Chapter 4

         All of this happened before, and it will all happen again.

         J.M. Barrie

Brian checked his text messages as Emmett browsed the boutique for a costume to wear to the fundraiser. The text from Harry was unexpected, and would disrupt his timetable considerably. Cynthia wanted him to call when he was alone, but let him know it was not an emergency. Everett the same.

Still nothing from Justin.

Either the lad was still pissed, or he was serious. Brian didn't know which was worse. He felt like shit about it, but needed the man to leave, and no amount of begging or pleading (which he would never do), could have accomplished that feat as efficiently as one of his predictable queen-outs over Brian's dominating behavior. They were supposed to attend the party tonight, together, but with Justin gone, Brian had invited Emmett, spurring the current last minute shopping spree.

Emmett was holding outfits in front of his body and asking Brian's opinion. There followed a series of "no", "no", "hell no", "fuck that", and finally, "look Honeycutt, these are big-wigs. It's one thing to be a big queen, but that doesn't mean you should go as The Queen. Especially if you go with me." Emmett pouted as he put back the Marie Antoinette costume.

"Well, what do you suggest then? The Jolly Green Giant?" he persisted, holding up a green skinsuit.

"You'd look more like Gumby." Brian snarked as he rifled through the rack.

"Come on Brian, give me a hint or something. Who are you going as?"

Brian did not want to answer that, because he was no longer going to wear the costume he and Justin had picked out for the event. It would have been fine if they were going together, but now that Justin was gone, he was not going to be half of a costumed pair. No. Fucking. Way.

"Brian?"

Absently he said, "Doesn't matter now, I've changed my mind." He picked out two outfits and handed one to Emmett. "Care to be my assistant this evening?"

Emmett clapped his hands together in glee, "Ooooh! Yes!"

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Damn him! Damn and double damn him.!

Tasha walked (never paced), around the periphery of her very large office, doing her best to remain calm, cool, collected. It would not do any good for her image if she threw the fit she wanted to let loose at this very moment. Her two admins (because someone as important as she was, needed two), sat on pins and needles, waiting for their marching orders. It rankled, that both of them knew she'd been denied, fucking denied, an interview with Brian Kinney, AGAIN.

No one, fucking no one, ever denied her an interview. Famous people the world over, begged to come on her show, they fucking begged. And here she stood with a piece of paper in her hand with the words "no thank you" printed on it. The prick couldn't even be bothered to pick up the phone and tell her himself! It had come from his fucking secretary, Cynthia. The bitch that guarded the gates to the inner sanctum like Cerberus, and couldn't be troubled by mere mortals! Tasha had been after him, for her show, for more than a year, since he had bought the tracks, and more so after the ensuing legal battle with Antonicci Construction and Restoration.

Jesus. What a story that had been! A businessman, from Pittsburgh, takes down the biggest construction company in the Northeast. Every news outlet had been all over it like cockroaches. You could Google it, and come up with hours of video footage ranging from soundbites of lawyers on courthouse steps, to a floridly angry Donald Antonicci in a stunning display of immaturity and temper, railing about the "injustice" system and how it had failed him and his company. What you would not find, was a single word uttered by one Brian Kinney. There was video of him coming and going various court dates, of course, and some rather stupid newsperson, had tried to get a statement from him outside one of his clubs and was summarily "removed". There were press conferences in which a Kinnetic spokesperson would relay what was relevant and answer a few questions, but NOT ONE SINGLE WORD from the man himself about the lawsuit. He had just smiled into the camera as he left the final court date, holding the hand of Justin Taylor, got into the waiting town car, and left. Just like that. No declarations of justice served or righteous litanies, for the masses of newspeople to report. Just silence. It was a statement of its own and left everyone wondering, "who the fuck does he think he is?"

She was pulled out of her reverie by Marie's tapping foot. God, couldn't the girl sit still for five minutes?

Tasha lowered herself into her desk chair and made a show of straightening her papers, just to agitate her some more, and glared at the offending foot until it stopped its infernal movement, before speaking.

