********

Chapter 25 - Art and Artlessness.

Just before five, Cynthia came back into Brian’s office and plunked down a worn-looking file onto his desk. The woman herself looked almost as worn. She also looked a bit pissed off, and Brian hoped it wasn’t his fault because an angry Cynthia was not fun. However, it was best to just get it over with, whatever it was, so he spoke first.

“What now?”

“This makes no sense,” she said, pointing to the file. “I’ve been trying to find out something about the Ron Hutcherson listed in Justin’s records as the guy who originally contracted with him as a Personal Companion.”

“Yeah? So did you find him? Any ties to Craig Taylor or Stockwell?” Brian asked when she didn’t continue right away.

“I found him, but I don’t know what it means yet,” Cynthia reached over and flipped the file open. “The phone number listed here in the file has been disconnected. Nothing there. I tried to google Ron Hutcherson and there’s about a million men with his name, none of which stand out for any reason even when I cross-reference the name with PCs, Stockwell, Taylor, or even Bellweather.”

“Well, it is a pretty common name.”

“Yeah, but you’d think anyone with the money to buy a PC would stand out from the rest of the run-of-the-mill Hutchersons, right?” Cynthia looked disgusted with her own lack of results. “So, I tried instead to look him up by the address listed in the records . . . Which is where the really weird shit comes in.”

Brian waited while Cynthia pulled out another printout. “This address is a residential care facility for Alzheimer’s patients.” She pointed to a print out of a website page showing a slightly run down-looking nursing home. “Not exactly the first place you’d think of when you picture someone looking for a Personal Companion, right?” Brian had to agree with her. “So, just on a whim, I called the place playing dumb and asked for Ron Hutcherson. I thought maybe our Hutcherson was the owner or a doctor there or something. And, it turns out there IS a Ron Hutcherson at that facility . . . Only, he’s a PATIENT.” Brian looked as confused as Cynthia was. “Yep. The nurse I talked to wouldn’t give me any real information on him, only that this Ron Hutcherson has been there for at least five years, he’s eighty-five and in poor health. He hasn’t even left the facility in more than two years. She said there was no way this guy could have signed a contract for anything, let alone a Personal Companion.”

“He’s a patient?” Brian’s brow furrowed even more with confusion. “You’re right. That makes no sense . . . Unless he’s just a front for Stockwell and Hobbs. But how the fuck do we prove that? It’s not like an Alzheimer’s patient is going to even remember what happened long enough to tell us.”

“Exactly. I looked up the Hobbs family and didn’t see anyone there by the name of Hutcherson. I also looked through what I could find on Stockwell - for a US Senator there’s not that much, strangely enough - but I didn’t find any connection there either. I’m not sure where to go with this next.”

“This guy has to be a patsy. There’s no other explanation for why an Alzheimer’s patient would be out looking for a PC. I’m sure there’s a connection somewhere. We just have to find it.” Brian flipped through the file cursorily, hoping that something else would catch his eye and explain everything, but it didn’t work.

“I’ll keep looking, Brian. And maybe when we get the full records from the PCRA there’ll be something more in there,” Cynthia grabbed up the file that Brian threw down in disgust. “I’m pretty sure that originating PC owners have to have special licenses or something. Which means that the real Ron Hutcherson, whoever he is, must have had to do something more to get to Justin than just sign a piece of paper. Or at least you’d think so. I’m sorry that I didn’t find anything faster, though.”

“Well, keep on it,” Brian advised, thinking back once more to the night before and how vulnerable and scared the boy was in the middle of that horrible panic attack. “Justin . . . he shouldn’t be like this. I want to fix this.”

“I know. I do too, Boss,” Cynthia sighed and straightened her shoulders, undaunted by her lack of success so far and ready to try again.

********

Brian kicked the loft door open with his foot and used his shoulder to slide it wider, grunting from the effort of trying to do that while not dropping anything out of the overflowing cardboard box he had in his arms. He wasn’t completely successful. A bundle of rubber-banded paint brushes that had only been tentatively balanced on top of the pile fell right as he took the first step inside.

“Hey, Sunshine!” he called out loudly while he struggled towards the kitchen table with his box. “Can you come lend a hand here? This shit is fucking heavy.”

