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Samir didn’t want to disturb Anthony before he had to get up, but he also had nowhere to go where people wouldn’t be waiting for him. Sure that Anthony was still dead asleep, he checked his phone.
Twenty messages.
Five voice mails.
Way too fucking many emails.
His heart jumped into his throat. Emergency? He was most worried about the voice mails, but when he selected them, they weren’t from people his phone recognized. Text messages then.
Ten of them were from Vicki; first checking whether he was there and responsive, then telling him she hadn’t quite believed it at first, but she did now.
He checked his emails and more than 150 were from the forum, the others ... links to various online chats, Twitter threads, Instagram pictures—of him, of Anthony, of him and Anthony. The story about Axis Mundi was out too, and it seemed every journalist knew roughly how much money was involved. He tried not to follow the links—“look what they say about you here” and a link was the oldest phishing technique in the universe—but he couldn’t help it.
Holy shit. This was madness.
And then he made the mistake of logging into Facebook.
Forty-seven friend requests? How the ...
Wait, I know that guy.
Didn’t I go to school with her?
Oh yay. An ex. Why yes, let’s totally be friends.
He approved some of the requests from old classmates and various friends he’d lost touch with, but ignored the ones from people he didn’t know. Then he went in and changed the settings on his profile so only his friends and family could see him. In the time it took to do that, six more requests popped up. Two had Triple Moon books as avatars. Two were names and faces he didn’t recognize. One was a friend from college he hadn’t spoken to in eons. Another was a colleague at the company he’d just left.
Samir eyed his phone. The pseudonym hadn’t stopped some people from recognizing him, and the story had spread like wildfire. Even to the manager at the shoe store where he’d briefly worked during college. The same asshole who’d cut his hours in the name of “trimming costs” and relieved Samir of his health insurance. That was one friend request he’d emphatically denied, muttering, “Why don’t you shove a women’s size eight up your ass, dickhead?”
It wasn’t just friend requests, either.
Messages. So fucking many messages.
Usually, when he friended someone new, there’d be a “Hey, thanks for the add” or something to that effect on his wall. Once in a while, it would be “Sammy! Holy crap! I can’t believe I finally found you. How have you been?” and maybe even a short chat to catch up.
The weird part was the sheer volume of people who weren’t satisfied with simply friending him. They tagged him in old photos from parties he’d long ago forgotten and added captions like “My famous author friend, back when we were crazy kids!” or “See? I totally knew Sam Ardenghi before he was famous.” They were emailing him in droves, most acting like they were long-lost best buddies instead of coworkers who’d eaten lunch together like four times in six months.
As Samir watched the requests and posts and messages continue to pile up, a knot twisted beneath his ribs. What was it Anthony had said? You find out who your friends are when you have a windfall like this?
None of these people were interested in getting back in touch. Not for the sake of being friends, anyway. The requests for money hadn’t started yet, but he had a feeling they would. In amongst all those friend requests he’d gotten, there were probably some from genuine people who really did want to reconnect, but how was he supposed to tell? Even people he knew well and trusted—how the fuck could he know if his cousin Nizar wanted to grab a cup of coffee just because they hadn’t done so in a while? Or if the guys from his team at his last job wanted to genuinely congratulate him?
But how the hell was he supposed to stay sane if he couldn’t find someone to talk to?
Samir scrolled through his contacts. If he called Vicki right now, she’d let him gab her ear off until he’d made sense of everything, and then she’d say something silly to make him feel better. His cousin? Yeah, Samir could trust him. He felt ridiculous for second-guessing Nizar. His cousin would be the same as always. He’d let Samir vent, and he’d be there for him, and probably suggest a beer just because it would infuriate their Muslim fathers.
Samir turned his head toward Anthony’s sleeping form. His response? Plane ticket.
You have a great story? Let’s meet.
You have a great body? Let’s fuck.
You have a great book deal that’ll save my ass? Let’s edit.
You need me to be a friend and maybe boyfriend when you’re overwhelmed? Let’s not.
Yeah, he’d talked Samir off a ledge a few times, but that was before they’d finished the project that had saved Anthony’s ass—and his advance. And at a convention where he had to keep his image pristine in the eyes of his adoring public. When Samir had a legitimate reason to be in Anthony’s space, and when Anthony benefitted from Samir being on an even keel.