"No one is to know about this." Steel gray eyes bored into each of them in turn until heads bowed under the weight. "Get Charlie on the phone, pronto, and have Delia come to my house in an hour. I have a party to attend."

Marie and Scott looked at each other in confusion, but hustled to do her bidding when she shouted "NOW!'

Outside, they sighed in relief, nervously chuckling as they headed off to take care of her demands.

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Marc James followed Brian and Emmett at a discreet distance as they left the expensive haberdashery with their costumes. Emmett was prattling and Brian was checking his phone again. Nothing out of the ordinary, but Marc could not shake the feeling that something was off. He watched the people around his charge, but found no fault, nothing to cause alarm. Normal.

What had changed since this morning? He could not put his finger on it, could not name it, a general unease he had learned to trust years ago in a Somali desert. Sweat slid down his spine in a frigid line as he glanced around again, thinking there was something he had missed. Normal.

He watched the two men for a minute, noticing Brian tense his stride as he read his phone, then relax again to match Emmett's pace. Shit, maybe the feeling was coming from Brian? Noah had said Everett had looked like a war survivor when he came to change shifts with him this morning. Maybe Kinney and Ryker had gotten into it last night and he was just picking up the vibes.

Shaking his head, he knew that wasn't it. This was external. This was eyes on them, he knew it to his soul. Scanning around them again, he sent off a low priority message Ryker:

'Cold pie is okay, I think the oven just kicked on, might get warmer soon. Belly is rumbling.'

The reply was almost instantaneous:

'Mine too. The fan got dirty last night after scrambled eggs. Need a pack of smokes?'

Marc was about to confirm a negative when he heard the roar of a motorcycle approaching at top speed and looked up from his phone to see Brian do the same. There was thirty feet separating them. Marc knew he would not beat the rider to Brian and shouted out a warning. Realizing, as he ran, that Brian had read the situation and immediately side shoved Emmett out of the way. As the driver neared the space that he had been standing in, Brian pivoted to the side just as the hand of the driver nearest him snaked out and made contact just below his bent arm, then sped off down the sidewalk, and merged with the traffic down the street. FUCK! Less than ten seconds for the entire confrontation.

"You alright?" Marc had his phone dialing before he finished the question. Emmett was picking himself up, along with Brian's purchases, when he heard him say "Priority one, pie is hot, meet me at the kitchen" swearing under his breath as he hung up. Less than five minutes later, a black SUV pulled into the no parking lane and Marc indicated for them to get in as he scanned the crowd again.

Once he was in the front, and they were on their way back to Brian's home, Marc turned to face them in the backseat. Emmett was ashen and silent, staring out his window. Brian was holding his left hand inside of his coat on the right side. Marc asked the question with his eyes and Brian responded by opening his coat slightly and showing him the blood on his glove, then glanced Emmett's direction in an order not tell him. FUCK! He was going to have to wait for his answers.

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Daphne and Justin were sitting at the breakfast bar in her apartment, with her laptop between them, displaying both articles Justin was so pissed about.

"I still don't see what the big deal is." She was frustrated and not taking any pains to hide it.

"He basically, put it out there that I'm like a kept man or something! How can you not see that!" Justin viciously ground out his cigarette, wanting Daphne to take his side. Commiserate with him over Brian's heavy handedness.

"Justin, are you sure this isn't about you?" She asked gently, placing a hand on his forearm.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't do this, he did." He was losing patience with her and her lack of support.

"Well, you've been complaining about him for months." Justin looked shocked. "Not big things, but little things that get on your nerves, ya know. Like before you left him for Ethan."

Justin glared at her for even bringing the fiddler's name into the conversation. It still hurt. Daphne knew it did, but pressed the issue, "You weren't satisfied with your relationship with Brian when it did not meet with the vision you had, of what it should have been, in your head. I think," she hesitated, not sure if she could handle the outcome of her revelation, until Justin gave her "The Look". The one that said, "okay, you started it, now finish it".

