“I got a feeling…” Kyle shimmied in his seat, one hand on top of his steering wheel. He leaned forward to flip over his parking permit and pull into his spot all at once. “Hm-hm-hmm, da-da-da, do-do-do.”

The lot was small, tucked around the side of his charity’s building. He kept clicking his tongue along with the music as he craned his neck to make sure he didn’t ding Denver’s car. It wasn’t like Denver drove a Beemer—he wouldn’t be pissed off, but Kyle wasn’t sure his own car would survive the impact.

Once he was sure he left enough room for visitor parking, he shut off the car and shimmied once more.

Kyle was in a damn good mood. This morning’s work had been rewarding. Although most of his work was, it was easy to forget that fact in the face of the more annoying aspects of his job.

Working for a charity had its benefits: getting hit on by the cute university guys, which always left Kyle flustered. Apparently he looked like one still, probably from his trademark green hair dye and unconventional clothing choices.

It helped him connect with kids who wouldn’t talk to an older guy or a woman—especially MSM, the board’s favorite term for men who had sex with men. That was their focus and their mandate, but educating the student body as a whole paid off.

The charity, Plus, had a partnership with several universities and colleges nearby to provide sexual education. One of Kyle’s favorite parts of the job was setting up booths at events to run quizzes, pass out condoms and pamphlets, answer questions, and sneakily educate students.

He’d long ago learned that people didn’t like being preached to, and they didn’t like to think of any of their choices as having long-term consequences. Some believed HIV was a death sentence, or a punishment, or a weapon of fear to wield over them, and they would rather stick their heads in the sand.

Kyle’s message was that it wasn’t a life-threatening disease anymore, but it did have the potential to cause life complications, and it made dating harder, among other things. Prevention was important, but so was early diagnosis and treatment, and regular testing.

He focused with these students on regular condom use, PrEP when possible and suitable, and frequent testing. He wrapped it in a message about overall sexual and physical and emotional health as being important things to begin focusing on in this stage of life, as students took control over their own lives and health.

And young people—not that he, at twenty-six, was ancient, but fresh-faced nineteen-year-olds always made him feel that way—had great questions when someone was willing to hear them.

Kyle’s appearance itself told people he was open to hearing basically anything, and that did wonders. Today’s outfit choice was a plaid skirt over skinny jeans, bright red suspenders, and a black ruffled blouse. He’d worked long enough at building up his wardrobe that basically any of his staple clothing items could be mixed and matched.

After checking his hair in the mirror, Kyle grabbed the first box of leftover pamphlets, condoms, and table banners. He had the fair kit down to three boxes, but he couldn’t quite squeeze them into two so he could stack and carry them in one trip.

He scanned his card at the door and backed through the front door, whistling under his breath at how light the box felt in his arms. That meant it had been a good day.

Once Kyle made it through the front hall, he scanned the card again to get into the staircase, then twice more—to get onto their floor and into their office. It was an awkward, wrist-bending affair when he had a box in his arms, but he had figured out the trick to it long ago.

“Hey, good-looking. What’s cooking?”

Kyle grinned and rolled his eyes at his boss. “Takes one to know one, darling. It was a grrrreat morning!”

“Oh, you flatter me. The new gray hairs I found this morning don’t agree,” Denver mournfully sighed, spinning in his office chair to take in Kyle. “All at my temples still, but I’m wise beyond my years now.” Denver was a couple years older than him, only barely out of his twenties, but already graying.

Kyle snorted and slid the box onto his desk, propping his hip against it. He gestured with a finger for Denver to spin in his desk chair. When he did, Kyle solemnly shook his head. “Nope. Still no whining allowed. It’s a handsome look on you.”

“You always say that.” Denver clicked his tongue and propped up his heels on his desk, flipping through the booklet on his lap. “But I don’t see the men knocking down my door.”

“It’s all the damn security. They’re lining up outside. They just can’t get in,” Kyle assured him, straight-faced. “I’ll go grab a couple of them to schlep the other boxes inside.”

