The Mating of Michael (3 page)

Now there were hundreds of small digital publishers and indie authors flooding the market. The big publishers, and their stable of midlist authors like James, were finding it more and more difficult to grab their piece of the pie. And these days, authors were expected to be on social media constantly and out in public too. James had resisted as long as he could, but he’d finally had to cave.

Amanda spoke carefully. “I understand you don’t like people to know about your disability, James, but… you’re wrong. No one’s going to think any less of you as an author because you’re in a wheelchair. In fact,” she took a deep breath, “Egret wants to do some new author photos with the chair, and they want you to update your bio to be a lot more explicit. They want you out there, as you are. Readers like to feel they know authors these days, and your story has a great human-interest angle. And there’s the Millennial Award to consider.”

The Millennial Award, given out annually by the SFFA, the Science Fiction Fans and Authors Association, was the sci-fi equivalent of the Hall of Fame. Only the most influential and classic of works were considered. There were rumors that
Troubadour Turncoat
was under consideration this year. And if James won, the status would help his career tremendously.

But even if he had a snowball’s chance in hell, it wouldn’t be for that reason. “You think they’re going to give me a Millennial Award because I can’t fucking walk?” James asked in disbelief.

Amanda frowned. “No. But what they
won’t
do is give the award to a man whom no one has ever seen and who clearly won’t show up at the awards dinner. Maybe that’s not right, but that’s just how it is. My point, and I’m sorry to have to bring it up, is that no one cares if you’re in a wheelchair.” Her voice softened. “I’m not suggesting you try to take advantage of your situation, James, but you don’t need to let it hold you back. Honestly, you don’t.”

James knew Amanda believed what she was saying, but she had no idea what she was talking about. People
did
care that your legs were useless. James knew that all too well. They left you behind, and they went on to live their own, unfettered lives. And why wouldn’t they? If he could leave his own body behind, he would. Isn’t that why he wrote? To escape?

But the writing itself, his work, he’d wanted it to be free of all that, to let it be pure imagination, not weighed down or defined by this damaged human form, by who he was physically. He fucking
loved
that no one knew him, that he could be anyone at all. Isn’t that what science fiction was about, pure imagination? Was it really so much to ask to remain anonymous?

Apparently, it was. Today, everyone would see J.C. Guise for what he really was. His stomach clenched tight, and he opened the front door.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I even bought a new goddamn sweater. So… yeah.
Yo comprendo
. The sleeping giant awakes, the worm turns, the virgin sacrifice is ready for the altar, etc., etc. Now unless you have a pill that will render me charming, chatty, and unconscious for the next three hours, let’s just get it over with.”

Amanda gave him a quirky smile as she joined him. “If I had a pill that would make
you
chatty and charming, James, I wouldn’t have to work for a living.”

“So no change, then.”

She barked a laugh. “You’re lucky I have a thing for acerbic writers. Flail at me all you want. I can take it.”

“And that’s why you’re no fun at all,” James groused.

He steered his electric wheelchair out to Amanda’s car. She paused before opening the door. “Seriously, I know this is hard for you, but it’s going to be fine. Who knows, you might even enjoy the attention.”

“I might. Or I might projectile vomit on a fan. Remember, I did warn you.”

“No worries. I have vomit bags in my purse.”

James set his brake and swung himself into the passenger seat. He helped Amanda figure out how to collapse the chair so she could put it in the back.

When she climbed into the driver’s seat, he said. “Do you seriously have vomit bags in your purse?”

“No. But I would have bought some if I’d thought of it.”

James tsked. “Falling down on the job. Didn’t they teach you anything in agenting school?”

“They taught me to not get emotionally invested in my clients. You can see how well I learned
that
lesson.”

James felt himself, stupidly, blushing. He had no easy quip for that one.