She sighed, "I think, when you start to feel dissatisfied, or insecure, for whatever reason, you start scrutinizing Brian. I think you start looking for a reason to justify leaving, as opposed to just telling him what's wrong."

"Brian doesn't think he does anything wrong, and he rarely talks about his feelings, and only talks about mine when I insist." Justin was incredulous, Daphne knew all of this, and she was trying to put it on him.

"No Justin, you're wrong." She wasn't even sure he would listen to her now, but as his friend she had had enough. Justin was not always capable of being objective when it came to Brian or himself. "Look, I know it's easier to look at the faults of others, but did you even try to talk to him about it? What did he say was his reason for doing it?"

Justin went still and looked away.

"Jesus, Justin! You didn't even talk to him about it? You just left? Does he even know you're here, that you're safe?!" She was bordering on panic, knowing Brian might be too.

She got her answers, when his shoulders slumped, and he laid his crossed arms on the countertop, lowering his head onto them until she could no longer see his face.

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"Maybe we should give a press conference or something, you know, in front of the Foundation, have Brian speak.." Michael trailed off when he saw Ben shake his head.

"No, Michael. I think the best thing to do right now, is nothing. If we make a big deal out of it, she wins. She will be getting exactly what she wants, and I think I gave her enough already." He pulled Michael onto his lap and tried to sidetrack him by kissing his neck.

"But we have to do something." He was bordering on whining, Ben's least favorite thing about his husband. "Maybe if Brian speaks, he can say something that will put her in her place. He is really good at that." Michael seemed oddly pleased as that thought ran through his head and Ben saw it.

"Just let it go, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. She got me ruffled, I didn't make too much of an ass of myself, so let sleeping dogs lie." He went back to his husband's neck and slipped a hand to his crotch, trying to get him out of his head and otherwise occupied. Michael was nothing if not predictable, as he melted under Ben's ministrations, leaving Ben to mull over the fact that he had seemed more upset that Tasha had told the truth about Brian, and less upset that she had brought up the family. Deciding not to make an issue of it, he threw Michael over his shoulder and carried him to their bedroom, hopefully ending the discussion for good.

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Cynthia gave the dress hanging on the back of her bedroom door the stink eye, not because it was ugly, on the contrary. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen, and she seriously hoped it was a replica. Her displeasure was because Brian had refused to let her pick out her own costume or have any say in what he chose for her. She had been secretly hoping he would not send a bunny costume, or something equally asinine, as a joke. Now she wished he had. She would rather be seen in something completely ridiculous, than this gown. It was too much, and she knew what it meant to him.

He kept a print of Marilyn Monroe in his wallet, but not one of the photos you would expect, like a movie still or a public appearance. No, he carried one from her last sitting before she died, the session done at the Hotel Bel Air in 1962, photographed by Bert Stern for Vogue magazine. Even with the plethora of images to choose from, from that sitting, including some with her trademark moue, and nudes, he had not gone with the obvious. He chose one of her wearing the backless black dress, almost no makeup. She was seen from the side, looking into the camera, sitting down and leaning forward with her left hand to her face, covering part of her mouth. The back of her shoulder and upper spine exposed to view, stark against the black. She was not smiling into the camera or teasing it seductively, as she was often portrayed. Her lips were parted and the pressure of the hand she leaned into pulled her lower lip down by a fraction.

What caught the viewer, though, was her eyes, half- closed and staring into the soul, on the verge of tears, under brows starting to draw together. Her hair pulled back so there was nothing to detract from the tragedy in her expression. "This is who she really was." he had said nearly fifteen years ago.

Cynthia had seen the parallels then, the public façade and the private torment they shared. She had never thought it odd that he chose a woman, because he hadn't. It had been the emotion that had captured him, that "something" that she had whispered to him through time, captured in the black and white print. The hint of what was to come, and the acceptance of fate.

Brian's words had been raspy with tenderness when he told her it should have been titled " Beautifully  Broken".

