Table of Contents
Title Page
Book Details
Dedication
Mr. March Names the Stars
About the Author
Wes loves his life traveling the Pagan festival circuit, but he loved it more when he wasn't harangued by women a little too fond of his picture in a popular charity calendar—a calendar that mucked up his bio by stating that he's single, but leaving out that he's not straight.
Wes's appeals to the company to change the bio come to nothing until Nash, a lawyer from the company, shows up and promises to do all he can to fix the problem. But though Wes quickly grows fond of Nash, and the interest seems mutual, the calendar problem shows no signs of being fixed...
Book Details
Mr. March Names the Stars
By Rivka Aarons-Hughes
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Amanda Jean
Cover designed by Kirby Crow
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition March 2016
Copyright © 2016 by Rivka Aarons-Hughes
Printed in the United States of America
Digital ISBN 9781620047361
To my fellow Pagans, each on their own journeys, and especially to Leora, my traveling companion on every journey
May 27, 2016: Other Realms Pagan Meet, Minnesota
"Mr. March? Are you Mr. March?"
Wes forced his mouth into a smile that felt sharp and plastic before turning toward the voice that had called to him.
"Oh my goodness, you are!"
Wes wasn't sure who he'd expected the voice to belong to, but a sixty-something grandmother type with light brown skin and big brown eyes wearing an enormous pair of diaphanous blue wings and nothing else wasn't it. He looked around to see if other people were witnessing his embarrassment—in particular, if Ivy was witnessing it—but this early on the festival's first day, the grounds were sparsely populated, and his sibling was nowhere in sight. In fact, the only other person Wes spotted was a wiry African-American guy in his early thirties, leaning against a fencepost and seeming perfectly at home despite how out of place his tight navy polo shirt and pressed khaki slacks looked among the festival-goers in faerie wings, cut-off jeans, and tulle.
"Hello, ma'am," Wes said politely, holding tight to his smile.
The woman smiled brightly at him. "You can call me Bluebell, dear," she said, and Wes managed not to roll his eyes. Of course I can, he thought.
Wes' Paganism ran toward the "fifty-mile hikes and three-day wilderness retreats" end of the spectrum. He felt itchy and out of place among Other Realms Pagan Meet's "otherworldly beings from ethereal realms" set. He and Ivy were each allowed one festival veto per season, and for the past three seasons, this had been his. They had only come this year because, at an hour outside Minneapolis, it was the closest the Pagan festival circuit would bring them to Silver Grove Publishing's headquarters. His presence spoke volumes about how desperate the situation had become.
Other Realms was a small enough festival to fit into a YMCA campground in a third-ring suburb. There were parked cars and camp buildings everywhere, a sort of sawdusty scent, a near-constant whoosh of traffic from the nearby freeway, and too few trees. Sure, the northeast corner held the requisite lake (human-made), and the saplings that the camp management planted when they inherited the land twenty-five years ago were starting to look like real trees. But it wasn't like the later, larger gatherings Wes preferred, held in nature preserves and undeveloped private land where wildness was the order of the day.
Bluebell searched through a small backpack tucked under her wings and turned back with a pen in one hand and Silver Grove's Festival Faces calendar in the other. That damned calendar. Wes opened it to the correct page. There he was, his chest displayed in its pasty-white, freckled, tattooed glory, dark blond hair peeking out from under a battered straw hat. He was seated on a bale of hay, cuddling a lamb barely a month old against his chest, his junk obscured by a strategically placed yellow blanket. Wes signed the page "Mr. March" with an exaggerated flourish in sparkly blue ink.
"Thank you, my dear," Bluebell said. She tucked the pen behind her ear and looked at the picture. "You look happy."
He had been. He remembered the way the sun had beaten down on him the day of the shoot, a welcome warmth after the seemingly endless winter they had passed, at Ivy's insistence, in a remote Alaskan village. It had been a good day, even if the hay bale had been prickly against his ass, and what looked like a genuine laugh in the picture had actually been a nervous gasp as the lamb's kicking hoof strayed dangerously close to Wes' dick.
