Brian

“It’s a business trip, I’ll be in meetings the whole time.”

“But Brian, we could have dinner together at night, and besides, you said your meetings are only on Thursday and Friday, couldn’t we stay for the weekend?”

Actually I’d thought about taking Justin with me to San Francisco but I’d discarded the idea for several reasons. Partly because he’d be a distraction – these scheduled client meetings are going to take every ounce of my energy and determination to bring off successfully. I need to stay focused.

“Maybe you just want to be free to fuck around while you’re there.”

He’s right of course; that’s another reason. What queer doesn’t want to sample the guys in San Francisco? But damned if I’ll confirm it; instead, I remind Justin, “I can fuck around anytime I want.” That’s part of our agreement. Or will be. When we make an agreement. If we do.

“I wouldn’t distract you,” he insists. We’re having a late Sunday dinner at Chez Clarisse so Justin is limited to vocal pleadings, he can’t throw his body against mine, can’t try to bump-and-grind me into submission.

I lift my wine glass and look at him over the rim. “Your ass is a major distraction.” He doesn’t laugh, he looks down at his plate and concentrates on forking pommes frites into his mouth. I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s given up badgering me, and I feel surprised that the battle’s over so quickly.

There’s a long pause and then I say, “Besides, I thought your summer classes start this week.”

Justin looks up and says, “No, summer term orientation is this week, I’m a continuing student so I don’t have to go through that. Classes begin next week.”

There’s nothing to say about that so I just nod and brace myself for another onslaught. It doesn’t come.

“I was going to work extra hours at the diner this week anyway,” Justin adds with a shrug. “I need to save money, there’s a new graphics software package I want to buy for the computer.”

Looking at his face closely to check for signs of pouting, I don’t see any. Which surprises me in a way, because as mature as Justin can be at times, at other times he seems about ten years old. Apparently, he’s going to let it drop and because of that, contrarily, I reconsider taking him. He’s been working hard at school this term, and putting in long hours at the diner, he deserves a break.

"I don't think there's any major art museums in San Francisco," I mention casually as I concentrate on cutting my steak.

That was a test and predictably Justin answers, "Yeah there are, a couple of them, the Modern Art Museum is downtown and there's another one in a palace overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge."

"You've been surfing the internet." It's not a question.

"Of course."

Of course. I take a bite of steak and just a morsel of baked potato; I really have to watch the carbs since I'm not back full-strength in the gym yet.

"I like to check things out," he continues. "And someday I will visit San Francisco so I want to know all about it."

"Do you want the rest of my baked potato?"

"Sure. But not the part that has blood on it." He points at my medium-rare steak leaking juices. "Eww." He holds his plate toward me and I transfer half the potato, then I sit back and watch him eat.

Holding my wine glass and savoring a mouthful of the full-bodied burgundy, I think about the practicalities of taking Justin with me to San Francisco. It's true that he would be a distraction, but if I could compartmentalize him till after the Thursday and Friday meetings, it might be fun to play tourist in the city on the weekend.

He catches me staring at him. "What? Did I spill something?" He glances down at his shirt then back at me. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Brian, next time we go out, it's my turn."

"To be on top?"

He says quickly, "Sure, okay!" and he laughs then adds, "Actually, what I mean is, it's my turn to take you out. For a change."

"You mean, like a date?" I mock him gently.

"A real date. I'll pick you up and everything."

I set down my glass, take another bite of steak. "And where would you take me?"

"There's this place called Bogey's over on the east side, it's decorated like a nineteen-forties bar, palm trees, and everything, it's really cool."

"Sounds awful." I can't help it, it does sound awful.

"Yeah." He sighs, looks away. "It's not your kind of place. There's no back room."

Setting down my fork, I hazard a guess. "Were you there with him?" He doesn't ask whom I mean so I ask, "Were you there with your teacher?"

"Brian, so what if I was? I just wanted to take you someplace different. I haven't been to very many places, I wanted to do something different than Luigi's or the diner or the deli. And I can't afford places like this - I'll bet dinner here costs more than my tuition."

I feel myself getting annoyed and I try to push aside my feelings about that damned teacher. He's gone. Out of the picture. Cancelled.

"Brian, where else could I take you - pizza and a movie? You'd laugh at me."

"Why would I laugh at you?"

"Wouldn't you?"

I probably would have but at least now I've been warned. Instead, I say, "Pizza's fattening. But a movie would be okay."

"Really?" Justin's grinning. "How about Wednesday?"

"Not till I get back from San Francisco. I've got too much prep work to do - I should be home working on my presentation right now."

Justin rests both arms on the table and leans forward to whisper, "Does that mean there's no time for fucking tonight?"

"Hunh," I curl my lip at him. "There's always time for fucking. Are you finished?" He must be, there's nothing left on his plate, he even ate the flower-shaped tomato garnish. "Want dessert?"

"I'm kind of full," Justin admits, sitting back in the chair.

"Crème brulee," I remind him, he always orders it when we eat here.

"Okay." And he gives me that dazzling smile. Maybe I'll take him to San Francisco after all.



Justin

I should have gone home, in fact, I tried to get up and go home but Brian stopped me. Just by pulling on my arm, urging me to get back in bed with him, wrapping his arms around me and whispering in my ear, “Stay.” Of course, I stayed.

I want to stay forever. At least I think I do. We haven’t talked about living together again, sometimes I feel like we’re both holding our breath, afraid to cross that line. We’ve been together six times in the past two weeks, since the night Brian took me to dinner at Deb’s. I knew then that he was making a declaration to the family and maybe to me at the same time. And maybe to himself. But we haven’t taken the step of having me move in with him. Haven’t even talked about it yet.

Often Brian urges me to sleep with him, stay overnight. At least now that spring semester has ended I don’t have to rush off early in the morning, get home and change clothes, pick up my stuff and hurry to campus. Instead, we get up with Brian’s alarm clock and take a shower together, he says he doesn’t have a meeting till ten so why don’t we go have breakfast at the diner?

That’s a kind of declaration too. Because the guys will probably be there, some of them anyway. Maybe Brian’s trying to get them used to seeing us together. But they’re Brian’s friends and I guess they won’t ever be my friends. I used to think they were but I discovered when I went off with Ethan that people take sides. Nobody wanted to be friends with me then, not the guys anyway. Lindsay and Mel stayed in touch, but nobody else. So even though I agree to go to the diner I’m not very enthusiastic.

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry?”

"I'm always hungry." I turn away to pick my jeans up off the floor and step into them, then sit on the edge of the bed to pull on my socks. I'll have to search for my shoes, I think I kicked them off over by the door. Brian's buttoning his shirt, a deep mauve color that has a matching tie, and he strolls over to stand in front of me.

"Tell me."

I look up at him and decide to tell him the truth. The only way things will work for me this time is just, to tell the truth instead of trying to figure out what Brian wants to hear. "I'm just not crazy about seeing the guys." When he silently cocks an eyebrow at me, I go on, "They're your friends, not mine. They don't like me very much."

"Of course they do, don't be fucking stupid." He's annoyed, turns away and pulls his tie from the hanger, expertly looping it around his neck and tying it in a perfect knot. "In fact," Brian adds, "They like you way more than me, hadn't you noticed?"

"Oh they pretend not to like you," I say over my shoulder as I go searching for my shoes, "But they all took your side when - " I stop abruptly; I don't want to go there.

Brian joins me at the door, shrugging on his suit jacket. "When you fucked me over," he finishes my sentence smoothly, his face expressionless.

I feel my shoulders droop. "Brian - "

"Hey," he says conversationally, picking up his wallet from the desk and pocketing it, "If we're going to do this at all, we're going to do it honestly."

'Honest' and blunt' mean the same thing to Brian.

"Okay," I agree, swallowing my protests, "But what do you mean by 'this?' You said, 'If we do this at all.' What are we doing? Are we ever going to decide what we're doing?"

"Justin, you don't want to start a conversation like that on Monday morning before I've had my coffee."

I'm crouching down to tie my shoes and when I stand up, Brian puts a hand on the back of my neck and leans down to touch his forehead to mine. "I have no idea what 'this' is, and you've already told me that I can't work it out on my own. Remember?" When I just nod, Brian kisses my mouth briefly, then says, "Now let's go eat. At the diner. And if you think people are sitting in judgment of you, just tell yourself 'Fuck 'em all.' Works for me."

"Okay," I agree reluctantly.

Brian pulls open the loft door, then stops and turns to regard me for a moment. "Justin, do you know what 'projection' is?" I sort of do but I shake my head, no, so he continues, "Projection is when you project your own feelings onto other people. You feel guilty for fucking me over, so you imagine everyone is blaming you. Right?"

"Maybe."

"You do feel guilty, don't you?" he asks seriously.

Looking him in the eye, I answer, "Yes."

"Good," he says, maybe he's joking but I'm not sure; then he leans down to kiss me again. "Now get in your car and meet me at the diner." He pulls the door shut and locks it and together we walk downstairs.



Debbie

When I come out of the kitchen carrying an armload of breakfast plates, who do I see coming in the door together but Brian and Justin. Brian walks over to the boys' table and sits down next to Ted, Justin trailing behind. Justin's just sliding into the booth next to Emmett when I arrive and deposit steamy-hot plates of bacon and eggs, and I can't resist leaning down to kiss Justin's cheek and his happy smile tells me that he needed that kiss.

"Hi Debbie," he says, then Brian mimics him, "Hi Debbie, where's my kiss?" I smack him lightly on the side of the head with my open palm and he laughs. I used to try kissing Brian but almost always he pulls away. I know the big lug loves me, but he's pricklier than a porcupine most of the time.

"Coffee first?" I ask Brian and he growls, "Fuck yeah."

"Sunshine?"

"Coffee, please. And orange juice. And milk."

"Coming right up," I promise, and I'm glad to hear Ted and Emmett start talking as I turn to leave. Some folks don't know quite how to take this development with Brian and Justin. Everyone can tell it's not business as usual, not the relationship those boys used to have. Maybe that's good. Maybe it's good that the whole thing was put to the test. If they can work through the bad stuff now, maybe they've got a better chance this time.

Michael's another story. Big surprise. He was so mad at Brian when he showed up with Justin at dinner a couple weeks ago. He'd kept insisting all along that Brian only let Justin stay at the loft after the accident because he needed taking care of, so when the boys kept getting together after Brian returned to work, Michael was pissed. Now he says it's because he doesn't trust Justin not to hurt Brian again, but of course, it's more complicated than that.

When I come back to the table balancing juice and milk glasses and a coffee pot on my tray, Michael's just come in and he approaches the table, we arrive at the same time. If I can feel the annoyance sparking off Michael's face in waves, everyone else can too. "Hey Mikey," Brian says, reaching out to grab Michael's hand, "Come sit next to me, Ted can scoot over. Scoot over, Ted."

Ted obliges but Michael's shaking his head and frowning. "No, I'm in a hurry anyway, I'll get something to go."

Brian doesn't insist, instead, he drops Michael's hand and turns over his coffee cup so I can fill it. I glance at Justin and he's not looking at Michael, instead, he's staring at the table.

They were becoming friends, Michael and Sunshine, before the breakup. Now they remind me of nothing so much as two terrier dogs circling carefully around each other, growling quietly in the backs of their throats. Brian's the bone they're fighting over and Brian's ignoring both of them.

Or maybe he's not. When I turn away and walk behind the counter to return the coffee pot, I see that under the table, Brian's rubbing his knee against Justin's leg. In a way it's funny to watch the man who loudly proclaims he doesn't give a fuck about anybody, playing an awkward sort of referee between the two men who love him.



Brian

Cynthia's in my office and we're going over my schedule for the week. She's made all the arrangements for my trip to San Francisco, and I ask her if it would be difficult to make some changes.

"What kind of changes?" She's pulled a chair up close to my desk and we're comparing calendars.

"I might want to stay through the weekend."

"Hmm," she smiles slyly, "Going to give the Damron Guide a workout?"

Ignoring her question as well as her smirk, I ask, "Can you change my reservations?" She nods but adds that there might be a surcharge, Liberty Air gives the agency a discount but last-minute changes are extra. I don't care about that, which she knows well enough. She stands and gathers her calendar and papers and prepares to leave the office, and when she reaches the door I say, "Oh and by the way, Cynthia?"

She turns and waits.

"Make the plane reservations for two. And bump me up to first class, if you can." Vance is a cheap shit and only pays for cabin class for business trips. Most of the time I don't mind, usually, I'm up to my eyeballs in paperwork and God knows I don't eat airplane food, though I always have my quota of drinks. Sometimes I'll pay extra for first class for a longer trip, or if I need the quieter atmosphere, the extra space to spread out.

"I'll call the airlines right away," Cynthia promises. I've turned my back to her and I'm concentrating on my computer screen but I'm not really surprised that she hasn't left the office. I'm also not really surprised when she asks, "Is this Justin's first trip to California?"

"Fuck off," I say mildly, without turning around.

"Is that a yes?" Cynthia's nothing if not persistent.

"Yes. But don't say anything if he calls for one of your gossip sessions, he doesn't know yet."

