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He’d been so smug about those little scribbles on celibacy, hadn’t he? So detached and professional and so fucking pleased with his turns of phrase.
But no amount of wordplay could hide the fact that he’d put himself in an awful position. One that he didn’t know how to escape.
And yet, as the days wore on, that self-directed anger turned to worry about the man who’d broken his feeble resolve. Because Luca dreaded to think what Artair must be going through right now.
After all, last week Artair had all his clothes out to dry after one morning of rain. Now it had been over a week, and this downpour was far harder.
Was his ancient tent even waterproof?
Was he even able to keep dry?
The poor guy had to be struggling out there. Shaking in the storm. Unable to light a fire. Relying on whatever rations he could keep from the rain.
It was a terrible thought, made worse by the fact that Luca couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He was stuck in the tower, unable to leave.
As much as Luca had originally scoffed at that idea, Sandy had convinced him of the risk. As she said, pine trees had tons of oil in them. And anyone who’d thrown a handful of soaking needles onto a fire would agree that they never stayed wet for long.
All it would take was one well-placed lightning strike and the reason for his posting would become very obvious, very quickly.
Still, he tapped his rubber soles impatiently against the soaked wood. Because Luca had seriously considered ignoring Sandy’s instructions of staying put. Of braving the squall and making sure that Artair was okay.
And why shouldn’t he? Every inch of the woods was surely too damp to catch fire now. Even a pine tree couldn’t burst into flames when it was practically underwater!
But just as that tantalizing doubt took hold, a blinding light tore through the dark, spiking down in jagged blades just a few hundred feet from the tower. It was joined a few moments later with a boom that deafened the valley, shaking the floorboards for a full minute of terrifying call and response with the wild.
This high up, the lightning seemed like a scream from some ancient god. A roar that told Luca not to doubt the havoc that could come at any moment.
No, Luca thought, as Sandy’s ragged radio voice hissed through the open door, demanding another update. I guess not.
Besides, Artair wasn’t an idiot. He knew these wilds far better than Luca did. And if he found himself in any real trouble, he’d come and ask for help.
The pages came and went from the typewriter, keys clicking in time with the rooftop drumming.
It was midmorning—not that you could tell, the light totally strangled by the clouds.
Luca had used every word he could think of to describe the rain. Precipitation. Deluge. Shower. Downpour. But even he couldn’t make ten whole days of it sound epic anymore.
Every urge in the pit of his soul—the same pit that had long endured rejection for refusing to sugarcoat his words—begged to write truthfully about Artair. To talk about his body. His smile. His easy manner. His incredible contradictions.
Rough but soft.
Commanding but playful.
Kind but strong.
To detail the temptation that Luca wasn’t strong enough to fight.
To explain why he’d failed . . .
Yes, it was just a kiss. And an over-the-clothes grope. But Macy had been clear that nothing was allowed to happen. That was their deal. And the straight community considered a kiss and a squeeze way more scandalous than the gays—who generally thought nothing of making out with a friend if they got bored.
But what was he supposed to do now?
Was he supposed to just stop writing? Throw the pages into a fire and give up on the project?
Or was he supposed to waste his time and write the truth in all its squishy details, knowing that the Gazette couldn’t risk printing an article like that? That no newspaper could.
Or was he supposed to write a lie? To pretend like the kiss had never happened and that he’d been celibate this whole time?