The boy came trotting over from where he’d been sitting at the computer. He picked up the brushes that had fallen on his way, looking at them curiously. By then, Brian had managed to offload his box onto the table and was beginning to unpack some of the larger items from it.

“There’s one more thing out on the landing,” he directed the inquisitive PC who brought him the brushes. “Would you mind getting it?”

Two minutes later the boy came struggling back inside, lugging a cumbersome wooden contraption that was at least as tall as he was. Brian, who had cleared away everything from the corner of the loft beyond the desk and office area, called to him to bring his load over there. Justin complied, trying not to scratch the wooden floor by dragging his cumbersome burden or knock any furniture over in the process. By the time he got to Brian, the older man had a fresh white canvas tarp laid out on the empty section of the floor. Together they set up the apparatus that Justin had been carrying which, when unfolded, turned out to be a professional grade artist’s easel.

Next, Brian brought over the still half-full box of other stuff and set it down on the floor in front of the easel. “Okay, Sunshine. I think that should do it for you. I’ll let you sort out the rest of this stuff the way you want it. All I ask is that you DON’T get paint on my fucking floors. Otherwise, you’re good to go.”

The confused PC continued to stand there looking at Brian while holding the bundle of brushes in one hand and a huge watercolor paint set in the other.

Brian couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the kid’s dazed look. Damn, this boy was fucking adorable sometimes. Of course, standing there looking all puzzled and innocent like that, he looked far too young to have been through all he had experienced in his already eventful life. But that just added to Brian’s amusement at the moment.

“You can close your mouth, Sunshine,” Brian chucked the boy under the chin to emphasize his point. “I don’t know what’s so difficult to understand. You, apparently, are an extraordinarily gifted artist - or at least that’s what my newest client, The Bloom Gallery - tells me. And, by the way, I need to thank you for that, since it was your exquisite drawings that clinched the deal with Bloom. Anyway, he said that he wanted to see more of your work and that, if you’re open to the idea, he might be willing to show some of it in his gallery. So, I figured you should get on that right away. You know, strike while the guy’s interest is hot and all. And I don’t know if you just draw or if you paint too, but, I figured that we might as well see. So, I liberated some supplies from the Art Department in order for you to try it out. If you hate painting, I can always cart all this shit back to the office. But, if you love it, we’ll get you your own stuff.” Brian took the paintbrushes out of the boy’s hand and tossed them into the built in drawer under the easel before looking back at the still speechless kid. “What do you say, Sunshine? You wanna be Pittsburgh’s next Picasso?”

Justin looked down at the paintbox in his hand and then over at the easel with all its accoutrements. Then he looked up at Brian as if gauging whether or not the man was serious. Brian smiled at him, rolled his lips in and then waggled his brows at the boy teasingly. It was such a stupid, silly little gesture, and so very un-Brian-like, but perfectly candid too. And it was enough to spark a return smile from the wary boy. A true Sunshine smile. A smile so big it almost split his face in two.

Without even thinking about it, Justin stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Brian’s waist, hugging him tightly. “Thank you,” he muttered quietly but distinctly as Brian gladly hugged the boy back, pleased as punch with this reaction to his little surprise.

“You’re welcome, Justin,” Brian responded, leaving a kiss on the top of the shaggy blond head before gently pushing the kid away. “Now, go do something fun with all this shit, cause if I find I dragged it all the way home for nothing I’m gonna be pissed.”

The boy beamed one last smile Brian’s way before gleefully digging into the box and unearthing all his new toys. He efficiently stowed it all away in the easel’s drawers or on the floor beneath and then pinned up a fresh sheet of textured paper. Before Brian was even done changing out of his work clothing, Justin had started in on a watercolor painting involving swirls of green and brown and black. Brian had no idea what it would turn out to be, but that didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that Justin was acting more enthusiastic and animated than Brian had ever seen him.

Brian would have to remember to send Bloom a huge thank you present in the morning for putting this idea into his head.

********

The boy had really been dragging for most of the day. The panic attack he’d had the night before had taken a lot out of him. They always did. It helped a little that the Master had been there and been so nice to him. It made him feel less lost and alone when he finally recovered enough to become aware of his surroundings once again. Afterwards the Master had even taken the boy up to the bed, tucked him under the covers and brought him a bottle of water. And when he got in bed himself, the man had simply held the boy tenderly in his arms until they had both fallen asleep. But even though he’d slept through the night like that, the boy was still lethargic and apathetic the entire next day.