Bluebell tapped the mini-bio in the lower corner of the calendar page, and Wes hid a groan. Here it comes. "Is this part true? You're single?"
He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
She made a tsk-tsk sound and looked him over with a frank appraisal that made him regret the short cut-off jeans and tight black tank top that were his standard festival uniform. "My goodness, dear, why? A handsome young man like you shouldn't be alone."
Wes gritted his teeth and said, "Haven't found the right guy yet, I guess."
Bluebell sucked in a sharp breath and looked at him through narrowed eyes. "It says in your bio—"
"And it's a real shame," Wes interrupted before she could accuse him of intentionally misleading anyone, "that the publisher didn't let us write our own bios so we could've avoided the confusion. But I'm definitely gay."
"Are you sure?" she demanded, and Wes gave her points for audacity. "Have you ever had sex with a woman?"
"No," he shot back, "have you?" He judiciously left off saying he'd never had sex with anyone.
Bluebell bristled, and Wes braced himself—for either a firm talking-to or a hard shove, the usual responses to that comeback. But after a second, Bluebell laughed. "Point taken, young man," she said. "My daughter will be disappointed."
Wes nodded. He'd been wondering when the daughter/granddaughter/niece/second cousin twice removed would come into the conversation. It seemed like any woman who didn't want to date him herself (he'd figured Bluebell didn't, based on the number of times she'd called him "dear") had a single female friend or relative he'd be perfect for. If he were straight or bi, he'd be one of the luckiest men in North America.
"I wish her the best," Wes said sincerely. "I'm sure there's a great guy out there for her."
"Just not you."
He nodded again. "Just not me," he confirmed.
Bluebell returned the calendar to her backpack and wandered off, nodding to the man at the fence as she passed. The man nodded back and then picked up a briefcase from the ground (who brought a briefcase to a Pagan festival?) and approached Wes, who watched with interest.
Up close, the guy pinged all of Wes' aesthetic appreciation buttons. Like Wes, he was on the short side and leanly muscled. The dark umber of his skin glowed in the early morning sun, and his dark brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and curiosity. Every festival should have a welcoming committee like this.
"Mr. March?" the man said, but not with the prurient lust that most people put into it. This was professional fact-checking with a Dr.-Livingstone-I-presume briskness. His voice was a little higher and softer than Wes had expected.
Wes sighed. "It'll do," he said. He made a gimme motion with one hand. "I hope you brought a pen, because I don't have one on me."
The guy
looked at him blankly. "Excuse me?"
"To sign your calendar." He gestured to his cut-offs. "Not a lot of pocket room in here for pens."
The guy looked from Wes' face to his hand and back and then said, "I think you've misunderstood me, Mr. March. My name is Nash Larsen. I'm an attorney in Silver Grove Publishing's legal department."
Wes' plummeting spirits soared. "You came! I was going to come to you guys. Oh, man, this is great!" He grabbed Larsen's hand in both of his, giving it an exuberant shake. "Thank you."
"You expressed uncertainty about the status of your transportation," Larsen said, and Wes dropped his gaze, embarrassed. "My assistant thought it prudent that I come to you."
"I appreciate it," Wes said sincerely. He scratched his head as he looked around. "Do you want to come to my tent?" When Larsen looked faintly appalled, he added, "That's not a come-on, I swear. It seems like a better place to do business."
Larsen hesitated, no doubt pre-grieving his expensive-looking black loafers (had he ever been to a festival?), but then looked around as if taking in the exposed nature of their surroundings for the first time. "Yes, all right," he said.
"You could take them off," Wes said as he led the way to the tent. "Your shoes and socks. If you're worried about mud or dirt."
The appalled look came back in force. "That would be highly unprofessional."