Opening the card that had come with the dress by messenger, she read:

"Something expensive for someone priceless."

SHIT!

Her eyes watered. Now she knew it was not a replica, and there would be no getting out of wearing it.

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Everett had already been on his way to Brian's when Marc had called after the incident, arriving only a couple of minutes after they did. When he stepped off the elevator, he could hear Emmett clear as day, "What the fuck is going on?" followed swiftly by a weak sounding "Is that blood?"

Everett entered the kitchen to find Brian, naked to the waist, leaning sideways over the island as a trail of blood ran down his side into his pants. His teeth were clenched and his face distorted as Marc tried to assess the damage.

Brian watched as Everett took charge of the situation. Shucking his coat and shirt, he asked Emmett for towels and supplies, sending Marc off to call Noah, to give him a heads-up. Lara stood braced against a counter on the other side of the island peeling a green apple. Everett made eye contact with her but her expression said nothing.

"Hop up." He said to Brian as he patted the marble top. "I need a better look at it to see if you need to go to the hospital."

Brian grunted as he did what he was told, biting out "No hospitals".

Everett opened his mouth to argue, and Brian repeated "No fucking hospitals, unless you think I'm gonna die".

Lara snickered drawing the eyes of both men. She sliced the apple, placing the wedges on a plate.

Emmett returned with, what looked like, the entire stock of first aid materials for the apartment and at least a dozen towels, setting/dropping them on the countertop where Brian laid on his side. The new position had the blood now streaking a line across his abdomen, gathering in his navel, and continuing down to the counter. Bile rose in Emmett's throat, causing him to take a few deep breaths until it was under control, and stepping back out of the way, but staying near in case he was needed.

Everett dug through the medical supplies setting out gauze, tape, scissors, antibiotic cream, until Lara spoke, "My bag is on the way".

He never said a word, but his eyes asked the question anyway, is it that serious?

She gave a single, succinct nod, and set the plate of apple slices in front of Brian. He had not missed the exchange, choosing not to comment on it...yet.

"Eat" she said, brooking no argument.

Brian ignored her, "Did I mention, it hurts like a motherfucker?"

She ignored him in turn, as she cleaned the trailing blood, working her way to the injury, then pressing a clean gauze pad to it firmly, causing his body to contract and his breathing to labor.

"Eat" she said again. "I'm not going to give you anything for the pain, until I know you have something in your stomach".

Brian conceded, realizing he was in no position to argue, and really wanting pain meds.

Marc came in, knowing he had to give a report, not surprised when Everett demanded one immediately.

He began, "just like I said boss, got a feeling we were being watched, sent the text, heard the bike, started running, too late, Mr. Kinney took the hit, bike was gone. Driver was wearing black, head to toe, tinted faceplate on the helmet. Maybe six two, buck fifty, first letter of the license plate was R. I never saw the weapon." He hung his head, chagrined about the last part.

Everett gave the man a curt nod, and the bodyguard left to wait for Noah. No one spoke as Lara continued to keep pressure on the wound, increasing it until Brian took another bite, and letting up when he did. It went on this way until Noah came in carrying an old fashioned medical bag, setting it near her elbow. Everett took over with the bandage as she rummaged through it, pulling out what she would need and moving to the sink to scrub her hands and forearms.

Donning a pair of heavy, purple, latex gloves, she mixed a concoction that looked suspiciously like silly putty then handed Emmett a prescription bottle. "Give him two of those and a full glass of water".

"I am right here you know" Brian was getting petulant, but took the pills Emmett offered.

"Shut up, I'm working." She said, not caring if it pissed him off.

Emmett was shocked that she would speak that way to Brian, when he was obviously injured, and Everett, seeing the protective mode slip onto Emmett's face, opted for distraction.

"Tell me, what happened? Brian?"

"Just like Marc said. It was fast, dirty, and efficient."

"You don't remember anything specific?" Everett persisted.

