Brian let a long sigh escape his lips as he felt the body above him press closer, slick skin sliding across his. He spread his legs a little wider to accommodate the hand working between his thighs and opened his mouth in a silent scream as a warm mouth enveloped his member.

It didn't stay for long, though, cool air washing over his wet dick as the mouth lifted off with a quiet squelch.

"Put your mouth to work, Kinney," his companion teased, "or you're gonna lose the bet in no time flat."

"No need for me to reciprocate just yet," Brian retorted, taking care that his voice didn't sound strained. "I have willpower."

Said willpower was immediately put to the test when the other man pressed a thumb against that spot behind his balls and gently rubbed - all whilst running the tip of his tongue under Brian's glans. "Fuck," the brunet grunted, unable to hold still, his hips bucking upward. The movement shifted the pressure of the dexterous fingers inside of him, not helping at all in his quest not to come before the blond.

Although the fingers and thumb continued to torture him, the tantalizing swiping motion of the wet tongue suddenly ceased, and the sweat-dampened skin above his lifted away, a sucking noise ensuing as their bodies separated. "Don't stop," Brian involuntarily protested, his eyes popping open.

"Low-hanging fruit," the teenager tempted his lover, swaying his hips, his balls dangling enticingly above the brunet. Glazed blue eyes met hazel ones, as the men looked at each other down the length of their torsos.

Brian snorted, the sexy mood lifting a little, giving way to a more lighthearted atmosphere. "Get back to work, Taylor," he told his lover, "and maybe you'll get rewarded for your efforts."

"It's not work," the blond retorted, pouting slightly. "But it is supposed to be reciprocal."

Throwing a smirk at Justin through the gap in between their glistening bodies, Brian teased, "Is it? I should probably look up the definition of what sixty-nine means - I seem to have forgotten it."

The teenager giggled. "If you did open the ‘encyclopaedia of sex,' you'd find a photo of us sucking each other off - no words needed."

"And yet, here you are, talking," Brian snarked back, giving the member that was swinging above his face a half-hearted lick.

"Is that the best you can do?" Justin taunted.

"No, you twat, that's the best I will do until you get back to what you were doing before."

The younger man shot him a dubious look. "You haven't done much of anything so far," he observed, "except twitch about, moaning and groaning, while I attend to you."

Brian thrust his pelvis upward suggestively. "As it should be," he agreed.

"Because of your supposed staying power?" Justin mocked. "You were about to send a geyser down my throat, Stud, if I hadn't let up."

Raising his eyebrows, Brian asked, "Why did you then? I thought we had a bet to settle?"

"You so want me to win," the brat giggled.

"Of course not, you brat," the brunet immediately denied. "I want you to try - it's no fun beating someone who's not giving their best."

"Uh-uh," the boy scoffed, "you intend to lose because you want to-" He suddenly stopped, his brow furrowing. "Wait, what's the wager for?"

Shrugging, the older man licked at Justin's cock again - just a quick, teasing flick of a tongue. "I don't care; we'll figure it out once I win," he boasted and then finally put his money where his mouth was, starting to suck at the treat being offered to him.

"Mhmm," the lad hummed in approval, the warm cavern of his mouth slowly engulfing Brian's cock...

"What the fuck!" the brunet cried out in protest as his lover suddenly vanished. Blinking furiously, but unable to see anything, he flailed about with his arms - only to discover he'd been embracing a pillow, his mouth full of damp cotton.

Spitting out the moistened fabric, Brian stared down at his engorged shaft. "Fuck," he moaned, missing the delicious warmth that had surrounded him just moments before. He had to get that blond boy back into his bed, stat. As he slowly slid his hand up and down to temporarily assuage his hunger, Brian vowed that, no matter what, he'd track Justin down later today.

A bit later, having composed himself after his morning exercise, the adman steered his jeep toward the front entrance of the empty bathhouse. He was deliberately arriving well after the agreed-on time and was pleased to see that Ted was already there, playing his part perfectly - his palms up, shrugging, a hangdog expression on his face. As they'd planned the night before, Brian's new CFO must've arrived exactly at nine o'clock to meet the realtor - a greying, chubby, little guy in a poorly fitting suit. Ted's body language suggested he'd been explaining for the last quarter of an hour that, while he'd made every effort to convince his boss, it was likely to no avail.