Wes snorted. "Look around, Mr. Larsen. You're in the middle of a campground that's been turned over to a couple hundred wild Pagans for a week. Professionalism isn't on the menu for the day."
"I'll keep it in mind," Larsen said stiffly, and Wes let it drop.
Wes kept his eye on Larsen as they approached the tent. He always loved watching people's reaction to their first glimpse of it. In this instance, Larsen stopped dead, eyes tracking around the space as if trying to find a trick to it. "This is…"
"Home sweet home!" Wes caroled, waving his hand toward the two camp chairs in the porch area.
Wes and Ivy lived out of this tent for eight months of the year. After their first year on the circuit, they'd realized that no commercially available tent was going to allow them those few creature comforts they refused to surrender while maintaining the connection with nature that was so vital to them—that was the reason they didn't buy a travel trailer. So they'd had this tent custom-made, and it was a thing of beauty to all who beheld it.
It wasn't large: technically, it slept six, which, as people who camped a lot knew, meant four if you didn't plan on sleeping on top of each other. It was old-school, one hundred percent cotton, and dark green, allowing it to blend in with any wild or semi-wild space. Most of the really cool stuff was inside, so Larsen wouldn't see it, but he could be suitably impressed with their porch space. An extra flap on the outside could be propped up with poles to make an overhang to sit under, which was common enough. But most tents didn't have an extra extra flap that could attach to any side of the overhang to shield people from light wind and rain from any direction.
Wes led them toward the two camp chairs under the overhang—no drop-sheet today; the winds were calm, and the sky was beautiful and clear—and the itty-bitty table between them. "Can I get you anything?" he asked. "We have cold water, and I can make it hot if you'd like good tea or crappy coffee."
"Water will be fine, thank you." Larsen set his briefcase on the table and opened it, pulling out papers with efficient, economical movements that entranced Wes.
"What's that?" Wes asked as he ducked inside the tent and hunted up two mugs to fill from the water jug.
"Copies of donation receipts, proving that proceeds from the calendar have been given to Pagan organizations, as advertised."
Wes popped his head out of the tent. "Whoa there—"
"The model release form and photocopies of the models' signatures, proving that they were willing participants and at least eighteen years of age."
"Hey, wait a second—"
"Standard materials Silver Grove shares when someone expresses concerns about the calendar."
Wes stomped back to the table. "Now you've misunderstood me. My concern isn't about the profits or the models. It's about the pictures."
Larsen's expression hardened. He started gathering his papers back up, now with anger in the motion. "If you're interested in posing for a future year, that is a matter for Public Relations, not Legal. Good day, Mr. March."
Anger bubbled up in Wes, and his appreciation for Larsen's willingness to come out here collapsed under annoyance at his prissy, condescending behavior. "It's Piedmont," he snapped, slamming the mugs onto the table. "If you're going to be a jerk, at least use my real name."
Larsen paused, scowling at Wes. "The appointment notification said—"
"Then your assistant has a crappy sense of humor and needs a refresher course in sexual harassment and not objectifying clients. In the meantime, my name is Wes Piedmont, and I'd appreciate it if you heard me out before you judged me."
Larsen glared but took his hands away from his briefcase, folded them in his lap instead, and inclined his head. "I'm sorry," he said, and although he didn't sound sorry at all, Wes appreciated the gesture. He took a deep breath, considered Wes carefully, and said, "Let's start over." He held out his hand. "My name is Nash Larsen, I use he/him, and I work for Silver Grove Publishing."
"Hi, Nash," he said, shaking hands. "My name is Wes Piedmont. I also use he/him, and I'm in Silver Grove's Festival Faces charity calendar for next year. Month of March."
Silver Grove's festival calendar ran October to September, and it was shot and assembled so far in advance that it was available in early May, at the beginning of festival season. The publisher had a presence at every major festival in the U.S. and Canada, so festival-goers could pick one up any time and be ready to hang it on their walls when the new year rolled in. So even though Wes' page was almost a year away, the calendar was out there now, and autograph requests were already pouring in thick and fast.