"Ooh," she coos, "A surprise! I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

Then I turn around and give her my chilliest glare. "Now fuck off and call the airlines, or you're fired."

She laughs. "Yessir, Mr. Kinney."

I'm busy all morning and it's two o'clock before I'm able to break free and call Justin on his cell.

"Hey, wassup," he greets me; I can hear loud voices and banging sounds in the background, he must be at work. "Let me go out for a smoke, it's quieter in the alley." I hear him shouting to the cook that he's taking a break, and a moment later I hear the whoosh of the back door and then he's back with me. "Hey," he says again, "Wassup?"

"In less than six months you won't be a teenager anymore, when are you going to stop talking like one?"

"Oh sorry," Justin says quickly, "Good awffternoon." I can hear the flick of his lighter and the sound of quick inhaling and exhaling.

"Who'd you steal cigarettes from?"

"Sometimes I buy them," he says quickly, defensively. When I'm silent, he adds, "Tony gave me a couple."

Tony's the cook, he's always slipping Justin little treats and he teaches Justin how to cook some of the diner specials. He's bald, overweight and over fifty, so I don't think he's teaching Justin anything else. Though I'll bet he'd like to.

"What's your schedule today?"

"I was supposed to work till four but Gloria wanted the afternoon off, so I volunteered to stay till eight tonight." Justin hesitates, then asks, "Were you wanting me to come over? Or something?"

"No, I'll be working tonight but I might come by the diner for a minute. I need to talk to you."

"What about?"

"When's your break?"

"I'll probably eat about six. Why don't you come by for dinner?"

"No time. I've only got a day and half to finish this presentation. I'll come by at six and park in the alley behind the diner, come out when you can get away."

"Okay," he says, then adds, "Brian, what's this about?"

"See you at six," I repeat, then hang up and clear my mind of everything but the work at hand.



Justin

I click off the phone and know that I'm going to worry all afternoon, though I don't know what I'm worrying about. Brian sounded kind of serious. Somehow I manage to make it through the afternoon, and at six o'clock I'm out the back door; sure enough Brian's parked on the other side of the narrow pavement. When I climb into the jeep he asks, "What's that?"

"Dinner." I turn to put the brown paper bag on the back seat. "I promise you'll like it - rosemary chicken and orzo with spinach. I asked Tony not to put butter on the orzo so you can eat all of it."

Brian opens his mouth and closes it. I'm sure he was going to say something negative like he didn't want any fucking dinner and I'm prepared for that, so when instead he just leans over to kiss me and murmurs "Thanks," I'm surprised.

"Why'd you want to see me?" I ask; I can't wait any longer to find out what's going on.

"Justin, did you already commit to working all this week?"

I shake my head no. "I told Tony I want to, but I didn't sign the schedule yet. Oh my God." Suddenly I'm almost shaking. "Oh my God, Brian - are you taking me with you to California?"

Unconsciously I've grabbed hold of his leather jacket and he gently removes my hands. "You're crinkling," he objects mildly. "And I MIGHT take you with me, if you can promise to leave me alone till my meetings are over on Friday. You'd be completely on your own till then and - "

"Brian! Brian, I promise! Brian - we're going away together!"

"Only technically, till the weekend," he insists, "We'll be on the same plane Wednesday night, but you can't jabber at me, I'll be working on my laptop the whole time. And you can't bother me before the meetings are finished."

"I will speak only when spoken to," I promise seriously and Brian snorts.

"Fat chance." He shakes his head. "I know I'm going to be sorry."

"Oh, don't say that." I lean across the seat and slip my arms around him underneath his jacket. Our faces are one inch apart, we're staring cross-eyed at each other and finally, he relents. I feel his body relax and his arms go around me and hold me tight.

"Okay. I'm only PROBABLY going to be sorry."

"You won't be sorry," I promise and then he kisses me. He kisses me very thoroughly for about ten minutes, till we're both almost popping at the seams. When we pull apart to take a breath, I whisper, "Can I please come over after work?"

"No," Brian says, kind of breathlessly. I'm happy to know I've made him breathless but when I slip my hand up the inside of his thigh and squeeze his hard cock he says "No" again, more forcefully. "See, you're already bothering me."

"Oops." Pulling my hand away, I slide backward over the seat toward the door. "Your cock is safe tonight."

"Go back to work now," Brian tells me. "And come over my place Wednesday afternoon, the flight leaves at eight o'clock. Do you have a suitcase?"

"No. But I can borrow one from my mom."

"Oh great, Barbie luggage. I'll loan you one of mine."

I'm sitting still by the door, unmoving, and Brian says, "What?"

"Do you think my mom's like, a Barbie doll?" I try not to let it show on my face, but for some reason, I'm slightly upset.

Immediately Brian reaches out and grabs my hand and squeezes. "No," he says seriously. Brian never explains himself and yet this time he's explaining. "Justin, absolutely not. I have a lot of respect for your mother."

"Because," I can't help saying, "She's done a lot for me and for Molly. She's had a hard time since she left my dad."

"Justin, I know all that. And you should remember that I've told you before, you're lucky to have a mother like that."

It's true, he has told me that, more than once. I nod my head.

Brian leans over and pushes his face close to mine. "I was joking that her luggage might be pink and femmy. Like Emmett's. That's all. Okay?" When I say okay he kisses me again. "Now I've got to go, so get back to work."

Pulling open the door I slip outside, but before closing it again I remind Brian, "Don't forget to eat dinner." He just nods and when I smile and give him a little wave, he nods again, starts the car and drives off. Then I feel myself getting excited about our trip. I'm going to California with Brian!



Brian

Justin has the window seat for take-off, his nose pressed to the glass and almost quivering with excitement, he says he loves to fly. I'm relieved that he's not one of those white-knuckle types though I should have guessed he wouldn't be. I'm tempted to switch places with him later, as I'm sure he'll be climbing over me a dozen times during the flight and I need to stay focused on the presentation I'm still fine-tuning on my laptop. But with my long legs I really need the aisle seat and when I ask him, he promises to stay put and not distract me. Of course, he distracts me just sitting nearby, but I'm not sorry that I brought him along. At least I'm not sorry yet.

Brian

Justin fell asleep in the middle of the movie. I'm wearing earphones too but listening to classical music. I'd been sure that fucking fiddler had ruined classical music for all eternity but recently I've been able to tolerate it again, at the very least it's white noise and good to prevent distraction on airplanes. I finished proofreading a large section of text and when I glance at Justin to see if he's enjoying the film, I discover that he's slumped over against the window, sound asleep.

The stewardess is passing by so I stop her and quietly asked for a pillow - Justin's head is tilted at an odd angle and I'm sure he'll wake up with a stiff neck and a headache. I manage to push the button on his chair to tilt it a bit further back, then when the girl brings me a pillow, I carefully tuck it behind Justin's neck and slowly shift his head to rest against the pillow. He doesn't wake up, and glancing at his watch I see that it's almost midnight, we've been flying about four hours. I'm sorry for the late-night arrival, Justin would have enjoyed seeing San Francisco from the air but with the last-minute changes, I couldn't get an earlier flight.

Straightening up in my seat again, I realize that the stewardess is still hovering in the aisle. "How sweet," she whispers, smiling. "Your little brother?"

"No," I answer shortly with barely a glance at the girl, then I do a double-take as I notice the cabin steward peering over her shoulder.

"No," he echoes me, with a wink and a sly smile. In a way I'm annoyed - I loathe people who wink - but he's a looker, medium height and meatier than I usually like, but with curly blond hair and thighs of death, outlined by his carefully tailored uniform trousers. The girl glances at him over her shoulder, then back at me, and shrugs.

"Figures," she whispers to me, "You're impossibly gorgeous." I don't acknowledge their comments, just turn back to peer at my computer screen again, waiting for them to go away. The girl does but the guy lingers in the aisle.

"Anything else you need, sir?" he murmurs, his voice seductively muted. I stare at him for a moment, realizing that if Justin were not with me I'd consider hooking up with the guy in San Francisco, he'll probably have a layover. But Justin is with me so I can't do that. Well, I can. But I won't. Not this time anyway.

"No thanks." I look away and ask, "What time do we get in?"

"Ten-fifteen local time, another hour or so," he answers, reverting to professionalism. "We're going to start serving coffee in a few minutes."

"Thanks." I don't look at him again, instead, I concentrate on my laptop screen until I feel him move away down the aisle.,

Justin's slept through the murmured conversations but I feel him stirring and then he's sitting up, blinking his eyes and looking around. The movie screen's blank now, the film must have ended. I think Justin was the only one watching anyway, a quick glance around the first-class compartment shows most people sleeping or reading.

Justin yawns. "Hi," he says, pulling off the earphones and shoving them into the seat pocket. "I fell asleep."

"It's late, we'll be there soon. You can sleep in in the morning." I save my file and close it, click off the laptop and fold it up, slide it under the seat in front of me.

"Did you finish your presentation?"

"I'll read it over one more time when we get to the hotel. But I think it's ready."

"Cool!" Justin yawns again, rubbing his right cheek, which retains the imprint of the scrunched-up pillow. Then he asks, "Are they going to serve us breakfast?"

"It's night-time, Justin. Coffee's coming soon, though - maybe you can get a croissant or something." I push the call button and almost immediately blondie is beside my seat.

"Sir?" he says, then he notices that Justin's awake. "Sirs," he corrects himself.

"Hi Robert," Justin says, turning sideways in his seat, "Can I get something to eat?"

"It's not a restaurant," I remind him, but the steward cuts in.

"Certainly sir. How about a Danish pastry? I think we have a few of those stashed away."

"Great!" Justin's really waking up now. "Would it be rude to ask for two?"

I'm ready with a sarcastic remark when I realize that Justin is talking to the steward, not to me. Justin's flirting with the guy. Robert. Christ, Justin always knows people's names. Robert smiles, "For you sir, of course. You can ask me for anything. Anything at all."

Justin laughs then and I remember all over again how beautiful he is. Of course, he's always been a beautiful boy, well he's a man now of course. But when he smiles, when he laughs, there's something extra, something that takes him way beyond mere beauty, something downright fucking dazzling.

Christ, hyperbole at thirty thousand feet, and from the world's greatest cynic. It must be the late hour, I'm exhausted; my eyes are practically crossed from staring at the computer screen for the past several hours. I need coffee.

"Coffee?" I suggest, hearing the frost in my voice. Robert and Justin hear it too, they look at each other and laugh softly, they're laughing at me. Did I sound like a jealous husband? I'm too tired to figure it out; too tired even to pretend to be amused. Instead, I stand up abruptly and when Robert takes a step backward, I shoulder past him and head for the bathroom. Let them flirt and giggle all they want, I'll take a piss and wash my face.



Justin

Brian looks so tired, I wish he could have slept a while on the plane but he’s been working like crazy almost every minute since I met him at the loft. When I arrived he had an empty suitcase ready for me to transfer my clothes from my duffel bag and he watched me critically, making tsky sounds. Finally, he demanded, “Didn’t you bring your sports jacket?”

“No – why would I need that? We’re just going to do tourist stuff aren’t we?”

“Maybe I’d like to eat dinner someplace besides McDonalds. Never mind,” he turned away, sliding open the door of his closet. “I’ll put your suit in my garment bag.”

“Oops, Brian,” I stopped packing and spoke to his back, “I spilled butter on it when I had the lobster, remember?”

“I had it cleaned,” he said without turning around. “We still haven’t had it altered yet, you were supposed to remind me.” I watched him unzip the leather bag and put my suit in with his – there’s at least two of his own already inside. Of course, Brian needs to dress up for his meetings but he likes to other times too. I like casual clothes best.

“Sorry, I forgot.” I continued transferring my stuff into the suitcase and added, “I don’t think about clothes most of the time, I’m not into fashion.”

“No shit.” He zipped the bag then walked past me and down the steps, going over toward his desk. “Decide what you want for dinner, then call for delivery or go pick something up. I can get a couple hours’ work done before we have to leave for the airport.”

"Brian," I called after him, "What do you want for dinner?"

He kept on walking and without turning around he said ominously, "You're bothering me. Don't do it again - or else." He was joking but I decided to pretend he was serious. So I finished packing quickly and went into the kitchen to find the take-out menus. I decided on Thai - it's practically his favorite food, maybe it would put him in a good mood - and I called the restaurant from my cell phone. Then I didn't have anything to do. Television or music might distract Brian so finally, I just pulled out my sketchpad and settled down on the sofa to draw for a while, at least till the food arrived.

Brian took a break and ate with me, though he was quiet and I knew he was still thinking about his presentation. I wanted to ask all kinds of questions about it, about his client and what he was doing, but I decided that would be classified as "bothering him" so I kept silent. I did put some soft music on while we ate and when we finished, Brian said it was time to leave for the airport; he wanted to get there early to be sure we wouldn't miss our flight.



Brian

“Pretend it’s three in the morning.”