In comparison, the realtor was looking at Ted beseechingly, gesticulating wildly, and talking a mile a minute, undoubtedly touting the desirability of the property.

Brian carelessly parked the jeep at an angle, blocking in the realtor's car, a nondescript, dark green sedan - probably one of the vehicles he'd previously confused with Ted's Mercedes. Even though he doubted the estate agent would try to leave before he'd made every effort to unload the bathhouse, the adman wasn't taking any chances. 

An impatient expression on his face, the brunet got out of his jeep. "This is what you insisted I had to see, Schmidt?" he groused, glancing around disdainfully. "I'm wasting my time." Brian reopened the door to the jeep, acting as if he were going to climb back in and immediately depart.

"No! Wait! Mr Kinney, please!" the realtor beseeched, scurrying over to the adman and sticking a hand out for him to shake. "It may not look like much, but the structure is sound and could be adapted to fit any number of purposes."

Disregarding the man's outstretched hand, Brian again glanced around dismissively. "What was this place, anyhow?" he asked with a perfectly straight face. "It's too small to have been a waterfront shipping facility."

Theodore helpfully piped up, "I've been trying to wangle that information out of Mr Hampson. It seems it was a b-"

Oh, his friend was good, Brian thought. Taking a leaf out of the adman's book, Ted had intentionally mangled the realtor's name, further discombobulating the pudgy man.

"Hanson. It's Hanson," the guy timorously interjected.

Neither Ted nor Brian paid any attention to the interruption.

"Well?" the advertising exec barked. "Spit it out, Schmidt!"

Fortunately, Hanson was looking at Brian, or he might've noticed that Ted was trying to suppress a bout of hilarity at the way Brian had phrased his command. It worked out perfectly though, the accountant gasping, "B- bordello. It was evidently a bordello, Mr Kinney."

Now Brian wanted to laugh. Ted should've been on the stage, he mused. The adman would have to reward his employee with a bonus, the amount contingent on how much Hanson knocked off the asking price.

For the first time ever, Brian decided it behoved him to channel his mum. A look of horror on his face, he accused, "A bordello? A den of iniquity? I could be endangering my immortal soul!"

Hanson's mouth hung open, but no sound emerged for several moments. "Uh," he finally choked out, "uh, it was a brothel of sorts. But uh, it's been unoccupied for a long time. Maybe you could, uh, cleanse the place?"

"You know, boss, that idea might have merit," Ted intervened. "Maybe you could redeem the building."

A frowning Brian appeared to mull over the suggestion while, internally, he was dancing a jig. If the realtor weren't so desperate to jettison the bathhouse, the adman might fear he was overplaying his hand, but as it was... Thank fuck, he reflected, that other prospective buyers had been so short-sighted as to consider the property undesirable.

Long moments passed in which the advertising exec said nothing, Theodore shushing Hanson when he tried to enumerate the features that made the building attractive. "Stop nattering on," the CFO hissed, "about how easily the cubicles could be transformed into offices. A God-fearing Catholic like Mr Kinney doesn't want to think about the uncountable couplings that took place in those cribs!"

Christ, Brian thought, he was going to give himself a hernia trying to suppress the laughter that wanted to bubble up. Fortunately, he was able to transform the looming hilarity into a fiercer scowl. Shaking his head, the adman feigned regret. "I'd have to get a priest in to purify the place. I don't think even Father Tom, for all that he's very forward-thinking - always ready to service the members of this community - would be willing to perform the exorcism."

Hanson all but got down on his knees in an effort to get Brian to reconsider his decision, wringing his hands and stammering, "I- I could, uh, knock even more off the asking price, and you could, uh, maybe make a donation to your parish to help those who otherwise might, uh, end up in a place like this."

"There would have to be a significant drop in the fee," Ted asserted, "to make it worth Mr Kinney's while."

Brian put his hand on the door handle of his vehicle.

"Fu- uh, yes! Absolutely!" the realtor yelled before disclosing in a slightly calmer voice, "The owners have given me leeway in arranging a deal."

"How much less?" Ted rephrased his question, while Brian simply waited in stony silence.

