Prologue

TAKING APPLICATIONS

Late Spring, 2005.

L uca Torres grimaced, hoping he'd heard the question wrong.

The office was exactly what you'd expect for the thirty-second floor of the Seattle Gazette —the most prestigious newspaper on the West Coast. One which housed fifty Pulitzer Prize winners and knew it .

Three people loomed opposite. On the left was Jackson Bennet, politics editor—a middle-aged face made pale by the daily grind of news, with a gaze made sharp from the daily grind of espresso. In the middle was Macy Jessup, editor-in-chief—a veneer-heavy smile beneath the eyes of a raptor. On the right was someone Luca didn't recognize from his journalism classes. The man hadn't spoken much, but everything from his thin lips to his thinner hair screamed Human Resources .

The twenty-three-year-old gripped his thick thighs hard, resisting his natural instinct to clap back. "You want me to write a weekly article copying Queer Eye for the Straight Guy ?"

Jackson flicked through Luca's folio of past articles, the same one that had accompanied his long-shot job application. "We obviously love the series you wrote for your college paper. ‘Heat not enough nice."

Luca tried to hide his scowl, but it was a losing effort.

He knew he should suck it up. That an unemployed graduate—from the third best college in the state, no less—should consider it a miracle that he was interviewing with the Gazette at all.

But the way the man said mainstream boiled his blood. It was a code Luca had heard plenty during his degree, and plenty more in the thirty unsuccessful job applications that had followed.

It was a code that implied certain people had no right to be heard. That certain stories had no right to exist.

And Luca had no time for that kind of prejudice.

He'd devoted his life to fighting it, in fact.

"Don't blow a gasket, kid," said Macy, sucking on a sleek menthol cigarette. "You're a sex columnist. You know the score. We aren't in the nineties anymore, and no one is churning out columns with all the squishy details. Not since Janet flopped her tit out at the Super Bowl. Everyone's got to keep it family friendly unless they want the Federal Communications Commission or the Christian lobby breathing down their holes. "

She stubbed her cigarette the same way she spoke. Clear. Direct. Decisive.

Despite his growing frustration, Luca admired that. There was a frankness there that he could respect.

It was the kind of frankness he usually spoke in.

Usually.

But not today.

The stakes were too high for that.

No sooner was Macy's first cherry crushed, than a fresh bolt was drawn from her quiver. "Here's the reality, kid. We want a gay lifestyle column in the Gazette . Seattle's a liberal city, and our readership hates the Red State garbage. Your work's good. We think you could nail the assignment. But it isn't going to be buttholes and blowjobs. It'll be fashion advice and celebrity gossip and tips for what wallpaper is popular this season. That's all we can get away with right now."

On command, the man from HR laid a series of news clippings on the table. "Harry Starks, the Chicago shock jock. On a recent show he interviewed three ladies of questionable conviction about their nocturnal employment. The FCC fined him half a million dollars, and now his radio show is overseen by three live censors. Last month the Miami Observer printed an advice column about a housewife fantasizing over her gardener. The cable news conservatives ran with the headline, "Porn Over Your Pancakes!" They suggested the newspaper should be sold in an opaque envelope, out of the reach of children. The backlash has already cost the Observer a third of their advertisers, and they've had to cut two-dozen journalists."

Luca flinched as each nail to his ambition was hammered onto the polished walnut.

Macy was silent, but her steely glare spoke loudly: You graduated a year ago and there's no professional experience on your CV. No newspaper in the county is printing your fuck fables, kid. No paper in the country can print them. Not in this political climate. So if you want a job at my paper, you'll play by my rules.

The three men around the table had greatly contrasting responses to the situation.

Jackson laughed. "Yeah, it's been a rough few years. Every journalist in the country has become celibate. In their writing, at least."

The HR douche sniffed judgmentally.

And Luca's heart sank.

He knew it was stupid to get his hopes up. To think that a paper like this would want him to continue his previous style—frank and fearless and raw.

But doing some kind of tame lifestyle column? Stories about hairstyles and decorating and dinner parties?

That was worse than being unemployed.

For the last two years, ever since Queer Eye debuted, mainstream culture had been filled with the archetype of the family friendly gay. The best friend. The shopping buddy. The superficial queen on the sidelines, always ready with a catty comment and a pantomime pout. Someone so sandblasted that you couldn't imagine them ever getting a boner.