Samir dropped his phone on the bed and rubbed his temples. The walls of this huge hotel room were closing in fast. He couldn’t leave because there were people out there who might mob him like they had last night, even if it was just so they could get to Anthony. Going home at the end of the con meant holing up in his condo, afraid to answer the phone or go out or check the internet because he had no idea who wanted to hang with Samir instead of rubbing elbows—or wallets—with Sam Ardenghi.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be flying high. Happy. Fucking giddy. He had the job of his dreams, the man of his dreams, everything, and here he was, sitting in a California king-sized bed wondering why he hadn’t yet broken out in hives from the stress of it all.
“Samir?” Anthony’s sleepy voice startled him. He turned as Anthony unburied his face from the pillow and pushed himself up. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just ... I think I’m ...” What? Going to waltz down to the coffee shop for some caffeine? Right. The sheer paranoia between here and the shop would be enough to wake him.
Anthony sat up, blinking a few times. Though he was adorably unpleasant most mornings, there was no sign of his usual grouchy self today. “Rough night?”
“Just a bit.”
Anthony swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat beside Samir. He wrapped his arms around him and kissed his temple. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of a shock the first few times.”
Samir leaned forward, rubbing the back of his neck with both hands. “Maybe you were right. I don’t know if I can do this.”
Anthony tensed. “Which part?”
The cons. The career.
This thing we’re doing that’s never quite made sense.
“All of it.” Samir swallowed, forcing back a wave of nausea. “I want to write, and I love working on these books.” I want to be with you. “But all of this? I don’t know if I can handle it.”
Anthony kneaded his shoulder. “What do you want to do?”
Samir shook his head. “I don’t know. Just thinking about going downstairs for some coffee is making me light-headed.”
“God, I’m sorry.” Anthony kept rubbing his shoulder. “I really wish I could tell you this part’s easy, but putting an introverted writer out there like that is hard.”
Samir sighed. He’d never even thought of himself as an introvert, but being onstage in front of a few thousand people had schooled that misconception right out of him. Now, he wanted nothing more than to hole up in his home office, disconnect the internet, and be alone. Completely alone.
He lifted his head. “Is last night’s offer still open? About getting out of here?”
“Absolutely.” Anthony’s hand stilled and rested on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “I’ll get Chas to book you some tickets. Just pack your stuff and head out. Go home and relax a bit.”
Yeah, you do seem pretty on board with that option.
“And all of this? The con? The next set of edits?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I can cope with the edits ...”
“Do you want to? Or want me to make a first pass and you just check if it’s all right?”
Maybe that. Just thinking of the books—which had caused all this—made him feel tired and panicky. Trapped. He was only one step away from hating them, and that seemed like the worst thing: writing had always been fun and he’d really enjoyed writing Axis Mundi and even rewriting it to fit with Anthony’s draft. He didn’t want to end up hating it. “Just email it to me with the edits?”
Anthony nodded. “Okay.”
Samir got up and started packing, while Anthony called Chas and told her to get Samir the first ticket back home, then to see him safely to the airport.
“There’s a plane out in three hours, so you can get on that.” Anthony checked his watch. “She’ll pick you up from here and get you into the car and to the plane.”
“Okay. And you?”
“I’ll stay to distract people downstairs.” Anthony’s smile was difficult to read. “Which I guess means being seen while you make an exit.” It made sense that Anthony couldn’t see him off, but Samir had to admit, it still stung.
My work here is done, he couldn’t help hearing in Anthony’s voice. You’re on your way home, and I’m off to meet my adoring public. Adios!
Anthony dressed and left, and not long after, somebody knocked.
“It’s me, honey,” Chas said through the door. When Samir opened it, Chas slipped in. “You okay, kid?”
“Yeah. I just need to lie low for a while.”
“Don’t worry about it. You can have as much time and space as you need.” She handed him a ball cap with Triple Moon emblazoned across the front. “Here’s a little cover if you want to go incognito.”
Samir managed a quiet laugh, and thanked her as he put on the cap. It wasn’t exactly a trench coat and sunglasses, but it would help hide his face.
