Discovery - Part 2

“What time is your dinner?” asked Marcus.

“Seven,” said Alan.

“Paul, I’ll call Martin from the Times, Lillian from the Daily News and Myles from the Post. Do you guys know anyone from the Sun, from Newsday, or from the Journal?”

“I’ll call Art Greenwald from the Wall Street Journal,” said Alan. “Heather and I have played tennis with him and his wife several times.”

“I am, uh… acquainted with someone at the Sun, and someone else at the Village Voice,” said Brian.

“Do you actually know these people’s names, Brian?” teased Paul.

“I know their first names, and their phone numbers, and the length of their cock,” said Brian.

“Oh, good,” said Marcus, rolling his eyes. “That last part will come in handy, I’m sure.”

“Well,” said Paul, “that just leaves Newsday. I’ll just call their desk. They can send us an intern and make the kid’s day… Let’s tell them no photographers. We’ll have Phil take some pictures to make sure I look good and have the right expression. If we are going to spin this, we might as well do it right… “

“We will need copies of the more damning documents, with little handwritten notes in the margins, as if they were your own copies,” added Brian. “You know: Is this right? Must call Tuscan rep and check on this!!! and so on, and some graffiti under the FDA’s phone number, as if you were on hold for a long time. Then a little math, calculating how many people were affected so far: 70%X4000=14!!! You know what I mean.”

“Sounds good. I’ll get those ready. I’ll talk to Gerard in Legal, and see what he thinks.” Paul chuckled. “He’s going to have kittens.”

“There will be positive and negative repercussions to this, you know. We may lose a few accounts. Then again, the good publicity might balance it out.” Marcus was thinking out loud. He would probably run an hypothetical projection before the night was over. He couldn’t help himself.

Brian’s phone rang.

“Kinney.”

“Hey. Got your note.”

“Good. Hold on.” Brian looked at his partners. “Thank you for your support on this, guys. If you think of something, don’t hesitate.”

They all had busy days and left his office still chatting, closing the door behind them. It was close to nine.

“I thought you’d set your alarm for 8:45…”

“I had. It plays one of the songs in my MP3 player, so I didn't turn it off for a while.” Justin was quiet for a second. “I… I jerked off, instead, thinking of last night. So I didn’t see your note right away.”

“So, I take it you really enjoyed riding my cock…” Brian was smiling, his cock twitching.

“…”

The connection was still active, Brian could hear Justin’s breathing. “Justin?”

“I did but…” Justin’s voice was so soft, even in the quiet of his office that Brian plugged his other ear to hear him better. “But I was actually thinking about what happened before that, when you entered me… bare. Brian, it felt so good, so wonderful, I didn’t want you to stop. Your cock was so warm and soft and slick, and I could feel the head breaching me and it was…” Justin’s voice caught. “Perfect. It was perfect… I love you, Brian, I love you so much and I…” Was that a sniffing sound? Was Justin crying? A deep breath at the other end of the line, and “…I’ve got to go. I’m running late. Later.”

“Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“It was perfect.” Brian took a chance. “The way it should be… I love you too, Sunshine. Later.”

After hanging up, Brian just stared at his phone for a minute, rolling in his lips. Did Justin mean that he wanted it that way too, or was he wistful for what couldn’t be because he wasn’t ready? Was he upset because he knew Brian had done it on purpose, or because he thought Brian wasn’t ready? Brian opened the top drawer of his desk, and stared at the small blue box there. He closed it again, and deliberately picked up the Parchment account file. Where was he? Of yes… He absorbed himself again in the preparations for his meeting.

Brian left the office at 5:00. He caught a cab to the loft to have time to get ready for the dinner at Tuscan’s. All and all, he’d had a wonderful day. His partners were now his partners in crime, so to speak. He had convinced Sally from Parchment to accept their ad (God that woman was stubborn. He’d had an easier time convincing Body by Design to run a four fronts campaign…), and through no fault of their own, Justin and he had been stuck in the elevator coming back from viewing the final cut of Greenbabies' ad, which was absolutely fantastic.

It had taken one serious makeout session, followed by the trading of mindblowing, knees weakening, Let’s see how fast I can make you come blowjobs for the elevator to work again. Brian chuckled. Justin had won that contest hands down. When he was determined, Brian was completely helpless to resist. He just hoped the walls of the elevator shaft muted his cry of release.

He was happy with his own performance, though, as it had left Justin with that “What’s my name?” look on his face. He’d had to tuck him back in his pants himself, and then bite his lower lip as he kissed the reddened mouth to reboot Justin’s brain.

Justin had called him on his way to Pratt, and Brian had taken a small espresso break. Justin’s class on Wednesday was Art Analysis and Criticism. He thought it was interesting because it forced you to ignore your emotional reaction to a painting and view it in a detached way.