Emmett piped in, "He pushed out of the way, I'd be road kill right now if he didn't ".

Brian snickered, some of Emmett's outfits made him look like road kill anyway.

"Any detail, no matter how small, would help".

Lara worked the putty into the wound and smeared some around the opening in a thick sticky layer, then checked her watch and removed the gloves, replacing them with a new pair and tossing the old in the trash.

"Brian, you were the closest, any details you can add?" Everett asked as he moved to stand in front of him so he could see his face.

"Gee, let me see, uh I was stabbed, how about that." Brian had moved past petulant and was now surly.

"Did I mention it hurts like a motherfucker?" He snarled.

Everett needed anything to go on, in order to investigate. No way could this be random when he and Marc had both had gut-check moments. No fucking way.

"Brian, I need you to really think. Height, weight, skin color, a general feeling, anything. Especially since I know you don't want to go to the cops." Brian's grunt let him know what he thought about cops, in general.

Everett saw the drugs start to kick in, when Brian's pupils reduced to pinpoints then expanded again, as he sighed, laying his head down on his arm.

"Aaahhh, that's better." Brian whispered to himself, face relaxing.

Lara checked her watch again, determining the putty had had time to set and started plucking at the edges until it was loose. "Fast or slow?" she asked Brian.

"Uh, fast." He clenched his abdomen and she pulled on the putty, removing it from the wound and tossed it in front of Everett who took it to the sink and washed the blood off it.

What came back was a perfect reproduction of the injury and it looked exactly like the tip of a knife. Everett turned it back and forth in his hand as he and Lara inspected it. It was roughly two inches long and two inches wide, tapering to a point at the tip.

"Guess, says maybe eight inch blade, serrated, hunting or military grade." She said matter- of-factly.

"Mmmm" Everett agreed.

"He's lucky, should have gutted him."

"I turned, had my phone in my hand, so my arm was bent." Brian showed them by crossing his forearm in front of his body. "Felt the jab, and my arm took most of the impact, stopping the thrust."

Lara nodded, clearly seeing it in her head. "Still, lucky." She cleaned the wound with antiseptic causing his muscles to contract again and he gave her an ugly look.

"Do you even know how to be gentle, Doc?"

"I can take you to the hospital, where they will let you sit in the waiting room, bleeding all over yourself, until you pass out. Stitches or staples?"

Brian was starting to have difficulty following her words, so he just shrugged. His head was getting fuzzy, and his vision was narrowing. There was something he was going to say, had to tell Everett, and reached out a hand to get his attention, he said "White skin... Harley...dragon."

The three other occupants of the room breathed a sigh of relief when he slipped into unconsciousness for the second time in ten hours.

Lara opted for stitches given the proximity to his lowest rib, not wanting the metal to rub against the bone. The bleeding had stopped for the most part and he ended up with a dozen neat, even stitches just below the ribcage on his right side. They moved him to the bedroom and she took the time to check his vitals. His blood pressure was good, as was his temperature. Hooking her stethoscope in her ears, she listened to his abdomen, his lungs, and finally his heart. She lingered there, the steady thumping a reminder of how fragile life really was. She had meant it, when she had said he was lucky. A couple inches, either way, and any help might not have been enough. He could have ended up with a punctured lung, or serious damage to another organ. Worse yet, the attacker could have gone straight for the heart, or a vicious slice of the neck. Like she said...lucky.

Putting her stethoscope into her bag, she sat on the side of the bed, watching him sleep. He looked more boyish when he was relaxed, hardly the tough as nails businessman, and something tugged inside of her. It wasn't sexual, though anyone with two eyes would say he was sexy, no, it was something else. Something that made her want to protect him, not just in the course of her job, but as a family member might. No, she thought to herself, it was more than that too. It was... almost... maternal. She chided herself for that sentiment, since she was not a mom, nor was she old enough to be his. Still, the feeling was there as she brushed the hair back from his face and she hesitated when he turned his cheek into her palm. She let her hand brush down the side of his neck, over his collarbone, and let it rest on his heart, feeling the beat against her skin.

