...Clay’s feeling of isolation grew over the next few days. Without the false bravado and mask of silly flirtatiousness he wore when he went out to clubs and on dates, he didn’t know how to relate to the other men. None of the guys he was surrounded by showed any indication that they would welcome flirting from him—or even friendship. Everyone seemed to be either in a group, or a manly-man survivalist type. The only exception was Trent, who Clay couldn’t figure out at all. The man had come alone and acted like he wanted to stay that way. He rarely spoke, and Clay often noticed him staring off into the distance, his expression bleak. Clay wanted to find out why Trent had come, what had put that darkness in his eyes, but after being rebuffed the first time he’d tried to speak to him Clay wasn’t prepared to try again.

Clay spent all of his limited free time alone, either in his bunk or wandering the grounds. Fortunately, most of the time he was in class, which didn’t leave him much time to dwell on his loneliness.

The first class, the safety lesson, went well. He had no trouble understanding the first aid, and his CPR certification was current, so he was able to help demonstrate the technique on a dummy.

The other classes didn’t go as well. Using a compass was frustrating. Climbing on the camp’s climbing wall went okay, but doing it on an actual rock face turned out to be torture. He had a hard time finding the places to put his hands and feet that the other men seemed to be able to find instinctively, and he fell several times. Dangling in his harness with the others watching made him feel stupid and useless. The worst part was the snickers he heard from the Blumes and a few other men whose names he didn’t know.

Every night when he lay on his hard, uncomfortable bed, Clay wondered what the hell he thought he was doing. He could be sitting on a beach drinking fruity tropical cocktails and hitting on sexy cabana boys. Instead, he was here proving something to himself. Too bad the only thing he was proving so far was that everyone was right about him. He wasn’t good at anything except being a temporary playmate for men who would soon grow bored with him.

On the fourth day, the men from all the cabins gathered outside in preparation for the wilderness drop-off. Clay had spent a long time the night before choosing what he would put in his backpack. He’d packed with care, using the information he’d found online about the best way to pack. The only thing he didn’t have was a tent. That would be provided by Wilderness Adventures.

Clay stood at the edge of the pack of men, near the other occupants of his cabin. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans and tried to breathe normally. Maybe this wouldn’t be terrible. There had to be other guys here who were by themselves.

A flashback of praying not to be picked last in gym class disrupted his attempts to calm himself. Who was he kidding? After his epic failures at the most important parts of training, why would anyone choose him? If they hadn’t even bothered to speak to him at dinner, they sure as hell wouldn’t want to be stuck with him for a weeklong endurance test. This was going to be awful.

Jim got everyone’s attention and began separating the men into twos. Each pair of “wilderness buddies”—a name that made Clay want to snicker—got a tent, a map, a compass, and a personal locator beacon and reported to one of the vans. The vans would take them as far as the helicopter that would drop them off in a remote location.

The ranks grew thinner and thinner, and Clay’s heart started pounding. He glanced around, hoping to see someone else who needed a partner. The only singles he noticed were in his own cabin group.

A few feet away, one of the younger Blumes whined, “It’s not fair. I was supposed to go with Dad.”

“Oh, shut up,” the other son muttered. “I won the draw fair and square.”

The first one wasn’t finished. He cast a narrow-eyed glare around him and crossed his arms. “Well, I’m not getting stuck with that little fag.”

Clay sucked in a breath. That little fag. Me. The other man couldn’t be referring to anyone else. Heat flooded his face. What was he doing? He’d dyed his hair back to his natural color and dressed as plainly as he could. He’d tried to act like everyone else. All for nothing. He was still a fem little fag. A fem little fag that tried too hard, and cared too much, and everyone knew it. Tears of humiliation prickled behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He would not show his hurt in front of all these judgmental people.

Whichever Blume had spoken turned to Trent and offered an ingratiating grin. “Hey, man, want to be my partner?”

The stare Trent leveled at the man could have frozen a volcano. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest and shook his head. “No. I’d rather have the little fag than the big asshole.”

Clay’s mouth fell open. Trent had defended him. Sort of. But why? The man didn’t even like him. He’d acted like Clay had the plague the couple of times he’d tried to speak to him. Before Clay could turn the thought over in his mind enough times to make sense of it, Trent was standing beside Clay.