And that was the opposite of what Luca wrote about. Because he was passionate about reality . Real people. Real hopes, real fears, real desires, real loves, and real sex .

It wasn't proper .

It wasn't polite .

But they were stories that deserved to be told.

Wild and wet. Weird and wonderful. Secret and shameful. Men and women and everyone in between getting up to shocking, salacious activities that no one allowed themselves to talk about.

Beneath the desk, Luca tugged at the bulging buttons of his thrift-store suit jacket. His incisors bit hard against his tongue, stopping him from speaking his mind.

Because Luca needed this job.

He had five bucks left in the bank. He'd already moved back north with his parents after college. He couldn't even afford his own car—his dad would be circling the Seattle streets to avoid paying for parking.

If a thousand unemployed journalists were put in this position, every single one would leap at this offer.

Every single one, except Luca.

Sure, the pay would be great. Sure, it would set him up for life. Sure, it would open doors he could only dream of.

And all it would take was selling his soul.

All it would take was writing something he wasn't passionate about.

And he couldn't do that.

He wouldn't do that.

Just as Luca was about to thank them for their time, a strange little thought came over him.

Every journalist in the country has become celibate...

"What if I wrote about not having sex?" he said, slowly.

He hadn't meant it as some grand comment. It was just a passing thought, muttered more to himself than anyone else.

But the room fell silent.

The two other men turned to Macy, waiting for her lead. She didn't return their gaze—instead, she stared at Luca, like the two of them were medieval jousters awaiting the charge. "Go on, kid."

Luca hid his surprise, heart beating and mind sizzling. " Well, isn't that what everyone thinks when they're trying to find a partner? Is all this rejection worth it? All these meals and coffees and never-ending small talk? All these people who'll never understand me? All this effort just to get laid ? But what if I gave up? Became celibate? How much better would my life be if I just stopped thinking about sex?"

It wasn't a perfect pitch—he usually wrote about people having sex, not avoiding it. But there was still something punk there that caught his interest. It was subversive. Nonconformist. Against the mainstream.

Jackson cleared his throat when Macy didn't immediately shoot the idea down. "It'd have to be a good chunk of time to be newsworthy. A month?"

"Three," said Macy. "Summer's coming. That's the marketing pitch: a summer without sex."

" Dating ," coaxed the HR man, before muttering, "if we must publish that sort of thing."

Macy nodded. "Dating, yes. It'll be a hell of a tightrope to steer clear of controversy."

"Popular though?" said Jackson.

Macy grinned. "Why do you think I'm considering it?"

Luca spitballed. "I could use abstract concepts? Desire. Lust. Throw in some Greek philosophy and Freud. Give it an intellectual edge?"

Jackson looked impressed. "Yes, that could work. Though it's hardly a topic for a weekly column?"

Luca was flying now. He'd caught their attention and there was no way he was letting go. "Why not put it as one big essay in the ‘Sunday Supplement'?"

Macy stared at him again, her face unreadable. The "Sunday Supplement" was the pinnacle of the Gazette —where most of the Pulitzers had been won. Big articles on big topics. "You'd turn down a weekly column for a single freelance piece? And give up sex for the whole summer—no kisses, no gropes, no drunken screws behind the dumpster at Queenies. Nothing? "

"Yes. As an opportunity to show what I can do within your rules."

Until I learn how to break them . . .

Jackson shuffled in his chair. "We don't pay in advance for freelance pieces. The renumeration is highly competitive—even more so if our affiliates pick it up. New York and London and Sydney. But we'd only make the decision once the piece was finished."

The HR man sneered. "And you'd need to sign a guarantee that you'd been truthful to your pledge."

"Come on, Chester," said Jackson. "Surely we don't need?—"

"No, Mr. Bennet. All it would take is one dalliance to come forward and the whole Gazette would be tarred. The conservatives have been watching us for months, just waiting for a mistake. Imagine what they'd do if this story was exposed as a lie."

"Agreed," said Macy, before Jackson could respond. "We'd be toast. Besides, the power's in the honesty. You hear me, kid? Zero sex. Zero anything. I don't want you dating. I don't want you lining up options for when the summer's done. I don't want you kissing a friend on the damn cheek at brunch. Nothing is to happen. Can you handle that?"

Luca paused, the weight of the question pressing down on him.