M
ICHAEL
SPENT
a ridiculous amount of time getting dressed for the book signing. He first tried on a gold sweater and black pants, but the gold was too sparkly and a bit too over-the-top. After going through everything in his closet multiple times, he ended up in a body-hugging deep royal blue V-neck sweater that was soft around the revealed skin at his chest, and his best jeans, which sat low on his hipbones and were tight in all the right places. The deep blue sweater emphasized the contrast between his dark hair and pale skin and made his small, tight body look even thinner.

He put his shiniest silver gauges in his ears along with a few tiny faux diamond chips, added some clear lip balm and a trace of charcoal eyeliner to make his eyes pop, and brushed his hair forward on his face with a little more edge than usual. No need to overdo the fem thing, but it was a statement.
I’m gay, so if you’re interested, here it is.

God, even the thought was enough to make him tingle with nerves and heady anticipation.

Michael lived on Capitol Hill, so he decided to walk over to Elliott Bay. He was worried about sweating since it was a warm day for February and he had a bag full of books to be signed, but parking would be atrocious. No way could he deal with the endless circling and trying to snag a spot today.

In the name of all that is holy, I’m about to meet J.C. Guise.

It was hard to explain to anyone what J.C. Guise meant to him. Michael was sixteen when he’d read
Troubadour Turncoat
, a novel in which a young medic on a Federation starship discovered that the Federation was using biological weapons against civilians. The medic single-handedly brought them to their knees through sheer determination, a fierce sense of right, compassion, and moral honor. It was a book that changed Michael’s life, cementing his decision to follow his mother’s footsteps into medicine and become an R.N. The way J.C. wrote Acton Halliway, with his deep sense of empathy and his absolute core of right and wrong, had shifted something inside Michael. Maybe it was silly to say you were who you were thanks to a science fiction novel, but it was true. It wasn’t that the book created Michael’s personality, but it had
plucked
certain attributes he already had, making them resonate at the precise time in his life when he was trying to figure out who he was.

And then there was the small matter of his crush. When Michael got the hardback of
Troubadour Turncoat
from the library, the back inside flap had an author photo. To Michael’s knowledge, it was the only photo ever acknowledged to be of J.C. Guise. It wasn’t a very good photo, being about an inch square and one of those artsy black-and-whites where the focus was a little fuzzy. It was a candid shot of J.C.’s face as he looked off to the left, smiling. But the photo was big enough—big enough to see that his hair was long and dark and his face was young, square, strongly featured, and mysteriously attractive. The brief bio beneath the photo said that J.C. Guise wrote the bestseller
Troubadour Turncoat
at the age of eighteen and was considered a science fiction prodigy.

Michael had looked at the book’s publishing date and figured out that J.C. Guise was only a few years older than Michael himself—nearly his own age, cute, and so fucking brilliant. A serious fanboy crush had begun right then, aimed at that little one inch square of a face. Interestingly, although Michael read every book J.C. published since
Troubadour Turncoat
and had googled him many times,
he’d never learned any more about him. In fact, the lack of information on Guise was noted loudly in the online community. Some said J.C. Guise was a pseudonym for a celebrity or a prisoner. One guy swore J.C. Guise was a sixty-six-year-old grandmother living in Georgia who wouldn’t acknowledge the books because there were sex scenes in them. Then again, that same guy thought Mars had pyramids and sphinxes.

Michael turned the corner and saw Elliott Bay. There was a line out the door. He stopped abruptly, his stomach flipping hard enough to threaten him with a second breakfast.
Shit.
J.C. Guise was in
that building right there
. He was about to meet J.C. Guise.

God, he was such a dork. Even if J.C.
had
been that cute eighteen-year-old in the photo, he was likely overweight, married by now, and not even a little bit gay. So there was no reason for Michael to be freaking out. Yes, he loved the guy’s writing and was going to adore getting his autograph—but that was all. Right?
Do not press the panic button
.

Michael took a deep breath and got in line.

H
E
ENDED
up in a conversation with the girl in front of him—about J.C.’s books among other favorites. It was a good way to self-medicate his nervousness, and so he went with it. He was so caught up that he barely registered when they moved inside and he had to hand over his ticket for the signing. He looked up and suddenly realized that he was only about twenty feet or so from the signing table and
there he was
.

