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610 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 27, 2017


He'd always congratulated himself on being the sort of guy who never got bored. Life was too full of fascinating people and things to observe, and he’d always been as happy in his own company as he was surrounded by friends.
It would be easy to find a nice girl like Alice, to get married, eventually have a couple of kids, a nice little career, an ordinary life. He wasn't bad-looking, or stupid. He could get it up for a girl, if he had to. It was an uphill struggle being queer, a constant risk. He wondered if he could fake it his whole life.
Probably not.
He didn't think anyone would call Ian charming, with his odd mix of abruptness and shyness, his air of bookish abstraction, and his stuffy and unstylish mode of dress, but Nick was charmed nonetheless... Charmed? He was smitten.
...there was an odd and sudden foreboding prickling beneath his skin. There they were on the Hill, together, thrown together by chance or the whim of fate, in the middle of a terrible, immense, and remote war... And when the project was complete? Then what?
People had all sorts of ways of blowing off steam up here. Some drank too much, some screwed like rabbits, others took refuge in the dozens of social clubs and activities, and a few, like Dick Feynman, did crazy things like cutting holes in the security fence and creeping in and out at all hours, just to prove it could be done.


“He stripped to his u-shirt and skivvies and folded his clothes, then climbed into bed, slipping his holster under the couch. Mr. Modesty was staring at him. Nick scowled. "Something wrong?" Pennington took off his glasses and polished them with the edge of his bathrobe. Bright pink flooded his face. "No, of course not." He drank his milk in a long swallow, then took off his bathrobe and slippers and climbed into bed, clicking off his overhead lamp. "Good night."
“I guess we should decide who gets to do what.” Nick tipped Ian’s face up with a finger. “Do you want me to fuck you, or do you want to fuck me?”
A bright red blush, visible even in the dim light, suffused Ian’s face. “I want to…fuck you. Please.”
“Nick stepped away and slowly tugged on one end of Ian’s tie until it slithered free. “God, you’re a dreadful tease. I never knew.”
“See what you’ve been missing?”
“Ian was deposited into the care of Ellis Woodbridge, a small young man with large blue eyes in an angelic face and an extraordinarily foul vocabulary casually interspersed between rapid-fire American patter that Ian had only heard in films. [...] “Jesus H. Christ, come on, willya? Fuck’s sake, sonsabitches, whaddaya waiting for?” Ellis brought his head back inside the car window and beamed at Ian. “Fuckin’ traffic, huh?”
“People had all sorts of ways of blowing off steam up here. Some drank too much, some screwed like rabbits, others took refuge in the dozens of social clubs and activities, and a few, like Dick Feynman, did crazy things like cutting holes in the security fence and creeping in and out at all hours, just to prove it could be done. In the grand scheme of things, dressing a little eccentrically was no big deal.”