“You sure you’re okay?” Chas squeezed his shoulder, reminding him of the way Anthony had touched him earlier.
“Yeah. Just a bit overwhelmed, I guess.”
“I don’t blame you. And you should’ve seen him back in his early days.” She whistled. “I still don’t think that was a safe dose of Xanax, but what do I know?”
He looked up at her. “Really? Anthony had to take that?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s learned to deal, but it took him a while.”
“Did it actually help?”
She shrugged. “I think it made him think it was helping. Made him feel like he had some control over things. Don’t know what good it actually did, though.”
“Great.”
She patted his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get your things together and get going.”
“Thanks.”
All the way to the airport, Samir wondered if he’d be missed at the con. Would the fans care? They were excited about a new Triple Moon book, but were they even a little interested in him? Would they be sorely disappointed when he finally released something that was completely original and all his own? Would they even notice?
But more than that, he was hyperaware of the fact that Chas was the only person accompanying him. It made sense—Anthony really couldn’t justify leaving the con, not even to take someone to the airport.
But why can’t I make myself believe he’ll really miss me?
***
The first thing Samir did when he pulled into the parking space below his condo was text Anthony to let him know he’d made it home.
Then he went upstairs, locked the door, and turned everything off. The landline—why the hell do I still have that, anyway? Cell phone. Modem. iPad. Xbox. Anything that could possibly connect to the outside world. He even pulled down the blinds in every room, but stopped himself from putting a chair under the doorknob. That seemed a little excessive. A little. Not much.
He collapsed onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Now what?
Per his contract, there was a book tour coming up. Release parties. More conventions. Deep in one of those dark, horrible clauses, there was even a mention of requiring him to appear on a talk show if such a thing were arranged.
Groaning, he covered his eyes with his hand. At least all the time he’d spent drooling over Anthony on the internet hadn’t been entirely wasted. He’d long ago become aware that the stars of the TV show were more likely to score talk show spots and radio interviews. The authors tended to get those long interviews on websites and in magazines. The ones with deep answers to weird questions in between photos that made them appear dark and brooding. Like someone who always had the right answer, knew how to work every crowd, and never had their ass kicked by little things like mornings and caffeine deprivation.
Well, there was that. If someone wanted to interview Samir, they could gloss over all his weird little tics and quirks. Nobody would make gifs of him and repost them all over Twitter and Tumblr. He would never become a meme he couldn’t escape. Maybe not, anyway. There were decidedly more Chip memes in existence than Anthony memes, largely because Chip constantly had to show his face on red carpets and late-night talk show stages. Anthony usually only came out for conventions.
Like the one Samir had just escaped from.
Oh fuck. Had he done anything yesterday to warrant becoming a meme? If he searched for his own name on Tumblr or Facebook or something, what the hell would he find?
He tried not to get sick at the prospect. Especially since if he really got sick, he didn’t have much to puke up. Damn, when did I last eat?
He backtracked to his flight, the wait at the airport, the drive to the airport, the escape from the hotel ...
Crap, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Maybe some food would help him think.
He stood and shuffled into the kitchen, but one look in the fridge made his heart sink. He’d been at Anthony’s almost constantly for the week leading up to the con, so what little food was left here was probably not fit for human consumption.
Going to the grocery store sounded about as appealing as getting on Twitter. Pizza could be good, except having it delivered meant bringing some stranger to his front door, and that was suddenly an unpleasant prospect.
But someone he knew? Coming over with food?
Maybe that could work.
He turned on his cell phone and didn’t let himself look at the number of messages that had come in. He went into his contacts, scrolled to one in particular, and hit Call.
“Hey, superstar. What’s up?”
Samir cringed. “Hey, Nizar. You busy tonight?”
“Just studying.” Something creaked in the background. Probably his desk chair. “Why? Aren’t you at that convention?”
“No, I came home early. Listen, if I call in the order and pay for it, you want to pick up a pizza and come by?”
“Free food?” He could hear Nizar’s grin from here. “Hell yeah. Text me where to pick it up, and I’ll be over ASAP.”
“Okay, I’ll send the confirmation once I got it. Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
About half an hour later, the doorbell rang three times, and Samir got up from the couch and opened the door.