His hand flexed near her thigh, and without thinking, she slipped her hand into his, intending to lay it over his belly. She stopped though when she felt the tiny ridges in his fingers. Using both of her hands to examine each of his fingers, she concluded there was a lot she did not know about him. What she had found was evidence of torture, every finger had been broken at some point in his life, and by her estimation, the breaks occurred at the same time. Some had not healed as well as they could have and she thought he would have arthritis in his future, if he didn't already.

"That's why you rub them, isn't it." She said to no one.

His fingers gripped hers, and her eyes flew to his face, to see hazel depths staring back at her. She tried to extract her hand from his, but he would not let it go, and she huffed out a breath of frustration.

"Stop thinking so hard, Doc, you could wake the dead." He mocked.

"I didn't mean to disturb, though you were hardly dead." She rolled her eyes.

He grinned, showing a dimple near his mouth, "Not even mostly dead?"

"Ah, but mostly dead is slightly alive, so you have nothing to fear about me going through your pockets for loose change." She smiled back at him, finding that they had at least one movie choice in common.

She sobered quickly though when he released her hand, and before she could second-guess herself asked, "Were you tortured?"

The good humor fled his face and left behind nothing to hint at his thoughts. She didn't think he would answer her question, so she closed her bag and stood up.

"Not the way you think. It was more of beating. A lesson." His voice was thick.

She considered the multiple breaks she had felt, "Dedicated teacher" she said.

"Mmmm, you could say that." He turned on his side, away from her, and she walked to the door.

"Wake me in an hour, I need a shower before I get ready to go."

"Brian, you're on pain meds, and you've been stabbed. I don't recommend you go anywhere but to sleep." She was frustrated again, knowing what his response would be.

"One hour, Doc. I'm the host, I have to be there."

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From the street, the building appeared the same as those around it. Brick, three story, upscale neighborhood, with regular foot traffic. On closer inspection, you might notice that some of the pedestrians spent as much time looking around them as ahead of them. Not the typical New York resident that walked a straight line with purpose and a destination in mind. Also, not tourists. No cameras, or maps, or smartphones in evidence for guidance. If you stayed long enough, you might even observe the same person more than once, as if they circled the block, for some reason.

Nick shook his head in disgust. He was going to have to talk to his boss about the security again. Why the man paid what he did without demanding perfection, Nick would never understand. The work was shoddy. Even when he approached the front of the house, he was not stopped, or checked for weapons. It didn't matter to him that the security all knew him on sight, it was the principle. At this point if he wanted to kill his employer, it would be a piece of cake. Letting himself in, and locking the door behind him, he went straight to the study on the second floor. He rapped three times in quick succession, then entered the room.

The desk chair was facing away from him, keeping the occupant hidden from sight. The disembodied voice that emerged grated like sandpaper on cement. "You have something to report, Nicky?"

The use of the nickname he hated had the man bristling, but he forced his tone not to reflect his irritation. "Yes, sir, there is a new body on Kinney. Name of Marc, last name unknown at this time. Former military, per the usual. Six foot, one seventy-five, crew cut, blonde and brown. More importantly, I think we have another player. Guy on a motorcycle tried a slash and dash. I don't think it was random, it was too clean."

"Professional?'

"Hard to tell, it was really fast, but somewhat sloppy. Kinney walked away."

"Beat the grass. See what shows. The man has cost me enough."

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Daphne had left for work, leaving Justin to prowl around her apartment working himself into a snit.

She is so fucking wrong. Brian was the one that ended it with that stupid fucking retort. Brian was the one that didn't bother to explain anything. Brian was the one that did not even try to stop me from leaving. As if that would ever happen. He never has before, all the other times I left. Why would I think this time would be different? Sure, the last two years have not had as much drama as the previous five, but Brian is still Brian. He would never stop anyone from leaving. It would be tantamount to saying he needed someone. Admitting that he loved me took five years, five fucking years.! Admitting need, would give him a heart attack.