Justin turns around quickly when he hears the rough edge in my voice. He was peering out the hotel room window at the lights of Union Square, his forehead pushed against the glass so he could look down six flights to the sidewalk below. He's the picture of a pitiful caged bird longing to spread his wings and fly. Realizing that he’s almost unbearably excited, I relent. “Go out if you want to.” I shrug and continue unpacking my suitcase, all I want to do is take a hot shower and fall into bed.

“Brian – “

“I mean it,” I glance at him over my shoulder. “It’s only midnight here – if you want to go out, just do it. You can sleep in tomorrow.” I’m not being sarcastic; I don’t even feel sarcastic. Just exhausted and thinking about tomorrow’s meetings. In Pittsburgh and inside my body, it’s three a.m. It took forever to get our luggage and get a taxi into the city from the airport, check in to the hotel. And now I’m too tired to go over the presentation again; I’ll wake up early and give it a final read-through in the morning.

Justin turns away from the window and grabs his suitcase, tosses it on the other side of the bed and opens it up. “I don’t want to go out,” he lies, “Let’s just go to bed, I’m really sleepy.”

He’s about as sleepy as a whirling dervish on speed but I don’t argue. We finish unpacking in silence, then strip off our clothes and he follows me into the bathroom, waits while I adjust the shower temperature and gets in beside me. The routine of washing each other is soothing, and when Justin raises his eyebrows in silent question and slips to his knees, I mutely lay a hand on his shoulder for balance, close my eyes and caress his smooth wet hair as he sucks me off. When I move to reciprocate, Justin pushes me away gently. “Too tired,” he lies again, and again I don’t argue, just turn off the shower and reach for a big white towel.

We get in on opposite sides of the king size bed and our bodies slither across the cool sheets to meet in the center of the mattress, Justin slips into my arms and lays his head on my chest, our legs pretzeling softly together. “Thanks for bringing me with you, Brian,” he murmurs, and I feel my head nod, and keep nodding and nodding and nodding as I drop off to sleep.



Justin

I've never seen Brian this tense, well not about work things. He must be really uptight about his client meetings today. When I wake up he’s already on the computer, his laptop open on the hotel desk. When I slide out of bed he glances up quickly, nods at me and returns his focus to the computer screen. I tiptoe into the bathroom to take a piss and I almost jump when Brian comes in behind me a moment later.

"Will you call room service? Ask for breakfast in half an hour."

"Sure - "

"I want coffee, whole-wheat toast and one strip of bacon, well done." Then he turns on the shower and steps into the tub. Apparently, I'm not invited this morning, so I move into the bedroom and find a room service menu in the drawer of the desk. I order the stuff Brian wants - adding a glass of grapefruit juice and remembering to tell them no butter on the toast, and order ham and eggs for myself.

I'm being careful to keep my promise that I'd speak only when spoken to. I hear him turn off the shower, and while he's shaving I sit by the window looking at a binder the hotel compiled of all kinds of tourist information. You can see Union Square from our window, it's a big park taking up a whole city block, surrounded on all sides by hotels and stores including a huge Macys. Cable cars clang right down the middle of the street below, I can hardly wait to ride one of them to Fisherman's Wharf. But maybe that should wait for the weekend, so Brian and I can do touristy stuff together?

Breakfast arrives just as Brian comes out of the bathroom wearing a hotel terrycloth robe. I have the guy put down the tray on the round table in the corner and Brian grabs his wallet on the desk and gives the guy a tip, then says, "Let's eat." After he's drunk a cup of coffee and eaten a piece of toast, Brian leans back in the chair nibbling bacon and watching me devour my breakfast. "So," he says, "What's on your tourist agenda today? Going to make a beeline for Castro Street?"

"Oh no - we should go there together, I want to save all the best stuff to do with you. It's your first time in San Francisco too, isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "No, I've been here before, on business. But there wasn't time to see much of the city. I've been in a couple of the bars on Castro Street."

Swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs I wave my hand dismissively. "Well, that hardly counts, if you spent all your time in backrooms. That's not why I want to go there."

Brian reaches for the grapefruit juice and drains the glass in one long swallow. "Why else go there?"

"It's a cultural phenomenon!" I say enthusiastically, "It's part of our culture, like Liberty Avenue only way bigger and way better."

"'Way bigger and way better' just means twice as many bars and clubs. Gay bars are the same wherever you go."

"No," I insist, suddenly feeling deflated. "They can't be."

Brian sets down the glass and stands up, leans down till his face is a few inches from mine. "You can decide for yourself. But maybe it's a good idea if you do wait for me. There's some big bad bears in the Castro who eat little Goldilocks twinkies like you for breakfast."

"I'm not a - "

He stops me with a quick kiss, then straightens up and moves toward the closet, drops his robe on the bed and begins to get dressed. I love to watch him dress, there's something sensual about the way he pulls on underwear and socks, and I notice that he watches himself in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. He's always so critical of his body, checking all the time for any imagined bulge or softness. Once he's dressed he wastes no time in logging off the computer, shoving some thick folders into his briefcase and pocketing his wallet.

“I’m off,” he says then and I can tell he’s getting tense again.

Jumping up and walking Brian to the door, I put a hand on his arm. “Do I wish you good luck or say break a leg or what?”

“I don’t need luck,” he scoffs, as he leans down to kiss me, just a touch of his lips on mine. He’s said that before but this time I think I can see through his façade of self-confidence.

“You behave yourself today,” he warns me, “And meet back here by six o’clock, seven at the latest. We’ll go someplace nice for dinner.” I nod and he pulls open the door, then stops and turns around again. “Here,” he says, setting down his briefcase and pulling out his wallet, cracking it open and taking out two fifties.

I back away. “I don’t need that, I have my own money.”

“Justin,” he says, “Don’t be stoobug.”

He knows that will make me laugh, it’s a word we’ve been using since Brian had a swollen lip after the car crash and couldn’t talk right. It makes me laugh this time too but still I open my mouth to protest when Brian shuts me up by saying, “Justin, pretend this is Vermont, okay?”

“Brian – “

“Just shut up and take the money. Have a good time today, just don’t fall off a cable car or do anything else terrible that I’ll have to explain to your mom, okay?”

“Okay.” Reluctantly I take the bills and shove them in the pocket of my robe.

Of course Brian doesn’t owe me for Vermont, in fact, I spent a lot of his money there while I waited for him to come join me, which I should have known he wouldn’t do. But I guess he means he wants to smooth over that bad time, make it go away. I wish Brian would talk about things like normal people instead of turning ordinary conversation into riddles and guessing games. He kisses me again then walks out and down the hall toward the elevator, and I close the door behind him, thinking about all the things I want to do today.



Brian

The offices of Barnhart & Blessing are on a narrow side street in the Financial District, I’m glad I allowed plenty of time to get here as the taxi slowly jostles its way through heavy morning traffic. Even so, I arrive twenty minutes early and find a nearby coffee kiosk to kill time and fortify myself with more caffeine. It’s interesting to stand on the corner watching the crowded sidewalks jammed with morning commuters rushing to work, and I make eye contact with several good-looking men in beautifully tailored business suits who aren’t too preoccupied to scan the crowd.

One, in particular, gives me an undeniably interested stare and switches his direction, making a sharp turn and walking right toward me. At the last moment, he detours sharply, steps up to the kiosk and buys himself a cup of coffee. Then he saunters over to my vicinity and gives me a nod and a smile. “Morning,” he says, “I think we met at the Giants-Padres game last week, you were with your wife and three kids.”

“No,” I correct him, shaking my head. “All six of the kids were with us.”

He laughs then and extends his hand. “I’m George,” he says. He’s about my age, as tall as me, broad-shouldered and tan, with thick dark red hair and wide-apart green eyes; he’s amazingly hot.

Taking his hand I tell him, “I'm Brian.”

“Brian, I’m late for work, but maybe we could meet for lunch today? We could talk about the Giants’ pennant chances this year.”

Regretfully I say, “Sorry, I’m in meetings all day and I don’t know if or when I’ll be free. Pity, though,” I add, “I’d love to hear your thoughts about the team.”

“Yes, a pity,” he agrees. “Dinner?”

Again I shake my head. “I’m in town only a couple days on business and I’m traveling with a friend.”

“Bring him along,” George suggests, and when I merely smile regretfully (and it is a fucking shame to miss having sex with this guy), he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Handing it to me he says, “If you break free, give me a call, maybe we can work something out.”

“Sure,” I agree, palming the card and slipping it into my pocket, then George turns away and hurries off down the sidewalk, not without a glance over his shoulder and a wave of his cardboard coffee cup.

I decide to wait another five minutes; it won’t do to appear overeager by showing up before my appointment time. Finally, I make my way to the Barnhart & Blessing office building. It’s eight stories high, dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers, with a distressed-brick-and glass façade.

At the reception desk, I'm redirected to the seventh floor, where I'm greeted at the elevator by a tall man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped, wearing a suit especially tailored to minimize his considerable paunch front and center; his florid complexion tells me he likely also overindulges in liquor. "Mr. Kinney, I'm Chuck Hansen, welcome to B&B. We're very anxious to hear your ideas. Come to my office and we'll get started."

Once we're settled in Hansen's large office, he explains, "As I told you on the phone, we'll have a preliminary discussion, and the Specialty Foods boys will join us later. This afternoon, if all goes well, you'll see Mr. Barnhart, President of Barnhart & Blessing."

"Great," I respond, opening my briefcase and pulling out the thick manila folder with my printouts and preliminary marketing outline that I've been roughing out for most of the past week. The San Francisco trip is an expensive gamble - I've spent so much time recently on this project to the exclusion of almost everything else, and naturally Barnhart & Blessing have thrown out invitations for marketing proposals to several top agencies around the country, so the competition from other agencies will be fierce.

After about an hour, Hansen decides it's time for the others to join us, so I know I've passed the first hurdle. He leaves me in his office and I stand up and stretch, loosen my shoulders which despite myself are a bit tight, and stand at the window taking in the view - which is mostly tall buildings and the shadows they throw down onto the street, but if you look straight down one side street, there’s a slice of blue sky and darker blue water in the distance. If I remember the city map correctly, the Financial District stretches west and south from the waterfront.



Justin

There's an information desk in the lobby of the hotel where I pick up an armful of maps and brochures, and right outside the door on Powell Street I stand and watch a cable car lurching up the hill. It's jam-packed with tourists but when it stops on the corner I see that a few brave people surge forward and try to climb aboard. Two of them make it, and that encourages me to follow their lead. When the next cable car inches up the hill, I’m ready on the corner and when the car stops, I throw myself forward, grabbing a pole in one hand and shoving my body in between the already-cramped crowd of bodies on the steps of the cable car. Somebody grabs my shoulder as we jerk forward again, and people laugh - everybody's having a good time.

"Thanks," I exclaim to the middle-aged lady attached to the arm that grabbed my shoulder, and she nods and warns me, "Hold on tight when we go around corners." I nod thanks again and then twist my body around, trying to watch the passing scenery. We go up and up and up Powell Street, which becomes a very steep hill. We pass by Chinatown, barely visible down narrow side streets, then we go very fast around a really sharp turn and I lose my hold on the narrow pole and feel my body arching outward - when my guardian-angel lady and a man on the other side of me both reach out and grab onto my jacket and pull me to safety. Strangely enough, we all laugh, and I thank them both and determine that I will NOT tell Brian about this adventure. If falling off a cable car didn’t totally kill me, Brian sure would.

A few people get off at the next stop, including the lady who helped me, and then there's room to sit on the cable car's narrow bench facing the street. The man who grabbed me slides over to make room for me to sit next to him, and it's a relief to plop down and I let out a whoosh of air. "Having fun?" the man asks, and I nod eagerly, turning to look at him for the first time, he's one of those not very noticeable kinds of people, middle-aged, dressed very plainly with close-cropped hair and large black-framed glasses.

"Yes," I tell him, "It's my first ride on a cable car!"

"Going to Pier 39?"

"I guess." Then I laugh and admit, "I don't know where I'm going, I just saw a cable car and jumped on."

"You're on the car that goes close to Pier 39. The other one goes to Fisherman's Wharf. Though everything's easy walking distance on the waterfront." He pauses, then asks, "Meeting friends?"

"No, I'm on my own today. Oh, look!" I exclaim, pointing down the hill at the sudden view of ocean. Or I guess it's the San Francisco Bay. "Is that Alcatraz?"

"Yes. The island in the middle of the bay is Alcatraz, the bigger island on the left is Angel Island. And Golden Gate Bridge is over to the far left, you can see it when we get closer to the waterfront. Are you going to take the boat to Alcatraz?"

"No," I hear myself sigh, wishing Brian were with me. "That wouldn't be any fun alone."

"You wouldn't have to go alone."

That makes me glance quickly at the man again, and though I wasn't getting any gay vibes from him - not that I was really paying attention – now I wonder. Maybe he's hitting on me? Or maybe not, maybe he's just a nice man being friendly to a stranger.



Brian

The ‘Specialty Foods boys’ introduce themselves: Rob Lexington, a tall brunette with narrow black-framed glasses; and Paul Russo, a blond of medium height with blue eyes nearly as intense as Justin's. I'm not sure what it is about blue-eyed blonds that always seems to get my attention. Lexington starts right in. "Chuck tells us he was impressed with your initial presentation, so we're expecting you to really wow the second team - that's us. Is that intimidating enough for you, Brian?"