He said it helped him tremendously with his own paintings, so he could step back and see them clearly, able to see the composition and colors, all the technical aspects and make sure they were as good as possible so his work would elicit the emotional response he was searching for without the distraction, mostly unconscious, of the viewer’s brain getting hung up on some technical issue.

Also, you could actually learn to admire and appreciate a particular piece of art for its qualities, even if you hated it. The class had given him a completely new understanding of the Art Critics approach. He had always wondered if they could really ignore their personal taste to allow them the honest evaluation of a painting. This class was teaching him how.

Brian had enjoyed their conversation. His own education had been oriented early on to business and advertising, because he had known it was what he wanted to do with is life. It was very interesting to learn even a small thing about a subject he had previously known nothing about. Would it be as interesting if it wasn’t Justin giving the explanation? He honestly didn’t know.

Undisturbed by Justin presence, by the sight of his face, of his lips as he talked, it was nice to concentrate on his voice. Justin spoke more softly than most people. His voice was slightly higher pitched than average for a man and one could hear his emotions clearly. Brian actually realized that if he was ever confused about Justin’s state of mind, it might help to listen to him without visual distraction.

“I’m almost there,” Justin had said, as the cab reached its destination. “I’m going to paint tonight. Call me when you leave Tuscan’s. If I wait at the loft I’ll wear a path in our beautiful rug.”

“That’d be a shame. Happy painting. If you leave when I call, you should get home only a little after I do. I think I’ll wait for you naked in bed. What do you say?”

He could hear the Sunshine in Justin’s voice as he answered, “That sounds so good you’d think we hadn’t made love in days… You might as well have a condom on and lubed,” he added. “… Fuck, Brian. My body craves yours like a drug, I swear…”

“Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. I never seem to be able to get enough of you. Half the time, I pull out of you and already wait impatiently for the next time I get to slide inside you again. I love fucking you, Justin. I absolutely love it. And rimming you and sucking you and jerking you off and kissing you. And just holding you…” Brian suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. When had he become so embarrassingly loquacious?

“Brian?”

“…Yes.”

“I love you too.”

Brian chuckled. Yes, Justin loved him. Him. Not some image he projected and had to maintain at all costs. He did not have watch how he felt, watch what he said. Fuck. He was loved. Unconditionally. He felt as if the sudden warmth in his chest suffused his entire body.

“Later,” he said.

“Later,” Justin answered, and even that simple word carried his smile, his love and his inner joy right along with it and straight into Brian’s heart.

Brian showered and shaved, brushed and flossed. He chose his blue Armani, a crisp white shirt with a beautiful weave, and looked through his tie collection. He selected a couple and was testing them in the mirror when, grinning, he put them away and opened Justin’s closet.

He stole one of his three Jay Kos ties. It was light grey-blue silk satin with a tight pattern. If you looked closely you noticed the individual pieces of the pattern were flying seagulls, dark grey and white, with a yellow beak. It looked perfect. He looked perfect. Handsome, elegant, successful, sure of himself. Straight. While wearing his life partner’s tie. He smirked.

At twenty to seven, right on time, the door buzzer went off. Brian put on his blue Dior overcoat, and went downstairs. The driver was holding the door for him. It was Justin’s friend. Brian smiled and said hello. Alan looked very smart in Hugo Boss, and Heather, as usual, looked stunningly lovely.

Like Tuscan’s wife, she looked like a perfect WASP, though in her case it was not appearance only. She could trace her family tree to the Mayflower, and was related to the Cabbots. Of course, she could not have cared less, and was smart, sweet and had a devilishly funny sense of humor. She also had a potty mouth that would rival Mel’s, though she was better at controlling it when necessary.

She grinned at Brian. “Shit, Brian, you look fine. It’s so fucking unfair to women that you’re a fag… What a Goddamned shame!”

“And it’s so unfair to fags everywhere that you’re a woman and not a transvestite,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Oh well.”

She burst out laughing. Brian leaned forward to talk to the driver. “So, how is the new bowling ball working out?”

“Took a couple of weeks to get used to, but now it’s really good. My wife and I won a couple’s contest last month.” He chuckled. “She’ s actually better than me. Did your boyfriend get the job?”

“Yes, he did. He’s doing very well. And he has an exposition of his paintings coming up. Maybe you’d like to come. Your daughter would love it, I think.”

“I bet she would. Where will it be?”

“Some gallery in the Village. I’ll send you an invitation to the opening at work, if you’d like.”

“That’d be grand. The name is Charles Bernard. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turned back to Alan and Heather who were looking at him with puzzled expressions.

“Charles had been driving our clients around for years,” he said. “He takes me to the airport a lot, as well.”

Heather pulled a face. “You make me feel like a jerk. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the drivers before, and the only thing I ever say to them is like, ’Do you think we’ll be on time?’ God. I’m so oblivious.”