So Taylor, why did you think this time would be different?

I don't know! I thought we had moved past that kind of behavior.

Whatever gave you that idea?

Duh, because it hasn't happened since we moved here.

So what's different this time?

I don't know, everything? We were happy, together, successful.

Were you?

YES!

Was he?

Wait...what?

Was he happy? Together? Successful?

How can I answer that? I don't live in his head.

Why not? You've had the manual long enough. You know how this works. One or both of you start to feel confined, or scared, yes I said scared, there is a meltdown, and YOU leave, HE lets you. Par for course. What are you so upset about? You knew when you stormed into his conference room that you crossed a line, putting your private life on display, IN HIS OFFICE, in front of his employees. That's why you couldn't look at him. That's why you avoided looking at him.

Since you're here, talking to yourself, why don't you admit that this isn't about him?

What do you mean this isn't about him, of course it's about him. He has to have everything his own way! Why couldn't he just leave it alone? Leave me be, that critic was just an asshole.

Leave you be? Like you let him be when he had cancer? Should he not have tried to help you, like you had tried to help him? He needed you then, though he would never admit it. He forced you away, so you wouldn't see him sick and struggling. NEEDING.

Sound familiar?

Justin's internal conversation came to a screeching halt, a train crashing into the side of the unforgiving mountain that was Brianosophy 101. It lingered on one word and everything became crystal- clear.

He latched onto it, as the reason Brian had sent the response. Justin admitted that Brian knew him well enough to predict his reaction. His gut was telling him Brian had done it on purpose, to push him away, and he had fallen for it.

FUCKSHITMOTHERFUCKINGFUCKINGASSHOLEFUCKER!

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Ted arrived at the dock, early as usual. Boarding the luxury liner, he took some time to survey the set up for Kinnetik's fundraiser. Brian had made sure that every possible need, had been met. Entrees for specific diets, top shelf liquor, live entertainment, even the attendants (not waiters) were smartly dressed in tasteful costumes, specifically tailored to each of them, depicting the height of fashion from the roaring twenties. Dapper suits for the men and fringed flapper dresses for the ladies. Only Brian went so far as to make sure costumes were historically accurate. Ted was still bemused by the expense for one night, but hey, it was Brian.

He wandered through the Grand Ballroom and snagged a mini crab cake from the table, noshing on it as he checked place settings. He caught his reflection in a mirrored panel on the wall and took a minute to appraise his attire for the hundredth time since he purchased it. He was costumed as Charlie Chaplin, from the bowler hat on his head, down to the oversized shoes on his feet. He even had the quirky little moustache. It was a little itchy, but he thought he looked quite handsome, if he did say so himself.

It was already seven o'clock and some of the less affluent guests were beginning to arrive. It was going to be a fabulous party, and they didn't want to miss a minute of it. The well-to-dos would not be here for a while yet,(they needed to make an entrance), so Ted did not feel a particular need to mingle with the current arrivals. He made a tour through the kitchen and spoke to the planner just to make sure everything was on track, noting even as he did so, that he needn't have bothered. Brian left nothing to chance.

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Debbie, Carl, Michael, Ben, and Jennifer were all laughing and making snide comments about some of the costumes the guests were wearing as they watched the television. In a truly Kinney move, Brian had arranged for live media coverage of his fundraiser, challenging the viewers to contribute more than the guests that were invited. Commercials had been running for weeks, inciting a good-natured rivalry of the working class and the wealthy elite. It was brilliant marketing.

So here they sat, in Michael and Ben's living room, taking bets on the ugliest, prettiest, most outlandish, and most often seen costumes. They had been watching for almost an hour, and Brian had yet to show his face. He was late, to his own fundraiser.

Jennifer felt her unease, intensify with each tick of the clock. She knew Justin wasn't there, Daphne had called her, but Brian's tardiness was not like him. This was Kinnetik, he would never allow it, and the reporters were starting to make comments on whether or not he would even show.

