Epilogue

FESTIVE NIGHTS

T he March sunset was crisp, adding a contrasting warmth to Luca's steaming drink.

He reclined into the downy hill, so much calmer than the rock-music sweat boxes he'd attended in college. Instead of some overcrowded field, this place was more like a glorious maze, with secrets around every curious twist.

As he sipped the hot chocolate—complete with the double marshmallows he would not be telling Artair about—Luca took stock of the seven months that had passed since they'd left Bleeding Heart Tower.

After hearing that he'd failed his pledge, the Gazette had refused to even read his story. What followed was a hundred fruitless pitches to other traditional publishers, all the way from Los Angeles to Chicago.

In the end, Luca had finally sold his story to Ponderosa . It was an upstart website run by a Katy Loch, a crazy-eyed tech savant that Luca had met by accident in a San Francisco dive bar while visiting Artair's family.

Katy was... well, insane was probably the best word to describe her. Insane and driven and totally fearless. Someone who was creating a sweet new approach to the whole news making paradigm, party peeps!

Rather than selling physical magazines or newspapers, her goal was to create something fully online—and fully out of reach of the Federal Communications Commission, which had zero power over the internet. But she didn't want to build some boring blog. No, she wanted an integrated thought space that catered to educated, affluent and upwardly mobile twenty-somethings from San Francisco to Vancouver. An audience that was socially conscious. Environmental. Engaged. And above all, sex positive .

The result was a website full of warm-toned photos in muted plaids. Heavily pierced girls holding boutique beers by autumnal lakes. And lots of articles like Twenty Ways to Reduce Your Carbon Footprint this Burning Man .

It was the kind of website that practically no one had heard of, but everyone who had was the right kind of person. Trend leaders. Innovators. Thinkers. The kind of people with architectural hair and thousand-dollar shoes. The kind of people who'd approached Luca in their dozens over the last month, recognizing his face and praising his writing.

Luca still had no idea how the site made money. Judging by the payoff he'd received, there was a good chance that it didn't . His check was an absolute pittance compared to what the Gazette originally offered. So little that he had to keep hunting down odd jobs bartending and working in cafés wherever they went.

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.

"How's the sex survey coming along?" he said, falling into a hay-stuffed potato sack by Luca's side, the guitar still around his waist. The overall effect was like a frat boy at a party, about to launch into a drunken rendition of "Sweet Caroline."

"Not sure, babe. I was kind of distracted."

"Well, there are a lot of people here."

"It wasn't them I was noticing."

"Oh, really? Who was it then? "

Luca grinned. "This doofus I love. You probably haven't met him."

"Mmmm, lucky doofus," said Artair, kissing him sweetly. His mouth was warm from all the singing. "But we should probably be quick."

Luca raised an eyebrow. "Really? Why?"

"Well, there's this total stud that I love on the hill. And he could catch us at any moment."

" Bastard. Is he better than me?"

"He's pretty fucking amazing."

Before they could join the other pairs in some heavier activities, there came the sound of a clearing throat beside them.

A woman was sat at a nearby clutch of chairs—late thirties by the look of it, with sun-bleached hair that was impossibly bouncy for a half week of camp showers. Luca had seen her milling around the High Top for the last few hours but hadn't paid her much notice.

"Hey friend!" she said in a warm voice. "You're Red Bear, right?"

Artair winced at the recognition. It had already happened a few times since Luca got published. "Yeah. I mean... I guess?"

"Awesome, awesome. I would have just called you by your real name, but I couldn't see you on our schedule." Artair blinked, tensing a little beside Luca. "Oh, sorry. You've got no clue who I am, do you? Charlie Kay, music director for the festival."

She extended a hand, which Artair took cautiously. "Sorry, was I supposed to register with someone else before I started playing?"

"Gosh no. The High Top's been here since the first year of the festival. And they've always arranged their own acts and open mics. I'm just thrilled to be meeting with the Red Bear."

Artair cleared his throat. "Well, if you liked the article, this is the guy that?—"

Luca elbowed him as discreetly as he could. Whatever was happening was about Artair, not him.

If Charlie noticed the thump, she didn't say anything, keeping her gaze fixed on Artair. "So, the man of the moment, huh? And you're here strumming background tunes, unadvertised, in a café of all places?"

