie opened the door a few minutes later, cell phone at her ear, and motioned them inside, checking the hall for witnesses, Anthony assumed. Anthony sat down in one of the chairs near the window, and Samir eventually followed suit. Frankie finished her conversation in hushed tones, indicating she had to leave now. A lover? She didn’t sound like that when talking to Barbara—there were usually a lot more sharp edges in her voice when talking to her partner.
She shoved her phone into her pocket and turned to them. “How are you holding up, Samir?”
“I’m all right. Just needed a little time to decompress.”
“That’s fine, hon. We all do, believe me. Anthony?”
“Can I get back to my computer now, Mom?” Anthony grinned. “A couple more days, and I want to start on book ten.”
“That’s lucky, because you’ll have to.”
“I know.”
Another knock at the door, and this time it was Lyle and Chip, looking fairly relaxed and smiling and apparently still in that happy-couple bubble that protected them against anything else. But then, both of them were pros and had been doing this for years—especially Lyle, who’d been involved with a big franchise before, but even Chip had taken to it easily. Maybe that was the natural advantage that actors had over writers at conventions. Both professions had to find something inside and put it outside, but actors already did it with their bodies and emotions for an audience, be it fans or production crew, while writers tapped away at keyboards in solitude and were more often than not mystified that books were read by real people who then considered the writer some kind of font of magic.
Another knock. Chip opened the door, and this time it was Chas. “Guys, I have the car outside, so we should get going. Maybe we can get out of here unseen.”
In the day of social media and cell phones, one fan spotting them meant dozens knew, so Frankie herded them all outside and to the service elevator. Downstairs in the garage, the limo was waiting and they all slid inside.
The driver got them to a restaurant a few miles away and parked in the side street near the entrance. Total exposure to any potential witnesses: less than five seconds.
They got into the restaurant and continued onward to a private area right at the back, as requested, without windows. Their waitress introduced herself and brought the first round of drinks, and only then did everyone start to breathe a little easier. Even Samir got a bit livelier—probably because the others treated him like they treated any other new addition to the cast, be they crew or guest star. It simply wasn’t a big deal to them, and they gave him space until they knew him better and how much teasing or banter he was okay with.
For all the craziness of the franchise and his life in general, Anthony loved the crew. He loved pretty much everybody involved with Triple Moon, apart from the suits in Hollywood who financed it all. These were people passionate about something that was entirely fiction, dreamed up in long, coffee-soaked nights, and then translated onto the screen by people who dropped their own identities to interpret the characters he’d created. It was all a fucking miracle, that was what it was.
And Samir seemed to like it too. By the time the main courses had arrived, he and Chip were lost in a discussion about a soon-to-be-released video game, and all of his earlier tension had, at least on the surface, melted away.
“Hey.” Anthony touched Samir’s leg during a brief lull in the conversation. “You doing okay?”
Samir smiled. “Yeah. I think I just needed to get away from the crowds and stuff for a while.” He put his hand on top of Anthony’s. “I’ll be fine.”
Anthony returned the smile. Any other evening, he might’ve made a quip about doing it all over the next day, but not tonight. The kid could finally breathe again. No sense ruining that.
A hand materialized on Anthony’s shoulder, and a second later, Frankie leaned down between him and Samir. “You boys having a good time?”
Samir raised his glass. “Considering I’m used to coming to these things and eating whatever I can grab from the concession stands? Hell yes.”
She laughed and patted his arm. “There is something to be said for the VIP treatment.”
“Yeah, I think I could get used to it.” His eyes met Anthony’s, and Anthony relaxed. Just because it had taken him almost a year’s worth of cons to get a grip didn’t mean the same would apply to Samir. Trust the younger dude to adapt faster.
All through the rest of dinner, Samir chatted and joked with the others, and aside from a wide-eyed stare of disbelief when Lyle bought a round of aged cognac for everyone, he seemed to have really taken to all of this. If he stayed on this frequency for the rest of the con, he’d be golden.
Dinner ended, and Anthony was pretty sure he’d never need to eat again. Good thing he always booked a few extra sessions with Ryan after a con. He’d have doubled his body weight two or three years ago if he didn’t have someone to kick his ass when he came home after gorging himself on the incredible food.
“Oh my God.” Samir groaned as he stepped out of the limo after Anthony. “That was so fucking good. I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”
“You and me both.”
The others lingered by the car, giving Anthony and Samir a head start just in case Lyle and Chip’s fans decided to mob the actors.
On the way into the hotel’s service entrance, Anthony said, “Just wait until dinner on the last night. The organizers always take us out to—”
“Oh my God!” someone shrieked. “There! Look!”
