Moonstruck Page 2

  Code for, “You’re not writing, are you?”

  “Come on in.” He stood aside and waved her into the house. “You know you don’t have to buzz me, right?”

  “I know, but God forbid I let myself in while you’re in the zone.”

  “Much appreciated. Fortunately, I’m not.” He started toward the kitchen. “I was reading. Checking something in the chronology.”

  “So how’s the book going?” she asked.

  “It’s not really going, but I’m working on it.” He resisted checking whether SirMarrok had responded. He knew stalkers and obsessives, and he wouldn’t turn into either of those. “How’re you?”

  “Jesse’s off to his grandparents, so ...” She shrugged. “Kind of bored, I guess.” Between being Anthony’s bodyguard, part-time PA, and the mom of a very active eight-year-old, Chas had the patience of a Swiss glacier. Bored or not, she deserved a break.

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  “I have. And I brought you muffins, in case you’re interested.” She put the tin down. “Jesse didn’t manage to eat all of them, though he gave it a good try.”

  “Thank you, St. Jesse, patron saint of starving artists.” He opened the tin and found one of the banana-and-chocolate ones that he loved. Beat cooking for one person while feeling guilty about not writing. “Coffee?”

  “I’m too wired. I’ll make tea?”

  “Sure.” He offered her the kitchen with a sweeping gesture, “Mi casa es su casa.”

  She gave him an ironic glance, considering she lived on the property as part of her package (and because her last house had been torched by her crazy ex). While she went through the cupboards to assemble a teapot and hot water, Anthony demolished the muffin in a few bites, and then set up the coffee machine again.

  “So, planning a long night?”

  “There’s a full moon. I absolutely plan on a long night.” He had the most amazing view from the office, and he could happily spend a few hours gazing at the moon if the novel didn’t budge. The whole werewolf thing had started because some of his Army buddies had teased him about being a secret werewolf: nocturnal, “dark brooding charm,” a penchant for taking solo night hikes during full moons—all of that. And look where it had taken him.

  “You getting anywhere with that book?”

  Anthony groaned.

  Chas laughed. “Still?”

  “Still.” His eyes darted toward his phone. “Of course, then one of my fans manages to figure out exactly where the story needs to go.”

  “You’re letting fans beta read for you now?”

  “No, no. I told you about SirMarrok, right?”

  “Sir—” Her eyes lost focus. “Oh, right. From that fan site.”

  “Yeah. He finished his book. And it’s ...” Anthony sighed and threw up his hands. “It’s amazing.”

  “So what are you going to do? Ask him if you can use it?”

  Anthony straightened. “I’m not going to take his work.”

  “No, but if it’s really that good for the series ...”

  “I don’t know. Leanne will probably blow a gasket if she even finds out I’ve been reading fanfic, never mind wanting to incorporate some of it into the series.”

  “If the alternative is waiting another year for the eighth book, she might be flexible.”

  Anthony laughed dryly. “Good point. Well, I emailed him to see if he wants to meet and talk about it.” His stomach clenched. Had that been too forward? Didn’t SirMarrok like meeting people in real life? Might think—

  “Oh, Anthony.” Chas snickered. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered.”

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “The second you mentioned meeting him, you got all tense and pink.” She gestured at her cheeks, and Anthony could suddenly feel the heat in his own.

  “I’m just a little nervous. He has no idea who I am.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “Is that the only reason you’re nervous? Because he’ll find out his biggest fan is Anthony Michael Rawson?”

  “I ...”

  Chas laughed again and patted his arm. “So adorable.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Is that any way to talk to the woman who keeps the stalkers away at cons?”

  He groaned theatrically. “Fine. Sorry. And yes, it is the only reason I’m nervous about meeting him.”

  “Bullshit it is.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  She ticked the points off on her fingers. “You blush whenever you mention him. You’re clearly more nervous about meeting him than you were about being on a panel with a bunch of your literary idols at Comic-Con. You actually think I’m going to believe for a second you’re nervous about meeting another writer who’s—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. But you’re still wrong. I’m just, okay, maybe a little intimidated by this kid.”