"Twelve thousand?" the hand-wringer squeaked.

"Twenty-five thousand," the CFO countered firmly, "and that's just to get us to look inside the building. We'll negotiate further after we see how much work would need to be done."

"But that's highway robbery!" the realtor squawked.

"Hardly," Ted rebutted drily. "Although you've had no potential buyers, Mr Hampson, you've barely lowered the asking price."

If, Brian smothered a laugh, one considered decreases that eventually totalled seventy-five thou barely. The initial fee had been grossly overinflated, however, as both he and Theodore discovered when they'd independently researched the original listing.

When the realtor didn't verbally accede to his demand, the accountant turned to Brian. "I'm sorry, Mr Kinney," he apologised. "You were right; this is an utter waste of time."

Crap, Brian worried. Maybe they had overplayed it after all. Hoping nevertheless that the anxious little man would cave, he stayed in character. "I feel soiled just from coming near this den of iniquity. Schmidt, if you ever again come up with a harebrained idea like this one, you're fi-"

"Huh?" the realtor interrupted, frantically patting his pockets. "Don't go! I'm just trying to locate the keys to this fuckpa- uh, one-time pink palace."

The adman exhaled a relieved sigh as Hanson scuttled over to the front door, a keyring clasped in his hand. "You give me a heart attack like that again, Theodore," he muttered, clapping his friend on the back, "you really are fired."

A complacent expression on his face, Ted replied, "After enduring his obsequious palaver prior to your grand entrance, I had a good idea just how desperate he is to make a sale. Now that we've given Hanson the impression that money matters are beneath you," the newly minted CFO boasted, "I can drive a hard bargain for you." 

Brian watched as Hanson fumbled with the keys, swearing as they fell from his fingers and clanked onto the cement. "Sorry," the fellow called out. "I'll have it open in a jiffy."

"Christ, he's a pathetic little toady," Brian disparaged the realtor. "If he thinks I'm rolling in dough, however, won't he get suspicious as to why I won't just pay the asking price?"

"No way. Rich people are the biggest tightwads. They hire minions to make them even richer. In case you didn't know," the older brunet pointed to himself, his eyes twinkling, "I'm the minion."

Brian quickly stifled a chuckle. It wouldn't do to have the realtor think Ted had cajoled him into a good mood.

The urge to laugh only increased, though, when Hanson crowed, "There! That's got the motherfuck- uh, fudgepack-" The man abruptly stopped speaking, his face an unattractive, mottled red.

As Brian turned around, attempting to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit, Ted impressed him yet again. Somehow, his friend subdued the hilarity he had to be feeling and censured, "There's no call for that kind of language, Hampson. You're only drawing attention to the kind of establishment that existed here. I don't understand that last reference, however. What were you trying to say?"

The blotches on his face growing, Hanson tried to salvage the situation. "Uh, I wasn't cursing. Really!" he loudly persisted when the other men cast dubious looks at him. "I was thinking about my mother, you know, and how she packs fudge away at the holidays."

Ted sighed. "Before you dig yourself in any deeper, Hampson, why don't you just show us around the building. Mr Kinney's time is valuable."

"Right, right." The cowed realtor pulled the door open and gestured for them to precede him. "This way, gentlemen."

"The entryway is ridiculously cramped," Ted criticized as soon as he'd placed one foot over the sill.

"That counter would have to be removed." Brian tilted his head toward the offending item. "And the wall torn down to open up the space."

"Undoubtedly costly," the accountant pronounced, his brow furrowing as Hanson chivvied them out of the entry and down a hallway.

"Whatever were these rooms for?" the adman enquired, stopping dead and peering into one of the spaces. He feigned not to have heard the earlier exchange between Ted and Hanson about ‘cubicles' and ‘cribs'.

"Er," Ted leaned over and imparted, "this must've been where the soiled doves resided."

An appalled look on his face, Brian stepped back from the doorway, fastidiously brushing at his Vince Camuto peacoat. "This place would have to be gutted, Schmidt," he opined. 

"I'm afraid you're right, Mr Kinney," the accountant agreed. "It's a money pit. Maybe we should leave."

