Excerpt from Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

A single building, the Harold Brothers water tower, looms above the rest, and as this iconic structure bathes me in its shade, I remove my sunglasses.

This particular section of Harold Brothers Studios is arranged around a central hub, a portion of the lot where important office bungalows are situated and a coffee shop routinely attracts tired crew members on lunch breaks. A well-manicured grass field sits at the center, complete with a lush, palm-filled garden and a constantly flowing fountain of crystalline water.

I park in a spot near the promenade, climbing from my vehicle and heading up the winding sandstone path. People are everywhere, some of them wandering past me in the middle of impassioned conversations on their AirPods, others talking loudly over coffee as they perch on various benches. I pick up the pace.

My meeting awaits just beyond this chaotic little oasis.

"Misha, you fuck!" someone calls out, prompting an unexpected halt in my stride.

Fortunately, I'd know this voice anywhere, and a smile has already bloomed across my face before I even turn around.

Tara Ito is rushing across the lawn to greet me, my best friend's arms wide open as she prepares her warm embrace. She's wearing a bright orange suit with a glittering, silver-sequined button-up and a bolo tie underneath, three very distinct choices that might like look downright comical on anyone else.

My friend somehow pulls it off, though. She always pulls it off.

Tara is small, but her energy is twice the size of an average human. Her hair is naturally black, but she's managed to lift it all the way to a stark white that works in playful contrast with her youthful appearance.

The only thing that gives her away as someone currently in the midst of a grueling workday is the leather satchel cast haphazardly over her shoulder, an assortment of black and yellow computer cables bubbling forth.

The fact that Tara spends most of her time alone, poring over server bays and strolling down dark industrial corridors, is hilarious to me. We're surrounded by executives prepping for a day's worth of face-to-face meetings, yet none of them have half the confidence and swagger Tara does.

We hug. "How's my beautiful baby boy?" Tara questions, pulling back to look me in the eyes. I'm three years older than Tara, but her predilection for calling me "baby" remains unfettered.

"I'm ready to get this meeting over with," I admit.

"Oh, your super difficult meeting where the VP of television gives you two notes and then sucks you off for an hour?" she counters. "I'm implementing the revised IP security protocol across fifty-seven buildings today."

"Wanna trade?" I quip.

"You know I don't swing that way," Tara replies, then winks. "I don't swing any way, baby."

"Still on to watch those screeners later?"

"God, yes," Tara confirms with a sigh. She's straightening out the collar of my jacket now, picking off some lint and flattening the crease.

Suddenly, Tara riffles through the inside pocket of my blazer and yanks out my cell phone. Before I get the chance to protest she holds it up to my face and unlocks the screen.

"Put your phone on airplane mode whenever you're on the lot," she states, scrolling through my settings and taking care of it herself.

Once finished, Tara opens my jacket and returns the phone to its rightful position.

I can't help laughing. "Why?"

My friend's expression flickers with a rare moment of solemn gravity. "Data packets."

"I have no idea what those are," I admit. "What if I need to take a call?"

"Do what I do," she replies, pulling two separate phones from her pocket and fanning them out in one hand. "Work and play. Congratulations, by the way."

For the second time today I find myself immediately dismissing a compliment. I grimace before Tara can even finish her sentence. "It's an empty category. I don't even think it's televised."

Excerpted from Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle. Copyright © 2024 by Chuck Tingle. Excerpted by permission of Tor Nightfire. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.