Nizar carried two pizza boxes and a couple bags with what looked like snacks and drinks. Samir ushered him to the kitchen, mouth already watering. Eventually they settled comfortably on the couch with their pizza boxes and Cokes. Half a pizza later, Nizar gestured at Samir’s duffel bag that contained his stuff from the convention—he hadn’t bothered to put any of it away.
“So why are you back early?”
Samir chewed his mouthful slowly and swallowed. He was feeling a great deal less light-headed, though maybe that was the sugar from the soda kicking in. “It was a lot more stressful than I thought it would be. My boyfriend suggested I cut out early ...”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yeah. The author of the series.”
Nizar gave him a curious glance over the next slice. His cousin wouldn’t judge him, considering he was on the family shit list too. Just a few months ago, he’d opted to study criminology and forensics rather than go to medical school, and his father still hadn’t forgiven him. Most of the family sided with his father. And that was on top of Nizar being gay. Samir himself kept his distance from the rest of the family in part because of that—being an openly gay kid in a conservative Muslim family wasn’t easy. Nizar was only beginning to be independent, which would be an uphill battle with a controlling father like his.
Samir rubbed his temples. “I should’ve stayed, but ...”
“But what?”
“I just wanted to write and play with characters I love. Now I’ve lost that. It’s no longer fun. I’m terrified to write the next book. The marketing? Interviews, and fans, and all that? And then it’s all over the news and Facebook, and that seems like the worst punishment ever for just writing a book, you know?”
Nizar frowned. “So what happened?”
And Samir told him. He should have brushed it all off and insisted he was fine, but it felt too good to tell the whole story to somebody who wasn’t a fan, wasn’t a writer, and wasn’t a friend-turned-lover with a vested financial interest in the success of the book.
Nizar didn’t seem to care about fame and fortune, either. He wasn’t interested in the glamorous life, but he was naturally curious—he was studying to become an FBI agent, after all—so Samir told him everything. How he’d met Anthony and about the writing, and his groups, and then Anthony’s agent, and the editing, the con, the contract. All of it, though limited to the PG stuff. In between, he had bites of cold pizza and sips of Coke. When he was done, he sighed and leaned back.
“So you’re stressed out?” Nizar asked.
“I just can’t cope with this. I don’t want to end up hating that stupid book. I loved it so much, but now ...” He shrugged, helpless.
“And what about the guy? Anthony? He’s already famous, so he can’t get away.”
Except from me.
“No. Not until the series is done or all the seasons filmed, and even then ... I mean, there are conventions for shows that don’t exist anymore. I don’t think Triple Moon will just fade away. And people live off this. And it’s a really good show and I loved it as a fan. I just can’t cope with being part of it.” There it was.
“But as a cowriter and his boyfriend, you are in it.”
“Yeah. They can take the book.”
“And what about Anthony?”
I don’t know.
Samir picked at the half-eaten slice of pizza on his plate, then sighed and pushed it away. “That’s where it gets really complicated.”
Nizar raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
Samir took another drink. “We were friends online for two years, then we met in person and started dating, and it just clicked.” He paused, and couldn’t help smiling. “Part of me thinks we’re moving too fast, but then I think about how long we were friends first, and it just makes sense.” His smile fell, and his heart sank. “But then there’s the damned book.”
“What about it?” Nizar pulled another slice of pizza from the box. “Even if you don’t want to work on it anymore, you guys can still date, can’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Samir held his cousin’s gaze. “I don’t know if he wants to. He’s one of those guys who’s really weird about space.”
He told Nizar all about those long days and nights working together. The last few weeks had been kind of a blur, but Samir had been sure the whole time that the other shoe was about to drop. That Anthony was going to get tired of Samir being in his kitchen, office, living room, library, bed. That he’d suddenly decide to go hiking, and maybe come home and decide to sleep on the couch in the office that was suspiciously only big enough for one.
Everything had gone fine, but Samir had never been able to relax. It was partly the deadline, but he hadn’t even had time to catch his breath from that before they’d gone to the convention. He’d assumed his apprehension at that point had just been nerves about the con. Looking back now as he explained it to Nizar, he wasn’t so sure. And he still had no idea how things would play out now that “combat ops” were over.
Then there’d been the con.