"No! Don't leave yet!" Hanson importuned. "You haven't seen the best room. It's a giant space that you could make into whatever you want. It could be a ballroom for dance lessons, a gymnasium, a chapel... It'd be perfect for Bible classes!" the man yelled triumphantly.

Reluctance obvious in the set of his shoulders, Brian growled, "One more room, and it had better be something special."

"Follow me," the realtor urged, leading the prospective buyers toward the back of the building. "Ta da!" he announced when they reached the former orgy room. The pudgy guy waved his arms around dramatically. "See? Isn't it fantastic?"

"Enthralling," the adman drawled sardonically, "provided I'd never seen a room of any size before." Looking around, Brian hid a grin as he recalled the chain fuck he'd orchestrated the last time he'd been in this orgy room. That raven-haired guy he'd been ploughing into... damn, but he'd had a tight ass.

Ted's voice intruded on his reminiscence, which was just as well the younger man thought - he didn't want to pop a boner in front of Hanson and reveal their interest.

"Rotting wood benches, ugly cement flooring, disgusting stains of some kind embedded in the walls," the accountant derided as he inspected the room. Pausing, he asked, "What the heck? Why is there a drain in the middle of the floor?"

"I think maybe to, er, wash away the..." Hanson flapped a hand helplessly at the drain "...you know."

"You mean, this room was used for-" Brian spun around, an expression of utter outrage on his face. "Enough!" he barked. "This place is beyond redemption. Schmidt!" the adman ordered, making the accountant jump, "I expect you back in the office in half an hour, at the very latest." With that, Brian stalked out of the room.

Once he was ensconced in his jeep, the brunet's shoulders shook as he leaned back in his seat and gave into unrestrained laughter. "Christ," he howled to himself, "Hanson must think we're a couple of religious nutjobs."

His merriment gradually lessening, the adman started his jeep and drove back to the loft, his body periodically vibrating from another gust of laughter. 

After parking the jeep - a good block away from his loft - Brian slipped and slid his way along the icy cement. "Bloody Prada," he half-heartedly complained as his boots failed to grip the sidewalk. He wouldn't have worn the damned footwear if he hadn't wanted to fully look the part of a debonair, wealthy man. 

Eager to tell Cynthia how thoroughly they'd intimidated Hanson, and also anxious to verify that the dining table and chairs she'd purchased met his exacting standards - the furniture was supposed to be delivered while he was gone - the adman jogged up the stairs rather than wait for the creaky lift. "Cynthia!" he called as he wrenched open the loft door, "You'd better not have gotten me some spindly, overly ornate table and chairs."

The blonde woman looked up from the new table, where she'd been working on her laptop. Raising one elegant eyebrow, she snarked, "The delivery men did an adequate job, considering how distracted they were by my tits. Oh, and look," she continued, faking a shocked expression, "this chair hasn't collapsed under my weight."

"Ha, ha," Brian retorted. "Chairs are meant to be sat in; it's the table I'm concerned about." In an effort to appear nonchalant, he sauntered over to the refrigerator and drank directly from the carton of guava juice, whilst eyeing the table the entire time.

Cynthia rolled her eyes, ignored the gross swigging from the carton - which Brian knew irritated her to no end - and resumed tapping at the keys of her laptop. "Nice try, boss," she quipped, "but that hardly fools me. You're itching to take a closer look."

Giving up the pretence, the brunet crossed over to the table, acknowledging to himself - he wouldn't want to give his assistant a swelled head by saying it out loud - that the sleek, clean lines of the furniture were exactly to his taste. "Antonello, is it?" he whistled as he ran the fingers of one hand along the table edge. "That must've put quite a dent in my AmEx."

"Antonello Italia," Cynthia confirmed, before teasing, "You'd be pissing and moaning even more if it hadn't cost an arm and a leg."

"Hmm," Brian murmured noncommittally as he hefted himself up onto the table and bounced a couple of times.

"Holy shit!" Cynthia shrieked. "Are you crazy?"

Before he could respond, Ted expostulated from the doorway, which the younger man had left open, "Christ, Brian. You're not going to test it for-"

"Fucking," Brian helpfully concluded, spreading his legs wider and bouncing again.

"Watch out for my laptop!" the blonde warned.

