~ ¤ ~

I wearily climb out of the jeep. I've just arrived back in Pittsburgh after a week in Chicago trying to win an account Ryder was insistent upon acquiring. Well, at least, I can go into the office Monday morning with the good news that I've won it.

Entering my building, I pause just long enough to gather my mail, before taking the slow, creaky elevator up to my sixth-floor loft. Stepping into the loft, I drop my suitcase by the door and lay my travel bag across it. I make my way into the kitchen, depositing the mail on the island countertop. Grabbing the Jim Beam Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey and a tumbler, I hurriedly walk over to the white Italian leather sofa and sit down. I quickly pour two fingers in the glass, downing it in one go.

Only after a second glass was consumed, I remembered the mail I left on the counter. I groan at the thought of all that could have possibly come in during a week. Standing abruptly, I momentarily feel dizzy, but then remember I haven't eaten yet today. Christ, the whiskey must have gone straight to my head. Am I actually turning into a lightweight at thirty? Figuring I better eat before hitting Babylon in a few hours, I grab the take-out menus, hoping they will provide some inspiration. I'm still a bit reluctant to tackle whatever problems and decisions await me with the post. Shaking my head at the wayward thoughts, I sigh and resolve myself to just bite the bullet and take a look at the amount of bullshit that has made its way to my home while I was away. I'm halfway through perusing the mail, when I come across an official-looking envelope from Allegheny Courthouse. Not remembering any unpaid tickets, I quickly rip it open, forgoing the use of my letter opener. Opening the letter, I balk at what I see:

Re: Notice to Report for Jury Service

Dear Potential Juror,

On behalf of the United States District Court for the 5th Judicial District, County of Allegheny, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I have the honor of informing you that you have been chosen to serve as a potential juror in a jury trial for a criminal proceeding in the State of Pennsylvania. Jury service is a civic duty that provides a unique opportunity to participate in the judicial process and see your district courts in action. I welcome you and hope that you will find the experience interesting and rewarding.

This is your Notice to Report for jury service on...

I don't bother reading the rest, and simply let the letter fall from my hands. Mandatory or not, I'm going to have to somehow, someway, have Ryder get me excused. There's no way I am going to sit in some stuffy courtroom, listening to God knows what problem somebody has fucked up their life with. Besides, who will take over my accounts? There isn't any other ad exec I'd trust with my accounts. I won them, and I'll be damned if I let anyone else take them over.

Deciding against ordering food, as I definitely have no appetite now, I make my way to the shower. I may just as well get ready to go out. I definitely need a distraction tonight. Moments after my shower is done and I'm dressed in my best ‘I'd fuck me' outfit, I pick up my keys and leather jacket, thinking I'll hit Woody's first. Making my way to the door, I pause, realizing I haven't checked my phone messages.

I roll my eyes at some of the messages my friends and family deem important, but when the third message from Michael comes on, the excitement in his voice catches my attention.

"Brian, it's me, Mikey, well, duh, I guess you know that. Call me as soon as you get home! We have to celebrate! I just got summoned to serve on Jury Duty! Isn't that great? I'm going to be able to decide the fate of a potential bad guy. Call me. Bye. Oh yeah, it's me, Mikey. Oh, I already said that."

FUCK ME!

~ ¤ ~

You know that feeling you get when you're watching a scary movie - like when the girl goes to look outside, and you just KNOW the bad guy is going to kill her - your heart starts pounding erratically? That's the feeling I was waking up with the next morning. Afraid to open my eyes, I scrunch one shut, and peek through the other, and almost scream like a girl...

"Jesus fucking Christ, Michael! What the fuck are you doing in my loft, and better yet, my bed?!!? Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack! Do you mind moving?" I yell, while pushing him off the side.

"Geez, Brian. Is that any way to speak to your best friend? Fine, I'm up, or I will be when I pick myself up off the floor. What time did you get in last night? Knowing you were due back yesterday, I expected to see you at the club, sucking and fucking your way through the backroom, after being gone for a week. You know, making up for lost time."

I groan when Michael takes a seat on my bed. He's apparently choosing to ignore my command of ‘move off my bed'.

"I didn't get in until too late to hit the bars and clubs." What he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?

"Well, you smell like you had a party here at the loft last night," he said, licking his lips.

"For your information, I spent the rest of my night - here... alone."

"No, I meant you smell like a brewery," he says, while licking his lips again.

I follow his eyes, and... "Jesus Christ, Michael, get the HELL out of my bedroom!" I yell, and I again push him off the bed.

