Rogue Passion

by Sionna Fox

  Max bent to kiss me, his mouth warm and tasting like cinnamon. He looked pretty damn pleased with himself. “I’m observant. Especially when a cute queer dude is hanging around the office.” My mouth went dry, remembering that first meeting.

  “As I recall, you were kind of a dick to this cute queer dude,” I teased and Max set both of our mugs on the nightstand before flopping into bed next to me and pulling me easily against his chest.

  “I know. I really am sorry. Turns out feeling powerless really pissed me off. The idea that we’d actually block this thing didn’t seem real. I’m impressed with you, kid.”

  “Really, it wasn’t me. My oral argument isn’t what won the case. Thank god for the Clean Water Act. Not even our climate-change-denying EPA head can outright dismiss federal law.” Although sometimes it seemed like he tried to do exactly that.

  Max bit gently on my shoulder, and all thoughts of environmental regulation drained from my mind. My cock filled as his scruff rubbed against my sensitized skin. The level of desire I felt for this man was almost alarming.

  “I’m so hung up on you,” Max said quietly into my neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever crushed on someone so hard. It’s been a long eight months.”

  My stomach flipped at the naked honesty in his words. It hadn’t only been me fixated on him. And maybe this could turn into something real. I was filled with a powerful suspicion that I might need him, that Max was a man I could come to know and trust and maybe even… Nope. I needed to pump the brakes here.

  “You had some way of showing me,” I joked, staring hard at the haphazard pile of books on Max’s nightstand. “You never said a word on the conference calls. If Sheila hadn’t filled me in on your data collection efforts, I would have figured you bailed on the whole project.”

  “I’m not the one whole bolted after we kissed,” Max scoffed. “You seemed so freaked out. I felt like a total creep.”

  “You were my client.” I put heavy emphasis on the last word. “Kind of. But I’m sorry. It’s a defense mechanism. I’ve always kind of retreated into my work, I guess. But with you, I couldn’t.” I blushed at my candid admission.

  Max beamed, looking suddenly smug. “I knew it! You were into me all along. You were just trying to be professional and shit…”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, not sleeping with your clients is kind of a basic tenant of legal ethics.”

  “But you thought about sleeping with me when we first met?” He was practically gloating now.

  “Yes. Okay, I wanted to sleep with you. I mean, have you looked in a mirror?”

  “You think I’m fine!” Max squeezed my ass.

  “Forget it.” I knew I was beet-red and smiling so wide I had to bury my face in his shoulder. “I want nothing to do with you.”

  7

  Max

  August ~ Four Months Later

  Fifty-two. Fifty-two perfect freckles dusted the thin skin under Harry’s eyes and across his nose. Not that I’d spent the last few minutes brushing my fingers over said skin or counting said freckles as Harry dozed with his head in my lap. The moment I lifted my hand from his face, he grumbled something in his sleep, and I smoothed his hair, wanting him to get all the rest he could. When he’d shown up late last night, on one of the last trains out of the city, Harry’s exhaustion hung on him like soaked clothing.

  Following his success in blocking the pipeline, he’d been given heavier and heavier caseloads. For the most part he was thrilled, bouncing around my kitchen and railing against the EPA’s deteriorating record of investigating civil rights complaints. I’d worried Harry might straight-up combust as he told me about EcoJustice’s work to compel the agency to enforce environmental protections in communities of color that were disproportionately exposed to environmental hazards. But as soon as he’d finished detailing the complaints and outlining the framework for the accountability system, he’d crashed, practically falling asleep in the plate of spaghetti I set in front of him.

  Over the past four months we’d been seeing each other, I’d tried to do the bulk of the commuting. I was glad to drive into Brooklyn most weekends to lounge on Harry’s shockingly uncomfortable couch and watch him work. Plus, Ella was awesome, and I loved listening to the two of them fact-check the news in increasingly frenzied tones. This weekend, though, Harry insisted he needed a break from the hot garbage smells and caged heat of August in New York City. Secretly, I was glad he’d opted to visit me, so I could at least be on home turf to ask him the question that was making my stomach feel like it was filled with a mix of ghost peppers and sand.

  Harry’s eyes blinked open, and he smiled softly up at me. Fuck, he was so damn adorable when he first woke up. And all the time.

  “Sorry, how long was I out?” He sat up and arched his back in a post-nap stretch.

  Now that he was awake, my nerves rushed back, and my gaze flicked from his face to the late afternoon sun shining through the fluted oak leaves above us. In theory we’d laid out under the tree to work, but Harry’s briefcase sat untouched, and I had pretty much no desire to read another of the seven billion reports Sheila sent me about mountaintop removal mining. Instead, Harry had napped, and I’d stewed and worried, getting pissed off at myself.

  “Not long. You should get some more rest,” I answered finally.

  “Nah. Honestly, I feel a lot better. I guess a good meal and a half dozen orgasms really relaxes me.”

  My attempt to smile must have read as more of a grimace because Harry narrowed his eyes at me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked with a slight edge of humor in his voice. The kid, um, guy was so good at reading my emotions it was scary sometimes.