Glad that I've graduated to first-name basis, I laugh and say confidently, "Not at all - I love a challenge." Being aggressive has gotten me where I am today, being aggressive and being brilliant of course, so I open up my folders and spread some color-copied concept sheets around the table. After a couple hours lively discussion, Lexington announces that he's going to recommend that the company president take a meeting with me later today, after lunch. Then Lexington invites me to have lunch with him - unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) the delicious Paul Russo has another commitment. Naturally, I agree and we adjourn to a nearby sushi restaurant, which pleases me on several counts, not least of which because traveling with Justin precludes eating in any restaurant that serves raw fish.

After lunch, we return to the B&B offices, to the eighth floor where Lexington escorts me to the president’s office. I follow him down a hallway and wait while he opens an office door, then he precedes me inside and announces, “George Barnhart, here’s Brian Kinney from Vangard.”

The red-haired man behind the desk stands up and extends his hand across the polished mahogany surface. With a flash of deep green eyes and a broad smile he proclaims, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kinney – although I do think we may have met once before?”

As I shake his hand I try not to lose my smile, though I'm almost speechless with surprise. Somehow I manage to murmur, “Why, yes. Yes, I think we have. Perhaps it was at a Giants game?”

Brian

"Brian, I'm perfectly safe - there’s like a million people here. Besides, I'm a good judge of character, he's a nice man."

"You are not a good judge of character." I’m in the lobby of the Barnhart & Blessing building killing time till a three o’clock meeting with George Barnhart’s senior administrators, I've called Justin on my cell to check in with him. “You thought Gary Sapperstein was a nice man.”

"Brian, that was a long time ago! Besides, it’s just a boat ride to Alcatraz, what’s the big deal? I don’t want to go alone and it doesn’t seem like something you’d like to do.”

“It isn’t.”

“Well see? We were going to go this morning but did you know it’s like the number one tourist attraction in San Francisco? We were lucky to get tickets for this afternoon, and I – “

“Justin.” I wait for him to calm down and listen. “Justin?”

I hear him take a deep breath, he pauses then says, “What?”

“You can do whatever you want, you know that. You’re on your own. But,” I pause, then say seriously, “But I’m asking you not to go there with him.”

For some reason, and I really don’t even know why I have a bad feeling about this new best friend Justin’s been prattling about ever since I called him. He told me the guy’s been with him all day – they met on the cable car this morning. If he was some kid I wouldn’t be concerned. But Justin says he’s middle-aged, and I can’t see a middle-aged guy tromping all over the waterfront trying to keep up with Justin. What’s in it for him? Doesn't he have a job, why isn’t he working on a Thursday? Why’d he attach himself to a teenager who’s a stranger in a strange city? Maybe everything’s explainable. Probably it is. But I don’t fucking like it.

Now I say, “Justin, if you really want to see Alcatraz that bad, I’ll go with you on Saturday.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Christ, I do not want to go climbing all over some big rock in the middle of San Francisco Bay. Shaking my head, surprised at myself, I repeat, “Yes, I’ll go with you. So where’s this guy now?”

“He went to find a men’s room while I got in line here at the french-fry place. You can get a big cup of them with the skin on, they smell so good. Oh, here he comes. Hey, Andy!”

“Put Andy on the phone.”

“Brian, why? This is just so amazingly not like you.”

He’s telling me. “Humor me.”

I hear Justin whispering, “It’s my boyfriend, he wants to talk to you. I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me. Just take the phone, okay?”

There’s a long pause, then I hear Justin say, “Why won’t you talk to him? He’s not all macho jealous or anything. Andy? Just talk to him.”

Another long pause. Then, “Hello?”

“Andy, this is Justin’s lover, and he’s wrong, I am very, very macho, in fact, I’m in San Francisco to hire a hit man for my mob boss in south Jersey. It’s dangerous to mess with the lover of a Mafioso, wouldn’t you agree?”

Then he’s laughing. “That’s cute. But Justin already told me you’re in advertising.”

“Yeah, that’s my cover. Justin’s just a kid, I don’t tell him everything. I’m going to ask you politely to do me a favor, and this is it: Just walk away. Your family and loved ones will thank you for it later.”

He laughs again but it's forced. “You’re a comedian.”

“Andy, look over your shoulder. See the tall man in the dark glasses near the french-fry place?”

They’re on the tourist-infested waterfront near a french-fry place, there must be several men in dark glasses nearby.

After a long pause, Andy says, “Yeah, what about him?”

“He’s watching you. Justin’s never alone when we’re traveling – he doesn’t know it, but I always assign somebody to guard him. All I have to do is say the word and you’re a dead man.”

“You don't really think I’m buying this shit, do you?”

There's a pause while I try to think of something menacing to say, then Andy mutters, "Christ, he's walking right towards me. Tell him to back off."

“Andy, what’s going on?” I hear Justin demanding. “Give me the phone!”

Turning my head slightly away from the mouthpiece, I growl, "Luigi - you see the guy with Justin? Take him out - now!"

Two women standing near the elevator turn and give me a startled look.

“Motherfucker!” Andy shouts, then there’s a loud bang that nearly fractures my ear drum.

“Brian? Brian, are you there?”

“Ow, did you drop the fucking phone? I’ve gone deaf in one ear.”

“He threw it on the ground. Andy. He threw the phone at me and stomped off. I’m surprised it’s not broken. Brian, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“What did you say to make him so mad?”

Bracing myself for Justin’s anger, I say, “I told him your lover was a Mafioso and if he didn’t leave you alone, he’d be a dead man.”

“No Brian, I mean, seriously - what did you tell him?”

“Justin,” I sigh, “I told him to go away. Now - have you had enough tourist shit for one day? I’ll be done with my meetings in another hour or so. Meet me back at the hotel, okay?”

“Okay. But then will you tell me what really happened? With Andy?”

I can’t resist asking, “Justin, didn’t your mom ever tell you not to take candy from strangers?”

“He didn’t give me candy.”

All I can do is shake my head. “Justin, it’s ten minutes to three. I’ll see you about four-thirty. Can you get back to the hotel without picking up anybody else?”

“Okay. But Brian?”

“What?”

“You didn’t really say you’d kill him, did you?”

“Bye Justin.” I click off the cell and shove it in my pocket, move toward the elevator. I knew I'd be sorry I brought Justin to San Francisco. Now I’ve got to switch gears and rev up for the next meeting; I need to persuade the B&B execs to choose my proposal. George Barnhart's waiting for me at the entrance to the conference room and he's grinning. I hope that's a good sign.



Justin

I can't stop smiling. Probably I should be mad at Brian for going all cave-man on me, for somehow scaring away my new friend Andy, but instead, I'm feeling happy that Brian got jealous, so I can't be as mad as I should be.

Today was fun, I enjoyed exploring Fisherman's Wharf and all the other stuff on the waterfront, from the Ghirardelli chocolate factory all the way to Pier 39, which is where Andy and I were hanging out waiting for the three-thirty Alcatraz tour. We had lunch at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, there was a guy outside dressed like Forrest Gump and I talked to him for a while, he stayed in character the whole time. Andy insisted on paying for lunch and now I'm feeling really sorry that Brian chased him off. Or actually I should feel sorry, but I can't stop smiling.

At the information booth in Pier 39 I ask about buses to get me back to our hotel, but before I leave the waterfront I return to the tour office and buy tickets for a Saturday Alcatraz tour. Andy had our tickets in his pocket, but that’s okay, he paid for them. I hope Brian will enjoy seeing Alcatraz, he pretends not to be very interested in tourist stuff but I'll bet he changes his mind once he gets a look at the place. Who wouldn't want to see such a cool world-famous prison?

When I get back to the hotel I decide to take a shower and get ready in case Brian's in a hurry. He doesn't eat much during the day so I'll bet he's going to be starving. I'll put on my suit, he likes seeing me dressed up. I'd rather wear cargo pants or sweats but if I'm going to be Brian Kinney's lover for real this time, I'd better get used to wearing nice clothes.

Are we going to be real lovers, I wonder? Partners I mean, we're already lovers. It's for both of us to decide, and it's time we started talking about it. But not tonight. Not till after Brian finishes his business meetings tomorrow and then maybe he can relax. I wonder how it went today? I tried to ask him on the phone but he just said "Later." Everything's always 'later' with Brian.



Brian

Justin’s in the shower when I get back to the room so I quickly get undressed and go into the bathroom to join him. He hasn’t pulled the shower curtain all the way around the tub, he doesn’t hear the door open and his eyes are closed. He’s jerking off.

“Justin,” I say quietly, then a bit louder, “Justin.” His eyes pop open and he jumps slightly, then a smile spreads over his face and he opens his arms to welcome me as I step into the tub.

“Let me do that, “ I say gruffly, grabbing his cock and pretending to use it like a handle to pull him toward me. His arms slide around my neck and we kiss. Christ, he feels good, his skin smooth and slippery and warm.