"Have to make sure the table is well-balanced," the adman unrepentantly shrugged. "Given the way the legs are arranged, it might tip over if weight is applied mainly to one side."

"Christ, Brian," a dumbfounded Ted reiterated. "The table could overbalance and split apart underneath you. Don't expect me to call an ambulance if something happens to you out of sheer, fucking stupidity."

"What he said," Cynthia glowered at her boss.

Both warmed and embarrassed by his employees' concern, Brian flushed slightly as he admitted, "Erm, I knew it was safe. I checked out a similar model with a salesman at Arhaus a few years ago."

"Checked it out how?" the accountant inquired suspiciously.

The younger man smirked. "Just the way you're thinking, Theodore. The salesman said it was guaranteed not to tip, and offered to demonstrate."

"Generous bloke that you are, you had to take him up on it," Cyn muttered, a wistful note in her voice.

Brian eyed her speculatively. "Dark hair, about six feet, olive-toned skin..." he described the man.

"Deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black... And he only bats for your team. That's really not fair," she sighed.

Ted grinned, and his bearing displaying new-found confidence in his own attractiveness, jested, "I'm tempted to go check out that salesman for myself. Not just any fag in the Pitts gets the Kinney ‘fuck of approval' after all."

"Just every halfway good-looking one who's not a decrepit old fossil," Cyn jokingly interjected. 

While grinning at his blonde colleague in agreement, the accountant shrugged, asserting, "However, I'm dating a hunky professor, so why would I settle for second best?"

Barely refraining from rolling his eyes, Brian sat up straight, his long legs dangling over the edge of the table so that his feet were almost flat on the floor. The notion of ‘settling' - no matter whether it was for the best or not - went against his principles, but he supposed it might work for some. He wanted Mikey and Dr Dave to last, but that was largely a matter of self-interest, since the good doctor kept Brian's childhood friend both happy and occupied. Ted was the first of his friends he was genuinely rooting for to make a go of a monogamous relationship. 

The adman tuned back in to hear Cynthia warmly declare, "I'm happy for you, Ted. I'd be even happier, though, if your Ben had a handsome, straight brother who's into gorgeous blondes."

"Would a cousin do?" the older man enquired.

"First, second, twice-removed... whatever," the blonde assured him, her blue eyes sparkling. "As long as he's fit, handsome, and fantastic between and outside the sheets, it's all good."

"Intelligence not required?" Ted kidded.

"He can be dumber than a doorpost," Cynthia mocked, "as long as he fucks like a god. I'm not looking for ‘the one'; I just want to get my rocks off - again and again and again - without having to troll for a guy."

His assistant wasn't the only one who wanted to get off, Brian thought rather sourly. Annoyingly, it seemed that only a certain blond teenager could fill his needs at the moment. Tonight, he sent a mental reassurance to his half-hard cock, which was stirring in his pants at the thought of Justin.

As he was about to recall his bantering employees' attention, Brian suddenly smelled a tantalizing aroma. Standing up, he followed his nose to his kitchen counter, where a basic, black coffee maker awaited him, filled nearly to the brim. The simple machine offended him at first, but then he abruptly remembered the previous day's fiasco with the DeLonghi piece of shit. Maybe basic wasn't so bad...

Behind him, Cynthia chuckled. "I was placing bets with myself as to when you'd finally notice your new coffee maker, boss. You must be jonesing for a fix; you've only had the one latte from Starbucks I brought you this morning, haven't you?"

"Hmpfh," Brian grunted, grabbing the mug, dumping in some sugar, pouring coffee atop the mounded white stuff, and raising the cup to his mouth. "Not bad," he assessed, adding a pinch of sugar, and smiling in satisfaction as he inhaled the cupful. He quickly poured a refill before turning around.

"Why-" he began, stopping in affront when Ted and Cynthia cackled at him, the older man folding over at the waist and looking in pain from laughing so hard. "Did you put something in my coffee?" he inquired warily.

"N- no," his assistant gasped, "but I thought you'd want something to memorialise the name I came up with for your agency, even if you won't be using it officially."