“Yes,” said Brian sententiously. “You are a terrible person.”

“You’d never said boo to this guy before meeting Taylor, did you?” said Alan with a smirk.

“Didn’t know the man existed” replied Brian, grinning. “Justin, on the other hand, genuinely finds everybody worth his effort. It’s eye opening. So, Heather, are you ready for the big bad wolf?”

“I was thinking of hitting him for a donation for our next silent auction. What do you think?” she asked, smiling. She was very involved in a project providing teenagers living on the streets with a safe place to sleep and one meal a day. A lot of them were sex workers, and her organization, Babayit, estimated that about one third of them were HIV positive. They provided AIDS awareness pamphlets, gave free HIV testing and offered bare bones HIV counseling. It was named after a song the founder, an Iranian-American, had used to sing to her children to put them to sleep when they were little, Good night, my little Babayit. In Farsi, babayit meant lamb. The woman’s daughter had died of heart failure while smoking crack in a filthy crack house and had weighed ninety-three pounds for her 5’9” frame by then. Heather was probably as happy to dine with Tuscan as he was.

“Not until 8:00 o’clock,” said Alan. “Paul’s get together with the press should be over by then…”

They had transmitted all the information they had on Allerfree to Steven as soon as Cynthia had had it ready, and he had faxed a copy to the FDA at his lunch hour, mailing the originals, a precaution recommended by Gerard. Gerard had also spent two hours with Paul, reviewing what he could and could not say, what he could imply and what he should let people figure out for themselves.

There was no point in giving Tuscan any ammunition in case they decided to sue Plexus anyway. Luckily, Paul was really comfortable speaking with people face to face. It was the technique he favored when first meeting clients. He was in his element.

The limo pulled up in front of a strikingly modern townhouse in the Upper East Side, the house that cough syrup built, remarked Heather, and they all three sat there without moving for a second, Charles holding the door open. Then Alan made the first move and got out, turning around to give his hand to Heather. Brian took a deep breath and followed them. “Thanks, Mr. Bernard,” he said.

“Posh place,” the driver said. “Have a good evening.”

Each story of the townhouse had floor to ceiling windows, and every one of them was illuminated. It looked like a beacon in the darkness of the more conventional homes surrounding it.

“People living in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones…” commented Brian.

“Well, evidently Bob Tuscan has never understood the meaning of that little pearl of wisdom,” said Heather, with a nervous giggle.

The main entrance was below street level where the servant’s access used to be. As they were getting to the door, a young Asian woman in uniform opened it. The fact that her uniform was incredibly old fashioned made a strange contrast with her ultra modern surroundings.

Considering Brian's own tastes one would have thought the architecture and décor were right up his alley; however, his modern tastes were tempered by his ultimate need for comfort and function. What he could see of the residence so far reflected neither. It was only pretentious and purposeless.

The young woman took their outer garments and led them up the stairs to a sitting area where Tuscan and his wife were waiting. It was separated from the main corridor only by a glass wall. She, sitting on the edge of her uncomfortable looking chair, was staring at a page of Vogue. Sitting with his legs crossed on the matching loveseat, Tuscan was reading the Wall Street Journal.

The setup was made particularly absurd when they pretended not to be aware that their guests had arrived until their young maid announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Alan Curry, and Mr. Brian Kinney”, as if they might have forgotten who was coming, though the maid had never inquired as to the guests' names.

Their hosts got to their feet. Bob as tall as Brian and Alan, with ice blue eyes, and silver hair. He greeted Alan as a long lost friend, though his smile did not reach his eyes, and introduced his wife, Lindy. She was attractive, though her blue eyes were vague, as if she was barely paying attention to the proceedings, and she had a certain bitterness in her mouth. Her hair was the beautifully shaded blonde that could only be bought for a lot of money in a salon.

Alan introduced his wife as Mrs. Heather Curry, and Brian simply as Mr. Kinney. Brian had never realized he could be so devious. Bob offered them drinks. Brian was surprised to hear Alan’s request for a dry martini. He usually only drank vodka, but then Brian noticed a bottle of J&B, one of SKYY Vodka (Alan’s brand) and one of Tanqueray for Heather’s usual gin and tonic prominently displayed. Bob had had an underling research their drinking preferences.

Alan 2, Tuscan 0.

So Brian asked for a single malt scotch, an Islay if possible. To be even more contrary, Heather requested a pink champagne. Tuscan signaled to the young woman who was still standing at attention. Obviously, Bob had not been prepared for Heather’s whimsy. He was able to accommodate the gentlemen with what he had on hand, but the champagne was probably in a fridge somewhere.