“Brian,” he breathes into my mouth, “Brian, how’d it go? Did you – “

“Later.” And I shut him up with kisses.


``````


Justin asks if he should wear his suit but I’m in the mood to be casual tonight, so we put on jeans and head out looking for dinner and some relaxation. I’ll need to spend a couple hours going over my notes later tonight, I’ve got one more presentation to make tomorrow and then it’s out of my hands. Hopefully, Barnhart and Blessing and their execs will make a decision on Friday, but they may need more time – I’m not sure if they’ve interviewed all the other agencies or not. Justin tries again to ask about it but I’m not ready to discuss anything yet.

I’m not surprised to discover that Justin’s made friends with the staff at the hotel’s concierge desk, it’s his suggestion we stop there to ask about local places to eat. Since I had sushi for lunch I’m not really hungry so I let Justin decide and we head off on foot to a small Italian bistro just a few blocks away. We take our time over dinner, and I find that I actually enjoy listening to Justin tell all about the tourist shit he saw today. He skates around the Andy issue and I decide to let it drop, except for one comment.

“Justin, when you go out tomorrow, don’t pick anybody up. At least not anybody so much older – you never know what you’re getting into with geezers.”

Justin looks up from his bowl of spumoni, licks his spoon and nods. “It’s like your dating rule, huh?” When I just raise my eyebrows in question he clarifies, “I can’t pick up anybody in San Francisco who’s older than me.”

“That’s a good rule,” I say blandly. “Give me a taste of your ice cream.” I lean across the table and let Justin put a spoonful of spumoni in my mouth. “Mmm.” It’s good.

“Can we go to the Castro tonight? I waited to go there with you.”

“Sure.” The waiter brings our bill and I hand him my plastic. “But just for a couple hours, I need some time on the computer tonight.” I think about it for a minute, then add, “You could stay there longer, though. If you’ll be careful.”

Justin lifts his glass of wine and looks at me over the rim. “I don’t need to stay longer, I just want to experience it, don’t you? The bars and so forth.”

“Especially the so-forth,” I grin at him, thinking he’ll laugh.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his face gets solemn and he says, “Brian, just for tonight could you maybe pass on the tricking?”

I’m annoyed. “Why do you assume I’ll be tricking?”

“Well duh.” He tosses his wadded-up napkin on the table and stares hard at me. “Why should tonight be different than any other night?”

“Because I’m with you.”

I return his stare and when after a moment he says, “Really?” I nod, my eyes never leaving his face.

I know what he means. We haven’t talked about it yet – we haven’t talked about anything much and I’m not ready to start right now. But he said a while ago that if we get back together, he doesn’t want to see me tricking in front of him. I haven’t consciously thought about it but I realize now that I’m prepared to honor his request.

Suddenly Justin smiles and stretches his hand across the table. I reach out and take his hand and squeeze, and I realize that I’m smiling right back at him. We don’t say anything, it’s not exactly like a promise or anything completely binding. Then the waiter returns with my card, I put it back in my wallet and we stand up and walk out of the restaurant. We’re not holding hands but it feels like we are.



Justin

I’m happy as a clam in chowder.

That’s something my grandma used to say, and I didn’t realize till I got older that it didn’t make sense, a clam wouldn’t be happy in chowder, but I like the sound of it anyway. Brian almost, sort of, kind of gave me a promise tonight. I don’t know if he’ll keep it – I don’t know if he CAN keep it – but just the fact that he agreed at all is what matters to me right now.

He gets a taxi and we climb in and head for the Castro. I’m very excited to be going there, it’s like the center of the gay universe practically. But I’m a little disappointed because when we step out onto the street, it looks almost exactly like Liberty Avenue. Only bigger. There’s about a thousand bars, the crowds on the sidewalk are dressed exactly like the guys at home, music is pouring out the open bar doors – the same music as back in Pittsburgh. Brian warned me but somehow I didn’t believe him.

We have one drink in each of three bars, and naturally, a million guys give Brian the eye, I guess some are looking at me but I’m too busy wondering what he’ll do to really pay much attention. Finally, Brian puts his arm around me and leans down to whisper, “Stop waiting for me to fuck up. I don’t want any of these guys anyway, let’s go to the hotel.”

I nod okay and we go back to the street, it takes forever but finally Brian flags down a taxi and we head back to Union Square. “How come you’re so quiet?” he asks me. “Disappointed?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I thought it would be different.”

Brian doesn’t laugh or say I-told-you-so, instead, his hand slips across the seat and he takes hold of my hand in the darkness and squeezes my fingers. “So what’s your agenda for tomorrow?”

“The museums,” I tell him, my enthusiasm for San Francisco rekindling. “The modern art one is on Third Street, I looked at the map and I think it’s walking distance from our hotel. But the palace one is over somewhere by Golden Gate Bridge, I’ll have to take a bus.”

“Take a taxi,” he insists; “You’re on vacation, you can’t take buses on vacation.” After a moment he adds, “Besides, you meet too many geezers on public transportation.”

“Brian,” I venture to say, “I think Andy was all right.”

”How old is he?”

“I don’t know.” I stop and think. “As old as Vic probably.”

“Ah,” Brian exclaims quietly, “And if Vic followed a guy your age around Pittsburgh all day, what would you think?”

That brings me up short. “Oh,” is all I can say.

“Geezer behavior,” Brian confirms. “The guy had ulterior motives, trust me.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t in danger, Brian. I’m not helpless, just because I’m young.”

“Maybe not. Probably not. But you’re too trusting.”

We’re quiet for a moment, then I can’t help but ask, “Did you really tell him you were a Mafia hit man?”

“Here we are,” Brian announces, as the taxi stops in front of our hotel.

We’re alone in the elevator going up so I ask again, “Did you really tell Andy you were – “

“Yeah. Just like Tony Soprano.” Brian turns quickly and pushes me hard up against the mirrored wall of the elevator, pushes his body roughly against mine, leans down till we’re nose to nose. He’s frowning menacingly and he growls low in his throat, “And when we get to the room, I’m going to pull out my gun and shoot you.”

“I can feel your gun.” It’s the truth, I feel his cock pressing hard against my leg. “I won’t resist. Not unless you want me to.”



Brian

I was in high gear for the final B&B meeting and I feel confident that it went well. When the meeting adjourns, George Barnhart invites me to his office and he closes the door behind us. Then he pulls a bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk and produces two glasses. His are crystal, not paper like the glasses in my desk in Pittsburgh.

After pouring an inch of whiskey into each glass he hands me one and salutes me with the other. “Well Brian,” he says, “You’ve got my vote, if that means anything – and it usually does.”

“Thanks,” I nod, raise my own glass to him and swallow a gulp of twelve-year-old scotch. “When will the final decision be made?”

“Next week.” George drains his glass and sits down in one of the easy chairs in front of his desk, waving me toward the other. “It’ll be a group decision – fuck group decisions, but of course I don’t have the leverage I used to have before we merged with Blessing. What did you think of him, by the way?”

Today was the first time I met George’s junior partner, Henry Blessing. George and Henry, such old-fashioned names for men in their mid-thirties. “He seems fairly conservative,” I suggest, not saying what I really think, that the man’s a reactionary Republican asshole. Throughout the morning meeting he threw out one negative comment after another, interrupting me, interrupting others who had questions, he was a real pain in the ass. I managed to keep my cool – I always do – but he annoyed me.

“He’s a – difficult man,” George confirms, “A lot of his persona is bluster, he’s not as smart or as quick as the rest of the exec team and it makes him defensive. But I think I know him well enough to say that he was impressed with you and with your campaign concepts. I’ll have a better idea next week, and I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Thanks,” I salute him again with my glass and drain it.

“So,” George asks, unbuttoning his jacket and sprawling comfortably in his chair, “Are you heading back home tonight?”

“No, I’m staying for the weekend.”

“Going to do the tourist bit?” When I nod he smiles and asks. “Need a tour guide?”

“Got one, but thanks.”

“Ah yes,” George nods understanding, “I remember you said you had a traveling companion. Lover? Partner? Just good friends?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. Justin might be any or all of the above, but I’m not ready to go public with that information.

“Actually,” George informs me, “I have a partner too – and it’s not Henry Blessing!” He laughs and I join in though I’m vaguely wary of the direction of this conversation.

George continues, “I’d love for you and your partner to join Stephen and me for dinner tomorrow night. It’s a bit early in the game to mix business with pleasure – it could be misconstrued as favoritism or some other political bullshit – but nobody needs to know about it.”

“Thanks, George. That would be great.” I give him the smile he wants, then add, “As long as you’re sure it won’t jeopardize my agency’s chances.”

Actually, I’m pissed. Accepting Barnhart’s invitation could screw up everything. But not accepting could be even more hazardous.

“Meanwhile,” George continues, “I’m calling Alexander Grantham, he’s a buddy of mine and probably the richest, most influential queer in San Francisco. He’s having a party tonight and I’ll wangle an invitation for you and your partner. What’s his name?”

“Justin Taylor.” I’m getting painted into a corner and I seem to have temporarily lost my ability to finesse my way out of it. “But I think he’s made plans for us tonight – “

“It’s an enormous but very informal get-together Alex throws once every month or two - it’s great luck that you’re here at this time, I promise you’ll have a ball. Unfortunately, I’ve got to fly to LA tonight for an early morning meeting so I’ll have to miss the party. But I’ll send a car to your hotel tomorrow night – that is, if you’re free for dinner with me and Stephen?”

“Of course, I’ll look forward to it.” That’s my cue to stand up. I grab my briefcase and head for the door but George beckons me over to his desk.

“Here,” he says, scribbling on a piece of notepaper, “This is the address of the party, Alex has a loft in SoMa, and I’ll make sure your names will be on the guest list at the door.” He straightens up and hands me the paper, and when our fingers touch, I feel that unmistakable spark pass between us.

George smiles then and narrows his dark green eyes.

Fuck.

“Goodbye George, and thanks,” I wave the notepaper at him before shoving it into my pocket. Why does it feel like I’m taking candy from a stranger?

“See you tomorrow night,” he says, raising his hand in salute, then I turn and go out the door.

I knew I’d be sorry I brought Justin along on this trip with me. And not because I want to fuck George Barnhart, because I don’t. Well, that’s an amazing lie. The truth is, I do want to. But I don’t want to want to.



Justin

We’re going to a party and I’m wearing a new shirt that Brian bought me this afternoon. I wish I’d known his meetings were over early, I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the museum, but there was an entire room of sculptures by Rodin. I sat on a bench and sketched for HOURS, till my hand went numb. I completely lost track of time.

I’ve changed into my suit and Brian made me promise not to spill anything on it because we’re going to a dinner party with his big cheese client tomorrow night. He didn’t sound too happy about either party but he’s still not ready to talk about things. Work things or us things. When’s he going to be ready? Somehow I’m going to make him talk to me tomorrow. I don’t know how, but I’m not going to wait any longer.



Brian

Where the fuck is Justin?

I've made my way around this fucking enormous loft twice now and there's no sign of Justin. This place is the entire upper floor of a renovated factory building in the fashionable SoMa, or South of Market district. Justin could be anywhere.

We wandered around the place together when we first arrived, then we went our separate ways. He isn't in what he termed The Sex Alcove (not that I'd expect to find him there); he's not outside on the large balcony that wraps halfway around the building and is filled with little clumps of chattering men, some in tuxes, some in jeans, the rest in everything in between. He's not on the makeshift dance floor gyrating to some God-awful earsplitting live band, and he's not among any of the small groups and knots of people chatting pretentiously about the so-called art on display in the atrium. He must have left - maybe he went back to the hotel, maybe he hooked up with somebody. But I can't believe he'd leave without telling me, and he's either not answering his cell or he left it in the hotel room. Of course, he can take care of himself. It’s not like I’m worried about him or anything.

"Looking for your boyfriend?"

I've stepped outside on the balcony yet again to sweep my eyes over the small groups of people, and now I turn around quickly to discover Alexander Grantham leaning against the door jamb, holding an oversized champagne glass in one hand and a joint in the other. Alex is the host of this circuit-party-like Friday bacchanal, he was at the door greeting guests when we arrived. He’s a tall man on the wrong side of fifty, slightly overweight, wearing a designer tuxedo that must have cost a fucking mint. His hairpiece probably cost even more.

"Just looking around," I answer casually, pulling out my cigarettes and shaking one loose, lighting up. "This is quite a party, must be a couple hundred people milling around."

"At least. Every guy in SF who's a Queer with a capital Q shows up at my parties."

"Hmm." I glance around the balcony again, and I’m getting really annoyed with myself for trying to find Justin. If he wants to go off on his own, that’s his business.

Where the fuck is he?

“Want a hit?”

I look back at Alex again and he’s offering the joint. “No thanks.”

“If you want some E or some coke, there’s plenty to be had in the party favors room.” I start to shake my head again but he’s still talking. “It’s in the second-story bedroom above the kitchen, down by the – “

“The kitchen?” He’s got my attention now. “There’s a kitchen?”

“Sure, the caterers have taken it over, and the master bedroom is built right above it, there’s a winding staircase up the side – “

“Where’s the fucking kitchen?”

Alex glances over his shoulder and points. “Down that way, just about in the middle of the loft, you can – “

“Thanks.” I drop my cigarette into an ashtray on a nearby table, move around Alex and head in the direction he pointed.

And of course, he’s there. Justin. Sitting on a countertop, his legs swinging casually as he nibbles on an enormous turkey leg and chats happily with a guy in a tall white chef hat. He looks up and sees me hesitating in the kitchen doorway and he waves at me with the turkey leg. He says something to the chef and jumps down off the counter, hurries over to join me.

“Brian! Did you know there’s a chef school in California that’s as famous as that whatchacallit one in Paris? Only here it’s called C.I.A. just like the government only it’s the Culinary Institute of America. Joe – see that guy I was talking to?” Justin points backward and chatters on, “He’s a chef at some restaurant in Carmel, that’s a city somewhere around here, he makes extra money sometimes working for Mr. Grantham’s caterer.”

