Page 8

Fitz

I open the front door, and Muir immediately shields his face.

"My eyes, my eyes!" he declares dramatically before lowering his hand and taking a proper look at me in my stunning outfit. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

I stretch my arms wide. "I'd call it art, but I don't want to sound pretentious."

He lets out an exaggerated pfft. "I'd call it a visual eyesore, but I don't want to hurt your feelings."

I smile. "Aw, I really do have the best husband in the world. Come 'ere, you."

I grab Muir by the hand, and we kiss. He flattens his palm against my bare chest, and a jolt of electricity zaps through me. His hand slides down my body, and I try to focus on his lips against mine, but all I can feel is the glide of his palm against my skin as he goes lower and lower. When he stops just above my belly button and lifts his hand off me, I can't help but be a little disappointed.

Yeah. That's a new development.

It would seem the boundaries of my bi-curiosity are, uh, expanding. I'm finding my thoughts drifting to the whole raft of other things he and I could be doing, in addition to kissing. Which, don't get me wrong, is fucking stellar.

But how would it feel to touch him down there?

Or have him fondle me?

Or, heck, what would it be like to take his cock in my mouth? To feel and taste and experience an entirely new side of him?

Muir swipes his tongue along my lower lip and murmurs, "Let me have a proper look at you."

I squeeze the last few seconds out of the kiss before stepping onto the front porch and doing a small twirl so that he can take it all in.

And, yeah, it's a lot to take in.

It has to be.

It's Pride. And it's me. People have very high expectations of both. I don't want to disappoint anyone.

That's why I went with a lime-green fake-feather puffer jacket with no buttons on the front—because this baby isn't meant to be done up—a short ruffled rainbow kilt, and a custom-made Fibonacci spiral rainbow necklace, with sprawling crystals beaded in golden ratio spirals, draped over my neck and shoulders.

"Think the kids on TikTok will like it?"

"The kids will definitely be fed."

I tilt my head back and laugh. If you'd told me I'd be down with lingo like ate and crumbs and demure, I would've laughed my head off. But being an influencer, I've got to stay on top of these things, as silly as they are.

While I do sometimes feel the pressure to always be on and performing, doing these TikToks is a really nice counterbalance to the heaviness of my day job. Sure, it was good news for Chugs, the wombat that came in last week—we named him that because can that fella drink or what—but not all stories have a happy ending.

As passionate as I am about animals and as much as I love what I do for a living, vet life can be tough. On my worst day, I treated a dog who'd been run over who I couldn't save; a cat suffering from suspected poisoning who was barely breathing, and despite me administering the antidote and providing intensive care, died anyway; and a horse who'd developed severe colic, and after hours of surgery, her condition worsened to the point where the only humane option was to put her out of her misery. It takes a while to bounce back after that.

And that's just the big stuff.

There's also the day-to-day grind that wears you down, a whole bunch of little things like owners ignoring our advice and not following care instructions, self-diagnosing from the bloody internet, which more often than not only exacerbates an animal's condition, pets behaving badly during a consult, and all the other issues that come with working in an understaffed, overbooked clinic.

Getting dressed up and making silly videos is an escape, something that not only makes other people happy, but lifts my own spirits, too.

"And what about my outfit?" Muir asks.

"You're not wearing an outfit," I retort. "You're wearing your normal clothes."

He does a sexy little strut towards me. "Doesn't mean I'm immune to being complimented."

My eyes roam up and down his impressive body. He's wearing an olive-green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing his muscular forearms. The shirt is tucked into a pair of well-fitting, dark denim jeans that show off his lean physique and hug his bum nicely. The look is finished off with his favourite pair of well-worn brown leather boots. It's quintessentially him, laid-back but perfectly put together, right down to the aviator sunglasses resting in his blond curls.

"You look good."

He approaches me and gives my pec a playful flick. "Just good?"

"Okay. Slightly better than good."

"Slightly?"

I chuckle. "You won't be happy until I maul you, will you?"

Colour rises on his neck, but he doesn't look away. In fact, he locks his baby blues on me, casually shrugs a shoulder, and says, "Maybe."

