BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 46-ESTABLISHMENT

JUSTIN’S POV
”It’s one-thirty in the morning, and I’m horny as hell .”

thirty minutes later…

The two of you were freshly showered as floss hung from your teeth, Brian’s hands roaming around inside your underwear, your only apparel at the moment. “Can you just give me a second?” you asked leaning towards the mirror. “No,” he replied, palming your ass. You couldn’t exactly blame him; you wanted to be back in your own bed as much as he did. Eventually, your butt pushed him away (first time for everything), and he acquiesced, taking refuge in your bedroom. You stood in the doorway for a second just to take in his long body lying in wait for you. He was hard, stroking himself, his eyes almost closed. The light extinguished, you joined him on cool sheets. His position in bed dictated yours as he lay on his side; you curled up against him, your back to his chest, your head sharing his pillow.

“Did you unpack your suitcase?” you asked him in the blackness of your room. “I’ll do laundry tomorrow.”

“Yes, mother. Both suitcases.”

“Thanks.”

……

He kissed the back of your neck, your hair still a little damp. “You’re really tired,” he said softly.

“Kind of,” you admitted.

He began to move you…slowly…skillfully…until you were facing him. “C’mere,” he said like you weren’t already right there, and then he kissed you and everything else in the room got even stiller than before. This was a homecoming. Fortunately, you were undressed appropriately.

When the kiss continued for more than a minute, the message Brian was sending you decoded in your mind. “Mmm,” you said, your palm pressing on his chest, “Get it. Please.” He smiled and warned you to close your eyes as he rolled away and clicked on a tiny lamp. A drawer opened, and you listened as he rummaged through everything until he found what you wanted. The light was extinguished, and the plug was between you. “It’s this one,” he said so you could familiarize yourself with it. You ran your fingers down the cone shape. You began to roll over, but Brian said, “Uh huh, this way,” so you stayed where you were, wrapping your leg over his. He closed the space between you and whispered, “Love you,” as he worked the toy inside you using your breathing as a guide to speed up or slow down. “Don’t hold your breath,” he urged you, “Let everything flow.” You exhaled against him as you felt it disappear inside you. You hugged him so tightly; your eyes closed as his fingers ran through your hair. “Okay?” he asked. “Okay,” you agreed.

The kissing began again. Only this time he was toying with you, pressing on the base of the plug until you feared, “Don’t. Don’t. I’ll come.”

He laughed, “Okay. Relax. You can drive now.” You tried to urge him onto his stomach but he wasn’t interested in that either. “No, like this,” he said.

“You’re particular tonight,” you teased him.

“I just want what I want when I want it,” he said as he rolled onto his back. “Sound like anyone you know?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“I’m going to fold you like origami,” you warned him as you settled between his legs, his knees bent high on either side of your shoulders. He kept one hand in your hair and the other curled around his ass, opening himself up for you. You felt a hard tug in your hair when you licked him, wetting him generously. He released a string of profanities designed to thank you. You envisioned your first night with him when you fucked him, your bodies reversed, his fingers pressing on your plug as you fell deep inside him. For as tight as he is, he feels endlessly deep when he finally relaxes for you letting you fuck this cozy warm trap on the edge of the universe. Brian grabbed the back of your neck, squeezing tightly and holding you down as the pleasure escalated, breathing beside your ear, “I want this. Want to feel you come.”

“Close your eyes,” you told him, burying your face in his neck, moaning deep as you granted his wish.

“Justin, fuck. Don’t…move. Stay…here. Oh…Jesus.”

Seconds later you felt a warmth spill out between you. It was good to be home.

*********************
DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV
“Eternities aren’t as long as they used to be.”

It wasn’t your fault that Alan was gone, but you were bearing the brunt of it. Ruth was hysterical with another round of grief and Emma and Sandra were seething, blaming you for the fact that the televisions and the kitchen were gone. ‘I was watching him,” Emma said, “My son. I could see him in that church. Get him back.” But you couldn’t, and you told your bewildered zombie confidantes, “After the ceremony, Alan took me to the tunnels. I saw where he used to live, and then we went to the trains. We sat in his favorite car, one of the last ones he painted.”

“We saw none of this,” Tate said.

“And then what?” Emma demanded.

“Well, the thing is, I saw James, his father. He was there in that car, passed out from drinking.” Ruth stopped wailing and began to actually listen to you. “You saw my husband?” she asked.

“Yes. We watched him for as long as we could, but then the train started moving….” you paused because you didn’t quite know how to explain the rest, “I mean, the next thing I knew, I was standing outside of a tunnel next to James who slumped on the ground with an empty bottle of whiskey. Alan was gone. That train, it took him away. I’m sorry. I guess this is all we have left,” you said, motioning to the wall in front of you. Ruth started to collapse; Leo caught her as she screamed, “He’s not coming back! Just like Jason; he’s gone forever.” Tate gave you a stern look and then offered the same expression to the painted wall in front you. “You came back through that hole, Danny,” she said, her finger touching the odd section of the wall. Strangely, it was Madeline, the one with the least amount of real life experience who seemed to make sense of it, putting her cheek against the wall, “Alan’s in here. His body is in here. I can feel it. Touch it; it’s warm, like flesh and blood….”

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
”You infected him with your petty, bourgeois, mediocre, conformist, assimilationist life .”