He’d tried to concentrate on the work the Master had left for him, but his mind kept drifting and eventually he’d simply given up. Without that work, though, he really didn’t know what to do with himself. The loft was so big and empty feeling. He’d wandered around the place discontentedly for most of the morning, picking up things and looking at them, examining the books on the bookshelf but not actually picking any up, rummaging through the cupboards in the kitchen but not actually hungry enough to eat anything.

He was bored enough that he even thought about maybe going outside and taking a walk, although as soon as that thought popped into his head it was immediately squashed by a pang of terror. The very idea of going anywhere outside the loft without the Master there to protect him was unthinkable. All those unknown people everywhere . . . No, the boy wouldn’t be safe outside. He would just stay in where nobody could get to him.

When the Master finally did get home, he was hugely relieved. Finally he’d have someone to distract him from his tedium. The boy would have been glad for any diversion at all after the long boring day. But the surprise the Master brought him was so amazing that he forgot his listlessness almost immediately.

Art supplies: paints, brushes, paper, pastels, and so much more.

It was like discovering lost treasure. A pleasure that the boy was sure he’d never experience again in this lifetime. Art had once been everything to Justin. But the boy that emerged after the hospital hadn’t been allowed any art at all. Not even his drawing. He had assumed it was a thing of the past. Something that other boy had that his new self would never know again. It had been just another part of the hurt.

And now the Master - Brian - was giving him back his art.

The Master had already given him some creative outlet by letting him draw the ads for his clients. And he hadn’t seemed upset by the few extra drawings the boy had done once he’d finished his work. The boy had actually been quite glad to have that little bit of art again. He hadn’t dared to do more than those few random drawings though. He had just assumed it wouldn’t be allowed. A PC's life was meant to be devoted to pleasing his Master and not frittering away time on some useless hobby like drawing.

So he was mildly surprised when the Master had gone a step further and showed his drawings to the doctor. He’d even bragged about the boy’s work. And when the doctor had told the boy to draw more after they’d left the appointment - to draw his feelings and fears - the Master had seemed to enthusiastically support the idea. But this wasn’t a productive and useful application of his art, like for the Master’s work. It was only him drawing about trivial and unimportant things. It wasn’t something that would ever benefit the Master in any way. Which made it seem unlikely that it would really happen.

It was therefore completely unexpected and totally astonishing when the Master came home with an entire box full of art supplies and a huge easel. This was not just a little drawing every now and then - this was huge. This was painting. This was colors and textures and technique. It was real art.

Even more unbelievable, the Master had said that someone else liked his art and wanted to show it in a gallery. Someone LIKED the boy’s drawings. His ART. And the Master was proud of him. He wanted the boy to make more art. He wanted the boy to ‘do something fun’ with his art. It felt like a gift. Like the Master was giving him back some part of himself that had been physically torn out of him. Now he was getting that missing piece back.

He was so excited by the prospect of trying out some of the new things that he hadn’t even thought about it before he’d gone over and hugged Brian in thanks. He was simply too breathless with elation. He’d even forgotten that he still would rather not speak to the Master, although he couldn’t think of what words he should use to express his gratitude, and had to just go with a plain ‘thank you’. But none of that mattered because, before he knew it, he’d been loosed on those amazing art supplies and was actually painting again, and the rest of the world disappeared for quite a while.

It was much later when the boy finally finished the painting and looked up to find that the rest of the loft was dark and the Master was nowhere to be seen. He quickly cleaned up his work area, taking special care with his new brushes, and then padded off towards the bedroom area. The Master was there, sitting up in the bed with all the pillows behind him, a cigarette in his right hand and a ratty old paperback book propped up against his knees. The boy paused at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether or not he should interrupt and, if so, what it was he wanted to do.

