Justin approached the front desk. The nurse who looked up at him. He asked, “Uh, miss?” She looked to be about fifty, and she raised her eyebrows at that. “Uh… hi, I came in with a young man, about three or four hours ago? I was wondering how he was doing.”

“Oh, sure. He’s awake, not too happy about it. He’ll be fine, we’re giving him a glucose iv, should be fine, bit of a hangover.”

“That’s it? Just drunk?”

“Well, he had pretty much everything under the sun in his blood tests, but he wasn’t comatose, just apparently unconscious. The doctors pumped his stomach, and he’s been sleeping it off.”

“That’s it?”

“You were expecting more?”

“No…

“Do you know his name?”

“No. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Jenna,” she called to a young woman behind her. “Can you show this young man to exam four?” Apparently the misplaced “miss” worked some magic after all.

Justin trailed behind the girl and entered the room after her. She smiled at him shyly, then left. Justin looked down at the kid in the bed, whose eyes were just opening. He stared at Justin. The kid started, and sat up abruptly. “Fuck!” Jesus, he looked even younger sober. He looked at Justin. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Justin. And you are…?”

“Call me Ishmael.”

“I don’t think you’re what Melville had in mind.”

“Oh, a smart one then?” the kid sneered. “Call me anything you want, just tell me what the fuck I’m doing here.”

“Well,” Justin said, crossing his arms. “I dragged you out of a party at John Poole’s house where you were about to get put in a harness and raped. You didn’t seem too pleased with the idea…”

“Poole… oh fuck!” He looked around. “Where are my clothes? My jeans? Damn it!”

“I didn’t exactly have time to collect them,” Justin said, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, my cell phone was in them, along with two hundred down payment for the evening. Wait… harness?”

“Yeah, you don’t remember?”

The kid leaned back against the pillow, calming down. He studied Justin. “No… shit. I told Joey we shouldn’t have taken all that crap before the gig. You’d think I’d know better…” He glared up at Justin. “I’m still out five hundred bucks for three hours’ work. And fuck, not like I would have remembered it anyway.”

Justin continued to stare at him.

“What?” the kid demanded, squirming.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“What year were you born?”

“1986. Don’t be an asshole, I’m eighteen. And if I had my pants with my wallet, I could prove it. Poole’s no fool…” He stopped and giggled. Then said, “You think you could get me some jeans? Or at least a pair of sweats?”

“Sure, I can pull them out of my ass,” Justin snapped.

“Yeah, well, looks like you got a regular trunk back there… Which hospital did you say I’m in?

“I didn’t, but it’s St. Vincent’s.”

“There’s a Walmart two blocks from here. Think you can get me a pair of medium sweats, any t-shirt, medium, and a pair of flip flops? The store’s two blocks, take a right out the emergency room doors. Think you can do that for me?”

“Sure,” Justin said, “Except it’s five in the morning.”

“Open 24 hours, man.”

***

Justin was leaving the Walmart when he heard a sound like hissing steam to his left. He turned and saw the kid crouched down in a pair of doctor’s scrubs, leaning against the wall. “You know you cost me 500 bucks.”

“I got a deal for you,” Justin said, handing him the bag and watching him pull out the plain black t-shirt before taking off the scary green top to draw the t-shirt over his head. He took the flip-flops out of the bag next and put them on his feet. “I’ll hit an ATM, pay you three hundred bucks to make up the part you’re out, which I’ll give to you after I buy you breakfast.”

The kid eyed him. “You want to fuck me, then? That gives you an hour.”

Three hundred bucks an hour? Yeah, right. “No,” Justin replied shortly, grabbing the kid’s arm and pulling him toward the Denny’s he saw further down the street. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

Justin figured they’d hit an ATM on the way. There were always ATM’s on the way, thank god.

***

He watched the kid pack away two orders of pancakes, but Justin only picked at his own blueberry waffles. They were awful, and he wasn’t hungry. His eyes felt gritty, as if sand had been blowing in his face.