It had all happened so suddenly. One minute he was readying to march out, the next he was being offered a piece in the "Sunday Supplement"— something most journalists spent decades working toward.

It was an incredible stroke of luck. An incredible opportunity!

But could he actually do it?

A whole summer without sex sounded awful. But after a year of professional rejection, at least this was something .

All he had to do was be clever, write this one article, show them what he could do. And then, job done, he could start pushing their boundaries. Fraying their edges. Working toward the articles he actually wanted to write. Articles that would start conversations and bring people out of the shadows and tell stories that no one else would.

The horizon was faint but there was a sunrise there. A goal. A plan. And this was where that journey started. The first step he had to take, blue balls be damned.

"Of course," he said, as calm as he could.

Chester glared with his mainstream little eyes. "Good. Because if you do lie, Mr. Torres, you'll soon learn the difference between making the news, and making the news."

Luca sipped the steaming cup of hot chocolate—his mother's thick, mouth-watering recipe, with freshly ground cinnamon and a pinch of chili, giving the whole brew a luxurious quality.

There were no marshmallows bobbing on the surface. They'd never been part of his family's pantry, and Luca wasn't sorry for that. He couldn't understand the fetishization of the candy. They were like gooey packing foam, nowhere near as satisfying as a heaped spoonful of dulce de leche .

A flurry of mouse clicks filled the cramped room—a single-bedded time capsule to a chunky teenager who'd always forged his own path.

There was the Polaroid of him at the high school newspaper, wearing that terrible green fedora he thought made him look like a dashing reporter. There was the leaflet he'd distributed around high school—the one with sex education advice for queer kids that his school had refused to teach.

He'd been suspended for that. And had his parents dragged into the principal's office for a dressing down.

The school had expected them to be ashamed. To punish him. To agree that his actions were improper for a good Catholic boy.

Instead, they'd told the school to get bent. And framed the leaflet for him, too.

So you always remember to follow your beliefs, Ni?o.

Luca smiled as the sweet steam tickled his mustache. His parents had always supported him, and he knew they always would. But that safety net didn't take away from this moment. From the incredible opportunity he now had.

The opportunity he'd completely lucked his way into.

The opportunity he couldn't allow himself to fail at.

Three months of celibacy . . .

The dating part of the pledge would be easy. Luca had learned the hard way that he couldn't be a sex columnist and have a loving relationship.

First there'd been Bai, his secret boyfriend in high school—mortified at Luca's sex education leaflet and disgusted at all the attention it might bring on them.

He'd been the first to call Luca a pervert for wanting to write about intimacy.

But he hadn't been the last.

Then there'd been Jack, Luca's first fling in college. Deep enough in the closet for both of them, and convinced that Luca was only dating him to eventually reveal his secret—as though Luca only liked him as a social experiment. As though Luca would ever name someone without their consent.

He'd been the first to tell Luca that he needed to choose between their relationship and his writing.

But he hadn't been the last.

And then there'd been Harry, the first man that Luca had ever loved. Funny. Smart. Husky and playful and sexy as hell in his business suit. He'd been a few years older and all the more handsome for it.

In their two years together, they'd only ever had one fight.

Right at the end.

When Harry had sat Luca down out of nowhere, and tearfully explained that his new job on a political campaign wasn't compatible with someone who did this for a living.

He'd been the first person to break Luca's heart.

And he'd also been the last.

Because Luca had made damn sure of that.

His fingers paused over the keyboard. A tear—sharp despite the months—threatened his cheek.

He blinked it back. Caging it. Rejecting it.

Because it wasn't worth crying over.

Because he wasn't worth crying over.

No, the dating part of the celibacy pledge would be effortless.

The sex part, however, would be brutal.

It was no secret that Luca loved to fuck, and that he was damn good at it, too. He'd written about it for years—all sorts of positions and combinations and partners. And contrary to the mainstream beauty aesthetic that demanded smooth, fat-free skin, his own curvy ass never had any shortage of men wanting a good, long taste.

And Luca loved all of it. The first glance, the first kiss, the first touch. Exploring and embracing and causing great big groans. Finding out what made someone's engine rev, and looking deep into their eyes as you did it for them.

On cue, Luca's bulge stiffened. Usually, he would've unsnapped his jeans and tended to himself. Or dialed one of the many contacts to have the frustration pounded out of him.

But this time he ignored the ache.

Because this time, there were more important things at play.

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!"