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Artair leaned his arms on the windowsill. “You don’t have to believe me. But the quicker we get there, the quicker you can take care of this guy?”
Luca almost tripped out of the chair. “I’ll get my boots!”
The rock scramble was so steep in places that Luca almost did the splits, his soles clinging to the hot granite as he leveraged himself between the cracks.
“How the hell did you find this place?” he panted.
Despite the raw summer warmth, the hike wasn’t actually too bad, with the climb well-shaded by the thick and rustling green of some western hemlocks.
Artair gave his trademark shrug. “Six years is long time to explore?”
Infuriatingly, Artair wasn’t panting—even though he had the full weight of his guitar case strapped on his back, and was carrying Bowie in the crook of one arm whenever the trail got too steep.
Not that Luca should have been surprised. Despite being thirty pounds heavier than him, Artair never seemed out of breath, no matter how vigorous the activity. It was like every part of him was made for outdoors life.
Every now and then, Luca found himself staring in wonder at the man. At how good he looked in his worn green flannel. At how perfectly stocky his calves were, framed by the cuffs of his age-softened work boots.
Luca had never looked at a man’s calves before and thought damn, that is one sexy son of a bitch. But it was different with Artair. Because it was a small piece of the bigger package. A package that spoke to a wildness and a freedom and a virile, thick-bearded, masculinity—like you might come across him in the woods, building a log cabin and eating a moose-meat sandwich.
And yet all of it was perfectly contrasted with the softness of his presence. The cuddles and the grins and the sheer playfulness that he brought to every conversation.
“Which reminds me, I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Luca, pushing down his own sucks of hot air. “Six years is a long time to explore. Why do you keep coming back to Bleeding Heart?”
Artair paused mid-step, in just the right position for his bear booty to be popping out, begging for Luca to slide his tongue in. “Wow,” he said, with false outrage. “If you want me to leave...”
“No, dummy. But if you’re so into new places and new experiences, why keep coming back here? Why go to the effort of building gardens and sheds and making it feel like a home?”
Artair pondered this question. “I don’t know? I’ve never really thought about it. It’s just what I’ve felt like doing, I guess? Maybe some stability makes the rest of the adventures more special? Like, even if I don’t want to be tied to one place forever, some grounding lets me slow down and think about where I’ll go next?” He shot Luca a sly look. “It’s like how you can’t eat marshmallows for every meal? Junk food tastes better if you’ve eaten a carrot or two.”
“Blegh,” said Luca, shaking his head. “Are you going to keep bringing them up all summer?”
“What, carrots?”
“Marshmallows!”
“Only until you actually toast one.”
Luca clicked his tongue. “Hmmm?”
The bigger man grumbled under his breath, the threat dulled by him still standing in prime butt-display position. “Seriously, what is your issue with marshmallows? What’ve they ever done to you?”
“They’re just sweet wallpaper paste! With all the amazing things you can make on a campfire, they’re so overrated.”
“Luca, I care about you. I respect you. But you’re wrong.”
“Oh please. I saw your spice cabinet.”
“What’s wrong with it? That’s all you need to make a good meal.”
“You had five types of salt and no kinds of chili! Honestly, you must be the whitest man on the planet.”
“I don’t know. Some parts of me are pink, too?”
With that, Artair slid his cargo shorts halfway down his ass, creamy white and covered with sunlit ginger fur. The hair across his bountiful cheeks was so fuzzy and soft that it looked like fragrant twines of saffron.
Luca’s eyes bulged. But the second he started to scramble, Artair whipped up his waistband and started jogging ahead. “Come on, slowpoke! Not far now!”
Huge.