It became very clear to you upon coming home that what happened in New York would never stay in New York. Your relationship with Brian was always punctuated with abrupt starts and stops, and ‘before and after New York’ became just another phase to add to the list. Life was different for both of you. Out of psychological necessity, you began attaching a certain regimen to your day and your activities, even if they only took place a few doors down from your bedroom. Your working relationship with PIFA morphed into being a possible guest lecturer in the future. You interviewed and hired a personal chef (Roger) to ensure that you didn’t have to spend any of your creative energy in the fucking kitchen. You made him come upstairs to your studio to plan the weekly menus. Management of the rest of the house’s staff fell to you as well as you were typically the one at home, so you soon became the CEO of a housekeeper, a pool boy, a chef, and a gardener. (You asked for a lifeguard, too, a naked one for the pool and were given an unequivocal no.) You reluctantly gave up your fight against being a housewife while Brian seemed to be embracing the working husband role more and more. Because Roger fixed dinner and served it (after all, you don’t pour your own wine unless you really have to), you could spend that time reconnecting with Brian when he came through the door night after night. His briefcase usually slipped from his fingers to yours before hitting the floor; the kiss you gave him intended to help make the transition from work to home. Brian’s turmoil in New York was apparently no secret to anyone, least of all his employees. Secretly, you blamed Zeek’s big mouth for that and for the fatigue you felt beneath Brian’s skin. But knowing that he was coming home to you, whether exhilarated or exhausted, had its upside. For years, you longed to be the person Brian would rely on, and now you were.

There are things you need to know about being married that no one teaches you. As a child, you think you’ll just grow up to somehow know these things, conveniently forgetting that most of the examples you had were less than stellar. It wasn’t until that summer, your first summer as a married couple that you actually felt truly relaxed being with Brian. Finally, you believed in your soul that he was where he wanted to be. And when that tension evaporated, you were initially kind of angry because it felt like a loss, like it’d fallen out of your pocket somewhere along the way without the common decency to leave a little hole so you could at least rationalize its absence. But now you could be around Brian and observe his occasional anger or disappointment with someone or something without feeling like you needed to fix it right away or drag him to Babylon as a distraction. For the first time, your relationship wasn’t on the line.

And on top of all of this, there were no complaints from your bank account; your work was selling as fast as you could produce it, but there was something about that success that felt misplaced. What was the point of the process? What was driving your happiness: creation, marketing, profit, self-satisfaction or influence? Perhaps because you were married to Brian Kinney, perhaps because ambition was the main ingredient in almost everything he did, you found yourself plagued by the concept. It tortured you day-in-and-day-out, even as you booked more commissions than you ever expected. You thought about it while you were eating breakfast, while you were using the bathroom, while you were in the shower. It made you want to throw your head back and howl. You seriously considered charging these thoughts rent for all the time they spent lounging around in your head. On a Saturday morning in late May, Brian seemed to be unknowingly tapping into your conundrum. The two of you were lying in sweaty sheets, letting the morning’s fuck evaporate at its own pace. “I need a favor,” he said, your bodies having rolled allowing you to cool off on top for a nice change.

“Okay,” you sighed, your head rising up and down with Brian’s breathing.

“I’d appreciate it…. I mean, I need you to—"

“What?” you asked, your head cocked in curiosity.

“I need you to let the help call you ‘Justin’ and not ‘Mr. Taylor,’” he said, and then added, “Please.”

“Why?”

“Well, because when you’re unavailable for whatever reason, they call me with their questions, and they call me ‘Brian.’”

“Well, good for you. I’m ‘Mr. Taylor.’”

“Justin, it’s just kind of snooty. That’s all.” You rolled off of him and laid on your back. Brian sighed over-dramatically and then said, “Look, I tried to handle this for you. I told them it was okay to call you 'Justin—'”

“You had no right—"

“Shut up and let me finish. That it was okay to call you ‘Justin,’ and then Roger and Maria said to me on separate occasions that it absolutely was not okay. Do whatever you want with the pool boy; I know you hate him. Let’s just try to relax it a little with the indoor staff, okay?”

“No,” you said, folding your arms in defiance.

Brian rolled on his side and tried to reason with you, “Justin, you need to understand what it means to be wealthy.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve lived here for six years; the staff are accustomed to being treated a certain way. I don’t have a need to constantly remind them that I’m their boss.”

“Okay, no pun intended, but that is rich coming from you. I’ve seen you at work. Hell, I’ve worked for you, and I know exactly how you treat people.”

“It’s not the same thing. At work, I’m the smartest guy in the room. This is my home. I don’t want that kind of environment. I have no desire to take over any of my domestic employee’s jobs so I like to keep them happy.”

“Your home?” you asked incredulously.

“Jesus, our home. My sincere apologies.”

You decided to take a real stab at him since he’d recently turned forty, an event you went to great and (almost) successful lengths to make sure no one mentioned to him lest he purchase a robotic coffin, get in it and refuse to come out, “Well, I think this is just old age talking.” He yanked your pillow out from under your head and smacked you with it. You deserved it, and you were about to concede to Brian and his request when you thought of a very good reason not to. “Um, what about The Car? It calls you ‘Mr. Kinney.’”

“Justin,” he said, exasperated with you.

“And I’m pretty sure the fridge calls you, ‘Your Majesty.’”

“Ha ha, and that is not the same thing.”

“Why?” you asked because you wanted to hear this answer big time.

“Because,” he said, hesitating before he capitulated and admitted the sad truth, “They’re not human.”

Sometimes victories come at the oddest moments. You turned your head and gave him the biggest smile you could manufacture on short notice. He did his very best to push you off the bed.

