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And yet, when Luca had seen his article go live for the first time, with his name and his picture and his words—unfiltered and unshackled—he hadn’t given a damn about the size of the payoff. Just like he hadn’t cared that the audience was tiny compared to a big city newspaper.
Because it was a start.
An honest start.
And it was a start that had already paid off.
After the surprisingly strong response to the article—already the most viewed in the website’s history—Katy had hired him for another gig, sending him out to the Chelatchie Folk Festival.
Chelatchie was a tiny town about an hour outside Portland. Fifty-one weeks a year, it had a small general store, sixty houses, and not much else. And for the other week, during Spring Break, it hosted the biggest folk festival in the whole West Coast. One where tens of thousands of people came to camp among rolling fields. To drink and sing and dance among the winding paths and hidden stages and tree-shaded corners.
To Luca’s joy, Katy hadn’t asked him to review the music. Instead, she’d asked him to write about something much more fascinating. Something that Luca couldn’t believe he was getting paid to research.
Sex at the festival.
Who was having it?
How was it initiated?
What were the attitudes and politics and dramas?
All with interviews and photos and tons of squishy details.
Three months ago, he’d thought that kind of topic unprintable. But now, there seemed no topic more obvious. It was something everyone would be fascinated with. A story guaranteed to spark conversations.
Because among these hills were thousands of college kids in the prime of their lives. With the attitudes of the Swinging Sixties rekindled for one crazy week. With an air of freedom and debauchery and experimentation around every verdant bend.
In theory, that was why Luca was here, at the High Top—a circus-style tent at the center of the festival, surrounded by thick-grassed hills that made it surprisingly private. It was more a café than a music stage. A communal point to laze and laugh and find new companions.
In theory, it was these revelers that Luca was watching. Seeing the ease that strangers approached each other. Marveling at how mere moments would pass before they’d lean over and lay lips on each other. Sliding hands beneath willing skirts and unzipped flies when they thought no one was watching.
Luca might have felt voyeuristic about that, if not for the two-dozen interviews he’d already snagged with these new pairs. And throuples. And this one campsite where half a dozen people were engaged in a pansexual pile of debauchery.
In theory, he was here to get more of those eye-opening interviews.
In theory, he was here to show this exciting world to millions of curious readers, sneaking a wide-eyed glance on their overpriced laptops.
In theory . . .
The reality, however, was a little different.
As the smooth cocoa warmed Luca’s chest, the only thing that captured his attention was the man in the far corner, strumming a ballad to the bacchanal. It was a song that merged effortlessly with the space. With the steam of the bay leaf and the earthy warmth of cinnamon. With the chill of the air and the haste of the touch. With the flustered excitement of those getting handsy below rope-spool tables, far too busy to even notice the music.
Now and then, the musician would join his strings in song, singing low and deep and somehow soft at the same time.
He sang like an old picture that had been hung on the wall for years. One that no one noticed at the time but would instantly miss if removed.
Now and then, the musician would catch Luca’s eye and beam like a lighthouse over gentle waves—protecting and guiding.
After a moment of holding each other’s gaze, the bigger man cast a curious look at his drink. Luca tried to hide it, but eventually revealed the bobbing balls of white foam.
Artair smirked with a you’ll never hear the end of this grin.
And Luca sighed contentedly.
Because he never wanted to hear the end of this, either.
It was past midnight when Artair joined him from the stage, winding down his set so perfectly that he drifted away like a dandelion on the spring breeze.