I crash my lips into his, and we spend the next ten minutes making out on my front porch.

For logistical reasons, the actual Pride event itself is held a ten-minute drive out of Scuttlebutt. What started as a small, local celebration back in the olden days before I was born—1985, if my local history memory serves me correctly—with a march down the main street and a piss-up at the local pub, has transformed into a major drawcard for tourists. There aren't enough hotels in town to accommodate the influx of thousands of visitors, so the council offered up an empty field as a makeshift campground and Pride HQ. Think Burning Man but minus the douchey wannabes.

"Holy shit," I mutter as we get close, the sight before us almost surreal. The normally barren, dirt landscape has given way to a lively burst of celebration, a bustling pop-up oasis filled with people and colour and music. The campground is over to the right, and on the left, a massive stage dominates the centre of the field. A few musicians are warming up.

We climb out of Muir's ute and make our way through the packed carpark to the field. From here, I can see rainbow flags fluttering like sparks of joy in the breeze, dotting the horizon as the sun bakes the dry earth.

A lot of other places celebrate Pride in June, so of course Scuttlebutt has to be different, and we do it in April. The heat from when we fixed Muir's grandad's fence a few weeks ago has faded, replaced by perfect mild weather.

A giant rainbow arch marks the entrance, welcoming everyone with open arms. As we step under it, I yank out my phone from the secret inside pocket of my jacket and insist on some selfies. We make a few funny faces, and I even slip in a quick kiss on his cheek before we go in. Muir doesn't have to tell me not to post them. I would never. No. These are for my eyes only.

Once inside, the vibrant energy of the Pride festival hits me like a wave. We're greeted by a sprawling array of colourful tents and stalls, each draped in bright flags and adorned with glittering decorations. Music pulses through the air, and everywhere I look, there are people dancing, laughing, and embracing.

My family has been coming every year for as long as I can remember, and I've always loved it. Especially as a kid. It's the closest thing to Disney World I've ever experienced.

"You can feel the love in the air, can't you?" I say, as I wrap my arm around Muir's broad shoulder.

He glances at me and smiles. "Yeah. You can."

We make our way through the crowd, a joyful mix of locals and visitors decked out in every imaginable colour, with glitter-covered faces and flowing rainbow capes. I soak it all in. It's amazing seeing people this free and happy. It makes me a little sad that every day in the real world isn't like this because how amazing would life be if it were?

"Love the outfit," Rusty the mechanic says as we pass him and his missus.

"Thanks, mate."

A couple of drag queens totter over to us, asking where I got my jacket, and would I be willing to lend it to them.

Muir takes out his phone and starts recording bits and pieces of everything.

"Any sign of the gang?" I ask after a few minutes of wandering around, saying hello to the locals and exchanging friendly looks and waves with newcomers.

He cranes his neck, but it's near impossible to see through the thick crowd. His eyes light up, and he points to a row of food trucks. "There's a good chance we'll find them there."

"Reckon you might be right."

As we make our way over to the food section, the dance music stops and is quickly replaced by the sounds of country music.

Live country music.

I let out a loud groan. Not my favourite genre.

"You've got to be open to new things," Muir tells me, smiling and clearly enjoying my misery.

"I am open to new things. Exhibit A." I wave a hand down my outfit. I've worn a lot of risqué stuff in my time, but nothing ever on this level. I haven't missed the wide-eyed stares I've been getting since we got here. "And Exhibit B." I reach out and brush my fingertips over his lips.

We stop walking, and everything—and I mean everything, the people, the music, all of it—fades to black, and it's just him and me.

I slide my hands around his waist as he cups my neck and leans in. My heart jackhammers in my chest, and I feel so alive, my body thrumming with adrenaline. I angle my head and close my eyes, so close to tasting his lips again, and?—

"Fitzgerald!"

"Fuck." My eyes snap open, and I jerk back. "Why are my parents the two biggest cock blockers on the planet?"

Muir chuckles, running a hand through his blond locks. The heat in his eyes only reminds me what I'm missing out on, but for now, I'll have to take a raincheck.