…..

But perhaps Brian had a point. Maybe you were insisting that the help call you ‘Mr. Taylor’ because you didn’t exactly feel like a 'Justin' in this house, and it had certainly never been your dream to be a snooty, rich faggot who bossed people around for sport. Right?

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
”It’s not a lie if they make you lie.”

Unbeknownst to Justin, you developed a very necessary relationship with Roger, your new chef. Had Justin consulted you before hiring him, there would’ve been about a sixty percent chance that you would’ve broken down and explained to your spouse that you were on a meal plan sanctioned by Steve Jobs, but because he didn’t consult you, you got away with not consulting him in return—not that you were exactly proud of that. The first time Roger called you about the weekly menu because Justin was unavailable for some reason, you quietly explained to him about iWWINN® leaving out all of the top-secret information because, let’s face it, you hardly knew this guy. He became rather speechless when you tried to explain to him that there was no need for him to actually turn on the oven himself because once the menu, calorie count, and meal times were programmed in, the oven heated up automatically. “You can’t override that?” he asked, clearly freaked out about appliance independence. “Well, you could,” you reluctantly sighed, “But trust me, you don’t want to. It’s not worth it.” Now you had two men in your house afraid of most of the kitchen.

“And the dishwasher’s just gonna start every night at eight thirty?” Roger asked incredulously.

“Yes. It used to be every other night, but now that Justin is back, it runs every day unless we program an ‘exception.’”

“Hmm,” Roger said, “I see. I guess…”

You had to think of a way to save this situation because you didn’t want Roger to quit. Justin would probably find out why and there would be blond-twink-inflicted hell-to-pay for years, so you made Roger an offer, “Whatever salary you and Justin agreed to, I’ll give you fifty percent more in an upfront bonus provided that this information stays between us.”

Roger was such a decent guy it was almost nauseating, “Wow. Well, um, I don’t really think you need to do that, Brian.”

“I insist.”

“Uh, okay. Sure. So I guess I need to confer with you every week after Mr. Taylor and I plan the menus? I don’t see how this is going to work otherwise.”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, “Mostly just for portion sizes for me. Things like that.”

“I feel kind of creepy about this, though. Just for the record.”

You admitted to him that it was mutual; you felt kind of creepy, too. You gave him one more directive before you hung up, “Roger?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Absolutely, positively no waffles.”

*********************
”Fags drive it.”

So life went on as usual after that. You were getting quite spoiled having your meal plan further automated with Roger at the helm and because he was in the kitchen, Justin happily wasn’t. Instead, he spent his days painting, becoming the planet’s largest purchaser of bubble wrap and Styrofoam, shipping, dealing with customers and galleries, and maybe even napping a little now that summer was here, and that was more than fine with you. Sitting in your office, you often got a weirdly warm feeling inside you when you thought about him lucratively painting himself to death in his fairy-prince studio. Justin would text you to see if you wanted to have lunch, so when he did that around eleven a.m. on a Wednesday in early June, you agreed and tried to ignore how excited your dick was getting waiting for him to arrive. When he got there, he looked a bit more dressed up than usual (no paint residue on his fingers either), and as you walked out of Kinnetik with him, you stopped and asked, “Where’s the ‘vette?”

“I didn’t drive the ‘vette today,” he said, trying not to smile. You followed his gaze and there parked right next to your Mercedes was a brand new, fully loaded, almost black but sort of deep purple Jeep Grand Cherokee responding to the buttons Justin was pushing on his key chain. Your heart skipped more than one beat, “You sold the ‘vette?”

He laughed and tugged your arm, “God, no. I would never do that. We still have the ‘vette. Breathe.”

You were embarrassed at how relieved you were, “Okay, then what’s this? You went shopping?” (Without me?)

“Oh my god, you’re mad at me,” he teased you, “Come on, Brian. I wanted to buy something all by myself.” He threw his arms around you and whispered in your ear, ”It’s just that I kind of have this thing for Jeeps.” You hugged him back; your erection was liking this car a lot, and he noticed, “That’s the guy I married. Come on, get in!” His excitement was probably registering on the Richter scale. The car smelled so good, and the tan leather seats were uber-comfortable. “It does almost everything your car does except it doesn’t address me by name. I made sure of that.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him, well, not everything. Running your hand along the dash board surveying everything inside, you questioned him, “You financed or paid cash?”

“I paid half in cash and financed the rest so I can build up my credit.” God, he’s so adorable when he doesn’t grasp that we’re wealthier than any ‘credit score.’

“You got a good deal? They didn’t dick you around?”

He laughed and slapped your leg, “Once I told him that I was married to the guy who drove through their showroom about ten years ago, they couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. They practically gave it to me…and they called me, ‘Mr. Taylor!’”

You were so, so proud of him. “Let’s go to the loft and fuck. Celebrate a little.”

“Hell, no,” he said, “We’re going for a joy ride. I gotta show my mom!”

*********************
”Use high-test.”

In your quietest moments, you would probably admit that God (or somebody) always blesses beautiful people with beautiful things, and the fact that you had the accidental foresight to buy a mansion with a three car garage, turned out to be one of the best blessings you’d ever received. Had you known that buying a new car would bring out this much unbridled energy in Justin, you would’ve bought an entire dealership and renovated the top floor as your living quarters. That first night, he might as well have been on Ecstasy, and when he realized he needed to rearrange some stuff in the garage to actually get all three cars in there, he threw on an old pair of (a little too tight) Levi’s and started his own one-man moving company. “Justin, I’ll help you. Just hang on a minute.” You ran upstairs to change, his words snapping at your heels, “I can do it!”