Samir cleared his throat because his voice had started getting shaky. “It’s like, the minute he didn’t need my input, and I started getting overwhelmed by all that celebrity shit, he was eager for me to get the hell out of there.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t trying to help?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I’m just so fucking confused about him, and us, and ...” Samir threw up his hands. “On top of all of that, Anthony’s a package deal. The fame, being mobbed at every turn ... God, no wonder he likes living in that shitty little town.”
Nizar laughed softly. “You don’t like it?”
“Actually, it’s kind of nice, but it’s so far away from everything. And he’s even farther away. Lives all the way out in the woods.” He sighed. “I just don’t know if he lives out there because he wants to or because he needs to get away from everything that comes with his success.” He swallowed hard. “Sometimes I don’t know how he copes with being Anthony Rawson, and to be honest, I don’t know if I can cope with loving Anthony Rawson.”
Wait. Loving Anthony Rawson?
Fuck.
I do, don’t I?
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I want to be with him. I really do.” I love him. “But I’m worried he won’t want to be with me now that he doesn’t need me, you know?”
“Ouch.” Nizar paused. “Are you sure you’re not just misunderstanding him?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Samir dropped his hand and turned to Nizar. “But even if I misread him at the con, I’ve been driving myself crazy trying not to overstep my bounds, and trying to be there but not too there. And honestly, I’m ...” He pulled in a deep breath. “The more I think about it, the less I’m sure I want to be with someone like him.”
“What do you mean?”
“That space thing. He’s so guarded about it, he’s got me paranoid about encroaching. And all the fame and celebrity shit? Highly overrated. Even if I’m just a flash in the pan with Axis Mundi, Anthony’s not. He’ll be Anthony Rawson and rich and famous for the foreseeable future.”
Nizar nodded. “I guess dating someone in the limelight has to be a challenge.”
“It is.” Samir grimaced. “I shouldn’t be complaining about that. I feel like an idiot.”
Nizar shook his head. “No, I think it’s one of those things that looks awesome and easy from the outside, but once you get into it, it’s not.” He chuckled. “Though I’d be willing to give the money a shot. You know, just to see if I could cope.” He arched an eyebrow, as if uncertain how his joke would go over.
Samir laughed. “I’m not gonna lie. The money is kind of nice. But I swear, if one more person from my past suddenly tries to get buddy-buddy with me ...”
Nizar rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He met Samir’s gaze. “So what are you going to do? About Anthony?”
Stay up all night wishing I could change things I can’t.
“Don’t know. But I think if I stay with him, I’m just going to drive myself insane.”
“You really want to break up with him?”
Samir sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t even know which way is up right now.” And normally, when he was confused or upset or just needed camaraderie of some sort, he’d log on to Rawson’s Moonatics. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t go back to being SirMarrok—the forum had known about the novel he’d been writing and he’d even shared the title, so even the least-observant people had made the connection by now. They knew he was SirMarrok. Which meant Rawson’s Moonatics wasn’t an escape anymore, just like Ulfhedinn was no longer the guy he could just go to for support and a sounding board.
Nizar touched his arm. “Is there anything you want to do? Maybe get away for a while?”
“Joining the French Foreign Legion has been done.” Samir shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I just need some time to think. Stay away from the internet and let it all blow over. Do something else.”
“Like?”
“Play games and read books. Take up some hobbies I’ve never had time for.”
“And Anthony?”
Samir shook his head. There wasn’t much he could do. If Anthony wanted space, he could have it. If he wanted to continue their relationship, well, that could get complicated. It killed Samir inside to think of losing both Ulfhedinn and Anthony Rawson—his friend, his idol, and more than either of those. But he couldn’t get comfortable in their relationship because he couldn’t stand walking on eggshells. And this fame shit ... he’d only had a taste, and it was already way too much.
There weren’t many people he could ask for advice, either. Knowing most of his friends and family, they’d take one look at the age gap and dismiss the relationship as doomed to fail, even though Samir himself barely even remembered there were twenty years between them. Anthony was a big grouchy goofball, regardless of his age.
But everything else? Shit.
He shook himself and turned to Nizar. “I got the new LEGO game. What about doing it in split screen?”
His cousin wiped his fingers on a napkin and reached for the controller. “I’m ready when you are.”