He believed that there was nothing wrong with being gay. He believed that there was nothing wrong with having a healthy sex drive, or even with having a taste for sex that was a little rough and raunchy. He believed that being Latino had nothing to do with how much he liked sex, though he’d encountered plenty of people who did. He believed that the priest had been a bad priest, who was not supposed to talk to people that way, and who was also not supposed to out gay teenagers to their parents—Thanks a lot, Father Dennis.

But the priest’s words had bruised him, and sometimes he could still feel the ache. There had been times he’d felt unbalanced and uncontrolled, because he wanted sex so much. Times he’d sought sex at the expense of his self-respect. A recurring, high-risk compulsion that he couldn’t seem to leave behind. A secret frenzy under the skin: “fiery chili pepper.”

This afternoon on the couch had to be a new low.

And Oberon had felt Ángel’s shameful weakness. Knew all about it.

Ángel had never felt so exposed before. Just by touching him, Oberon had learned more about Ángel than any lover ever had. It was an alarmingly helpless sensation. What else had he learned? Could he feel Ángel’s physical sensations, as well as his emotions? He’d licked Ángel when he came—had he somehow tasted it? Felt Ángel’s climax? Did Ángel’s come, slick on his hand, give him accurate information about Ángel’s hormonal balance, general health, fertility, history?

Ugh. Ángel shuddered.

He wanted to go back under the bed.

He pulled on warm clothes and went outside. It was clear and cold, the wind sharp as glass even through his new coat, freezing his wet hair; the grass was crunchy under his feet.

He walked the perimeter of the wall. There was nowhere else to go.

Eventually he had to go back in. He was, on top of everything else, light-headed with hunger; he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and he had the kind of rabbitlike metabolism that wouldn’t let him skip too many meals.

He went in, hung up his coat, toed off his boots, and padded into the kitchen, hoping to raid the refrigerator without attracting notice.

But luck was not with him. As he went through the music room toward the kitchen, Oberon came out of his office. He approached Ángel, a hand extended to touch his shoulder.

Ángel shied violently, dodging the hand and stepping away from Oberon until his hip hit the piano.

Oberon froze. “Are you angry, Ángel?”

“No, of course not.” Ángel carefully avoided Oberon and went into the kitchen.

Oberon followed him. “You’re frightened?” he guessed. Like he was tasting the air, trying to figure out what emotional signal Ángel was sending.