"There's another Rage!" Michael could barely contain his excitement, since Rage and JT seemed to be winning the most seen bet. Ben patted him on the shoulder and took the bowl of popcorn from Debbie when she passed it to him.

"It's like watching the Oscars!" Debbie squealed. Carl just smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Wait, I think this may be the man himself, pulling up now," the reporter was speaking to the fans at home. "Yes, it is Brian Kinney! Here at last to get the show under way." She smiled hugely into the camera and it panned to Brian getting out of a shiny limousine dressed to the nines in a top hat and tails, sporting spats on his shoes and a cane in his hand. He preened a bit, a big smile on his face for his audience, and waited while Emmett exited the limo and joined him wearing a standard tuxedo that was anything but. It was black, but the entire outfit shimmered with the tiniest particles of glitter, like diamond dust. He had darkened his lids with eyeshadow and used a sparkly dusting powder on his cheekbones and hair, giving him a manly-queen look that Brian could tolerate. (Only because Emmett had argued that old school magician assistants wore sequins, so glitter was the compromise.)

Once they were on board, the ship was underway in less than fifteen minutes. As they moved away from the pier, Brian stepped onto the stage and stood behind the mic until everyone was silent. It didn't take long. He waved Emmett up on the stage with him, and tipped his hat to the audience then the cameras before replacing it on his head.

"Sorry I'm late folks, my assistant, Emmett here, was having some difficulty deciding if he should wear black or navy tonight, so after much fussing, and a few histrionics, I said "Emmett, why not wear both."

He passed his cane in front of Emmett. Starting at the top of his head, and as he passed over the fabric of his tuxedo, it changed from black to navy, drawing excited applause even before he was done.

Emmett, god love his flair for the dramatic, brought both hands to his mouth in exaggerated surprise, then blew kisses to the guests.

"Welcome everyone, to Kinnetik's second annual fundraiser for the homeless. As you are all aware, I challenged everyone that could see or read an advertisement to contribute by phone."

He waved his cane to the side of the stage and a large red covering was lifted by cables from the digital screen underneath.

"We will be keeping a running tab of the donations made tonight in two columns. The first, The working class. The second, all you clowns here." He made the insult seem like an ad libbed joke by pointing his cane at a trio of men dressed as clowns near the stage, and everyone laughed.

"Anyone on this ship, wanting to make a donation, can give it to my assistant here", he passed his cane in front of Emmett again and the tuxedo went back and forth between the black and navy in three-second cycles. "I think I made him easy enough to pick out in the crowd." The laughter continued and he finished with a simple "Enjoy the show".

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Jennifer excused herself to use the bathroom upstairs, and locked the door behind her as she dialed her phone. Justin answered on the fourth ring.

"Justin I know you're in town. Tell me what happened." She was hoping her gut was wrong but needed him to confirm it.

"Nothing, I mean, Brian and I got into an argument, and I left to cool off, but I'm going back tomorrow. I already booked a flight."

Jennifer could hear the uncertainty in his voice and something greasy slid around her insides.

"Mom, are you okay?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, call me when you land, okay?" She did not allow her voice to betray her.

"Sure, talk to you tomorrow."

She sat on the closed toilet debating, whether or not, to call the number Brian had given her for emergencies eighteen months ago. Her instincts were telling her something was amiss, and it was a few minutes before she understood what had set her off. When she did, she dialed the number immediately, spoke briefly, and went downstairs to make excuses and leave. She called Tucker from the car, telling him she needed to be out of town for a couple of days, and god bless the man, he never questioned her.

She barely kept the car at the speed limit as she drove to the airport. Thinking she might be overreacting, she played the video of Brian's arrival over and over in her head, and she kept coming to the same conclusion.

Brian had been leaning, almost imperceptibly on the cane. Every time she thought about it, that greasy slide let her know she was not imagining it.

Something was wrong. Brian was hurt.

Screw the speed limit. Her son was hurt.

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