About twenty minutes later after relocating some leftover furniture to the basement, the two of you were pretty sweaty and convinced that you’d made it work. Justin pulled his new car in and was not at all amused when you jumped in the back and suggested he join you. Somehow, you talked him into sitting next to you back there, but when you made a move for his jeans, he slapped you away like a little girl, “No, no, no! I don’t want this car to smell like anything but ‘brand new car!’”

“Then just blow me,” you tried.

“No, you’re all sweaty. Get out of my car. Go take a shower.” He didn’t even join you in the fucking shower. He was too busy blasting the radio, reading his owner’s manual, and bouncing up and down on the ass you should’ve been in. Maybe now you understood his animosity toward the kitchen….

When he finally came upstairs, he found you fresh and clean and sitting in bed reading. He’d spent at least an hour in the garage all by himself. He climbed on the bed immediately, crawled over, and straddled you, pushing your magazine out of the way. You rebuffed him, “You’re all gross. Go shower.”

He wasn’t the least bit assuaged, “No.”

You pushed your glasses back up on your nose (found them all by yourself) and gave him the four-one-one, “Excuse me. You’ve turned me down not once, but twice, today. I’m reading. Kindly remove yourself.”

“Oh, you’re being bitchy. I kinda like that,” he mused.

“I don’t know what to say you’re being,” you told him. “I’ve never met a man who didn’t get extraordinarily horny from new car fumes before. I’m half-inclined to take you to the doctor tomorrow and have your ass adjusted.”

His expression changed to that demure, smoky one he employs; the one where his eyelashes suddenly weigh ten pounds and he can hardly lift them, “But you’re my doctor, Dr. Kinney. Why don’t you adjust it?”

“Because I no longer accept your insurance,” you said matter-of-factly.

“I’ll pay…out of pocket is fine with me.”

You took your glasses off and set them and the magazine on your night table, and then helped him out of his pockets, reminding him in a whisper when you were rightfully back inside him, ”Your bottom belongs to me, and I’ll fuck it whenever or wherever or want.”

“Oh yeah? Well, then you better teach me a lesson so I remember that.”

“As you wish, Mr. Taylor. As you wish.”

*********************
GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV
”I'm half Italian and half drag queen. I'm allowed to get worked up.”

The day your douche-bag brother decided to have a heart-to-heartless conversation with you about an upcoming wrinkle in his schedule was the day you officially fucking lost it. It was a weekday in mid-June when a delivery of steaks you desperately needed went completely AWOL and the liquor delivery to Zeal and Babylon was four hours late. The circumstances meant that Zeek was pacing around your office feeling useless with nothing to do and decidedly un-empathetic about your frantic search for…where’s the beef?

“Get out of my office so I can deal with this shit,” you warned him more than once.

“Got no place to go,” he grumped back at you.

You put your call on speakerphone because you were on interminable hold, “That’s not my fucking fault. If you hadn’t run your mouth about Brian’s problems in New York, you’d still be doing maintenance at Kinnetik during regular hours.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“You never think when you open your mouth,” you chastised him, “Telling everybody Prada would be making straightjackets soon and then giving him a fucking waffle iron for his birthday. I mean, really, Zeek. That’s why you had to go deliver those light boxes to the sewer all by yourself. You should thank your lucky stars that we’re both still alive, much less have jobs.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I need to talk to you about…kind of.”

So, he was hanging around for a reason: to make your day even worse. Naturally. And you hadn’t seen him this squirrely since he met Jennifer Taylor. “Well, whatever it is, just spit it out.”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“What else is new?”

He sighed and finally stopped pacing, “Okay…you’re gonna have to get somebody else to unpack deliveries; I’m leaving the country for awhile.”

You were on your feet after that announcement, seconds after giving up on your elevator music phone call, “Excuse me?”

Zeek finished his bulletin slowly, the words plopping out of his mouth slow and heavy like concrete, “Me and Rube…. We’re going to Italy…for a couple weeks. He’s in the Global Domino Tournament. He placed…. He could win a lot of money. Like forty thousand bucks and some sponsorships and shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

You sat back down at your desk and let your head flop into your hands face first, “Zeek, you can’t do this to me. You and Rube can’t leave town, much less the fucking country at the same time. Brian will never approve that.”

“Yeah, well, Rube has shitloads of vacation saved up, and Boss Man can fire me if he wants, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Clearly.”

A frustration was beginning to leak out of your brother at that point, a frustration you hadn’t seen in a long, long time. “Look, ‘Cakes, I can’t live my fucking life being a fucking slave to you and Kinney-“

“So you’ll just be Ruben’s slave?”

“Shut the fuck up when I’m talking. You’ve got everything you want now. Everything. So does Kinney. So does Dr. Dan and Eggo and fucking everybody else. You all have your precious monotonous relationships, and what do I have? Fucking nothing.”

“Since when do you want a monogamous relationship?”

“I don’t,” he said, deflating faster than he’d puffed up, sinking into a chair in your office.

…..

“Wait, is this about that girl? About Harper?”

“I’ll probably never see her again, now that her brother’s gone. She doesn’t need me,” he paused, continuing a few seconds later, “I mean, I figured she might need security or something when Alan’s killers went on trial, and then they fucking pled out, fucking mother fuckers.”