“Good idea. I’ll pull the blinds down. Get me a tall blond,” Denver’s voice followed Kyle back out to the hall, and Kyle laughed.

When he was back inside the building, he set down the boxes and dropped into his chair, beaming at Denver. “Passed out two-thirds of what I brought.”

Denver raised his brows and turned to Kyle again, his finger marking his place in his reading material. “That’s more than usual. Did you promise them kisses?”

“You make me sound like a siren.” Kyle bit back his grin and slid the boxes under this desk—one of his two workspaces in the office. The boxes would live here until the next fair, a few days away.

“I suspect that as the root cause of your green hair. Get it? Root cause.”

Kyle burst out laughing. “Have you been saving that up all morning? ‘Cause I’ll tell you what I’ve been saving all morning…”

“Oh!” Denver pretended to be scandalized. “Lusting after the handsome young things?”

“Never.” Kyle meant it, too—it was just a little weird to be hitting on guys that side of twenty-five when he was, if barely, on this side. “Anyway, it went great. Got some smart questions, only a few pearl-clutchers and bigots.”

“Great.” Denver smiled at him. “Good job. I send my best guy for a reason.”

“Good thing I’m a sucker for your puppy eyes,” Kyle sighed dramatically, spinning in his chair and kicking out his legs. “I have to finish rewriting that pamphlet on the testing centers, though. Did they announce what they’re doing about the State mobile clinic?”

“Yep. It’s caught up in red tape. Something about licensing for the parking.”

“The fuckers.” Kyle glowered to himself. To him and to Denver, human lives were never worth red tape. They often disagreed with doctors, pharmacists, pharmaceutical companies, city councillors, lawmakers, and other “special interest groups” on that point.

Denver snorted. “Yeah. I know. You ready for the meeting?”

Meeting… meeting… Kyle skimmed through the agenda in his brain, but he drew a blank and raised his eyebrows.

“With the tech company liaison.”

“Shit! I mean, um. Yes. Obviously.” Kyle pulled open his desk drawers all at once, rifling through the paperwork in them to grab his notes before the guy from Synergy arrived.

Denver laughed and left him to it, going back to his reading.

Kyle had written the user manual for their existing software, although he hadn’t even been a teen in the late nineties when it was developed. He grabbed a copy of that and his notes on their requirements for the new programs. He’d printed screenshots of the glitches in their existing software, too. What else was he missing?

The phone on the desk rang and Denver gestured Kyle toward it. “That’s probably your man there.”

Oh, damn it. Now I’ll look disorganized. Kyle was keenly aware of how charities often came across—unprofessional and inefficient compared to tightly controlled corporations. He didn’t often get along with upper management types.

Hopefully this guy would be easygoing.

Kyle kicked across the floor to wheel to the little table between their desks, where the reception phone sat. “Hello?”

“Uh, hey. This is Nic, from Synergy. I’m looking for… Kyle?”

“That’s me. I’ll be right down. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, um, yes. No problem. I was going to say the same.”

Kyle glanced at the clock. Five after the hour. That worked out perfectly, then—at least he’d look somewhat put-together if the other guy was late, too.

“No problem.” Kyle pushed himself to his feet. “Be right there, two secs.”

“You gotta choose one, you know,” Denver called after Kyle as he strode for the door.

“What?”

“A sec, or two seconds.” He still wasn’t getting it, so Denver called out, “Say it slower.”

Kyle was in the stairwell before it hit him, and his cheeks flushed. “To sex. Yeah, right.” Nic was probably some fifty-something, straight, married guy who’d been sent here for bad behavior.

But the guy waiting outside the glass front door of the building was young, with neat stubble and gelled hair. He was well-dressed, too. The usual moment of surprise crossed his face at the sight of Kyle—and Kyle was used to it, since his appearance inspired that in most people. But then Nic smiled warmly at him before Kyle even had the front door open.

Kyle’s cheeks, heart, and dick all clamored to get the first word in.

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.