  Chas blinked. “Intimidated? Why?”

  He waved a hand at his phone. “Because he can write fucking circles around me with my own goddamned characters! What the hell am I supposed to say to him, anyway? ‘You clearly know my own world better than I do, so how much do you charge to save my ass?’” He shook his head. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have emailed him. It isn’t like I can use his book, and for all I know, he completely botches the ending anyway.”

  “And how likely do you think that is?”

  Anthony met her gaze, then sighed. “About as likely as me finishing book eight by tomorrow morning.”

  “Sounds like he might save your ass, then.” She smirked and started to speak, but he gestured sharply at her.

  “Don’t even say it.”

  “Say what?”

  He glared, and she smothered a laugh.

  “All right, I won’t say it. But has he responded to your email yet?”

  “I don’t know.” He glanced at the phone again, eyeing it like it had morphed into a spider that was about to bite his hand. “I haven’t checked.”

  “Well.” She nodded toward the spider-phone. “Check it.”

  He hesitated, but figured there was no point in arguing with her—there never was—and picked up the phone. He refreshed his inbox, revealing several new emails. Most were notifications about posts on threads he’d been following on the fan site, but there it was:

  SirMarrok.

  Holding his breath, he tapped the message.

  Are you serious? Coffee? That’d be great. When/where? — SM

  Anthony was almost certain that if Chas hadn’t been standing there, he’d have made a very undignified sound. Only her presence and playful scrutiny saved him.

  “He wants to meet.” And Anthony couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. Probably blushing again, if the heat in his cheeks was any indication.

  “Aww.” Chas grinned. “So it’s a date?”

  “It is not a date.”

  “Why not?”

  “Besides the fact that he’s probably half my age?”

  She snorted. “Or maybe twice your age?”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “Point being, I want to meet him because I want to talk writing. Maybe I can hook him up with Leanne, get his career going.” Unless, of course, he was already a seasoned writer who’d been impersonating a newbie to get his kicks. But no. No. SirMarrok had seemed really fucking genuine about everything. Anthony didn’t know that much about him in real life—they’d mostly talked writing and wolves and fan stuff. He’d kept his own life under wraps so he could be himself. Which was ironic. This whole fame thing locked him into behaviors and reputation and expectations.

  “Anthony.” She folded her arms and arched her eyebrow. “It is okay to get involved with someone. You know, if you click.”

  “And it’s okay not to get involved with people.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ve done just fine this long.”

  Chas studied him. “You get lonely sometimes.”

  He shrugged. “Happily married people feel crowded sometimes. Doesn’t mean they want the other person to
leave. In my case, yeah, I get lonely once in a while.” Another shrug. “Doesn’t mean I want someone else in my space.” They’d had this discussion before, and the thought of going through the whole thing again exhausted him, so before she could answer, he held up his phone. “You mind if I send him a quick reply?”

  She waved a hand. “Sure.”

  He typed out, You’re in the Seattle area? What about Saturday, around lunch? You choose the location. He knew SirMarrok was working in IT—he sometimes referred to a “job” and a “boss.” And if they hit it off, he wanted the option of spending a few hours rather than being constrained by schedules and such. Damn that need for a day job for most writers. A talent like SirMarrok should be raking it in and choosing his own hours.

  “So what’re you going to wear, Casanova?”

  “Uh. I was planning to go kind of low-key.” Thank God he’d only given in to that author photo-related pressure after the publisher had agreed that it didn’t necessarily have to resemble him; some atmospheric black-and-white shoots and Photoshop had made sure he didn’t really look like the guy on the jacket. However, if SirMarrok was the überfan he appeared to be, he’d have seen Anthony at conventions, or on Tumblr and YouTube. “Won’t be fooling him I guess. Damn.”

  “Ah, the burden of fame.” Chas put a hand on her heart.