I turn around and see my parents approaching, and Jesus fuck, if my outfit is on the wild side, what my parents are wearing is downright deranged.

"What is this?" I ask, pointing to the few leather straps they've got zigzagging across their bodies, hiding what are meant to be their most private bits.

"We wanted to show our support for the BDSM community," Dad announces proudly.

"Oh. Are you part of that community?" Muir asks with a shit-eating grin, and I go from wanting to kiss him to wanting to kill him. He's baiting them deliberately.

"No. Unfortunately," Mum answers, and she actually looks like she's sad about it.

"We could always give it a go," Dad says with a nonchalant shrug, like he's thinking out loud about taking up tennis or giving poker a try.

"What about you two?" Mum asks, holding her hand out, the sun catching on her Pride-coloured nails.

"We are not having this conversation," I say, shutting it down before it does some irreparable damage. I may be almost thirty, but there is never an age when it's okay to talk about BDSM with your parents. That's a hill I'm ready to die on.

"Ooh, there's Gerald and Esma," Mum says, waving to her friends. "Let's go say hi."

Before they leave, Dad leans in and whispers in my ear, "Sorry for interrupting. You look great, by the way. And if you were wondering, you got your arse genes from me."

I shudder at the compliment, then shudder again when they walk away.

Muir watches them leave, too, and his jaw drops. "Oh. So they're wearing assless leather underwear. That's a…that's a choice."

"I need bleach for my eyes."

"I don't think you'll ever be able to unsee that. Though I have to say, your dad's butt is pretty fucking sublime."

"I hate my family."

"I love your family. Let's get some booze." As we saunter off in search of some numbing agent, Muir asks, "Your mini freak-out when your mum asked you about BDSM, was that because she was asking, or are you anti it in general?"

The question catches me a little off guard. We grab a couple of beers and continue sauntering near the food trucks on the lookout for our friends.

"I wouldn't say I'm anti it," I say. "I've just never given it much thought."

Muir takes a sip of his beer. "Oh. Okay."

"Why? Have you?"

"Not really." He clears his throat. "Maybe a little. Actually, no. Wait. Not BDSM stuff, per se, but other stuff."

"Like what?"

"Uh, butt stuff."

"Oh. Right."

It's funny. Muir and I have always told each other everything, but when it comes to sex, we've just stuck to the high-level details. We've told each other when we've had it and talked about what it was like in broad terms, but we've never gotten into any specifics, mainly out of respect for our partner's privacy, I guess.

But we're both single now—if you ignore our current marriage status—and he is bringing the topic up, which is Muir code for this is something I want to talk about, but you're going to have to ask me questions since I ain't offering shit up freely.

We find a quiet spot under a tree a little way away from the main food area. "Have you ever tried anything? Butt-stuff-wise?"

His cheeks go a little redder as he brings his bottle to his lips. He takes a swig and swishes the beer around in his mouth for a bit before answering, "Remember when Wilby was my secret Santa two years ago and he bought me a dildo?"

"Yes, I remember Wilby was your secret Santa, but how the fuck have I forgotten he got you a dildo?"

"You probably blocked it from your memory." Muir chuckles. "Anyway, I, uh, you know. Tried it."

"And?"

Another sip, some more swishing.

"And I liked it."

"Cool."

A completely inadequate response—I know, I know—but it's the best I can do. My brain is currently occupied with coming up with the visuals of my best mate fucking himself with a dildo, so speech isn't exactly a high priority right now. And let's just say it's a good thing I'm wearing a kilt and can bunch up the material to hide my growing erection.

"What—what did it feel like?"

Muir straightens his legs and stares at his boots. "At first it was uncomfortable."

"Painful?"

"Maybe a little, but I'd describe it more like a fullness."

"That makes sense."

"But once your body gets used to it, it feels nice. Better than nice."

"Better than nice?"

His cheeks have turned pink. "Way better than nice." We fall silent, and after a minute or so, he turns and aims those piercing blue eyes at me. "I've, uh, I've heard the real thing is better, though."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Depends." His chest is heaving with every breath he takes, but he forges ahead. "What do you think I'm saying?"