I interrupt Justin just as he’s stopping to draw breath. “Have you had enough of this party?”

“Huh?” Before I can repeat my question, Justin answers, “Brian, I had enough HOURS ago. Can we go back to the hotel now?”

“Yes. But get rid of that thing.”

Justin looks down at the turkey leg. “Okay. You want a bite first?”

“I want a bite, but not of turkey. Let’s get out of here.”

Justin dumps the turkey unceremoniously in a trash can, wipes his hands on a pile of napkins near the door, then turns and slips his arm through mine. “If you remember the doorman’s name and ask him nicely, I bet he’ll get us a taxi.”

I don’t remember his name of course, but I’m sure that Justin does.

Brian

“We could do a San Francisco slideshow like Michael did of Paris!” Justin flips open the back of the camera and slips in a new roll of film.

“No, we could not.”

Justin’s already taken four thousand pictures of me and we haven’t even gotten off the boat from Alcatraz. I’m feeling a little nauseous, the water’s choppy, the boat rocks back-and-forth, back-and-forth as it nears the dock on Fisherman’s Wharf. Probably if I were leaning over the rail vomiting my guts out, Justin would be clicking away, capturing it all on film.

I didn’t feel well when I woke up this morning – perhaps a reaction to the stress from the past few days or maybe just a hangover from the numerous shots of JB I drank while I searched for Justin all over the SoMa loft last night, I’m still a bit out of practice with heavy drinking. But of course I said nothing, Justin’s waited patiently for two days for me to join him playing tourist, I didn’t want to dim his excitement.

I did talk him out of jumping onto the cable car as he bragged of doing two days before, instead we took a taxi to the wharf. Justin proclaimed it boring but it was much quicker and more comfortable and besides, he’d gotten tickets for a ten o’clock tour and we were running late. That wasn’t my fault, he’d started something in the shower that we finished on the bed, and then we needed another shower. We skipped breakfast and still had to rush and Justin’s been threatening to faint from starvation the past couple hours, even though he bought three donuts and two cartons of milk aboard the tourist boat to Alcatraz island.

As I expected, the prison tour itself was fairly boring to me. Justin’s enthusiasm covered my lack of, and he was so busy reading the brochures, taking photos, and badgering the tour guides with questions that I was able to fake an interest that frankly was completely missing. But even though I’m probably the world’s least tactful person, I couldn’t bring myself to crush Justin’s enjoyment by subjecting him to the cleverly sarcastic monologue that was running through my brain while I trekked all over the big rock with the ooh-ing and aah-ing tour group.

Or so I thought. When we reach the wharf and disembark from the unpleasant little boat and reconnoiter on the sidewalk, I’m rubbing my temple because of this fucking headache. Justin puts a hand on my arm and asks anxiously, “Brian, aren’t you having a good time?”

“Sure – it’s as much fun as Chinese water torture.” Immediately I bite my tongue. Fuck.

Justin’s smile almost comically turns upside down and quickly I shoot out my hand and grab his arm, pull him close. “The truth is, I’ve got a slight headache and – “

“It’s because we skipped breakfast!” Justin declares, and while I know that’s not the reason, I find myself nodding agreement.

“Yeah, let’s get something to eat, “ I suggest. Even though the thought of food increases my nausea, I know that Justin’s definitely starving by now, it’s noon.

Just as I’m thinking to myself that this tact shit is for the birds, a huge seagull does a kamikaze nosedive over our heads and lets loose with a huge shitload that splatters the ground near our feet. I’ll bet they aim for tourists and congratulate each other for near-misses like that one. Justin laughs out loud and I clamp my lips together to keep from saying what I want to say, instead, I smile grimly and let him take my hand and lead me away from the boat of the damned, the stinking reek of the water sloshing against the wharf pilings, and the fucking killer seagulls.

Three cups of coffee, an extra-strength Tylenol, and a halfway decent chicken sandwich help restore my equilibrium. We’re sitting in a restaurant with a view of the bay – my back is resolutely turned against it, having generously offered to let Justin sit facing the window, and he’s reading me a list of all the possible things we could do next – who knew there were so many fucking tourist attractions in this city?

Justin glances up from his brochures and catches a look on my face before I can remove it and his own face falls, he loses his happy smile. “You don’t really want to do this stuff, do you?” It’s rhetorical; he saw the answer before he asked the question.

“Some sound better than others,” I hedge. “We should rent a car, it would be easier to get around.”

“Brian, you haven’t said what you would like to do.”

Taking another sip of coffee, I consider. “I’d like to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge,” I admit, surprising myself; it’s the truth. “And,” reaching for the map and studying it, I add, “Would you like to see the ocean? We could drive there too.”

Justin sits up in his chair and exclaims, “Oh, I’d love to see the Pacific! Let’s do that!”

So we get a taxi to a rental car place and I drive around San Francisco all afternoon, going across the bridge and back again, driving through Golden Gate Park, stopping a couple times to see landmarks and places that interest Justin. Then we reach the ocean, and I drive south for a half-hour or so while Justin enjoys the ocean view and I feel myself relaxing and actually enjoying the drive. In late afternoon we stop at a turn-out, park and walk down a steep path in the cliff to the beach, leaving our shoes in the car. Halfway to the water Justin grabs my hand and pulls me – and I find myself running beside him through the warm sand and splashing into the freezing cold water washing up in lacy waves onto the shore. It’s windy, Justin’s hair is blown around in the breeze, his face is flushed pink, and when he turns his head he’s laughing out loud with joy. I join in his laughter – he’s so beautiful – and suddenly I realize that I feel just amazingly happy being here beside him on the beach.



Justin

Renting a car was a great idea and I’ve had so much fun today seeing a lot of famous sights in San Francisco. Best of all though was finding this beach, there’s very few people around, we walk barefoot through the waves for a while and then climb over the sand dunes and sit by a big log, Brian leaning his back against the log and pulling me to lean back against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. We sit like that for a while watching the waves roll in and out, and I can tell how relaxed Brian is, and I feel so happy. The sun is very low in the sky, everything is muted pink and gold. Maybe now is the time to start talking.

“Brian, can we talk now?”

“What about?” I feel his arms tighten around me.

“Us.”

I’m not sure what I expect – annoyance, sarcasm, at least a joke. What I don’t expect is to hear Brian sigh and murmur, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I turn in his arms so I can see his face. His eyes are serious and he nods his head.

“Yes,” he confirms, before planting a quick kiss on my lips. “You start.”

“I – I don’t even know how.”

“You don’t have a speech prepared? Maybe some scribbles on three-by-five cards? Notes written on your hand?”

“Well,” I sigh, turning around and sitting cross-legged to face Brian, “Here’s the sarcasm that was missing.”

“Justin, sarcasm is me. It’s a reflex. You know that by now.”

“Sometimes you’ve been serious. You’ve talked about serious things to me before. Why not now?”

He takes a quick breath and says, “Maybe because I’m. . .”

There’s a long pause as he stares at me.

After a moment I try to fill in the blank. “Scared?”

Brian continues to stare at me, he doesn’t blink. Then there’s the briefest nod of his head. “Possibly.”

“No,” I say urgently, “You can’t be. If you’re scared, I’ll be scareder.”

Brian laughs softly, reaches a hand to brush the hair out of my eyes. “Impossible. You’re the bravest man I know.”

“I’m not brave,” I deny it.

“You’re willing to take me on – again. What could be braver than that?”

“Brian?” He nods encouragingly, so I go on, “Brian, all the times we were together. It was never really your idea. This time it has to be your idea. Otherwise. . .”

“Otherwise what?”

I try a different tactic. “Brian. This time you have to fight for me. This time you have to convince ME that we should be together.”

“Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “You should have given me some warning. I don’t have a presentation ready. And my laptop’s back at the hotel.”

I don’t laugh, instead, I fold my hands in my lap and just look at him. And keep looking at him.

Brian sighs. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it sift through his fingers. Finally, he murmurs, “It’s easier to tell you the reasons we shouldn’t be together.”

“Okay. Number one.”

Brian looks back at me again and sighs. “Okay. Age. You’re twelve years younger than me.”

“A perfect match: When you’re decrepit, I’ll push you around in a wheel chair. I’ve already practiced.”

“Twat.”

“Next?”

“Economics.”

“Perfect again. You’re putting me through school and then someday I’ll be rich and famous and have ten times more money than you. I can be your sugar daddy.”

“Sugar baby.” His voice is soft, he touches my hair again.

“Next.”

“You have no fashion sense.”

“You can buy me more suits. And we’ll go see your tailor to have them fitted. Next.”

“I can’t be monoga-

“Fuck mononononononogamy. To quote you in one of your finer moments.”

“I was drunk. I’m drunk in most of my finer moments.”

We smile, remembering the night I drove him home from Deb’s birthday party. Then I say decisively, “Next.”

Brian looks away again, picks up another handful of sand, drops it. I just sit waiting and finally he crosses his arms, leans back against the log and looks me in the eye. “Justin, I can’t – I mean, I won’t – say the things you want to hear.”

“Brian. There’s only one thing I want to hear. Only one.”

He shakes his head, “I can’t – “

“Yes, you can.”

“I won’t – “

“Well, you have to. This time you have to.”

He just stares at me without speaking.

Rising up on my knees, I lean forward and put my arms around his neck. “You have to,” I whisper.

“Justin,” Brian says urgently, “The tide’s coming in.”

Unwillingly I glance over my shoulder and he’s right, the tide’s been coming in and the water’s getting close to us.

So I stand up and Brian stands up and we move across the sand back to the side of the cliff, climb up to the parking area, brush off our feet and put on our shoes. As we get into the car Brian murmurs, “The ocean’s so beautiful here. You should have brought your sketch pad.”

“Yeah.”



Brian

Justin’s quiet all the way back to the hotel. Our conversation is low key and scattered, pointing out things to each other like a lighthouse or an interesting bird swooping over the car. He’s very subdued, but I can’t help that the tide coming in interrupted our conversation. Besides, I wanted to interrupt our conversation. I wasn’t ready for it to go further.

There’s a parking garage beneath Union Square so we leave the car there and walk across the street to our hotel. In the shower Justin says, “We still need to talk,” but I remind him there’s not time right now – George Barnhart’s driver is going to come for us about seven o’clock. When we’re getting dressed I stop Justin from tying his tie – instead, I take it from his hand, loop it over his neck and tie it for him. He likes me to do that. For some reason, I like it too.

“Brian,” he says, looking down at my hands on his tie, “Does this guy know I’m your boyfriend?”

“Well, I didn’t tell him you were my secretary. There.” I finish with a flourish and turn Justin around to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

“We look good together,” Justin comments ingenuously.

“Hunh,” I snort, turning away quickly to hide my smile. He’s right.

“I just don’t know how I’m supposed to act tonight. You said he’s gay too, right? And – “

“Justin,” I throw over my shoulder as I stand at the desk checking my wallet and putting it in my pocket, “You don’t have to ‘act’ any way at all. Just be yourself.” I glance at him and his forehead is wrinkled.

“There’s not going to be any – umm, funny business, is there?” he asks anxiously.

“Of course not.” I hope to Christ I’m right. Justin’s making me feel tense again, ruining all the relaxing I’ve done today. The phone on the desk rings suddenly, I reach for it and answer calmly, “Yes?”

It’s the driver of course, and I hustle Justin into his shoes and out the door, into the elevator and through the lobby to the reception desk, where Barnhart’s driver is waiting. Thankfully the car’s only a Mercedes not a limo, which might have made Justin nervous. As it is, he leans over the back of the seat and talks to the driver, asking if he likes living in San Francisco and telling him what a great time we had today seeing Alcatraz and the ocean.

Barnhart’s house turns out to be a four-story Victorian, the front doors of mahogany with etched-glass panels are opened by George Barnhart himself wearing a casual Versace outfit in dark green that’s perfect for his coloring.

”Brian!” he greets me warmly, taking my hand in both of his and flashing those green eyes at me ever so briefly before he turns his gaze on Justin. I see his eyes widen with obvious approval before he takes the hand Justin extends and repeats his double handshake. “How lovely to meet you,” George murmurs when I make the introductions, and I see a pale pink flush rise from Justin’s neck to color his cheeks. Someone comes up behind George, who turns and says, “Darling, come and meet Brian and Justin, two new friends from the east coast.”

Darling mirrors George’s smiling welcome and we all shake hands. Darling’s name is Stephen and I’m somewhat surprised to discover that he’s nearly the same age as Justin. He’s also elegantly dressed, in pale blue, it goes well with his light brown hair which is long and curls over the collar of his shirt. George leads the way into a what he calls the parlor, and it’s very much a renovated Victorian parlor, somewhat oppressively decorated with antiques and tapestry wall hangings.

“It’s like living in a museum,” Justin exclaims, looking around the room as we’re seated on an enormous sofa. Then realizing what he’s said, Justin glances at George and adds earnestly, “It’s very beautiful.”

“Thanks,” George smiles benignly. “Tell us how you’re enjoying your visit to San Francisco. Is this your first trip to California?”

Well, he asked for it. Justin leans forward, elbows on knees, and regales George and Stephen with an excited monologue on the tourist pleasures of the city. I sit back and fold my arms, smiling inwardly; I told Justin to be himself and he’s taken me at my word. Luckily it’s only about ten minutes before a gong sounds, announcing dinner. For a moment I’m afraid Justin’s going to laugh – for a moment, I’m afraid I’m going to laugh, but neither of us does, and when we stand and follow our hosts into the dining room, I grab Justin’s arm and give it a squeeze. He glances up at me and the look that passes between us does not need words, I can tell that Justin’s exactly in tune with me about George Barnhart’s pretentious bullshit.

Justin’s almost always exactly in tune with me I realize, as we’re seated at one end of an enormous dining table set with crystal and what appears to be Queen Elizabeth’s hand-me-down china, gold-rimmed plates, and the silverware is also gold. There are no less than five crystal water and wine glasses at each place setting. Justin and I are seated close together, and while George speaks to the servant – butler or whatever he might be, Justin slides his hand into my lap and without looking at me, he pinches the inside of my thigh. Hard. It hurts, but I’m almost glad of that, it helps me keep a straight face.