He asked his wife, “Perrier, my dear?” and Brian thought he saw the first sign of enjoyment in her eyes when she replied, “No thank you. I think I will join Heather and have pink champagne as well.” Though he made no comment, and served himself a tonic water with lime, Tuscan did not look amused. The maid returned with the champagne, and Tuscan told her, “For the Ladies.”

Now that they all had their drinks in hand he seemed to find his footing. “I must say, Mr. Kinney, though I was disappointed to have to let Paul go after two years of successful cooperation, I am rather glad to have been given a chance to work with you. Lindy just adores your Clearlife commercial, and the Click Clack and Body by Design campaigns are simply brilliant. I hear there are rumors of a possible Clio in your future.”

“Of course a Clio would go to our firm, not to me personally,” corrected Brian, “and considering the nominations are not in yet, I would say the rumors you mention are only that, and probably unfounded, Mr. Tuscan. It is, after all, an international competition. There are a lot of extremely talented people in the profession. Obviously if a nomination came our way, we would be thrilled.”

“Be that as it may, you have shown amazing talent and creativity in your work, and it has had an impact, even in our small household. We are all taking Clearlife brand supplements now, and the boys all requested Vuarnet sunglasses for our annual ski vacation at Christmas this year. And please, call me Bob.”

“Thank you,” said Brian, and whether it was for the compliment or for the permission to use the man’s first name, he did not say. Neither did he return the favor of offering Tuscan the use of his own first name. “I love my work, and I have the full support of a fantastically talented group of people. Teamwork is key in our profession and Plexus has the best team a man could ask for.”

“I believe a team is only as good as its leader. Without intelligent leadership, even the most talented people can lack focus and give mediocre results. Certainly a string of successes like the ones you have had this year has be a reflection of your own abilities.”

“I have to agree with Bob, Brian. You have always been an asset to Plexus, and if this year reflects your true potential, as I believe it does, we will never have made a better decision than to make you a partner so soon after you joined the firm. You have a way to get the best out of people.”

“And I believe that’s why they have nicknamed me The Asshole,” commented Brian, with a smile.

Lindy almost snorted in her pink champagne, and Alan chuckled.

“Being a brilliant leader does not always make one popular,” replied Tuscan, obviously considering himself on par with Brian.

“And what nickname do your employees give you, Bob?” asked Heather, all smiles.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Bob, stiffly.

Lindy bent to Heather and whispered, just loud enough that they all heard, “That fucking prick…” It was Heather’s turn to snort in her pink champagne.

“Very funny, Lindy,” commented Tuscan, with a fake smile. His eyes looked like ice.

A maitre d’ appeared. “Dinner is served, Madam,” he announced to Lindy.

Ridiculously, Tuscan offered Heather his arm to guide her to the dining room. Both Brian and Alan came to offer their arms to Lindy, who looked at a loss for a second, so Brian grabbed Alan’s arm, and they very seriously followed Tuscan and Heather. Behind them, they heard Lindy crack up. They let go of each other before Tuscan, who had pulled a chair out for Heather, had a chance to turn around.

Against the conventions of nineteenth century polite society that Tuscan apparently liked to emulate, Brian pulled a chair out for Lindy on his right, and Alan went to sit next to his own wife, leaving Tuscan at the head of the table between the two ladies.

The first course of caviar and blinis was as predictable as could be. Brian usually made a polite effort to pretend to enjoy the swordfish roe, but he despised it, and since he despised his host even more, he just said, “No thank you. I cannot stand the stuff.” He winked at Lindy, hoping not to hurt her feelings.

“Mr. Kinney, it is so refreshing for a guest to actually express his true opinion. I am not myself such a great fan of caviar. Is smoked salmon more to your liking?”

“Definitely.”

“Albert, would you bring some smoked salmon instead, for Mr. Kinney and I?”

The maitre d’ was about to take away the extra servings of caviar and pass them to the maid when Heather said, “Unless you want it for yourself, Albert, hand it over. I could eat the stuff by the pound,” and under Tuscan’s horrified gaze, Heather pushed the two extra servings of caviar onto her plate, saying, “Yum. One tablespoon is never enough, you know? I can eat a whole tinful while watching Oprah…”

Albert poured a small amount of wine into Tuscan’s glass, who barely remembered to taste it and nod. Heather put her hand over her glass. “I’ll continue with the pink champagne if you don’t mind. Perrier et Jouet, isn’t it?” she asked Tuscan.

“Indeed,” said Tuscan.

“It’s quite good, isn’t it?” Heather said to Lindy.

“Yes it is. I believe I’ll continue with it as well,” Lindy said, the perfect hostess, though in this case, Brian wasn’t sure witch dictated her constant graceful behavior to her unconventional guests, whether her perfect manners, or her getting a thrill at the increased annoyance of her husband.

Brian also turned down the wine (a shame really, it was probably very good), and requested Evian water for the rest of the meal instead. After all, he didn’t need the calories and enjoyed the clenching of Tuscan’s jaw more than he would have the wine.