Larsen's pissed, confused expression relaxed into something warm and understanding. "Hence why my schedule said I had a meeting with 'Mr. March'." He shook his head and sat. "I'm sorry. You're right; our department's administrative assistant has a terribly inappropriate sense of humor. I've reprimanded him several times, but he's otherwise the best assistant we've ever had, and I guess that's the price we pay."
Wes shrugged as he sat, unconvinced that anyone was so good at their job they couldn't be properly schooled on what was and wasn't proper workplace behavior. Not the he was an expert on that, since he hadn't held down a long-term job since he was twenty-two.
"What, exactly, is the nature of your concern, Mr. Piedmont?"
Wes shuddered. "Please, call me Wes. The last person who called me 'Mr. Piedmont' was trying to cram me into a button-down and a tie."
Larsen laughed, and Wes wondered if he wore button-downs and ties around the office. He surprised himself by thinking it'd be a good look. "In that case, call me Nash."
Wes nodded and leaned forward, linking his fingers together on the tabletop. "So, here's the thing." He gestured toward Nash's briefcase. "You got a copy of the calendar in there?"
Nash rooted around under the papers he'd returned to the briefcase. He made a small, triumphant sound, which Wes found weirdly cute, and emerged with the calendar in his hand. He was already flipping to the March page as he settled it on top of the briefcase. "Here we are." He studied the photo with more detachment than Wes was used to.
Oh, well, Wes thought. Probably straight.
But when Nash looked up, there was a warmth in his eyes that Wes couldn't quite describe. "It's a nice picture," he said, which was the most tactful thing anybody'd said about it so far.
Wes nodded. "I don't have any problem with the picture. It's the bio that's making a hundred kinds of trouble for me."
Nash's gaze slid to the bottom of the page, and he immediately started reading the bio aloud. The recitation charmed Wes, though he'd memorized the bio by now. Nash had a lovely reading
voice, steady and sure. "'Wes Piedmont is a member of Procyon Coven in the Reclaiming tradition, which he's been practicing since he was sixteen. Wes travels the festival circuit with his sibling and fellow covener, Ivy, selling handmade body care products under their Dog Stars label. Wes' hobbies include fishing, nineteenth-century American poets, and, yes, cuddling adorable baby animals. And you're in luck, ladies—Mr. March is single!'" Somehow, Nash managed to read the exclamation mark into the last sentence in a slightly sarcastic way. Wes approved. Nash tapped his fingers against the page and considered him. "And there's a problem with that?"
Wes groaned and jabbed the page with a calloused finger, covered with tiny scars from years of woodworking and helping Ivy with xyr metalworking. "That last sentence," he said. "'You're in luck, ladies!'" he recited in a mocking sing-song, "'Mr. March is single!'" Nash winced at the venom in Wes' tone, and Wes almost felt guilty. Almost.
Nash squinted at the page. "And you're... not single?"
"I don't care about ladies!" Wes threw up his hands and sagged against the back of his chair with a quiet whuff of breath.
Nash's gaze flicked from Wes to the calendar and back. "You're gay?"
Wes toyed with the idea of being one hundred percent honest. But on reflection, it seemed like too deep a level of intimacy for someone he'd known for less than five minutes, so he said, "As the day is long."
Nash pursed his lips as he considered the bio. "And you believe this error was introduced… when? After you proofed the copy?"
"You know, you're the third person to ask me that. I'll tell you what I told them: there was no copy to proof. At least, I never got any. I asked a couple other people who posed, and they said the same thing. We showed up at the shoot, signed the contract and model release, posed for the camera, and we didn't hear anything more from Silver Grove until our contributor copy showed up in the mail." He shrugged. "Mine got delayed because I don't have a permanent address, but that's not Silver Grove's fault."
"Thank you," Nash said dryly.
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