“I guess I should thank you,” the kid said as he attacked his second order of pancakes. He didn’t sound particularly grateful, but Justin figured he should take what he could get. “I don’t do that bondage shit. I make that pretty clear right up front. That was not what I signed up for.”

“But you do other things,” Justin said, watching him.

The kid looked up, studied Justin’s face, and then relaxed at whatever he saw, or didn’t see. “Yeah, I do other things. It’s a living. Not a bad living. Not great, but a living.” His smile was not quite convincing, but then he shrugged, and stabbed his fork into his sausage. He looked up again. “Are you going to try to turn into one of those do-gooders? Turn my life around? Help me out? You don’t have a bible packed away in those hot leather pants you got on, do ya?”

“Do you want help?” Justin asked.

The kid thought for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Nah, don’t think I do. I’m managing. I mean, you got any more money, like a thousand bucks? I wouldn’t mind that.

You look like you got a thousand bucks. You’re fucking gorgeous, man, what are you, new star on the horizon?”

Justin shook his head. “Just an artist.”

“Hey, I know you get the three hundred dollar questions, but mind if I ask you one?” The kid was obviously not going to let the money go; he’d made Justin give him a hundred and show him the rest before he agreed to go to the restaurant with him.

Justin nodded.

“Why’d you do it? Take me out of there? Why do you give a shit?”

“Because I could have been you.”

The kid started laughing, and choked on a pancake. Justin began to stand up, alarmed, but the kid waved him back down, picked up his orange juice, and got himself under control. “Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Justin answered.

Intense grey eyes pointedly examined Justin’s silk Yves St. Laurent shirt, the one that specifically went with the leather pants. Brian had bought them for him as part of a “going to Hollywood” shopping spree. Seven outfits, one for each day of the week, Brian had said. “And I hope you know you can mix these up, so you really have a lot more possible outfits than just seven.” “Yeah, Brian, I got that.” “And don’t, for God’s sake, pair Prada with cargoes, only the Armani can carry those pieces of shit.” “YES, Brian.”

“Yeah, right,” the kid scoffed. “Hardly a struggling artist now, though, huh? You must have yourself a nice sugar daddy to bankroll that outfit.”

“What’s your name? Really. I can’t call you Ishmael. You want personal information, you tell me your name.”

“Yeah, Ishmael is a little old fashioned for this town. Call me Jake, then.”

“Jake. And actually, I sold some of my work recently. So I do have money of my own”

“No sugar daddy? I know you’re not straight.”

“Well, I do have a very well-off boyfriend.”

“Ah.” Jake plowed back into the pancakes.

“He loves me,” Justin said softly.

Jake shrugged. “Then you are one lucky son of a bitch. You love him?”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad for you. Always better to receive than to give. Love is leverage lost.”

Justin watched him eat. The kid’s metabolism was unbelievable. Five hours before, drunk as they come, and now this. “Jake,” he asked, getting his attention again. “How’d you end up doing this?” The waitress walked by, and Justin held up his cup. She filled it with more coffee.

“Well, I went to this party, blacked out and woke up in the hospital, and here I am with this beautiful freak who wants to feed me and pick my brains. For three hundred bucks,” Jake added.

“No, seriously,” Justin said, leaning onto his forearms on the table. “You seem like a really nice guy. Cute, even, if you’d get some sleep and clear up those bags under your eyes.”

“Cutting back on the drinking wouldn’t kill me, either,” Jake added, finishing the second plate of pancakes.

“Want more?” Justin asked.

Jake shook his head and pushed the plate to the side. “Pretty usual story. I’m not from here, but who is? Nebraska is no place for gay boys. My parents are Methodists, pretty hard core. Obviously, I’m not. They probably wouldn’t have sent me to college even if I was their dream boy. People in the town I'm from don’t really have ambitions beyond the CVS cash register. Or the meth labs.”

“Would you have wanted to go to college?”

“Maybe. But it didn’t work out that way. And this is okay, for now. I mean, I make good money. Shit like last night… it’s a good reminder not to get that out of control.”

“Reminders don’t help if someone slips you something in your drink.”