“You know,” said Heather to Lindy, “another thing I really hate during dinner parties, aside from guests who are too shy to speak up when they can’t stand the food, is hosts who answer phone calls. The other day we were dinning at some friends who will remain anonymous, since I am about to name him as a terrible host, with the Clintons, no less, and he took a call in the middle of dinner. What a way to tell your guest: You people are pretty boring, I would rather be doing something else…. From the look between Bill and Hillary, I can tell you I wasn’t the only one thinking I wouldn’t be coming back…

Brian saw Tuscan discreetly reach in his pocket to turn off his cell phone. He checked the time. This was why Heather was such an amazing asset to Alan. It was eight o’clock, and Paul must have finished his meeting with the press. She had just insured that Tuscan would not hear about it until they were gone.

“So, Mr. Kinney, what approach are you thinking of taking with your campaign for Allerfree?” asked Tuscan, ready to talk business.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I am not quite sure just how much work I am actually going to put into it,” answered Brian, looking at him candidly.

“Whatever can you mean?” asked Tuscan, thoroughly confused.

“Well, before we sat down to dinner, you were in a way praising my intelligence, so I am surprised that after I finally obtained some of the information I spent a week requesting from Michael Smith, you would expect me not to have figured out that Allerfree is never going to hit the market. I love my work, but I am not about to go all out for a campaign that will at best get one single airing. I fully intend on recycling the ads designed by Paul. I would think that would be good enough for a product you plan to publicly pull from being offered to patients, don’t you?”

Tuscan took a long sip of his wine, and looked at Brian speculatively. “Why would my company go to the trouble of advertising a product it intends never to sell, Mr. Kinney?”

“I have been asking myself, and my partners, this exact question, of course. We are fairly sure we have reached the right conclusion, but it would be good to get the facts straight from you, as you can imagine. You have presented us with quite an intellectual challenge…” and there, Brian sent Tuscan an admiring glance, as if he thought the man was the greatest political manipulator since McCarthy.

For the first time that night, Tuscan felt treated with the respect that was due to a visionary such as he.

“I second that, Bob,” said Alan. “It took us a while to see the brilliance of your plan, that is, if we even got it right…” He too gave Tuscan an approving smile.

“Well, well,” said Tuscan. “It seems indeed that I have been found out. You are absolutely right, Mr. Kinney. Due to its late developing side effects and its permanent sequel, Allerfree will not reach the market. Please, though, satisfy my curiosity, and tell me the conclusions you have drawn.”

The second course, a grapefruit, crab and avocado salad was served. It was one of Brian’s favorite. Yet, he wasn’t sure which he’d prefer: to eat it, or to throw it in Tuscan’s smiling face. Hm. He would eat it. Who knows, he might luck out and hate the next course. No use wasting a good salad…

“I feel you and I are alike in many ways,” said Brian. After all, they were both carbon based bipedal life forms, needing water and oxygen to live… “I do not resent paying a lot of taxes. It is a sign that I make a lot of money. However, sometimes I resent the way our government likes to spend my hard earned dollars.”

“Hear, hear,” said Alan, who had fought the war in Iraq till the bitter end.

“I particularly resent the government spending my money on certain types of research,” said Brian. Weapons research was one of his pet peeves. And there had been that ridiculous methane research, having to do with cow flatulence that really, he could have lived without…

Tuscan was smiling broadly. He thought he had found a like thinker.

“Medical research is all well and good…” added Brian, and he was relieved when Tuscan took the bait.

“But not all diseases are created equal, are they, Mr. Kinney?”

“Some diseases can trace their roots directly to the patients' own behavior,” said Brian who still supported research in those areas, as well as preventive education. Some lung diseases, some diabetes, alcoholism, he thought.

Tuscan raised his glass to him. “Exactly,” he said. “And yet we are expected as a society to finance research for a disease directly related to an individual choice of lifestyle. We spend billions of dollars to keep a handful of people healthy who have no one but themselves and their perversion to blame for their disease. It disgusts me. I fight it tooth and nail through legal channels with no significant results. Our society has gone insane.”

“Our society has gone insane,” agreed Alan, no doubt referring to the Bush re-election. It was enough to send Tuscan into pontificating about the ills of promiscuity, of the removal of prayers in school and of the actual sanctification of gay marriages by more and more states.

Brian looked at Lindy, who was looking right back at him. There was nothing vague in her eyes now. Unlike her egocentric husband, she was perfectly aware that Brian had said absolutely nothing that showed any type of actual support whatever for her husband's bigoted ideas.

Justin had said that the boys, Rob and Alex, did not believe she shared her husband’s opinions, though she had never spoken up against him. He smiled at her, and raised his eyebrows questioningly. She looked back at him and nodded very slightly, as if to give him permission to nail the bastard. Heather reached over the table for her hand.