  “Well, I could use a little break. Head out to Seattle on Friday, watch a movie or something, and come back on Sunday? You want to come along?”

  “Movie sounds great.” She opened his fridge and made a face. “I have a nice ratatouille bake at the house.”

  “No competition from the lone pomegranate.”

  “I thought so. And while I go get that ...” She pointed at the pile of letters. “A few nice ones this time.”

  “That’s because you burn the nasty ones.” He finished off his coffee. “How bad were the bad ones?”

  “Mostly threats over the next book not coming out.”

  “Christ, every time I read one of those I want to kill a character.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Mr. George R. R. Martin, we know.” She laughed. “I’ll go get that ratatouille.”

  She left the kitchen, and Anthony’s gaze went back to his phone. So that was that. In a few days, he’d meet the guy who apparently knew his own stories better than he did. And much like the unfinished book upstairs, he had no idea how this weekend was going to play out.

  Chapter 2

  Samir idly stirred his mocha and kept glancing at the coffee shop door. His iPad sat on the table beside his arm, the screen dark, and whenever he wasn’t staring at the door, he was staring at the tablet, trying to convince himself not to read through this or that chapter of Axis Mundi again. Now that Ulfhedinn had read it, all the errors were jumping out at him. The pacing in chapter seven was a mess. Raphael would never have let the suspect go in chapter three without roughing him up a bit more. Damn it, what was he thinking? He should have given it one more editing pass before he’d sent it to his friend.

  At least he hadn’t posted it on Rawson’s Moonatics yet. Shorts were one thing. He wasn’t posting a full-length novel without having it beta read first. And apparently it wasn’t even ready for that step.

  Damn it, why did I send it? I should’ve waited. Read it again. Something.

  Ah well. The damage was done. He could correct it on his iPad all he wanted, but the only version Ulfhedinn knew about was the jacked-up version Samir had already sent.

  Which must not have been too bad, he supposed. Not if the man was willing to come see him to talk about it. Hopefully he wasn’t just stroking Samir’s ego. Or desperate for human contact under the guise of “let’s talk about your book, which actually sucks but you don’t need to know that.”

  He sipped his coffee. As if he needed the caffeine; he’d been jittery as hell all day. Maybe because he had no idea what to expect. With as little as he knew about this guy, Ulfhedinn could literally be anyone. And he hadn’t given Samir a description. Samir had sent him one—I look Middle Eastern, and I’ll be wearing a black leather jacket and black-framed glasses—and Ulfhedinn had just responded with “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The door opened again, and Samir almost dropped his coffee on the iPad.

  He was tempted to take off his glasses, wipe down the lenses, and look again, but no, he wasn’t seeing things. He knew that face anywhere. Fucking anywhere.

  Silver foxes weren’t exactly uncommon in Seattle, but Samir could pick Anthony M. Rawson’s face out of any crowd.

  He glanced at the door. Maybe he could grab an autograph, and then get back to his table before Ulfhedinn showed up. Or he could stall Anthony long enough for Ulfhedinn to meet him too since he’d be here any second.

  And ... Anthony Rawson was coming this way.

  Walking right toward him.

  Looking right at him.

  Holy fucking hell, he wasn’t ...

  Samir’s gorgeous idol stopped in front of him and extended his hand. “SirMarrok?”

  Holy shit. What?

  Autopilot kicked in just in time, and Samir extended a hand. It was probably shaking. Definitely sweaty. Oh God, he’ll think I’m a total dork. “Samir.” Which, yeah, total letdown after SirMarrok. CallMeAnythingOkay.

  “Nice to meet you. Another coffee?”

  “Any more will probably blow out my heart valves.” Sure. Because the caffeine is the problem right now. He cleared his throat. “Thanks, though.”

  “No problem.” Anthony smiled in the exact same way he smiled when somebody asked him something really weird on a panel. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Do they serve replacement brains here? This one stopped working. “I’m good. Feel free to get something. I’ll be here.” Unless I’ve sunk through the floor because holy shit I’m being a dork.