Anthony turned, and had just enough time for an “oh, crap ...” before a group of fifteen or twenty fans started toward them. He took Samir’s arm and herded him inside. “Walk fast.”
Samir didn’t have to be told twice.
It also didn’t do any good.
Another group of fans hovered near the service elevator. More were trotting down the hallway, probably lured by the others’ voices.
“Shit,” Anthony muttered. In seconds, they were the center of a huge and growing mass of people. Cameras flashed. Phones waved in their faces. Pens and photos were thrust at them. Fans talked over fans, asking questions and begging for photos, autographs, and spoilers.
Samir’s eyes were huge, and he shied away from the crowd, which pushed him toward another side of the same mob, which he also jerked away from like a terrified pinball.
Anthony put an arm around him and kept him close, shielding him from the crowd as much as possible. Which, of course, only made things worse.
“Are you two dating?”
“Did you start writing together before or after you started dating?”
“What happens to Triple Moon if you break up?”
Samir’s muscles turned to steel under Anthony’s arm. “Just breathe,” Anthony said as quietly as he could while still being heard. “Give me a second.”
Samir nodded and dropped his gaze.
Anthony put up a hand. “Everybody, listen up. It’s late, and we both need to rest up for tomorrow’s panel.” He thought Samir shuddered beside him. “We’ll be happy to sign autographs and do pictures tomorrow, but for tonight, we—”
“Hey, look! It’s Chip Schwartz and Lyle Phelan!”
Was that Frankie’s voice?
Every head in the mob turned, including Anthony’s. Sure enough, Lyle and Chip had just come in through the service entrance with Frankie beside them.
The crowd immediately flocked toward the two actors, and Frankie gestured for Anthony and Samir to get out of there.
Frankie, baby, I owe you so, so big ...
Anthony swiped his key card for the elevator, and a moment later, the doors opened. He gently pushed Samir inside and stabbed the “doors close” button before he’d even hit the one for their floor.
As soon as the doors were closed and the elevator was in motion, Samir slumped against the wall.
“You okay?”
Samir ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Fuck. That was ...”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Anthony wrapped his arms around Samir, but Samir shied away. Startled and a little hurt, Anthony stared at him. “What?”
“Sorry. I ...” Samir hugged himself and shrank back against the wall again. “Just had a few too many people too close to me all at once.”
“Yeah, I know it’s terrifying and exhausting.” He wanted to tell him that he’d get used to it, but that wasn’t going to help right now. If anything, it would drive Samir deeper into his protective shell.
The elevator dinged and opened, and Anthony glanced around before signaling Samir to get out of the cabin. Sometimes, fans managed to get access to the VIP floor, which made getting to one’s room an hour-long operation. But the corridor was clear, and they crept into their room, where Anthony put out the Do Not Disturb sign and then locked the door.
Uneasy quiet settled. Anthony didn’t want to ask whether Samir was okay again, and wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch him yet. Even working together on two books didn’t mean he knew Samir that well when he was upset. So far, their relationship had been harmonious and energizing; they’d disagreed but hadn’t argued or fought. Maybe you did get to know a person best when you saw them at their worst—and decided that you could deal with that once in a while.
Samir sat down on the bed, head in his hands. “Fuck. This is all insane.”
Anthony squeezed his shoulder. “Is there any way I can make this easier for you?”
“I don’t know.” Samir raised his head. “Just ... be here?”
Touching his face, Anthony whispered, “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to stay.”
Samir’s expression hardened. “It’s in my contract. Just like it’s in yours.”
“And everyone has their limits.”
Samir held his gaze. Then he shook his head and stood. “I’ll stay. I’m—”
“Samir, you don’t have to stay if—”
“Why are you so bent on me leaving?” Samir’s eyebrow arched. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Of course not!” Anthony showed his palms. “Jesus, Samir. I just don’t want this breaking you down.”
“I’ll be fine. I do think I’m going to call it a night, though.”
“Me too.”
Samir nodded wordlessly and headed toward the bathroom.
After they’d both brushed their teeth and stripped out of their clothes, they climbed into bed. Anthony clicked off the light and went through tomorrow’s program in his head. Panels, a couple of prearranged interviews, a charity auction to “dine with an author/artist/actor,” and more signing of stock for booksellers. The schedule was full—at least Samir didn’t have to do the signing marathons yet. They were Anthony’s least favorite thing.
Samir tossed and turned a little. The bed was so vast there was no need to touch each other, but after a few moments, Samir inched closer, and Anthony extended an arm to hug him. They didn’t say or do anything, just lay in the darkness, aware of each other, breathing.
And Anthony wished like hell there was something he could do to make all of this easier on Samir.