  Shit. This was so not the time or place for this conversation. Okay, I didn’t really know what the time or place was. Maybe my bed after I’d taken Harry’s dick down my throat. I just wasn’t used to feeling this damn vulnerable in a relationship. In the past I was at best mildly interested in the guys I’d dated, at worst they’d been self-loathing douchebags. But with Harry, something clicked. He’d managed to infiltrate every fiber of my life. He was always on the edge of my consciousness. Seeing myself through his eyes was like adjusting the focus on a pair of binoculars, everything in my world suddenly rendered bright and clear. So I wanted this to work, and I wanted him in my life more often than the damn weekends.

  “Seriously, what’s up with you?” Harry pressed his hand to my forehead like I had a fever.

  “Nothing.” Great, I sounded angry. Not an ideal start for the conversation I wanted to have.

  “Do you have something you want to say to me?” He was grinning now, messy hair falling into his face as he shook his head indulgently.

  “Um. Yeah, I have some thoughts.” Seriously, I didn’t know what the fuck Harry saw in me. He’d gone to the best law school in the country, and I couldn’t manage to string a coherent sentence together half the time.

  The softness of his lips against mine calmed me.

  I could say this. “Okay, fuck it. I hate only seeing you on the weekends. It fucking sucks that you’re exhausted all the time, and you never eat actual meals. So, I applied for a job in the city, and I fucking got it and I start in October. I’m not saying we have to move in together or anything, but maybe I could, you know, cook for you sometimes and meet you at the office when you work late. Because I love you and I worry and—”

  I was incredibly thankful that Harry cut me off with a kiss attack because I was pretty sure what I’d been saying made zero sense.

  “I love you too, by the way. I hope that’s okay. And I want all those things, too. Now tell me, what’s the job?” Harry murmured when we finally broke apart for oxygen. I could hear the smile in his voice as he rushed through the words. Still needing to be close to him, I pressed my face into the warm, soap-smelling skin of his neck.

  Confidence back in place, I nodded smugly at the man I loved. Saying those words had been fucking scary. Knowing Harry felt the same way was a relief. Talking about
my awesome new job with the youth program at Guerilla Gardens would be a lot easier. Quickly I filled him in on the details of the position training teens throughout the five boroughs to grow healthy food, mentor youth, and mitigate the food deserts and health inequities in their own communities.

  Environmental education was the thing I’d missed most about working as a park ranger. While I’d liked my time with the Catskill Coalition, my heart was more in the why of environmental conservation than the how. Helping people understand the deep, intrinsic value of nature was definitely more my jam than the endless piles of paperwork and bureaucratic headaches of policy work. Plus, I was stoked to discover that environmental education didn’t just exist in the city, but that it thrived there. These grassroots organizations did tangible good to improve people’s health and well-being.

  Once I’d finished my rant, Harry and I sat in the kind of comfortable silence that falls after rewarding conversations. His head returned to my lap and I threaded my fingers into his dark hair. I thought maybe he’d been lulled back sleep by the warm air and the chatter of the chickadees and starlings in the surrounding trees.

  “Are you sure you want to leave all this?” Harry’s voice was almost timid in its softness. He gestured to my house and the flourishing vegetable gardens behind us. “Because I know this place matters to you. It was clear from the moment I met you.”

  I’d endlessly mulled over that exact thought since deciding to apply for the job in the city. Because, really, I had no idea what it would be like to live packed into an apartment building, away from the hiking trails and fresh air that kept me sane. I never thought anything would make me feel better than this land, but Harry did. He’d become as necessary as the sun and wind.

  “I’m sure,” I said. My voice was thick and I cleared my throat. It was time for a change. A fresh start.

  “Well, in that case, I’m going to have to insist that we find a place together. My apartment doesn’t allow pets, but it’s pretty much a dump anyway. I think we can figure something out.” He brought my palm to his lips and kissed it.

  I grinned. “I know we can.”

  Thank You!

  Thank you so much for reading Nature’s Heart! This is my first published story and I really hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to know about my future new releases, you can subscribe to my newsletter! Shout out to my chosen family: Michael, Megan, Tara, and Tessa. Thank you for reading my stories and listening to my anxious rambling. Additional thanks to my fabulous fellow anthologists, Rebecca Vaughn, Sionna Fox, and Jeanette Grey, for your helpful and supportive beta feedback. Finally, a huge thank you to Tamsen Parker for taking a chance on my writing!

  Resources

  Want to donate your time or give financial support to some environmental organizations? Here are a few!

  Seed Savers Exchange: Seed Savers Exchange is a non-profit organization that takes threats to biodiversity seriously. They work to conserve and promote America's culturally diverse but endangered garden and food crop heritage for future generations by collecting, growing, and sharing heirloom seeds and plants.

  Earthjustice: This might sound a little familiar to readers of this story… Earthjustice is dedicated to using the power of the law to preserve the environment and build a healthier future for everyone. Areas of casework include restoring clean air and water, protecting people from toxic chemicals, reining in our dependence on fossil fuels, and strengthening the rise of clean energy.