I smile, and my head starts bobbing. "I think we both know."

"Is that a problem? Because if you've got your limits and that's going too far, please tell me. I won't mind. Honestly."

"It's not a problem," I assure him. "I'm just a little surprised—pleasantly surprised, I might add—that you're bringing this up."

He finishes his beer, puts it down on the ground beside him, and refocuses his gaze on something in the distance. "It's Pride. You're my husband. Thought why the fuck not tell you some…stuff."

"And I'm glad you have. I've kind of also been having some thoughts."

"What sort of thoughts?"

"Wondering about what it might be like to touch you in places I've never touched you before." His breath hitches, and I continue. "What it might be like to taste you."

He clears his throat. "Right."

I study him for a moment, my normally spot-on ability to read him obscured by the hazy fog of desire swirling between us. I have to inject some clear-headed thinking into this situation and get this right. I don't just want to see what I want to see—him being into exploring more stuff together—if that's not what he actually wants.

"How does that sound?" I ask cautiously. "Us trying more stuff? When we're both good and ready, of course. There's no rush."

He lets out a low hum, aims those bright-blue eyes right at me, and grins. "That sounds really good."

After a while, we get up to grab some more beers and run into Wilby and Col.

"Mate, what the fuck is this getup?" Wilby says, as Col covers his mouth to hide his laugh.

"Pretty rad, huh?"

"Please tell me you're wearing underwear under that kilt," Col says.

"Well, I would. But you know me. I don't like to lie."

The guys laugh, and we hang out together for a while.

I'm riding a high. We're at Pride, I'm with my mates, and Muir and I have paved the way to do more stuff.

Yes, it's only physical stuff, and sex can sometimes just be sex without it meaning anything more. I get that.

But I'm chuffed about the way we handled the situation as much as I am about getting to explore his body a bit more.

We said we wouldn't let what's happening between us jeopardise our friendship, and I meant it. If we're going to do this properly, we're going to have to be mature and talk about things. Even when it's hard and awkward and uncomfortable.

Because the alternative is so much worse. I never want to lose him or ruin what we've got, so if things ever get tough, I'll remind myself that the only way to navigate this is to put my big boy pants on and work through it. Because he's worth it. Muir is so worth it.

The four of us check out the performances from the Scuttlebutt High School theatre kids, which aren't half bad. Who knows? The next Hugh Jackman or Nicole Kidman could be in our midst.

After that, we grab some food since I am starving. Muir grabs some heart-shaped meat pies from Mrs. Mangle's truck, along with a bunch of lamingtons—sponge cake squares coated in chocolate and rolled in coconut—to share.

Wilby and I stock up at the sausage sizzle because I'm a sucker for grilled sausages served on a slice of white bread with onions and mustard.

And Col wants to go all-out Aussie and try a Chiko roll for the first time, which is a deep-fried roll filled with beef, cabbage, and other veggies.

I also grab some damper, typical Aussie bread cooked over an open fire, for later. It's been given a Pride glow-up courtesy of a sprinkling of edible glitter over the top. Least I hope it's edible, otherwise I'm going to be shitting glitter for the next few days.

We're happily munching away when Wilby spots Linus and Ryde. "Hey, look over there."

We all turn to where he's pointing, and sure enough, Linus and Ryde are talking to a ripped-as-fuck bare-chested guy.

"Who's the muscle bear?" Col asks.

Wilby chuckles, wiping a bit of BBQ sauce off his chin. "That's not just a muscle bear," he tells his husband. "That's Linus's best mate and Ryde's dad, Oakey."

"Ohhhh." Col bobs his head. "Or, in other words, the reason why Linus isn't pursuing Ryde."

"Exactly." Wilby chomps down on the last of his sausage then licks his fingers clean. "Speaking of complicated love situations."

My ears prick up. "Were we?"

He grins. "Are you two having a good time?"

"Yeah." I look over at Muir tucking into a lamington and feel a wave of warmth wash over me. "We are having a good time," I answer for both of us. "Married life is a good life. Right, hubby?"