There I lay with a sheet just barely covering half of my lower section, and sure enough, all 9 ½" are standing proudly, resting against my stomach.

"Fine, I'll wait for you in the living room. Get up and get ready. We can go and have breakfast, and catch up on our week."

"Michael, I'm tired. I've worked all week, I really don't feel like eating right now. Can you just go; I'll talk to you later." I cover myself up and plop my head back down onto the pillow.

"God, you're a pain, I just wanted to spend time with my best friend. Fine, I'll go."

I'm not sure how long I laid there... one minute... five minutes? - when I heard, "Brian! My God! I can't believe it! We're going to be on jury duty together! This is great!"

I fly out of bed and go running into the living room, ready to kill my supposed best friend.

"Christ, Michael! You about gave me a heart attack for the second time this morning! I told you to leave, not stay in my loft, and go through my personal shit!"

I stop my rant as I realize he probably didn't even hear me; he has a dreamy look on his face and he's licking those damn lips again.

Realizing I'm still as naked as the day I was born - only a lot more well-endowed now - I grab his arm and physically pull him out of the loft, slamming the door behind him.

I lean back against the door, wincing as the cold metal touches my warm skin.

FUCK ME!

~ ¤ ~

Monday morning as soon as Ryder gets into work, I make a beeline to his office.

"Morning, Marty. Good news!" and I toss the signed contract from Boeing onto his desk.

"Are you kidding me? I have to say, Brian, this does surprise me. When you told me you could get them, I had my doubts."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. Anyway, there's something else I need to speak to you about. May I?" I ask, indicating the chair in front of his desk.

"Sure, have a seat."

"When I arrived home on Saturday, I had a court summons for jury duty in my mail. I can't do it, Marty, and I'm depending on you to get me out of it. I don't care what excuse you have to come up with... peak season, whatever. I don't intend to hand my accounts over to anyone else. With Boeing just being signed, we can't afford to have me missing work."

"Brian..." Marty says in that condescending tone that literally grates on my nerves. "Jury duty is an obligation of citizenship, just like paying your taxes or voting. There are circumstances in which the law is unjust and it's your duty as a juror to represent the opinion of the people."

"Christ, Marty, you sound like some PSA. I can't do it. I won't do it."

"Brian, I will not write a letter and lie to the courts. We can get along just fine without you while you do your civic duty; it's a privilege to be able to help uphold the rights of the defendant. Besides, if it's that important to you, you will have long stretches where there will be plenty of time spent waiting outside of the courtroom. You can use this time to work on your campaigns; you also have your evenings free. And since you're salaried, you won't miss out on your paycheck."

"God, Marty, thanks for nothing!" I spit, getting up, knocking my chair over in my haste to get out of there.

"Cynthia!" I bellow, when I'm close enough to my office that she will hear me. "If I have any appointments today, cancel them. I'm out of here!"

FUCK ME!

~ ¤ ~

Tuesday morning I wake up to my phone ringing. Groaning, I reach over fumbling on my nightstand, and it isn't until I knock it on the floor, I finally come awake.

Reaching down to collect it, I answer with a gruff, "Yeah?"

"Brian, it's Cynthia. Where are you? You have a meeting with Telson Tires in twenty minutes."

"Oh, fuck me," I groan my displeasure.

"No thanks, I definitely don't think I'm your type."

"Hardy har har. Tell him my dead grandmother died."

"I think Ryder will see through that one," she says chuckling.

"Christ. Order breakfast; buy me some time. I need twenty minutes."

"Well, Ryder is already on a rampage. Make it quick, Boss. Bye."

I hang up, already on my way to the shower. I'm not quite sure what all I drank and fucked last night, but my head is pounding and my dick is sore.

FUCK ME!

~ ¤ ~

I gave a dazzling pitch, but Marvin Telson doesn't appear dazzled. He's sitting back in his chair, twirling a pen.

"Your existing campaign is solid, Mr. Telson, but you need more muscle to break out of the boring, family market box. Target males, of course, eighteen to thirty-four. Feature speed, fashion, visibility. You sponsored a NASCAR team, but you need a campaign to maximize the investment. TV, print, selected websites..."

Marvin sighs and leans forward.

"Just so you know, Mr. Telson, Brian is our most dynamic and creative account exec, his campaigns have won Cleo awards for us..." Ryder trails off at Telson's less-than-enthusiastic expression.

"Uh-huh, that's impressive... for you. How does that translate to national sales for me?" I'm starting to think the old fuck is playing us.