The painting stuff was such an unbelievable gift. Nobody had ever supported his love for art. The only person, outside of his teachers, that had even come close to encouraging him in that regard had been Justin’s mother, but she had died when Justin was only twelve, which was before even his drawing had amounted to much. Justin’s own father had repeatedly denigrated his son and complained about the silly and expensive hobby, saying over and over again that it was a waste of time. So, to have someone finally - completely unexpectedly and wholeheartedly - show the boy such overwhelming consideration, was huge. Bigger than huge, it was monumental. Which was why the boy wanted to try again to express his thanks.

Watching the Master from a distance, the boy tried to reconcile all his muddled up feelings for this inexplicable man. This was his MASTER. The person who had bought his contract. A man he’d been conditioned to distrust. A man he’d been told would treat him like the chattel he was. A man who, he’d been informed, would have zero concern for the boy’s feelings or needs or wants outside the basic obligation to keep the boy alive. The boy had come into this KNOWING all that. Knowing that he couldn’t and didn’t want to trust this man. But, somehow, looking at the Master now, none of that seemed right anymore.

This man had swooped in the night of the auction and taken the boy away from that Bellweather person, pledging money that he didn’t even really have, supposedly just to keep the boy safe. This man - Brian - had protected the boy from Bellweather a second time by rescuing him the night of the PC dinner. He’d shown unprecedented care and kindness to the boy on several occasions. He’d comforted the boy when he was scared and hurting. He had so far been true to his promise not to pressure the boy into sexual acts, even though he had every legal right to do so. He’d talked to the boy like a real person, instead of talking over him like an object, as so many people did around PCs. He’d given the boy enjoyable work to do. He’d done so much. So many things that the boy had no reason whatsoever to expect from a Master. And still, the boy hadn’t trusted him.

But the art stuff . . . that was so much more. It might have seemed quite trivial to most people. Especially compared to all those other actions. But the boy had been sure that all the rest had been fake. That all those other things were ephemeral and would vanish once he gave in and let himself trust. He hadn’t believed it was real. He hadn’t let himself believe in Brian. Until now. Until Brian did something so special - something that meant more than all the rest put together because it was completely unnecessary and selfless - that the boy finally began to doubt his own determination to dislike this man.

Standing there, out of the way and as yet undetected by his subject, the boy looked at this man. Really looked at him. Trying to figure out who the man was. What he was. Why he was the way he was. But the boy couldn’t see it. Not from the outside. From the outside the man looked just like any other man. Granted, he was very good looking. He had strongly masculine features, a classically handsome face, a full head of auburn hair that always looked perfectly tousled, a great body with long, trim muscles and no fat - in other words, he was more than just attractive, he was beautiful. But the boy was used to seeing beautiful men. Most of the PCs he knew were beautiful in their own way. And he knew for a fact that the beauty on the outside didn’t say anything about what was on the inside. It didn’t explain why the man was acting the way he had.

So if he couldn’t see it, how did he know what was real? How did he know that the man truly meant the things he said? How did the boy know if he could trust him?

He looked back over his shoulder at the far corner of the dimly-lit loft where he could just barely make out the easel set up in the corner. Brian didn’t have to give him those things. The boy would have done what was asked of him without getting any of that - he didn’t have the option not to do what was asked of him. And Brian had no way of knowing how much getting these items meant to the boy, so it couldn’t have been that he gave him the art stuff solely to manipulate him or bribe him. In his limited experience, though, the only reason you gave someone something was so that you could get something in return. But, if that wasn’t Brian’s motivation, then . . . maybe he was being honest about just wanting to give the boy something to make him happier? It seemed unlikely but he couldn’t think of any other logical reason for it. And if Brian was being honest about that, was it possible he was being truthful about the rest of it?

Maybe. Maybe not. The boy sighed. He could stand there and think in circles about this all night but it wasn’t likely to get him anywhere. It didn’t change the fact that Brian had given him this wonderful gift. Even if there was some hidden agenda or ulterior motive to the gift, the boy was still grateful for this one night of art he’d had. And he wanted to show Brian that he was grateful. If it all came to nothing tomorrow and he found out it had turned to shit like the rest of his life, so be it. He’d had one night of joy. He would take it for what it was. He’d show Brian how much it HAD meant and hope that the man would understand.

With a renewed resignation, the boy gathered his courage together and cautiously walked up the steps to the bedroom. He didn’t let himself pause or think about it, because he knew he’d chicken out. He just walked right up to the bed and knelt on the floor close to the edge of the mattress on the side where Brian was lying. Once on his knees, he bent his head down submissively, as he’d been taught, and waited patiently until Brian was ready.