“Speaking from experience?” Jake saw Justin’s face. “Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry, that’s harsh. I’ve been pretty lucky so far. Besides, I generally only drink from bottles I open myself or see opened. I’m not sure what happened at Poole’s… I don’t really plan to spend the rest of my life doing this.”

“What do you want to do?”

Jake shrugged. “I used to play guitar, piano. Well, saxophone too. A little banjo, you know, I could pick up a few more things. I played pretty well. I know, musician’s far fetched. My music teacher wanted me to apply to some music school in Boston, he knew some people. I play with some people around here, sometimes…” he trailed off, looked away, shrugged, looked back. “Geez, sun’s coming up. I gotta go find my friends. See if they’ve rescued my pants.” He chuckled and started to slide out of the booth.

“Hey, Jake, don’t forget your money.”

Jake reached out, his hand hovering a few inches away. “You’re a decent guy, Justin. I sure as hell would have just walked away from me, if I’d been a party guest. I almost feel like I shouldn’t take your money.”

Justin lifted an eyebrow and kept the twenties extended.

Jake shrugged and took the money. “You’re right, it’s a tough old world. See you round, maybe.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Jake walked out. Justin never saw him again.

***

Justin sat in the booth, drinking cup after cup of coffee for a very long time.

What had he been looking for out here? He sure as shit wasn’t finding it.

Rage. Ah yes. But Rage the Comic was one thing. And Rage, the Movie, was turning into something quite different.

His thoughts automatically fell back into that familiar place, back to Brian. He was here, in part, because Brian had let him go. Always letting him go. He had always been so angry at Brian for never saying the words to keep him. For not being who Justin wanted. For not extending himself, for not changing for Justin, for them. For not accommodating Justin’s desire that he speak the words, supply the props, for not creating little fanciful bubbles containing the stuff of love, like props on a stage, the clichés of sentiment, roses, champagne. Instead, letting him go, to follow his work, his dream. This time, Justin hadn’t asked. He hadn’t even bothered. He wasn't angry anymore. Just frustrated. And tired. Love's leverage lost. Good one, Jake. Justin wanted leverage. He was tired of feeling tossed about by fate, subject to other people's agendas. He needed to establish his own.

But Brian was always there to catch Justin whenever he stumbled, whenever his quest for a life faltered. He was at Justin’s back in a way no one had been once he emerged from childhood to claim his own life. Brian was there in a way his father, and not his mother, no one else had been. Not just after the Sap’s party. Justin was only at that moment, as he stared into his rapidly cooling coffee, beginning to appreciate exactly what Brian’s support meant. It allowed him to return to school, to have a place to stay while figuring things out, to have options. That’s what it was all about; it wasn’t the money, it was the options it afforded. Where would Justin be, right now, if Brian hadn’t been there for him?

Brian let him do whatever the hell he needed to do, and there he was, when Justin was done with it. Even if it meant risking Justin’s being done with him. Letting him go, over and over.

I don’t want him to keep letting me go, he thought. I want him to hold onto me. Not too tightly, but I want to feel that touch. I need to feel Brian’s touch. And there were days, he just didn’t feel it anymore. Maybe, Justin thought, it was time he started touching back. Reaching back and touching what he knew was real, maybe not the romantic dream he’d always set in front of himself as the ideal – the fairy tale that didn’t exist. Hollywood was turning into that, all over again. He’d been seduced by a dream that seemed better than the reality of his life. When his reality was pretty damn special.

His life’s reality could easily have been similar to Jake’s. Waking up in a hospital, drugged. Almost raped. Shrugging it off, all in a night’s work. Yeah, I used to draw. Maybe one day…

He didn’t know. He was so damn tired. He just couldn’t think clearly.

God knew, if it weren’t for Brian, Justin would have been the hustler ideal’s poster boy. Not just because of the whole Sap fiasco, but running away to New York, too. He had been determined to shake his ass, to prove, well, something. The easiest road to easy money. He had the goods, that was for sure. And his family sure as shit wouldn’t have been able to hold onto him. Brian hadn’t let him get away with any of that, had he? Justin would probably be East Coast Jake right now if it hadn’t been for Brian, telling some guy in a diner how he’d once have dreams of being an artist.