Ryder walks around to the head of the table to stand by me. "Well, uh, maybe you'd like to sit down and flesh out the strategy with him. He's also, uhh, one hell of a host."

Marvin starts gathering his things, but Ryder keeps going, "He can get you into all the top restaurants. He can get you the best tickets to the games. Tell me, do you like baseball, Mr. Telson?"

"I'm pretty tired after the flight this morning and I got a full set of meetings tomorrow," the dumb fuck says.

But I try one last-ditch effort, "Well, how about tomorrow night? The Pirates are playing. And we have company seats on the first baseline."

Marvin has already reached the door. Turning, he says, "Well, if I have any time, I'll give you a call," before heading through the open door. I almost flinch when Marty closes the door and storms back to the table.

"Marty, I know what the son of a bitch is up to. He's playing us against every other agency in town. Pumping us for our best ideas, and he'll take them where he wants to."

"You just make sure where he decides to go is here," he spits out, slamming the door on his way out of the conference room.

FUCK ME!

~ ¤ ~

The first day I report for jury selection, we all have to sit through jury orientation, a jury officer comes in and gives us some basic instructions and has us watch a videotape. I feel like clobbering Michael... him and his not-so-quiet whispering.

When that's finished, they lead us into the courtroom and the process of determining if we'll actually hear the case begins. There are about forty people in my group that have assembled in the courtroom; thank God Mikey was put into another group to be questioned after mine. When we're all seated, the case was presented to us. An eighteen-year-old student was bashed in the head with a baseball bat after daring to dance with another boy at his high school prom; I involuntarily shudder. The woman sitting next to me gives me a wan smile. The attorneys for both parties start with the questions, by first asking us if we are familiar with the case. I can honestly say I am not. But when they introduce pictures of the defendant and the victim, I feel my veins turn to ice.

I recognize the blond, but not the name Justin Taylor. I mean, why would I? I don't normally get names and numbers of my tricks... although honestly? Justin was very different from my other tricks. I took him with me to meet my son, I asked his opinion about a name, I told him a few things about myself, which is something I have NEVER done with a trick before. But when he turned up at my loft the next night, well, let's just say, for a long time after, when I closed my eyes at night, I saw his crushed face after I rudely told him, "Look, I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's honest. It's efficient. You get in and out with a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of bullshit. Love is something that straight people tell themselves they're in so that they can get laid. And then they end up hurting each other because it was all based on lies, to begin with. If that's what you want, then go and find yourself a pretty little girl... and get married."

He never came back down to Liberty Avenue - well, not so that I ever saw him. And I know I would have recognized him if he did.

I tune back in when the woman next to me leans in my direction. She puts her hand up to her mouth; I'm assuming to stifle a yawn. It's not until I hear her softly clear her throat that I realize she intends to say something to me. Adjusting myself in my seat so I'm sitting a little closer, she whispers, "As much as I hate to do it, I'm going to have to recuse myself. This kid has been through so much. From what I hear, he planned to be an artist, and now they say he'll probably never draw again. What's worse, his asshole father refuses to pay for therapy once he realized his son was gay; he even canceled the kid's insurance. Apparently, the father of the other kid that bashed him, is a good friend of this kid's father."

"Jesus," I barely whisper. What is it with some fathers? If I was to ever treat Gus the way Dear old Dad treated me, or this kid's dad did to him, I hope someone shoots me.

"Knock ‘em dead, tiger. Bring justice for the kid." She raises her hand and tells them she has to recuse herself, as she is more familiar with the case than she originally thought.

Now what do I do? I had already planned to answer the questions during the voir dire process asked by the attorneys and judge in such a way that they would have found me less than suitable to serve on the jury. But by rights, shouldn't I recuse myself too? I did have a past association with the kid... but who would know? I have to wonder if I wouldn't have more-or-less tossed him out of Liberty Avenue, would this have happened? So, when it comes time for the questions posed to me by the defense attorney, to if I have any personal interest in the outcome of the trial, know anything about the case, have formed any opinions about the case, if I'm biased or prejudiced against any of the parties in the lawsuit, or have any reason to believe I won't be able to not give a fair and impartial trial to the accused based solely on the law and the evidence, all I can do is answer with firm, resounding noes.

The fact that I appear to be an upper-class, straight, white male, should just about pull off this ruse I'm going for, because I'll be damned if I don't do all I can to get some homophobic asshole put away for bashing a gay kid.

So much for trying to get out of jury duty.

FUCK ME!

TBC