  Indigenous Environmental Network: IEN is a grassroots organization formed by Indigenous peoples working to address environmental and economic justice issues. They seek to educate and empower Indigenous peoples and to address and develop strategies for the protection of our environment, our health, and all life forms.

  Soul Fire Farm: Soul Fire Farm is committed to ending racism and injustice in our food system. They train over 100 predominantly Black, Latinx, and Indigenous people each year to take leadership as farmers and food justice organizers in their communities.

  Interested in supporting LGBTQ+ organizations? Here are some of those!

  Lambda Legal: Lambda Legal is the oldest and largest national legal organization whose mission is to achieve full recognition of the civil rights of lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, transgender people and everyone living with HIV through impact litigation, education and public policy work.

  It Gets Better Project: The It Gets Better Project is a nonprofit organization with a mission to uplift, empower, and connect lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer youth around the globe.

  BAGLY: The Boston Alliance of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Youth, is a youth-led, adult-supported social support organization, committed to social justice and creating, sustaining, and advocating for programs, policies, and services for the LGBTQ youth community.

  About the Author

  KD Fisher is a queer, Cambridge-based environmental educator and writer of authentic, heartfelt LGBTQ+ narratives. As much as she loves the Northeast, she daydreams about one day moving to a cabin in the desert.

  * * *

  When KD isn’t writing she can usually be found hiking with her overly enthusiastic dog, mooning over other people’s gardens, or being really bad at yoga.

  * * *

  Website

  Twitter: @kdfisher_author

  Instagram: kdfisherauthor

  Fight Fire With Fire

  Sionna Fox

  Frannie Thorpe is on the verge of getting everything she ever wanted, crowned by securing an exhibition of the work of late queer photographer Rian Sampson--until her funding is put in jeopardy by a would-be senator with an eye on slashing public funding for "pornography."

  Ashley Patterson, Sampson's muse and erstwhile indie music darling, steps in to help close the funding gap. Working together to save the show creates sparks, but neither woman is prepared for the fire between them.

  For the artists whose work has sustained and inspired me, and to everyone who believes in the power of being seen.

  1

  “I know how to write a fucking grant, Larry.” Frannie slammed the door to her office. The muffled thump of old wood catching on the door frame was not nearly as satisfying as she wanted it to be. The board had hired her to drag the museum into the twenty-first century, increase attendance and ticket sales to special exhibitions, and bring in new corporate donors—all of which she could and would do—but it would be so much easier if they didn’t fight her every step of the fucking way.

  Hell, she’d proven that by securing the region’s only showing of the collected works of the late Rian Sampson, and the grant money to get the thing up on the walls. She’d even managed to get funding that was tied to educational opportunities by devising a program for low-income high school students to view the exhibition and learn about youth culture documentary. Basically they were going to let a bunch of teenagers run around the museum taking selfies, but they’d learn that teenagers had been doing that pretty much since the invention of the camera.

  While she should have been basking in the success of scoring the show from a highly competitive field of applicants and working with the installers to draft plans for the temporary walls they were going to need—Sampson’s catalog was enormous considering their brief professional career—she’d been in a board meeting, defending her ability to get the funding for next year’s schedule.

  They didn’t trust her yet. But they would. This season was going to put their little regional museum back on the map. For years, they’d done nothing but bring in second-rate touring exhibitions of stodgy classics, and their ticket sales and membership numbers showed it. People were going to notice them again, and bringing in Rian Sampson’s work was a major first step.

  Sampson’s work was a brilliant mash-up of documentary and editorial, grit and glamour, their portrait subjects were messy, their snapshots sharply composed. Grainy black and white from basement punk shows mixed with lushly-colored studio shots. And so many of them featured Ashley Patterson, m
use, singer, activist, and erstwhile indie cool girl.

  Frannie had been watching Sampson since their work started appearing in small magazines, following them as they moved into gallery shows while documenting their muse’s rise from belting her heart out in dirty basements to doing the same in front of thousands. Through Sampson’s lens, Patterson was at turns fragile and confrontational, sweaty and screaming into a microphone, then underlit and exhausted, curled in on herself in the backseat of a van. They were a powerful team, shaping the image of what it meant, for that moment in time, to be young, to be queer, to be fat, to be feminist, to be dirty and beautiful and to lift a middle finger to anyone who wanted them to be otherwise.

  When Sampson had died eight years earlier—a stupid, senseless case of untreated pneumonia—Frannie had felt it like the loss of a friend. To bring Sampson’s work here, to Frannie’s hometown, to hold up a mirror for every closeted kid like the one she’d been, it was personal. For the first major show of her tenure, the first evidence of the changing face of the museum, to be the work of a queer artist—Frannie couldn’t have dreamed of better. Approving the press packet that had just gone out had been a bittersweet triumph.

  But before she could draft floor layouts for the exhibition space and talk to the permanent collections curator about making some changes to their installation to better lead attendees into Sampson’s work, Frannie had to finish this section of another grant proposal so the board could hem and haw over whether she and the education director were out of their minds. They weren’t. And she’d prove it.