“Zeek,” you stressed, “There’s a difference between dating someone and being their bodyguard. Emotional and physical security aren’t the same thing.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

“She is married, you know. She’s made her choice. You have to respect that—“

“I respect it every single night when I’m fucking some useless chicken in the backroom.”

“Maybe,” you said as carefully as you could, “You should look for someone your own age. She’s way too young for you—“

“You tell Kinney that, too?”

“No,” you admitted.

“He could fuck a metrosexual toddler, and you’d look the other way.”

“So this is why you’re leaving the country? Because your heart is broken?”

Zeek sighed in that way that let you know how tedious you’d become, “It’s our fucking homeland, ‘Cakes. I’m just going back to my roots for a couple weeks.”

“Does Brian know? Has Rube asked him?”

“Not yet. We kinda thought you might help us with that…”

“And I’ll take ‘things that will never ever happen’ for a thousand.”

“Never mind, I’ll just go to Kinnetik and ask him. He won’t punch me in front of his loyal subjects.”

“Don’t be so sure, Zeek. You’ve been wrong before.”

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
”I don’t plan on ever looking back.”

two days later…

During Harper’s first-ever visit to your West Virginia home, she sat cross-legged on the floor of your studio staring at the walls you’d begun to paint. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “I like it. The whole New York skyline thing is very cool.”

“Good,” you said, “You get to help me finish it.”

She smiled, “You miss the city, don’t you?”

“I miss the environment,” you said. “I miss how I was always inspired, you know?”

“Those are your rose-colored glasses talking, Justin. It wasn’t always inspirational; it’s a ‘grass-is-greener’ effect.” Maybe she was right; maybe that was true. It seemed like ten years had passed since you hung out in front of your easels at Daniel’s place and willed something to appear on them, something you could sell or at least feel a sense of accomplishment about. “And besides that,” she added, her voice dropping an octave to match the concern on her face, “It’s not like there’s anything left there to feel inspired by, you know?” Her shoulders were the next to fall, “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan on coming here and dumping my shit on you. I want to have fun.”

“We’ll have more fun than you can stand; don’t worry. We own a nightclub. Talk to me; tell me what’s wrong.”

She sighed and stared at her knees, “I can’t go there anymore…to paint. I mean, I’ve tried. It’s just that, well, Daniel’s hardly ever there anymore—"

“Because he’s here?” you asked.

“Yeah, so it’s just this quiet tomb of memories. You’re not there, and I don’t want to bring Amelia with me most days because I just end up sitting in our old studio crying.” You sat down next to her as a tear fled down her face. “And Sam’s in the same situation with that mural being outside his workspace. It’s inspiring and sad at the same time. Most days he just goes there and sits on that bench in front of it and thinks. Needless to say, we don’t get much done.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go back to Daniel’s,” you suggested. “I mean…you know…it’s basically a crime scene.” You regretted your description the second it escaped from your lips because it broke something open inside Harper, something pregnant with grief. She leaned down and put her head in your lap; you stroked her hair while a hopeless aura settled around her. You never even heard Brian come home or walk up the stairs; he was just suddenly standing in the doorway, greeting you both before he could take stock of the situation, “Hey, kids. How’s it hanging?”

*********************
HARPER COLLINS'S POV
Bury it in your subconscious and forget about it?

five hours later…

You sat alone at first on Brian and Justin’s front stoop, your just-painted toes curled around the aging bricks, a cigarette burning itself out in your fingers. It was so quiet at their house; it felt like the entire neighborhood had overdosed on Xanax or something. When the front door opened behind you, you expected Justin to come out and join you, but you got Brian instead.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting down beside you.

You laughed, “It’s your house. Where’s Justin?”

Brian seemed to retract a little, extending hospitality before anything else, “I think he’s in the bathroom. You want me to go get him?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just thought he’d want to smoke.”

Brian laughed as he lit up, “He smokes less and less these days. That’s why I’m kind of glad you’re here and lighting up; we can dilute his disapproval a bit.” And then he changed the subject, “Are you okay…from earlier?” You couldn’t bear to tell him no, but he saw through that fast, so fast it made you nervous. You didn’t even answer him; he just kept talking, “This isn’t something you’re going to get over in a few weeks, you know? Not even a few years--,” and then he stopped and looked right in your eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he said and he disappeared inside. The whiskey he brought you made your eyes water; you thought you heard Justin’s voice as Brian shut the front door behind him and rejoined you. Your throat was burning when you told him, “You know, I forgot how obnoxious insects are at night in the country. Reminds me of Georgia as a kid.”

“It’s a six-legged symphony every night during the summer,” he agreed. “When I first moved out here, it took me forever to get used to it and tune it out. Now, anytime I sleep at my loft back in the city, I can barely tolerate the constant barrage of police sirens.”

“You were saying?” you asked him, “Before you went inside?”

He took the empty shot glass from your hand and set it on the concrete behind him, “You don’t get over this, okay? You don’t. I know I’m not a shrink or anything, but I’m just telling you…it just…becomes a part of you. You have to help it get comfortable inside there and there.” He pointed to your heart and your head.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you admitted, “And everyone that I would ask for help with that is going through the same thing. I feel trapped, like I have nowhere to go with it and it just gets heavier and heavier.”

“You don’t talk to Daniel?” he asked, stretching his long legs out onto the sidewalk.

“Can’t. He’s worse off than me. I mean, I think he is. I don’t really know. You think this thing he has with Gabe is real or avoidance?”