Michael shouldn’t have been able to recognize J.C. based on that one small, ten-year-old photo. And yet he so totally did. J.C.’s head was turned three-quarters to the side as the older woman sitting next to him said something, and the angle was quite close to the one in that old photo. He was more mature, more fleshed out, but his strong features were the same. J.C. had high cheekbones, heavy dark brows, a good-sized Roman nose, wide lips, and a rather full jaw. His hair was long enough in the back to curl up a bit, and he had bangs slanted over his forehead. It was a lighter brown than it had looked in the old photo, more of a light chestnut. His long, thin neck with its strong Adam’s apple gave him a geeky, professorial look that was exaggerated by a dark orange crew neck sweater over a blue Oxford shirt.

In those first few seconds, Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away. At some level, he knew he was staring and being way too obvious. But most of him was too amazed that he was actually looking at J.C. Guise, the guy who had penned almost all of his favorite books, to care. And then two things happened. First, J.C. looked forward to talk to the next person in line. He smiled at them, and then his gaze moved down the line and
his eyes met Michael
’s. The second thing was this—Michael noticed the handles on J.C.’s wheelchair.

Michael stopped breathing. For what might have been a few seconds or might equally have been several lifetimes, J.C.’s eyes were locked on his. And then J.C. looked away, took a book from the person in front of him, and started to sign it.

The girl Michael had been talking to hit him on the back, hard. “Breathe,” she said, sounding a little bemused.

Michael gasped in air. “Oh my God.”

The girl laughed. “Gee-yah. And I thought I was a fan.”

“He… he….”

“Yeah, I saw it. He looked right the fuck at you. I’ll be your eyewitness in case you ever wanna tell the story.”

She was teasing him, but Michael was too distracted to react. Because J.C.
had
looked at him, with scarily intelligent brown eyes, and he’d looked for several seconds too, like Michael’s face was a sticky pad and it had grabbed that sliding gaze and held it tight, and…
gah
.

But also,
J.C. was in a wheelchair
.

Michael had to know. He squatted down and fiddled with the buckle on his boot, trying to get a look under the table. Someone moved, and he got a glimpse, just a glimpse, of jeans that were baggy around very thin legs. Michael straightened and stared at J.C., his throat suddenly dry.

Withered legs: it was a long-term disability. Michael watched the man sign a book with strong, steady hands, his upper body broad, healthy-looking, and tremor free. So it wasn’t a recent accident nor was it a nerve disorder that affected his whole body. It was something like a long-standing spinal injury or birth defect.

So many things fell into place for Michael in that moment—why J.C. Guise had avoided the public eye, how an eighteen-year-old boy had managed to know enough about medicine and pain to write
Troubadour Turncoat
, and the many characters in J.C.’s stories who were damaged in one way or another. Hell, in
Gorsham’s End
, the main character was a BAMF warrior who wore a cyber-suit and had paralyzed legs when he took it off. It also explained, in a strange way, the deep connection Michael felt to J.C. through his work that had never completely made sense before. It was suddenly so
obvious
.

Of course, J.C. Guise was disabled.

And Michael knew something else too in that moment. As weird and sort of awful as it was, he was glad J.C. was in that chair. Not only because a whole man could not have written what J.C. wrote—Michael could see that now—but also because it meant that Michael had a shot with him. That assumed a lot of things he had no reason to assume—that J.C. was available, that he was gay, that he would have any interest in Michael. Yet none of that fazed Michael’s immediate gut reaction.
I’m for you.

If only it were true.

By the time the girl in front of Michael was done talking nervously with J.C. and had walked away—shooting Michael a
go-get-’em
look as she went—Michael’s palms were damp and he was feeling light-headed. He suddenly found himself standing in front of the author’s table at the head of the line, and he had, what, twenty seconds to make an impression?