“So we were right,” said Brian. “You are trying to destabilize the FDA, to force it to reduce it’s allowance to use certain drugs before they are fully approved.”

“If patients have to wait for years for the FDA to approve a simple modification to one of our pediatric cough syrups, why should homosexuals rotting from the inside from a disease brought on by their quest for the sick and twisted satisfaction of their disgusting sexual perversion be any different?” asked Tuscan, with a winning smile on his lips, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with what he had just said, as if he was amongst friends.

“You know, there are some people who are not homosexuals who would grow sick and die,” Brian stated calmly, as if he was pointing out a minor flaw in Tuscan’s plans.

“How many innocent people suffer from that disease?” asked Tuscan, shrugging, dismissing them. “Whores? Drug addicts? They can take it up with the perverts that started it all when we let nature take its course.” Good God, the man was a monster… Lindy had closed her eyes, and took a long drink of champagne. Heather refilled her glass before Albert had a chance to move.

“You have sons in medical school, don’t you?” asked Brian, once again as if he was concerned about some minor problem.

“That’s right,” said Lindy, her voice shaking a little. “Rob and Alex, our twins, are in medical school.”

“How do they feel about your plan? Aren’t you worried this might cause a rift, if they want to dedicate their life to helping the sick…”

“My sons know how I feel. All four of my sons. A family is like a business, Mr. Kinney, and needs a strong leader. I am the leader of this family. I have their support.” He looked so self satisfied.

“You know,” Brian sighed. “That sounds so good I might actually have believed it if I didn’t actually know Rob and Alex. But I do. And I know that there is something else aside from their devotion to medicine that makes it impossible for them to agree with you on this issue. What they, and I, and most of my friends are.”

“What do you mean, what you are?” asked Tuscan, suddenly aware he might have been gravely mistaken in trusting Brian, a vein throbbing on his forehead.

“You know what I mean, Bob… Queers.”

He ate his last bite of salad. He wondered what would have been for dessert. Oh, well.

He continued, “We queers cannot agree with you, can we, Bob? And thank heaven most straight people with a heart and a conscience cannot either. So, now that you have confirmed for me your plan to basically deliver a painful and undeserved death to many of my friends, I have a confession of my own: I am taking you down. With the help of my straight business partners and friends, with that of my gay friends and with the loving support of my male lover, whom I sincerely hope will soon become my legal husband, I am taking you down.

“Because I'm queer. I'm gay. I'm a homosexual. I'm a faggot, I'm a fairy, I'm a pansy, Bob. I'm a butt pirate, a backside artist. I'm as bent as a three-dollar bill. I am an ass bandit. I lift those shirts. I'm a buggering, fudge-packing, uphill gardener. I swing the other way; I fuck and I’m fucked. I suck and I’m sucked. I rim and get rimmed and much more, and I love it, because I’m queer.”

He looked at Bob Tuscan, finally showing the contempt he had worked hard to hide all evening. “And so are your sons. And we are not the perverts. There's only one twisted bastard in this room and it’s you, Bob.

“The man who threatened to throw out his seventeen year-old boys without a penny and cut them away from their whole family if they told anyone of their homosexuality, even their mother. The one who, with two sons in a high-risk group for a disease, has persevered and takes pride in fighting tooth and nail against funding the education to prevent it, and the research to stop it from killing people. The one who is trying to turn his professional failure into an ideological victory, by using lies and deceit to put doubts into people’s minds about the FDA’s humane policy of allowing the early release of life saving drugs.

“I had the information you provided about the drug’s side effect added to your file at the FDA. You should lose the approval of your drug by noon tomorrow, and while we were having this lovely dinner, the press has been made aware of your desire to design a publicity campaign for a drug you personally knew was unsafe, and that you had withheld that information from the FDA. I am sure there is going to be an official investigation, as well as one by newspapermen who despise your politics and cannot wait to put the nails in your coffin. You are finished. And this queer took you down.”

Bob Tuscan had gone completely white, and he was holding his fist tightly closed around his eating utensils, shaking slightly.

Lindy completely ignored him. She turned to Brian. “You know Rob and Alex?” she asked softly.

“Not well, but yes, I do.”

“So… You are sure they’re gay?”

“Absolutely.”

“And Bob found out seven years ago?”

“They were caught in the showers with some teammates. The coach called your husband.”

She stood up, slapped her husband across the face with a strength Brian would not have suspected she had, and poured her glass of pink champagne over his head. He backed away from the table and the ill designed, uncomfortable chair they had had to suffer sitting on throughout dinner almost spilled him on the floor.

Her handprint was crimson against his otherwise still bloodless face. He kept opening his mouth, probably looking for a retort, either to Brian or to her, but his brain must have frozen in shock, and he looked like a fish gulping for air. She turned to her guests.

