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Chester from HR might have been a small-minded ass, but he was right about the consequences for lying. About how quickly a journalist could get brought down by bending the truth. Particularly if you were a convenient enemy for the right-wing media. Young. Minority. Left leaning.
And this?
The late-night bigots would have a field day with “Celibate” Gay Latino Sex Columnist Was Actually Getting Boned All Summer Long.
It would be their dream headline. They’d make him a months-long scandal. A national disgrace. And certainly kill any prospects of a career in the industry.
And so, there was no way around it: he would have to do what he’d promised.
He’d have to be celibate.
Completely celibate.
No kissing. No loopholes. No technicalities. Nothing.
And that meant he needed to take precautions.
Staying in civilization over the summer would be a crap choice. Not with all the thick daddy thighs mowing lawns and the beefy suburban bears flipping weiners on their barbecues. Not with all the furry guys jogging along secluded paths, with a bulge in their shorts and a wink in their eyes. Not with the four dozen contacts in his phone who could invite him around for some sweaty summer fun at any moment.
Across Luca’s high school computer flashed a string of job applications, each more isolated than the last.
Lighthouse attendant.
Pearl diver.
Fire lookout.
Luca was proud of this idea, mad as it might seem. Not only would he get some much-needed money, and have the time to write his article, but he’d also get away from all the sexy men who might break his resolve.
Luca snorted awake to the tinny ring of his Nokia 3310.
He’d been dragged from a perfect dream about the stocky blond accounting student from his college gym, the one with the largest and most delicious ass that he’d ever seen in real life. The ass he never got to taste, despite how often the guy shot him nervous glances in the locker room, adjusting his bench position to ensure he got a full view of Luca’s soapy body in the showers.
The sun blared through the curtains as Luca shook himself to reality. The number was unfamiliar, and it wasn’t even seven.
“Luca Torres?” came a female voice. She sounded about fifty—and like she smoked the same number of cigarettes a day.
“Yeah?” he croaked, still groggy from a marathon night of applications.
The caller revealed herself to be Sandy Shaws—don’t laugh, kid, or I’ll hang up so fast it’ll make your balls burst—shift supervisor at the Washington State branch of the US Forest Service.
Luca blinked, trying to separate a single job from the many.
The . . . fire watch tower?
He sat up. “Wait, didn’t I lodge that application like three hours ago?”
“Yup, and I’ve got a vacancy to fill. There’s a late change in one of my towers and I need someone on deck before summer starts. But if you don’t want the job, I can always call the next?—”
Luca snorted at the poor attempt at pressure. “Sandy, no one calls at seven in the morning for anything if they’ve got other options. So why don’t you give me a few minutes to wake up, and then we can talk?”
There was a long pause on the other end, followed by a great, hacking laugh. “Yeah, I think we’re going to get along just fine, rookie!”
ONE
Bleeding Hearts
Sunlight fluttered through the swaying trees. Pine needles crunched underfoot, still slightly green from late spring, rather than the golden path that nature would lay in the fall. The breeze rustled Luca’s white-and-purple flannel, rolled up over thick forearms and hugging his beefy biceps like a soft blanket.