Brian had always given him all the possible options. “You choose where you want to be.”

Justin heard that, over and over, his stomach sinking. You choose. Brian needed to be chosen, too.

But Rage. Rage was his, all his, in a way Brian never would be. And wasn’t that important, too? It was his creation, well, his and Michael’s. There were things worth fighting for. His dreams were on that list.

But could he protect Rage? Could he control the way this movie was going? Brett still seemed to defer to him, but this latest script change was pure bullshit. The characters were the same… bullshit. The Movie’s characters were Brett’s, not his.

But Brian wasn’t Rage for him anymore, either, and Justin hadn’t been able to figure out why. But he was beginning to figure it out, as the waitress poured him a fresh cup of coffee and he stirred in some milk to spare his stomach the punishment he was pouring on. Rage was both idea and ideal. For Michael, it was his dream of Brian, an even better version, because he could create and control the story as he went. For Justin, Rage was the dream too. But it wasn’t his dream of Brian anymore. Now Rage was an expression of his own possibilities as an artist. And Brian was his lover, a flesh-and-blood man. He could place his hand on Brian’s chest and feel the heart beating, feel his lips against his own, curl up in the bed he missed so much and feel the lean body curl up against his back. Rage was just an idea. Lovely in its own way, but he couldn’t hold it, and feel it holding him. It was only an idea; Brian was the real thing.

So was this a choice? Did he need to choose between his artistic potential out here in California, and his life back in Pittsburgh?

He was so confused. And so tired. And he wasn’t going to make any big decisions sitting here, slowly turning circles around his brain, what was functioning of it.

And he was so late. It was almost ten; he’d been sitting here alone for over four hours, staring at his coffee. He got up to pay the bill.

The waitress smiled at him. “Honey, believe it or not, you don’t even come close to the record for caffeine consumption. But you’ve hit the point of enough to float away.”

“What’s the top spot?” Justin asked, tipping her twenty bucks, knowing he’d taken her table for a while.

“Hey, thanks! Top spot is either convulsions, or the longest piss you’ll ever have.”

“Or both,” said the waitress behind her. Justin was laughing as he left.

***

He went to see Brett when he got onto the set after taking a taxi across town.

“Oh, hey, I’m glad you’re here,” Brett said after he’d hung up the phone on another call that appeared to involve pulling together his terrorism picture. Justin wondered what that was all about; obviously it was something big, but Justin really didn’t give much of a shit. He just idly noted how Rage didn’t quite seem to have all of Brett’s focus these days. “I heard from Connor who told me the story of your disappearance from John’s party. We were worried about where you were.”

“Connor doesn’t know the story,” Justin said, sitting in the chair across from Brett’s desk.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Justin… have you been home?” he asked, noting the outfit Justin still had on.

“No. I took the kid to breakfast. After the hospital.”

“Was he okay?”

“He’s alive,” Justin answered.

“Look, I probably could have warned you about Poole’s parties…” Brett began.

“You didn’t need to,” Justin waved his words away. “I’ve been someplace like that before. Once.”

“Oh, well… look. You shouldn’t let that upset you. Guys like those kids, well, they know what they’re doing.”

“Yeah, Jake seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.”

“Jake…”

“That was the kid’s name. The one I took to the hospital.”

“Oh. Yeah, so you see, they know what they’re doing,” Brett continued. “It’s not like they’re pulled off the street and held against their will. They’re professionals.”

“Professionals, like us?”

Brett snorted. “Hardly like us.”

“Well, see, I don’t really see it that way, Brett. What I see is that we sell what we got. Terms are agreed upon. And then, as we do our work, compromises get made. The parameters of the party, the conditions of the shoot, keep changing. The agreement changes to accommodate changing conditions. There’s always reasons, you know, the stars OD, producers demand scenes on schedule, the guests at the party expected a little public bondage or an orgy instead of straight sex acts in private rooms. What d’ya do? You placate the hustlers, throw money around, toss your star into rehab for a quick dry-out, and go about with the business that needs to be done.”