“I do not know about you, but I have quite lost my appetite. So unless you strongly object I would like to call an end to this get together and I would very much appreciate if you could give me a ride away from here.”

“It will be our pleasure, Lindy,” said Heather, getting up from the table, along with Brian and Alan.

“Our coats, please, Albert. May Ling, my packed bags, please.”

They all walked out of the room, where Tuscan was still sitting at the table, his head now in his hands. Downstairs, they retrieved their coats, and May Ling brought Lindy a small Louis Vuitton suitcase and a vanity case. They stepped outside, where the limo was waiting.

Charles opened their door, and took Lindy’s luggage to store it in the trunk. “Where to first?” he inquired. They looked to Lindy who took out her cell phone and dialed.

“Hi, boys, it’s mom. The reason I was so insistent you picked the fold out bed version of your couch is suddenly going to become obvious. I’ve left home and I‘m hoping you will put me up until I have confirmed my contingency plans. I would have normally assumed you were at the library, but something tells me that there might be other activities two gay hunks like you might get up to in the evenings, after a hard day of whatever it is you do in med school. If you have company, I don’t care, though I would like to speak with you at some point. Call me back on my cell. Bye.”

“Well, I’m afraid I have nowhere special to go until they call me back…”

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m still hungry,” lied Brian. “Let’s go wait for their call at my place.”

“You have food at your place?” asked Heather, shocked.

“Justin is twenty-three. Of course we have food. But I was thinking of ordering Thai for delivery.”

Heather and Alan exchanged a look. “Thai sounds good to us,” said Alan. “Lindy?”

“If it’s no bother, Mr. Kinney.”

“You do know you can call me Brian, don’t you?”

“I would love to. And I cannot wait to meet your young man.”

“Please do not mention what I told Bob? I want to surprise him,” said Brian to all of them.

“Not a word,” said Heather.

“Mention what? to whom?” asked Alan.

“What is he talking about?” asked Lindy, giggling. For a woman who had just left her husband of thirty years and was supposedly on the street and penniless, she seemed in an excellent mood.

Brian dialed Justin.

“Justin Taylor.”

“Hey. We’ve left Tuscan’s, but we have to put a hold on out previous plans. We have guests.”

“It is awfully early. How was it?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Ah. Are you in the car with Alan and Heather?”

“And more.”

“Holy crap. Have you got Mrs. Tuscan in there? Did she leave him?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh good for her! Do Rob and Alex know? Did she call them?”

“Not on a cell phone.”

“She called them at home and they were out and you want me to stop at Essengy on my way home to see if they are there and bring them with me if they are?”

“And this is why I love you.”

“… Brian? You just said you loved me in front of Alan and his wife.”

“They’ll live. Later.”

Justin giggled happily. “Later.”

Brian then called and ordered a repeat of what they’d had the last time Brandon and Todd had come over to fuck. He missed those two.

They pulled up in front of his building. They all got out and Brian turned to Charles. “Mr. Bernard, you are legally parked. We might be a while. Why don’t you lock her up, come with us and watch some TV or take a nap in my guest room?”

“You got cable?” asked Charles, grinning.

“Satellite. Over 300 channels.”

“As long as you have the history channel, I’m in.” Charles locked the limo, set the alarm and joined the others waiting for the elevator.”

Heather smiled at him. “How old is your daughter?” she asked.

“Seventeen. She is a senior in high school.”

“And she likes art, does she?” asked Alan. They got in the elevator.

“She wants to go to art school. I think that’s great. She loves art. A person should get to do what they love, you know?”

“It is wonderful when it’s possible,” said Lindy.

“She’s send in her application to several schools. She’s got a 3.88 GPA and she got 1490 on her SATs so I think she might get in, though I’m no judge of how good the art she sent with the application is. To me, everything she does is fantastic.” He was beaming.

Once at the loft, Brian got some water out of the fridge as well as some Chex-mix Justin had made for himself a couple days ago and stored on an airtight canister and took Charles to the old master bedroom, which had a big flat screen TV, and left Charles to the history channel. He rejoined the rest of his guests, finding that Heather had helped herself to a Tanqueray and tonic, Alan to an Absolut, since Brian did not have SKYY, had given Lindy some water from the fridge and poured Brian a J&B. They were still in the kitchen area enjoying their drinks when the buzzer signaled the food had arrived.

Brian went and got it, and smiled when Heather had set the table by the time he returned. Brian went to get himself some chopsticks and sat down.

“You do know Thai people do not eat with chopsticks, right?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh, good. So we’ll agree that you’re fucking weird.”

Alan was looking at Justin’s paintings. “These are Justin Taylor’s as well, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Well, Brian fucks him and the kid lives here, so you’d expect him to hang some of his art, wouldn’t you?” asked Heather.