“Justin? What is it?” Brian asked, exhaling the lungful of smoke he’d just taken and setting his cigarette butt in the ashtray on the side table. “Are you done with your painting?”

The boy nodded and then let himself look up with a smile on his face. “Thank you,” he said again, trying to infuse the words with all the meaning he felt.

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Brian responded, letting the fingers of his right hand caress the blond strands of the boy’s hair.

The boy was too nervous to answer. If he was going to do this thing he’d decided on, he just needed to get it over with. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then raised his hand until it hovered uncertainly over the man’s body for a heartbeat before he let it fall softly onto the sheet covering Brian’s hip. Brian froze while the boy used his fingertips to very lightly stroke the luxurious linen draping, his hand getting a little more adventurous as he felt the effect his touch was having on the things below the sheet.

“Justin,” he heard Brian say his name but he didn’t stop. “Justin, stop. You don’t have to do this,” he grabbed the boy’s wandering hand, and gave it a squeeze. “You’ve already thanked me. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I didn’t bring that crap home just to pressure you into doing something you’re not ready for. Okay? You really don’t have to do anything more.”

“I . . . I want to,” the boy managed to say even though his heart was beating so hard that he briefly worried he might pass out.

Brian still held onto the hand. Finally, the boy opened his eyes, looked over at the man and smiled a shy, uncertain, but sincere smile. Brian loosened his grip and let the hand drop back onto his abdomen. The boy immediately turned his attention to the job ahead of him, and pushed the sheets away so as to expose the man’s body from mid-thigh up. Brian was already hard, his big purpley-pink cock lying like an arrow pointing up towards his belly.

The boy grabbed hold this time without any more teasing touches. Brian’s cock twitched in the palm of his hand, apparently eager for the contact. The boy gave one trial tug, enjoying the way the smooth skin slid through his fist until the ridged head provided a natural stop. He let his thumb play over the spongy, full head, noted the tiny spurt of wetness and then moved his hand back down until the side of his fist bumped against the fullness of Brian’s scrotum.

And that’s all it took. That one short essay was enough to bring it all back. It was easy after that. He let himself enjoy the hefty feel of the weight in his hand as he stroked and twisted and pulled, his fist moving in a gradually increasing tempo. The breathy mewls of approval coming from Brian egged him on. So did the caressing fingers that had found their way back into the boy’s hair, carding through the thick locks and occasionally grabbing on to a handful. The cock in his hand felt good and he liked that he was making Brian feel good, too. The boy didn’t even realize that his other hand had dropped to his own crotch, pressing through the cargo pants he’d been wearing, until he surprised himself with a moan of his own. But, before he’d really had time to think about what was happening, it was all over. He felt Brian’s cock jump in his hand and the man’s hips bucked up without conscious volition. The next thing the boy knew, his fist was full of a creamy wet mess and so were his pants.

“Oh, fuck, Justin!” Brian exhaled as his body relaxed back against the pillow. “Those sure are some artistic fingers you’ve got there.”

The boy giggled at the silliness of the joke. He was well aware of the happy sated smile on the big man’s beautiful cherry red lips and the fact that he’d put that look there. He had a flash of pride that he’d been able to please Brian so well. It might not be a huge accomplishment, but it had been a big step for him nonetheless. And he was pleased that he’d not only done this thing he’d feared, but done it well.

Before he descended too far into gloating though, he remembered his training, he quickly jumped up and ran to the bathroom. He emerged a minute later with a warm, damp washcloth which he used to clean Brian up. Then he trotted back to the sink and cleaned himself up as well. When he returned to the bedroom, Brian was once again under the covers.

“Come here, Justin,” Brian held out his hand to the boy, who accepted it and let himself be pulled down so that he was lying alongside the taller man. “Thank YOU, Sunshine. That was marvelous. I’m really, really, glad you liked your art supplies. And you’re welcome to thank me like that anytime you want.”

Then Brian leaned down and kissed the boy. Not just a little peck like he’d been doling out all week, but a nice, big, juicy, sexy kiss. And you know what? The boy kissed him back. Just as juicily. For a long, long time, too.