“Justin, we’re nothing like those kids. You’re nothing like that kid, you have the talent. The whole world’s opening up for you!”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Brett. I’m just like that kid. I just got lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with Rage, talent does.”

Justin laughed, and leaned forward. “I’m not talking about Rage, Brett, I’m talking about Brian. But if you want to talk about Rage, then maybe we should talk about the script changes, since you’re so enthusiastic about my honesty. You don’t need to encourage me to share my feelings; I can be honest.”

Brett eyed him. Shit. Justin was a valuable asset. Relatively cheap, too. There was no reason to set him off against the project. The conditions really had become difficult. He had hoped Justin would continue to work with him under unfavorable circumstances. Of course, he’d already bought the story… but no need to pull out the big guns. Well, not at the moment. “You haven’t been to sleep since last night, have you?” He took in the exhausted look on Justin’s face. “Look, it’s not that I’m not willing to discuss this. Why don’t you come back at five, after getting some sleep. We’ll be able to have a clearer discussion.”

Justin’s first thought was that Brett must be hoping he’d be more rational, at least, Brett’s idea of rational, and thus more conducive to persuasion. He’d been so cooperative to this point. And he was feeling decidedly uncooperative now.

But the wave of exhaustion that had slowly been building in him was starting to crash. He realized that his desire to start yelling at Brett was really a desire to let out his exhaustion, rage, frustration, and confusion. And he really had made that vow last New Year’s not to be such a drama princess. To think before screaming.

So he held his tongue. Indeed, he might not be thinking as clearly as he’d like for this particular discussion. It would not hurt to clear his head with a few hours sleep. It was nothing that wouldn’t wait. So he nodded, and said, “Yeah, you’re probably right.". Brett watched him walk out. And then Brett picked up the phone. He had a bunch of phone calls about financing “Terrorists Down.”

***

The apartment manager caught up with Justin as he stumbled out of the cab. He had been unable to face walking even the half mile home from the studio. “Hey, Justin! Justin Taylor!”

Justin turned to see Mr. Alvarez waddling toward him. “Yeah, Mr. Alvarez?”

“I let a delivery man into your apartment. I wanted you to know, so you know I made sure nothing was taken.”

“A delivery man?”

“Yeah, it’s all good, I just wanted you to know. I stood and made sure he just delivered.”

“What did he bring? A package?”

“No, you’ll see.” Mr. Alvarez walked away, laughing.

What the fuck? Justin thought. He was tempted to question the man more closely, but curiosity got the better of him. He walked to his apartment, put the key in the door, and swung it open. Then he stepped inside.

His jaw dropped. There had to be hundreds, maybe a thousand, flowers, everywhere.

Yellow and white roses, all in clear glass vases, on every surface, crowding the window ledge, into the bathroom. On the counters in the kitchen, on the shitty little table, on the chair, a fleet of bouquets in clear vases, the yellow and white flowers blooming across his tiny room as in a field. He could see the floor only where the small path was cleared; the delivery person had left a path winding from the kitchen area, and into the living area, over to the futon covered in yellow and white petals, the odd flower thrown here and there. And on the pillow, a perfect calla lily, Justin’s favorite flower, with a single red rose lying across it. He walked across the room, drawn by the bright, anomalous color, a beacon through the sea of yellow and white.

He thought, for a split second, that maybe Brett had done this, but it was too soon after their confrontation. And besides, only one person was capable of this kind of over-the-top, obscene, ridiculous, inconvenient-bordering-on-comedic display. Only Brian could both give in and give the finger at the same time. The perfect ironic statement saying ‘I love you’ and ‘Fuck you,’ both at the same time.

The card was near the flowers on the pillow. Justin sat down on the mattress, picked up the red rose, and opened the envelope to take out the card inside.

“Chase scenes blow. How about a starring role in my porno instead?"

Justin stared at the message. Then he started laughing.