“It’s not little Justin, it’s this guy in California,” corrected Alan.

“Uh, Alan. Little Justin used to live in California. He is the Justin Taylor who painted the work in my office, the one in reception, these two and the girl drinking coffee in our kitchen.

Alan just stared at him. “I am a bit slow on the uptake, aren’t I?” he finally said. “It’s so weird. In my mind, there were three distinct Justin Taylors: little Justin, who was about seventeen, the intern from Pratt, who used to run on my treadmill, Justin Taylor, twenty-three, our new incredibly talented creative manager, who is also your lover, and this painter from California in his thirties. They just hadn’t merged yet.”

“My poor baby,” said Heather. “That wonderful compartmentalized brain of yours has its drawbacks… I only ever have heard of Justin through you, and I knew they were one and the same.”

“Your lover painted these? They are remarkable. Does he have an agent?”

“Yes. Jason Kintzer.”

Lindy smiled. “Well. He is in good hands, then.”

“Jason Kintzer? Holy fucking shit! That's fantastic! I cannot wait to meet this kid!” said Heather.

“Call him a kid one more time, and I will be happy to describe for you in very explicit details just how much of an adult Justin actually is,” said Brian with an evil smile.

“You know, that actually sounds like fun…”

“No. No it does not,” said Alan. “Please. Just don’t call him a kid anymore so I can keep Brian’s sex life as far away from my conscious thoughts as possible. I am straight, repressed, and my sexuality is very fragile.”

“That’s true,” said Heather to Brian. “If Alan had his way, we’d always fuck in the dark.”

Brian and Lindy cracked up as Alan whined, “Heaeaeaeaeatherrrr!”

The door to the loft opened, and Justin came in, accompanied by two identical buff guys in leather jackets. Lindy’s face lit up and she got to her feet and ran to them to have a three-way hug.

Brian only had eyes for Justin. He was wearing his painting clothes, some old 501's that fit like only shrink to fit 501’s can fit after you own them for five years, and some faded old hoodie, which might at one time have been purple. He hair was nice and short, the way Brian preferred it, and he was smiling looking at the reunion in front of him. Then he looked at Brian and his smiled changed from an “isn’t this nice” smile to an “I am the happiest man on earth because we have each other” smile and before Brian was even conscious of moving, they had met halfway between the door and the table and were kissing, and Brian had never wished so hard that they were alone. They both quickly pulled out of the kiss, laughing in each other’s eyes, but Brian did keep holding Justin for a long time. After a while, they all returned to the table. Justin sat on one of Brian’s knees, Heather on Alan’s, Lindy on one of her son’s, and the other one sat alone.

With the three younger men at the table, the Thai food disappeared in record time but they stayed talking around the table. One of the brothers said to Brian teasingly, “So this cute little blond with the great ass had what it took to get you to hang up the life, eh?”

Brian smiled. “That and more,” he said, and then simply, shrugging: “I love him.”

The brother’s mouths fell open, and they looked at each other, obviously communicating somehow, and smirking at each other at the end. “We think it’s great,” said the one with his mom on his knee, “and we want that for ourselves someday.”

“Someday in the far, far future," said the other and they smirked again.

Brian lost the thread of the conversation for a while. Justin was sitting on his right knee, facing right and his smaller body crossed Brian’s so that his head was on Brian left shoulder, his nose in Brian’s neck. Brian’s arms encircled his body, and Justin had just melted against him. Unlike Tuscan’s horrible chairs, Brian’s were extremely comfortable and Justin did not weigh a lot. Brian liked the position very much.

The twins were twenty-four, and smirked at the idea of settling down. Justin was twenty-three. He loved Brian. Loved him heart and soul, Brian had no doubt it would still be true twenty years from now. But the brothers had a point. He was too young to give up the life. Brian was expecting too much. He was surprised at the pain in his chest and at the constriction in his throat at that thought. He took a very deep breath. And tried to concentrate on the pleasure of holding Justin in his arms instead.

Justin kissed his neck, and moved slightly so his lips were against Brian’s ear. “I’m not them, Brian. I love you. I want you. No one else. Just you. We are two halves of a whole, predestined, made for each other, soul mates. I can’t even think of fucking anyone else. And that’s never going to change.”

Brian closed his eyes. The constriction in his throat was there again, but this time there was no pain in his chest, just an amazing feeling of joy. He tightened his hold on Justin and pulled him higher, so he could bury his face in Justin’s neck.

He was sitting there, at his own table, with a bunch of people, including some he hardly knew. He erased them from his mind and concentrated on the scent of Justin’s neck, on the feel of Justin’s body against his own and on the love he could feel flowing between the both of them. He wanted to remember this moment forever. This was the happiest he had ever been.

To be continued...