Somehow I had not expected George Barnhart to be so pompous, so formal, but it’s obvious in observing him that he’s enormously enjoying his Lord of the Manor persona. The dinner is almost unbearably long, with an array of courses that even Justin can’t completely do justice to. I notice that George speaks rather condescendingly to his servants and also to Stephen, and I realize that I’m not surprised when dinner’s finally over to hear George suggest that he and I should share brandy and cigars while ‘the boys’ go off somewhere to play.

I’m peripherally aware of the look Justin’s giving me though I don’t need to see it to know what he’s thinking. “Actually,” I tell George, “Justin quite likes brandy and cigars, don’t you – darling?” I turn and raise my eyebrows at Justin.

“Oh yes,” he agrees immediately, “That would be mahrrvelous.”

Don’t overdo it sonnyboy, I silently warn him, but he turns such an innocent look on me that I almost laugh out loud, and promise myself the pleasure of spanking him later.

George frowns slightly, and I wonder if this was an attempt at divide and conquer. What’s strange to me is that after spending a few hours in private company with George Barnhart, I no longer have the slightest desire to fuck him. He’s gorgeous but his self-confidence and dynamic personality that seemed so attractive to me just yesterday now seem overblown and overdramatic. I’m not sure what that means exactly but it can’t be a good sign. I’ve always loved fucking almost anything that moves, yet tonight all I want to do is take Justin away from this stuffy dinner party, strip off his clothes and hold him naked in my arms in the king-size bed in our hotel room.

Somehow we survive half an hour of cigar-talk, and I keep an eye on Justin to be sure he’s not turning green – he doesn’t really like cigars and the few times I’ve smoked one around him he’s made a huge fuss of flapping his hands, opening windows, and telling me to brush my teeth. Then I stand up and Justin jumps up to stand beside me; we begin to make our adieux to George and to Stephen (who’s hung around in the background while we smoked). George is surprised and his displeasure shows briefly, he says now that he’d hoped we’d make a night of it. I’ll just bet he did.

“Sorry, we’d love to, but we’ve got an early flight tomorrow and Justin really got exhausted with all our running around today.” Justin yawns obligingly and slumps against me, sighing heavily. The chauffeur is called and we’re escorted to the door, where George manages to pull me aside and urges me to visit San Francisco again very soon. With effusive thanks, we slip away from our host and climb into the Mercedes for the ride back downtown.

When we’re a block away, Justin leans close and whispers in my ear, “He wanted to have sex with you. Couldn’t you tell?”

“Not interested,” I shake my head.

“But he’s hot. And he’s rich.”

“Justin,” I suggest quietly, “You can drop me at the hotel and go back and fuck him if you want to.”

Justin laughs at that. “I can’t,” he whispers, “I’m too exhausted from all our running around today. And we have an early flight tomorrow.” Then he adds, “I thought our flight home was tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Early tomorrow night.”

When we’re back at the hotel, I’m afraid that Justin will start up his ‘let’s talk’ spiel again, but my words to George Barnhart that Justin’s exhausted prove to have been prophetic. Justin can hardly keep his eyes open, and once we’re undressed he slips into bed while I quickly check my e-mail. When I log off and come to bed a few minutes later, he’s already asleep.



Justin

We woke up early this morning and Brian let me order room service breakfast, though he told me to eat light because he’s taking me somewhere special for lunch. We have a couple hours left for touristy things, so I choose to have Brian drive us up the hill by Coit Tower where we have a beautiful view out over the city and the bay, then he drives us through North Beach and – with a lot of complaining, finally agrees to drive down Lombard – the crookedest street in the world. That was a lot of fun but I’m glad it wasn’t me driving!

Back at the hotel, we change clothes – I’m back in my suit again, Brian insists we have to be dressed up, and we get a taxi to the restaurant since it’s so hard to find parking places in the city. The restaurant is called Charles Nob Hill, and it’s a really beautiful place, it’s fancy but not schmancy. I hope the food is good, I had such a small breakfast that I’m already starving.



Brian

When we enter the restaurant I can hear Justin gasp softly. It’s a beautiful place, it had been described to me as romantic though that’s not a judgment I’m capable of making, but I can tell that Justin likes it and that’s what matters. We’re seated in a small dining room with paneled walls and a few strategically placed paintings that immediately catch Justin’s eye. He tells me they’re very good, another judgment call of which I’m not capable.

However I am very capable of selecting menu choices and I talk Justin into trying the prawns with lobster ravioli and he loves it, insisting that I try a bite of the ravioli and I agree that it’s not bad. We share a bottle of wine though I drink most of it; wine makes Justin sleepy and I don’t want him getting sleepy this afternoon. For dessert, the waiter suggests lavender crème brulee and I laugh softly when I see Justin’s eyes light up. He’s seldom too full for dessert.

Lounging comfortably in my chair, I watch him inhale the custard, which he does with polite but unabashed gusto, then finally he’s finished and he relaxes back in his chair. Justin’s smile encompasses the waiter who appears to whisk away the dishes from our table, and then he leans forward and says emphatically, “Brian, that’s the best meal I ever had in my whole life.”

I return his smile but I have to reach up and slightly loosen my tie, which suddenly constricts my throat. Then I slip a hand into my pocket and pull out a small flat box, lean forward and hand it to Justin.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing,” I answer quickly. Then I correct myself, “Well, it’s not nothing, it’s something.” Still, he sits grasping the velvet box, staring down at it then back up at me. I can’t read the expression in his eyes. “Just open it,” I tell him, and this fucking tie is constricting my throat again, I have to pull it loose a bit more, I must have tied it too tight.

Still, he doesn’t open the fucking box. “Stop being a drama princess, it’s not the Hope diamond, it’s just a – thing. A something. It’s no big deal.”

“Okay,” Justin whispers, and I can see that his fingers are fumbling on the clasp of the box. Then he’s got it open and his eyes fly back to my face but I’m giving nothing away, nothing, he can’t read anything on my face.

“It’s – beautiful,” Justin breathes, looking down again and lifting the bracelet out of the silk lining of the box. It’s a gold link band, chunky enough to be masculine but narrow enough to be comfortable on his slim wrist.

When I say nothing, Justin again raises his eyes to my face. “Brian, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Okay.” It’s all I can say at that moment, I’m waiting. I can’t somehow tell him to look at it more closely, instead, I have to wait and let him find out for himself.

He senses something’s going on, he tilts his head to one side and studies me. Still, my face is noncommittal, almost casual. I hope. We just sit looking at each other for a moment, then Justin looks down at the bracelet again, turns it over in his fingers, rubbing the smooth gold links. Then he sees it. He turns the largest gold link over and stares at it. The inscription. And looks at me again.

“Brian.”

Then the waiter’s here at my elbow and I’m annoyed at his timing and yet relieved at his timing, both at the same time. I pull out my plastic and the waiter disappears and Justin’s still looking at me.

“Brian.”

“If you yell or something,” I warn him, “I’m outta here, you’ll be stuck with the check.”

“Brian.”

“No crying either. Yelling, crying, I’m gone. You’ll be so embarrassed if I stand up and walk the fuck right out of here.”

“Okay,” he says, but he’s smiling. I can’t smile back at him because if I do my face might crack wide open and fall off.

Then we sit in silence while Justin fingers the bracelet and stares at me, and I look around the room admiring the décor. It’s very French, dark wood paneling, soft candlelight from chandeliers above our heads, thick velvet draperies at the windows. Finally the waiter returns, I pocket my card and glance quickly at Justin.

“Ready?” I ask but I don’t wait for his answer, I push back my chair and stand up, turn around and head for the door. Justin’s right behind me and he says nothing while we wait for the valet to get us a taxi. I didn’t plan how to spend this time, the time after Justin opened his present, I didn’t plan what we’d talk about or anything at all, not anything. I was afraid Justin would – I’m not sure what I thought he would do, but I realize that I’m surprised that he’s so quiet, so calm.

When we get into the taxi, I brace myself until I realize that Justin’s going to remain silent for the ride back to the hotel. The only thing going on is that Justin slides his hand across the seat, finds my hand and we twine our fingers together and hang on tight.

Once we get to our room, I see Justin set down the velvet box on the desk, then he turns to me and moves in close, sliding his arms around my neck. “Do we have time to mess around one more time before we leave for the airport?” he asks.

“We have time to do it twice,” I answer, pulling away from him to slip the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside doorknob.

Then we’re pulling off our clothes and we slide onto the bed. Or rather, I slide onto the bed but Justin turns away. He goes over to the desk and returns with the velvet box. We stare at each other in silence, I don’t think I’ve ever been this speechless in my life before.

“Okay,” Justin says, climbing on the bed. I’m lying flat on my back and he moves to sit on my legs, to straddle me. In a way, I’m almost pinned down. Trapped. I could easily throw him off if I wanted to. But of course I don’t want to and yet still I feel trapped.

Pulling the bracelet out of the box and tossing the box over his shoulder, he holds the gold link-chain out to me. “Brian, put it on me.”

“Okay.” I take the bracelet from his hand, the gold warms up quickly and feels smooth in my fingers. “Give me your wrist.”

“But first.”

“First what?” I ask, my voice sounding annoyed, my gut twisting with more of that trapped feeling.

“Brian, read the inscription.”

“I don’t need to,” I try for exasperation but it sounds more like desperation, even to myself. “I told them what to write, I know what it says.”

Justin nods. “Yes but. Read it to me. Out loud.”

“No.”

Then he’s smiling, smiling, that fucking dazzling smile I can never resist. Have never been able to resist, damn him all to hell.

I stare back at him and I know that I’ve lost. I’ve lost this God-damned knock-down, drag-out fight that I’ve been fighting for almost three years. I’m trapped and I’ve lost and I’m almost paralyzed as I lie there on the bed staring at his beautiful face, staring into his amazing blue eyes, feeling the warmth of Justin hovering over me, all around me.

“Read it,” he whispers, and I look at the bracelet in my hand and turn it around so I can see the inscription.

“To Justin,” I read aloud, hardly recognizing my own voice, it’s so raspy, almost inaudible. “To Justin,” I repeat a little louder, continuing to read the words inscribed on the gold link. “I love you.” I pause and then add, “It’s signed, ‘Brian.’ Brian somebody – no last name.”

He’s silent and I have to look back at him, he’s shaking his head and softly laughing. “When we get home, let’s find a jeweler to add ‘Kinney.’ Just so there can be no doubt.”

“Okay.”

“Brian,” Justin says solemnly, “I love you. I’ve loved you from the first time I saw you, and no matter what things we’ve gone through, I’ve never stopped loving you. And I never will.”

I nod, still hardly able to speak. “Me too,” I answer him at last. “Ditto. More or less.”

Justin pulls the bracelet from my fingers and fastens it on his wrist, then leans down till his naked chest is pressed against mine, we’re skin to skin and the familiar wonderful smell of Justin, of his hair and his skin and his soft breath are all around me. “Can you say it now, Brian, without reading?”

“No.”

Justin insists, “Then read it to me again.”

“You’re determined to kill me, aren’t you?” I ask conversationally, then I sigh, and I feel my resistance melting away. “Justin, you little asshole,” I grab both his arms and shake him roughly, “I’ll read the bracelet to you anytime you want, okay? But shut up now, you’re wasting valuable time – roll over.”

“Oh Brian,” Justin sighs, “You’re so romantic.”

Brian

This is the hardest one; that’s what I tell myself. Everybody else will be easy. Except Michael. But he loves me, he’ll come around. Jennifer doesn’t love me and she’ll never come around. Much less will she ever forgive me.

“Well,” she says bleakly, “Here we go again.”

We came to the condo straight from the airport; Justin’s upstairs gathering some of his stuff, next weekend we’ll move the rest over to my place. Our place. Not my place, OUR place, damn it. I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa trying to look casual, wishing like fucking hell I’d gone upstairs with Justin as he asked. But I knew I had to get this part over with. Let Jennifer have her say.

All I can do is look her in the eye and nod agreement. Here we go again, all right.

She leaves her post at the foot of the stairs and walks over to stand in front of me. “Haven’t you done enough damage? When will it be enough?”

There’s no way to answer her questions, I have nothing to say. All I can do is just look up at her and keep swallowing the bile that’s rising in the back of my throat.

“Brian – you told me you’d let him go. You told me that more than once. And yet – “

“I did.” I clear my throat and repeat, “I did let him go. More than once.”

“And each time – “ Jennifer’s voice is too loud, quickly she lowers it so Justin won’t hear. “Each time, you’ve dragged him right back again!”

That’s not true and she knows it but I won’t defend myself; let her say what she wants. She knows the truth – Justin always came after me. Almost always. Could I have kept pushing him away? Should I have?”

“I – “ I stop and look away, shaking my head. Shut up, Brian.

“What? What? Have the courtesy to finish your sentence, please.” Jennifer’s voice is cold as ice.

“I can’t anymore.” There, I said it. I look back at her again and repeat, “I can’t anymore.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t let him go anymore. I want him in my life.”

“Hunh.” Snorting is unladylike but Jennifer Taylor manages to snort in a dignified way. “And for how long, Brian? For how long do you want him in your life? How long till you get tired of him and throw him away?”

It’s a reasonable question but I don’t know the answer. I want him now. I think I want him forever, but how can I say that, how can I know? I won’t say ‘forever,’ because how do I know that it’s true?

“Answer me,” Jennifer demands, and abruptly I stand up. I tower over her, she’s about the same height as Justin. Jennifer takes a step backward, and that’s when I break.

Dragging my eyes away from her face, I turn for the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

Just as my hand’s on the doorknob, Justin calls, “Brian, help me with this.” I turn and he’s halfway down the stairs, his arms full of an overstuffed duffel bag. I move quickly across the foyer and take the bag from his arms.

“I’ll put it in the jeep. Got everything you need?”

Justin looks at me and does a double-take. Something must show on my face though I was sure I was giving nothing away. He turns quickly toward his mother, her face is flushed and she looks angry. Well, she is angry. “What’s going on?” he demands.

“Nothing,” we answer in unison.