He finishes eating. "Right," he shoots back, his eyes sparkling. "Oh. I just remembered. We need to find that goat done up as a unicorn. I want to film you two together."

"To run an online poll asking which one looks gayer?" Wilby jokes, and we all laugh.

"Exactly," Muir says, brushing the crumbs off his thighs and standing up.

"I want to go see the backwards camel races," Col tells Wilby. "They were awesome last year. I need to record them and send it to Brant and Dad because they didn't believe me when I told them about it."

We say goodbye and go our separate ways.

Muir manages to find the goat, and with the owner's permission, we shoot some content. People keep complimenting my outfit, so we film a few clips with those who agree to be on camera.

By the time we're done, we've missed the backwards camel races, so we head over to watch the High Heel Drag Race instead—ten drag queens in six-inch heels running across a hundred-metre strip of dirt.

It's hard to get a clear view, what with all the wigs and sequins and feathers flying in the dust storm the runners create. But suddenly, two queens pull ahead, neck and neck, glitter flying from their outfits in the bright sunshine. It's down to the last few strides, and they're so close I can't tell who's going to take it. The roar from the crowd is deafening, but we're going to have to wait for the announcer to make the call on who won.

"I reckon Hole Lotta Problems crossed the finish line first," I say to Muir.

"Nah. She stuck her purse out. Doesn't count. I think it's Anita Drink Orten."

"Fellas and fairies, ladies and gentlemen if there are any of you out there left, and all our beautiful nonbinary angels, the official winner of this year's High Heel Drag Race is…" The drum roll rumbles through the speakers. "Ahhh, I don't fucking know. No one was paying attention, and someone stuck their purse out to obscure the judge's view."

"So everyone wins!" someone yells out from the crowd.

"Yeah," the announcer concedes. "Everyone fucking wins!"

Cheers erupt all around us as several drag queens do an unofficial lap of honour as the music starts back up again.

"I've got an idea." Muir grabs my hand and drags me off to right in front of the multicoloured DJ booth. "Take your jacket off," he instructs, fishing his phone from his pocket. "And dance monkey."

He's grinning like a sexy fucker, so of course I agree to it. I am a true attention whore, after all.

I ask someone to hold my jacket, get into position, and bust out a series of short, jerky, easy-to-replicate moves. Trying to predict what will go viral on TikTok is a mindfuck, but you can't go wrong with silly, cheesy moves like this. Especially when shirtless.

After a few minutes, I'm breaking out in a sweat and need a break. "Any chance you wanna join me?" I ask as Muir hands me a bottle of water, and I take my jacket back.

"Nah. I'm good."

"One day I'll get you in front of the camera."

He snorts. "Yeah. Good luck with that."

"Why not?" I ask.

I know the spotlight isn't for everyone, and if that's all it was, I'd drop it. But I know that there's more to it than that.

He didn't grow up in a household like mine, where diversity of thinking and expression of ideas was celebrated and encouraged. I wonder how much having a mother who actively suppressed him and even punished him whenever his thinking was 'out of line' impacts him to this day.

Because while, yes, he's a little guarded at first, once he's comfortable with the people he's with, he's not a shy guy by any means. I've roped him into wearing goofy shirts around town with me before, so why is he still holding back?

I take him in for a long beat. It's funny. I know him inside and out, but I've never stopped to consider how well he knows himself.

Come to think of it, how well does anyone really know themselves?

My mind drifts to Lleyton, and I can't help but wonder, for, like, the millionth time, how different I'd be if he was still with us.

But I'm in too good a mood to go down that dark rabbit hole.

Besides, you can't be sad at Pride, right? I'm pretty sure there's a local by-law to that effect somewhere on the books.

Even though it's only early in the afternoon, I'm tired and keen to have a shower and put on some real clothes.

Might also be in the mood to not have a shower on my own…if Muir's keen for a bit of scrub down action, that is.

"Should we say goodbye to the fellas and head back to mine?" I ask.

His eyes dart to mine, and there's no mistaking the heat that flashes through them. "Sure. Let's do that."