"Ahhh, yeah?"

She chuckled and took out a business card. "Listen, we've had a cancellation for night six in the Melt Tent. I've got a few other acts I could offer the set to, obvs . But I thought you might be interested?"

"The Melt Tent?" said Artair, in a strange inflection that Luca couldn't place. He was staring at the card like it was a daunting shadow on a dark night.

"By the vegan pizza place? Past the mask store? Not the largest venue, I know. And mostly full of college kids looking to sink into the grass for a few hours. But I thought that vibe would suit you perfectly? A place where the music is the accent, not the attention ?"

Luca suppressed a grin. She was quoting his article.

Artair cleared his throat again, heavier this time. "I... don't really do that kind of thing. Feature acts ."

Charlie chuckled. "Hey, I hear you, bro. And I'm not here to challenge your artistry! Great to see someone keeping the old jam band tradition alive. But you were too distinctive up there to be anyone else. And I'd have kicked myself if I didn't make the offer. The first opportunity for Red Bear to headline a stage as a named artist? It'd be a big coup for the festival. "

Artair shifted against the hessian.

Charlie raised her hands. "But zero pressure, my man. I'm not here to crimp your evening. Just have a think about it, 'kay? Either way, we should totally grab breakfast tomorrow. There's this cute place that does organic biscuits and gravy. You can even bring along that Luca guy. I know a few stories that would make his typewriter sizzle."

And with a knowing wink in Luca's direction, Charlie was off.

Artair stared at the business card, gripped cautiously between two fingers. "Well, that was weird ."

"Yes and no," said Luca, thinking about all the people he'd seen approaching strangers with interesting propositions over the last few days.

Artair ran his thumb along the smooth edge. "What do you think? I'm not going to do it? Right?"

Luca took his boyfriend in.

His face was uncharacteristically tense. Usually, Artair would've just tossed the thing away, as Luca had seen him do with several sleazeballs who'd recognized him from the article—clueless chancers wanting to take advantage of the moment and wring him for a quick buck.

But this was clearly different. Somehow more tempting .

And in that indecision, Luca saw a reflection of himself. He saw a man distraught and confused by a crackling campfire. Overwhelmed by thoughts of the impossible. Frustrated by feelings of driving down a one-way road that he couldn't escape.

And before him was the man that had changed everything . Who'd found the off ramps to places that Luca had never dreamed possible.

"I don't know," said Luca, trying to keep the conspiracy from his voice. "It kinda sounds like an interesting middle ground, doesn't it? A place where you could still vibe with the moment, and not have to play some static set list, but for a crowd that wants that improvisation? That values someone who can ride their emotions and heighten their experience? People who come specifically for that connection?"

"Yeah," said Artair, as a little of the tension released from his face. "But... having people come to see me specifically? Artair Osmond: Live and Loud? That feels kinda weird."

"I'm pretty sure it would say Red Bear: Sweet and Stocky on the poster."

"Ugh. I'm never going to live that down."

"I gave you eleventy billion chances pick a different code name!"

"I know, I know! But it was just too accurate. And you were so flattering in your descriptions."

"Believe me. None of it was flattery ."

"Oh? You really think I have the most spellbinding cock in the history of humankind? "

Luca laughed. "I haven't proved that enough?"

"Not sure. Maybe I've forgotten?"

Luca ran a slow finger from Artair's hand. It trailed along his forearms, heavy with fur below his rolled-up plaid. Along his broad bicep and strong shoulder. Finally, he settled on the man's already hard nipple, giving it a soft tweak and extracting a high-pitched yelp from beneath the warm wool.

"Tell you what," said Luca. "There's this little spot at the very back of the tent. See those hay bales that no one is going to?"

Artair coughed and adjusted the guitar, suddenly lopsided by his waist. "Where the light isn't quite reaching?"

"That's the place. "

The guitar was standing at almost forty-five degrees now, totally failing to hide Artair's excitement. Despite the arousal, Artair's focus remained on the business card. "But... what about this?"

Luca took the card gently, slipping it into his boyfriend's chest pocket. As he met Artair's lips, he laid a hand across the big man's heart—one that promised to be there no matter what he chose. "Why don't we think of it as an adventure ?"