Brian sort of smiled, stubbed out his cigarette and brought his hands together in front of him, “Real. I can tell.”

“It’s wrong that that makes me sad.”

“It’s not wrong; it’s just human. I mean, I don’t pretend to comprehend the fag hag psyche, but it’s normal to feel a little slighted.”

“Jesus, you’re an asshole. I’m not a fag hag.” Brian gave you a funny look with a raised eyebrow so you gave him one back.

“You wanna know something?” he asked you.

“What?”

“You’re the first person in several years who’s had the courage to call me an asshole and mean it.”

“Really? I find it hard to believe that Justin doesn’t call you one now and again,” you said.

“Ha, he just likes my asshole.”

You laughed, “I think he refers to it as an ‘endangered species.’”

Brian jabbed you with his elbow, “So you know what that tells me? That you’re brave enough to call me that?”

“What?”

“That, like it or not, you’re gonna be okay.”

You smiled at him and then asked a question that had been bugging you since you saw Justin’s studio, “What the hell is up with that giant canvas Justin glopped paint all over? I tried to ask him about it, but he kept changing the subject.”

Brian sighed, “That’s a long story and a couple thousand dollars down the drain.”

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
”Be patient. Everything will be up and running in no time.”

the following Wednesday morning…

Theodore seemed oddly nervous before the staff meeting that morning. “What’s up your ass?” you asked.

“I think I’m just freaking out about Rube leaving us, even if it’s just for a couple weeks.”

You nodded, “Agreed. It terrifies me, too.”

“It’s just that…well…he’s a one-man guaranteed revenue stream. But I should quit worrying; it’ll be fine.”

“I think my idea will work,” you conceded.

“Do they know yet?”

“Not exactly. I bought one-way tickets and told them to pack for a month.”

“And they agreed?” Ted asked, “Just like that?”

Your responding tone had a soberness about it, “Well…sometimes any distraction is better than living in your nightmares.”

“And you still want Blake, too? Right?”

“Please.”

“Well, good, because he’s missing his yoga class to be here.”

You laughed, “Yeah, well, you can help him with all of his favorite positions at home tonight.”

Theodore was wide awake that morning and ready to play ball, “Don’t act like you don’t move heaven and earth to keep your wife happy, especially not to me, the man who monitors all your money.”

“Yeah, about that… thanks for helping Justin finance that car without a word to me about it.”

“He has his own money, Brian, and besides, like you would ever say no to him.”

“I’m not positive, but I think when you get married, that word is surgically removed from your vocabulary.”

Ted sighed, “And exiled like a Middle East dictator.”

Reception buzzed in, interrupting your conversation, “Brian, Ted? Blake is …here. Oh, and so is…everybody else.”

*********************
”Is that what they mean by stroke of genius?”

Amelia’s first visit to your neck of the woods had officially begun with her inability to even blink as she stood in the doorway of your office clutching a stuffed pink kitten that was summarily discarded when you bent down and said, “Hello, Amelia.” She titled her head back as if she needed permission from Harper to take even one step forward. “It’s okay, ‘Melia. Go ahead,” she said. Her little black shoes rattled on the floor as she ran to you, the floor making her slide into you like you were home plate at the World Series. “I was on a pairplane, Brime Kinney” she told you, “Like this!” She extended her arms side-to-side to demonstrate.

“I know. Did you like it?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t like the potty. It was ‘sgusting.”

“Speaking of,” Harper said, “Where’s your bathroom?” Justin pointed it out for her and she whooshed Amelia away to take care of business while you greeted Sam and Blake and funneled everyone into the conference room. “Wow,” Justin said when he saw the table, “This is official. We have legal pads.” Harper’s exit from your bathroom signaled the beginning of the meeting with Amelia climbing onto Sam’s lap and immediately drawing on his pad. You began as Ted passed out the business plan to everyone, “Everyone, here is the plan.”

“Brime Kinney, I want one for me.”

“Oh, this is just for grownups,” Ted tried.

You rolled your eyes at him, “Give her one, Theodore.” He shrugged his shoulders and sent one sliding down the table before taking his seat next to Blake. “Okay, guys—,” you began again only to be interrupted by the arrival of Gable, Rube, Emmett and Zeek.

“Oh my god, are we late?” Emmett asked.

“No, no, you’re not late, just sit down,” you said waving them in. You could tell Gabe was immediately off kilter because Justin was sitting in his coveted seat next to you, but you watched as he instantly repaired himself by taking attendance and realizing that Debbie wasn’t present. You answered the question he was about to ask, “Nothing changes at the diner, Gabe.”

He took a deep breath, “Oh. Oh…okay,” and sat up even straighter than usual, a stark contrast to Zeek’s attempt to hide behind his copy of the plan.

You began again, “Okay, here’s what I’ve worked out—“ Ted cleared his throat. “Jesus, here’s what Ted and I have worked out.”

“Jesus is here?” Rube asked. “Am I the only one who doesn’t see him?”

“He’s sitting at the head of the table,” Justin quipped.

“For Christ’s sake, will you all please shut the fuck up so we can start?” you asked, and before you could retract the vile language, Amelia chimed is, “Yeah, ‘cause everybody is ‘upposed to shut the fuck up right now ‘cause I knowed that.” Zeek tried to muffle a laugh that came out in a snort and earned him a swift kick from Harper right in the shin, “Ow!”

Your aggravation began to show, “I have other things to do today, boys and girls, so can we please get started?”

“Please,” Sam said, “I have a short attention span sitting on my lap.”