  “Okay.” Anthony gave him another smile and a wink, and Samir needed both hands to keep himself upright on the chair. That was the kind of smile that routinely made fangirls and quite a few fanboys squee. In the flesh, it was even more powerful. And Anthony did it to him rather than to one of the actors at Comic-Con.

  Anthony headed for the counter, and Samir managed to breathe and wipe his palms on his jeans. It was like two realities were playing Titanic and iceberg: a collision that was somewhere between life altering and catastrophic. Women and fandom first!

  He brushed at his face in case he had food crumbs stuck to him, and then peered back to where Anthony was patiently waiting for a coffee with a cellophane-wrapped sandwich in his hand. Comfortable-looking sneakers, a pair of really nice black jeans, a graphite-gray T-shirt, and a blue-and-gray windbreaker for those unexpected rainy interludes.

  At cons, he sometimes wore a suit, or a blazer and/or a vest with jeans, and compared to most thriller or paranormal writers Samir knew, Anthony was a sharp dresser. He was also distinctly lacking the wild hair and beard. Not one perfectly trimmed gray hair out of place. It was a bit of a cliché, but Samir had figured Anthony Rawson was gay after his first con appearance—and by how he treated gay characters in his books.

  The more he’d read about him, the more certain he’d become, up to the point where Anthony’s famous “I like to keep some parts of my private life just that” comment in a Publishers Weekly interview had confirmed it. And made Samir a little bit embarrassed that he had cared a great deal whether or not Anthony was gay. It really shouldn’t have mattered, right?

  Ulfhedinn was gay. He’d never made any bones about it. And he and SirMarrok had been known to flirt in a roundabout way: exchanging slash fic, discussing what they’d do to various Triple Moon characters if they had some lube and half a chance, and holy fuck, it was so weird realizing he’d been getting off on a character with the very guy who’d created that character. That was like gushing online about how much you wanted to fuck someone in every imaginable way, and then finding out you’d been talking to the dude’s father. Who you also happened to have a huge crush on. Fuck.

  Right then, that gorgeou
s silver fox turned around with a large coffee and a sandwich. Samir drained the last of his long-since-cooled mocha. The caffeine wouldn’t do him any good, but he needed something because his mouth had inexplicably gone dry.

  Anthony took a seat at the table and as he stirred cream and sugar into his coffee like a perfectly normal human being—you’re not fooling anyone, Rawson.

  Samir tried his damnedest not to become a stark raving lunatic fanboy over the fact that Anthony Rawson’s sandwich wrapper had just touched his iPad.

  Dude. Get a grip. Like, now.

  “I guess I should introduce—”

  “You’re Anthony Rawson.” Samir said it quietly to avoid drawing any attention—back off, assholes. He’s mine for today.

  Anthony’s hands stopped, and the corner of his mouth rose. “You recognized me.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “Well, people have been known to plaster my face all over the forum.”

  “Yeah. And I’ve met you.”

  “Have you?” He didn’t sound surprised at that, either.

  Samir nodded. “I, yeah. At Comic-Con.” And MoonCon. And RainCon.

  Color bloomed in Anthony’s cheeks, and he smiled a bit sheepishly. “I, um—”

  “You meet thousands of people at these things.” Samir smiled back. “I don’t expect you to remember me.”

  “I do try to remember people’s faces. But, as you said, thousands ...” Anthony focused on his coffee again. His hands suddenly didn’t seem as sure and steady as Samir would have expected. He wasn’t nervous too, was he?

  “So, all this time ...” Samir cleared his throat and tugged at his glasses. “All this time, I’ve been fanboying over Triple Moon with you.”

  Anthony chuckled. “Yep. I very carefully didn’t let anyone know I was Ulfhedinn.”

  Samir’s cheeks were on fire now. “You could have warned me before I sent you that one about Raphael skull-fucking Dima.”

  Snickering, Anthony winked. “But then you wouldn’t have sent it to me, would you?”