Justin hesitates and quickly I say, “I’ll wait in the jeep.” I should say goodbye to Jennifer but I just can’t, so instead I turn and head out the door, pulling it closed behind me. I dump the duffle bag in the back seat and then light a cigarette with hands that shake. There aren’t many people who affect me like that, but Jennifer Taylor can do it every time.



Justin

“Mom, what did you say to Brian?”

“Nothing,” Mom repeats. Then, “I’ll do laundry and you can pick up more clothes after school tomorrow if you want.”

“Mom.” I walk over to her and take her hand. “Mom, please don’t be mean to Brian.”

“Mean!” she exclaims, shaking her head. Then she sighs deeply and sinks down onto the sofa. “Justin – I’m your mother. I can’t sit back and watch somebody ruining your life and not say a word about it. I’m sorry but I just can’t.”

“He’s not ruining my life.”

She just shakes her head again and I see that she’s crying. “Mom. Mom?”

When she says nothing, I tell her, “Mom, please be happy for me. This is one of the best days of my life. Brian wants me to live with him.”

“I’ve heard this before,” she says dully, turning her head away and letting the tears roll down her face unchecked.

“No Mom, you haven’t, that’s the point. This is different – Brian loves me.”

“Honey,” she turns and smiles through her tears, “Honey, you told me that three years ago, remember? You told me and your father that Brian loved you. I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now.“

Then I smile proudly and unfasten my bracelet. “Now I have proof,” I exclaim, holding the gold link for her to read.

She looks at it, then her eyes are on my face again. “Proof,” she repeats tonelessly. Then she rubs her hands over her tear-streaked face and stands up. “I made a quiche for dinner tonight – let me send the leftovers with you. Are you hungry?”

“Sure.”

I’m disappointed in her response but I decide not to push it, instead, I fasten the bracelet back on my wrist and follow her into the kitchen, lean against the counter while she slides two-thirds of a spinach quiche into a Tupperware container, snaps the lid and hands it to me.

“Thanks, Mom.” I lean forward and kiss her and she smiles then, just a tiny smile but I guess that’s the best she can do. When I turn to go she says “Call me tomorrow. You can tell me all about San Francisco.”

“Great, I will. It was fantastic, we saw Alcatraz and everything! Maybe you could come to dinner at – at our place soon, and I’ll show you the photos I took.”

“Okay.” She nods, she’s still smiling, but I feel sure that the minute I leave, Mom will start crying again. I wish she liked Brian. And I wish she would be happy for me.



Michael

It’s just so wrong. People want to think I’m jealous but it’s not that at all. I love Brian like a brother, I want him to be happy, and no way in hell can he be happy with that kid.

They spent the weekend in San Francisco, Brian told me he was going there on business but I didn’t know he was taking Justin. Now they’re back and Jennifer called Mom last night to give her the news, the news that Justin’s moving in with Brian again. And Mom told me, and then she had the nerve to tell me not to make waves. Brian’s called me, he’s on his way over, and my mom tells me not to make fucking waves!

Not make waves! Brian’s been my best friend almost longer than that blond brat’s been alive, if anybody has a right to talk about it to Brian it’s me. But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say to Brian to make him see how wrong it all is.

There is no way in hell that kid deserves to be with Brian. Christ, he’s lied and cheated and even stolen from Brian. Ran off to Vermont leaving Brian with egg on his face. And then he dumped Brian in public, humiliating him in front of everybody after Brian spent a fortune on the Rage party. Brian did everything for Justin, rescued him over and over again, let Justin move into his loft, let Justin move into his circle of friends.

It’s just so wrong.

I’m waiting on a customer when Brian comes into the shop, I know it’s him without looking up. I try to keep a mask on my face, I learned from Brian that sometimes it’s best to mask your feelings from people. But I’m not him, it doesn’t work for me. When the customer leaves, I look up as Brian walks over to me, he’s all smiles.

“Hey, Mikey.”

“Hey,” I say coolly as he leans over the counter to give me a kiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, and I can’t even pretend to misunderstand him.

“I just heard the news. You’re not expecting congratulations from me, are you?”

He pulls back, then leans sideways against the counter, one hand idly playing with a Spiderman Pez dispenser. “I wanted to tell you before you heard about it from somebody else, but in this family, news travels fast.”

“What’s the difference?” I ask. “What does it matter who I hear it from?”

He doesn’t answer right away, he keeps staring at the Pez dispenser, then he lays it on the counter and paces over to the window and back again. Brian leans on the counter, takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye, then he says, “Michael, I’m asking you to take a step back.”

“How can I?” I demand, hearing the shrillness in my voice, “How can I just forgive and forget all that he’s put you through?”

Brian straightens up from the counter and looks down at me, his voice soft as he says, “Michael, it’s not up to you to forgive and forget, do you realize that?”

“How can YOU? How can you forgive him, Brian - can you please explain that to me?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what I put Justin through. It wasn’t all his fault, you know?” When I open my mouth to protest, Brian holds up a hand to stop me. “I’ve never discussed Justin with you, and I’ve never discussed you with Justin. I won’t start now, I’m only asking you to step back, not get in Justin’s face about this. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Why do you think I’d get in his face? What has he been telling you about me?”

Brian shakes his head. “He’s never said a word. But Mikey - I don’t know how you treat him when I’m not around, all I know is how I’ve seen you treat him when I am around. You don’t have to be buddies with Justin, I’m only asking you to go easy. That’s all.”

“Why are you doing this, Brian? Can you tell me that? Why are you getting involved with him again? I just really don’t understand.”

Brian moves behind the counter and puts his arm around me. “Because I want Justin in my life.” When I say nothing, he adds, “It’s not just wanting, Michael. It’s – it’s sort of like needing.”

“Sort of like needing?” I pull back so I can look at Brian’s face. He never lies to me and I need to hear his answer to this question: “Do you mean you love him? You’ve always said you don’t believe in love.”

Brian raises his eyebrows. “Nobody’s more surprised than me.”

"But," I persist, "Do you LOVE him or are you IN LOVE with him? There's a difference."

"There is?"

Before I can answer, Brian picks up the Pez Spiderman again and asks, "Do you think they'll ever make a Rage Pez dispenser?" Then the door opens and some kids come in, so Brian moves away from the counter. The boys quickly make their selections, and while I'm ringing them up, Brian calls, "Later, Michael," and when I look up he's slipping out the door.



Melanie

Talk is cheap, even when it's engraved on a gold bracelet. Still, I have to admit that I was surprised Brian would make that kind of gesture, he must have been desperate to drag Justin back to his bed, but dropping a few hundred bucks on a piece of jewelry would be no big deal to him. Lindsay thinks it's incredibly romantic but then she's got such a rose-colored view of Brian Kinney and always will have.

Naturally, we'd heard the news right away, that Justin was moving back in with Brian. Lindsay and Deb are all starry-eyed about the situation but I'm sure Jennifer Taylor is shitting her pants. She and I are the only women who can see through that man.

Still, I went along with Linds when she excitedly proclaimed that she wanted to invite the guys over for dinner this Sunday - she really wanted to give them a party but even Linds knew that Brian would balk at that. Linds actually thinks that Brian and Justin will have a commitment ceremony some day! The only commitment ceremony Brian would be part of - and then not willingly - would be if some big men in white jackets dragged him off to a padded room.

Meanwhile, Linds called Brian and he agreed to come over - he hasn't seen Gus for a week or two, sometimes he'll stop by after work to see Gus for a few minutes before bedtime and I guess he considers that a visit. Maybe once a month he'll actually spend time with Gus, take him to the park or the zoo. His schedule was interrupted by the car accident and he's only recently gotten back into that routine.

We haven't heard about the bracelet - probably Brian forbade Justin to show it to anyone - but the way Justin throws his hand around at the dinner table purposely draws attention to the gold link chain and when Lindsay exclaims, "What a gorgeous bracelet - did you get it in San Francisco?" Justin laughs and blushes and says yes. Then he adds, "Brian gave it to me."

"Is it like an engagement ring?" I can't resist teasing, ignoring the look Linds sends across the table.

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Justin answers quickly, 'It was just a present."

"Please pass the carrots."

That's Brian, trying to change the subject.

"You mean," I pursue - knowing that Linds is going to yell at me later - "You mean there's no inscription on the bracelet, no promise of undying devotion engraved for all eternity?"

Justin's eyes fly to Brian's face and he says urgently, "I didn't tell!"

Brian's busy spooning carrots onto his plate. "Didn't tell what?" he asks casually. Almost casually.

"Nothing," Justin answers quickly, adding, "I need more carrots too please!"

"You mean there IS an inscription?" I demand, on the verge of laughter. I swear I didn't know - it was just a lucky guess. Actually, it was an extremely lucky guess - I'd never dream in a million years that Brian would do something like that.

"Brian, do you want more chicken?" Justin asks urgently, picking up the platter.

Brian's looking like a thundercloud but when he turns toward Justin and sees the plate being held out to him, suddenly Brian’s face relaxes and he laughs, and then he says, "I think I've got about all the chicken I can handle. It's okay, you can show them - you know you're dying to."

"Really?" Justin's smile lights up his whole face. Then he sets down the platter with a thump, jumps up and hurries around the table, unfastening the bracelet and holding it out for us to see.

"To Justin," Lindsay reads aloud, "I love you. Brian K."

"There wasn't room to add 'Kinney," Justin explains, "But this is good enough proof, don't you think?"

Immediately I wisecrack, "It wouldn't stand up in court," but Lindsay cuts me off.

"Yes, yes for sure it's good enough proof, and the bracelet is beautiful. Brian Kinney finally did something romantic!"

"Well keep your mouth shut about it or I'll deny everything." Brian's looking harsh again but when Justin moves around the table to stand close to him, Brian wraps his arm around Justin's shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss.

"Now sit down and finish dinner," he orders sharply, "I'll bet the mun-, I mean the ladies, have made you something special for dessert."

"Pie?" Justin glances inquiringly at Lindsay and then at me, "Did you maybe make coconut cream pie?"

"We're having tiramisu," Lindsay answers, "But I made a whole coconut cream pie just for you to take home with you."

Justin whoops happily but Brian complains, "Fuck that, he'll eat it in the car going home and get whipped cream all over the upholstery."



Brian

Now that the munchers know about the bracelet it'll be all over town by morning. Not that I expected it to be kept secret - I never gave it a thought.

Liar.

Standing in the jewelry shop in San Francisco, I almost broke out in a cold sweat when I thought of the ramifications of having the bracelet engraved for Justin.

There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted him back again, wanted him living with me, and I knew that he wanted it too. But Justin had made it clear to me that the way things were before was not going to be enough for him now. There was a caveat for Justin this time around, he was demanding something more binding than 'no names, no numbers, no kissing.'

We hadn't talked about it - or rather, we had talked around it, but I knew what he wanted. Not a commitment - not exactly a commitment. But some kind of proof that things would be different this time.

And I wanted them different too, though my idea of what 'different' means was hazy then; still is hazy in fact. The only clear-cut thought of mine is, I don't want him lying to me again, cheating on me again. Which is essentially what he did with the fiddler. Which is exactly what he did with the fiddler. But I can't blame Justin for that as easily as others do.

Oh, there was a time when I'd tried it; when I'd tried to convince myself that Justin completely fucked me over. But despite what some people think of me, I'm an honest man. And I remembered a conversation I'd had with Melanie after she'd cheated on Lindsay. I'd told her (and how easy it is to make proclamations about other people's lives!) - I'd told Mel that she had every right to get her needs met.

If I believed that - and I did, and I do - then what Justin did with the fiddler was an attempt to get his needs met. He hadn't talked much about 'his needs' to me - but then, I'd never let him. There were several times that Justin tried to make it clear he wanted to be with me and only me, but I'd insisted on the openest of open relationships. I needed my freedom, I needed my space.

Justin's mistake was pretending to agree with me. And looking back, I know now that I consciously decided to be convinced that Justin wanted what I wanted. We'd made rules and I'd kept them, but that didn't exonerate me from blame when things went wrong.

So there I was in San Francisco on Friday afternoon, my meetings over, my client (I hoped) won, and the weekend alone with Justin stretching out before us. I'd bought a couple new shirts to go with his damned untailored suit, and some dress socks in his size so he didn't have to borrow mine. Then when I passed the jewelry store, it occurred to me that I could buy Justin a present - maybe a new watch, maybe even a new nipple ring though he seldom wore them anymore. My eye was caught by a display of gold bracelets, chunky masculine bracelets, and I wondered if Justin would like one.

When I'd selected a bracelet I thought he would like, that's when it occurred to me to have it engraved. I'd considered 'To Justin - Remember San Francisco,' or 'To Justin from Tony Soprano.' Then it had hit me like a bolt of lightning: I could have them engrave 'I love you' on the bracelet. And then I'd never have to say it.

Hey, I said I was honest, I didn't say I was brave.

And I'm not feeling brave now, I'm feeling queasy at the thought of everybody knowing that Brian Kinney has gone around the bend. My reputation's going to suffer a blow, that's for sure.

We change clothes as soon as we get home from the munchers’ and Justin heads for his computer, he's taking summer classes and he's already fallen behind with his assignments. I check e-mail and half-heartedly toy with slogans for a new beer company Vangard's taken on. Within half an hour I'm tired of it and I log off, stand up and move quietly across the floor, and then I lean down, slip my arms around Justin's shoulders.

"Brian, you can't bother me now, I've got to finish this drawing tonight."

"I won't bother you, I just want to fuck you."

"Later."

"I can't wait till later," I tell him, leaning my face close to his, quickly snaking out my tongue to briefly touch his lips.

"Mmm," Justin moans, closing his eyes, "Stop."

"I don't want to stop." And I run my tongue over his lips again.

Justin turns and slips his arms around my neck, pulling my head down until his warm sweet lips caress my mouth.

"Brian," he murmurs, "I can never resist you when you kiss me like that."

Sighing and closing my eyes, I whisper, "Prove it."