“Okay,” you began yet again, “This is the plan for the next month. As you all know, Ruben is competing in a world-wide Domino tournament in two weeks during which time both he and Zeek will be gone. We’re going to play a little game of musical chairs to get through those two weeks without losing money.”

“That’s just wrong,” Rube complained, “I always miss all the reindeer games.”

You rolled your eyes at him, something else you regretted as Amelia tried desperately to mimic the gesture throughout the rest of the meeting. “Okay, here we go. Emmett, you’re going over to Babylon for those two weeks to work with Justin and Blake. It will take three of you to equal one of Superman over here.” You pointed to Rube who puffed out his pathetic excuse for a chest. The rest of the group finally looked as serious as Gabe had from the moment he walked in. “Ruben handles just about everything at Babylon and Mecca—“

“Mecca?” Sam interjected.

“The VIP room upstairs. We converted it into an ‘A-gay’ club. You have to be at least thirty to get in.”

“Gee, count me out then,” Justin smirked.

You almost flipped him off but caught Amelia’s big rolling eyes staring right at you and decided against it. “Okay, so Ruben handles everything for me besides physical security, and it’s because of him that we consistently turn an impressive profit. We’re going to pull Damien, our lead bartender at Zeal, and he will cover weekend nights at Babylon because there’s a ton of money to be lost in liquor if it’s not done right. Gabe will order the liquor as usual. Zeek has two other guys who bounce with him who will be stepping up while he’s not here, including working the door. Justin, you’re in charge of overall management, monitoring the closed-circuit security and the finances. Not an un-budgeted penny is spent without your permission. Blake, you’re in charge of monitoring the bathrooms and back room and anywhere else you suspect excessive drug use going on. I don’t mind if guys are enjoying a bump here and there, but I will not have young guys tweaking out in my club. We contract with a private taxi and a private ambulance service that will quietly usher these junkies away if they go too far, but it’s your job to make sure they leave before they do. Emmett, you’re in charge of everything social: hosting contests, working with the DJ, keeping the party atmosphere in high gear—“

“And the glitter. I’m in charge of the glitter, right?”

“Of course, you are, Pixie Pants,” Zeek remarked under his breath.

“Yes,” you assured him, “Now, Harper, either you or Sam, whomever you decide, will be taking Emmett’s place at Zeal, helping Gabe with hosting, etc.  All of you will be training with Ruben and Gabe over the next two weeks to get ready to take over while he’s gone.”

“Rube dances on the bar sometimes,” Justin said, “Do I get to do that again?”

“No, Sunshine. You don’t.”

Justin blushed, “Don’t call me that in front of other people. Jeesh.”

“Then don’t ask me idiotic questions.”

“Brian,” Harper spoke up, “I think it’s going to be me working at Zeal; I think Sam wants to parent.”

“Fine with me. Sam, would you like to see what’s behind door number two if you decide to stay with Amelia?”

“Uh…sure. I think.”

Ruben began mumbling like the Price is Right announcer as you pulled out a different plan and spun it across the table to him, revving up your own game show host voice, “Well, Samuel, it’s your lucky day. During your one month stay at our humble estate, a swim teacher will arrive three days a week to teach Amelia how to swim in our pool. I’ve also enrolled her in a summer dance class two days a week – some kind of fusion of ballet, tap, and if you can believe it, hip hop.”

“Yeah, I already knowed that,” Amelia said.

“Naturally,” you said, “You’ll find the appropriate attire for each of these activities in her room at our house, and Justin has restocked his studio with child-appropriate art supplies including non-toxic finger paint that apparently smells like fruit-of-the-loom.”

“It’ll give you a headache after awhile,” Justin admitted.

“Wow,” Sam said. Harper just stared at you, blinking purposefully.

“Don’t forget the horses, Brian,” Justin nudged you.

“Oh, yes, and there’s a farm about ten minutes from our house that gives horse-riding lessons to little ones, so your Saturday mornings will be spent on a ranch.”

Harper spoke up, “Brian, this is crazy. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“You’re helping me; I’m helping you.”

“You’re paying us and letting us stay in your house for free. This is too much,” Harper countered.

“Drawbridge,” Sam whispered, poking her with his elbow, “This is the drawbridge.”

“You want a drawbridge?” you asked, confused.

“I draw-ded a bridge one time, Brime Kinney.”

“No,” Harper tried again, “This is too much. Not that we don’t appreciate it, but it’s not necessary.”

“Well, too late, it’s done. I don’t think you fully appreciate how much it means to me to have people that I know and trust running my businesses—“ Gabe nodded as if you were speaking solely about him. “I don’t sleep at night unless everything is running smoothly.”

“And lately,” Justin added, “We hardly sleep at all.”

You gave Justin a look that probably felt like an ice pick in his ass. “If I were you,” you told him, “I’d start taking this a little more seriously. The house, the pool, the studio, that stuff isn’t free. This is how we afford it.”

“Is this how we afford the refrigerator?”

“You’re pushing it,” you warned him, and he grinned like a maniacal nymph. "Harper, Sam…our car service will take you to our house. Make yourself at home this afternoon. Everyone else, get out of here.” Justin got up and you grabbed his forearm, holding him back, “You’re staying with me, Sunshine. Your training begins now.”

*********************
”It’ll be a pleasure to work under you..sir.”

fifteen minutes later at Babylon…

“I need more than splooge for lunch, Brian,” Justin complained as you led him up to your office off the catwalk.

“It’s being delivered, darling. I’ve taken care of that.”

“What are we doing here?”

You unlocked your office and let him enter first, “I don’t think you realize what goes into keeping this place profitable. I’m going to start teaching you.” And so over a lunch of Thai food, you opened up Babylon’s books and began to show him where the margins are at the door, the bar, and the VIP room. “We charge that much for liquor in Mecca?” he asked, “And they pay it?”

“Yes. They pay it because it comes with a side of luxury and privacy. These are older men, many are couples, and they want to drink, dance, and fuck amongst their own kind.”

“So basically, they don’t want to be seen getting their dick sucked next to some twink who makes seven bucks an hour,” Justin summed up.

“Right. They want to get their dick sucked next to a CEO. Someone they respect and might even do business with in the future.”

“So, it’s networking with your cock out.”

“Precisely.”

“How quaint. The condom rule still applies?”

“Always. Nobody does it raw here.”

“Except us,” Justin said with a wicked smile.

“That’s not common knowledge and let’s keep it that way, okay?” He reluctantly agreed. “Okay, let’s talk about expectations. You need to be here until close on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. On other nights, you can leave when you feel like everything’s under control.”

“But you never stay that late.”

“I have Rube here; I don’t have to. You don’t have him or Zeek, so you need to cover it.”

“Can I ask a dumb question?”

“I charge twenty dollars for each one.”

“Okay, put it on my tab. Why don’t you just work with me? Wouldn’t we make more money that way?”

“Conceivably, yes, but only here. If I spend my nights here, I’m a shit-for-brains at Kinnetik the next day, and trust me, we make most of our money there, and, besides, we’d just end up making out all night.”

“Remember the days when you could work all day, fuck me all night and exist on an hour of sleep?” he asked.

“Yes, but I’m a grown up now, and grownups have entire empires to run, so I think this is the best plan.” He flipped to a clean page on his pad and kept writing as you continued, “Okay, so now let’s talk about beer. There are huge profit margins to be had in beer and liquor. The bartenders know exactly how much to pour and how to get the most out of a keg, etc.. They’ve been meticulously trained. You’ll sell more beer than liquor before ten p.m., and then the numbers will usually flip or run neck in neck. Gabe knows how much to order by looking at the take from the previous week. But the real way we make money on beer and liquor is by the atmosphere. Happy people drink more and spend more. That’s where you come in. You need to keep a constant eye on everyone – security, the DJ, the bartenders, the crowd. Be sure there aren’t any conflicts brewing. Nothing stops sales like an argument. Around midnight, there’s enough testosterone, whiskey, and horny guys in here to make a great riot.” You turned on your wide screen TV and loaded the security tapes from the previous Saturday. They began to play in quadrant form. “Okay, these feeds are from the door, the bar, the dance floor, and the backroom. We’re going to watch these together, and I’m going to point out the things you need to watch out for and put a stop to, the first of which is drugs, specifically meth and M-cat—.”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Well, count yourself lucky. That’s precisely why we have Blake on board for these two weeks. He knows exactly what it is and how to spot it. It’s a new drug similar to meth and commonly referred to as ‘bath salts’ because that’s what it looks like, only they aren’t the kind Sarah gave you in that gift basket. It’s a street chemist designer drug that causes agitation and hallucinations and sometimes even suicide from the first use.”

“Jesus.”

“It also goes by ‘meow’ and ‘explosion.’ If you ever see them strip searching some guy, that’s probably why. I’m not having this shit in my club. If any of you think you see it or that someone’s on it, you let security handle it. This stuff makes kids psychotic. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He wrote down the names you gave him and the side effects, listening carefully as you began to educate him about the rest of the highs and lows of nightclub management, how the staff who run the place ultimately determine the profit margin by their ability to run a tight but very friendly ship. “Rube is a master at this,” you explained. “He can calculate profit margins in his head, watch all the security feeds at the bar while he’s serving and entertaining the masses. People come to Babylon just to see him do his goofy tricks or to help him build some ridiculous Tinker Toy structure on the bar.”

“Okay, but I’m not Rube. I can’t do tricks. I mean, I can barely work a yo-yo.”

“You snagged me, didn’t you? That was quite a trick.”

“I can do this trick with my ass,” Justin mused. “If I just keep my back to the bar, I bet I can charm money out of every top’s wallet at once.”

“You emptied mine more times than I care to count, so I’ll take that bet.”

He grinned and kissed you, “I’ve had you under my spell for a long, long time. So Rube’s formula is basically to let boys be boys.”

“Exactly. Now let’s talk about what we do when we get actual boys in here,” you said, pointing out underage kids at the bar and in the backroom.

“Wait,” Justin said, “How did these kids even get in in the first place?”

You laughed, “How did you get in?”

“But that’s the doorman’s job. Why didn’t he stop them?”

“It gets insane here on Friday and Saturday nights; they don’t catch everybody. You have to work in tandem with security.”

“Oh my god, that kid has a fake mustache!” Justin said pointing to the screen.

“Some of them even put cucumbers in their pants.”

“That is seriously retarded.”

“They’re just kids. They just want to get laid like everybody else,” you said, winking at him and jabbing him with your elbow. “You’ll spend the rest of the afternoon with Rube getting the operational rundown. Wednesday is our reset day. I’ll see you tonight when you get home.” You looked down at his legal pad; he’d written ‘CUCUMBER’ and underlined it twice.



Each section's opening quote is dialogue from Queer As Folk.