Brian frowned, holding up the mug in his hand, which he hadn't noticed, other than to fill it up. For a moment, he thought it was just a plain, charcoal grey mug, and he didn't get the joke. When he angled the cup to the side, however, he discovered Ad printed in red above a muscled man in a mask and Stud emblazoned beneath the cartoonish figure. The man, who seemed about to burst forth from the dark grey ceramic, bore a perceptible resemblance to Brian.

The adman's lips twitched as he studied the figure that Justin must've drawn. Really, he decided, it was quite flattering to be depicted as a studly superhero. He particularly liked the way his favourite Armani jacket was hanging off one shoulder. "Where'd you get the sketch of me?" he asked. He tried to puzzle it out, positive the two blonds had never met.

"Not telling," his assistant answered, sounding almost as bratty as the blond teen.

"Theodore?" Brian questioned.

"No clue," Ted promptly replied. 

Brian was inclined to believe him. Although there was a furtive gleam in the man's eyes, this had Cynthia's fingerprints all over it. "Whatever," he shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. He'd winkle the information out of Cyn at some point; in the meantime, his apparent indifference would niggle at her. 

"Not bad," he reiterated, leaving it to the blonde woman to determine whether he meant the mug or its contents.

"Is there enough left for me to have a cup?" Ted asked, avidly eyeing the mug Brian held in his hands. "It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

"Had a lot of experience with witches' tits, Theodore?" the adman quipped.

"For fuck's sake, Bri," his friend grouched. "It's just a saying to express how cold it is."

"I prefer, ‘It's monkeys outside,'" Cynthia diplomatically interceded. "Speaking of" - she narrowed her eyes at the men - "what happened at the bathhouse? Spill!"

The advertising exec froze in shock. How could he have been so caught up in teasing Cynthia that he hadn't quizzed Ted about Hanson's reaction to Brian storming out of the bathhouse? He immediately swung his head toward the accountant, who looked back at him with a shit-eating grin on his face. Ah, he thought, relaxing, the news was good then.

The younger brunet felt laughter welling up all over again as he pictured the flabbergasted realtor. "Make a new pot, Cyn?" he requested. "You're gonna love this - promise."

"All right," the blonde acceded. "But you're learning to operate the coffee maker by yourself before I leave today. It's idiot-proof German engineering, so you can't go wrong."

"It looks nothing like my Krups that was stolen," Brian groused as Cynthia discarded the used coffee grounds and inserted a new paper filter. He ignored the implication that he needed a coffee machine for dummies; it wasn't his fault that the Italian piece of junk had malfunctioned.

"Braun's even better," his secretary assured him. "The designers stuck to the basics, eschewing unnecessary frills."

No one spoke for a few minutes as the coffee percolated, liquid slowly dripping into the carafe. Cynthia busied herself pulling a couple mugs - identical to the one Brian held in his hand except for the AdStud emblem - out of a cupboard and spoons from a drawer.

The adman narrowed his eyes at his assistant, who seemed at home in his kitchen. With the way she'd opened the right cabinet on the first go, he speculated that she must've nicked the cup he was holding to have it ‘personalised' sometime the day before.

"Hold on," he demanded when the blonde woman removed a small jug from the fridge. He wouldn't have bothered with the creamer - which was intended for something far too fattening, or the sugar bowl, which was far too small - when he'd purchased his new drink ware, but they'd been part of the set. After pushing them to the back of the cupboard, he'd forgotten all about the useless items. 

Cynthia looked at him inquiringly as she set the creamer next to the mugs.

"That had better not be half-and-half," Brian grumbled. "That stuff's deadly."

The blonde had the gall to arch an eyebrow at him and retort, "And sugar's not?"

"It's one of Brian's major food groups," Ted joked. "You know, along with green apples, dry turkey on plain toast-"

"None of which are fattening," the younger man interrupted. "You two had better be careful, or you'll turn into blimps before you know it."

"Hasn't happened yet." Ted glanced down at himself, giving his stomach a self-congratulatory pat.

"Not to me either," the slender blonde chimed in smugly. "Anyway, boss, you don't have to drink the cream."

"I don't want it in my fridge," Brian growled.

"Why?" the accountant laughed. "Afraid the fat'll glom onto you through some peculiar form of osmosis?"

Not wanting to admit he might just be tempted to use it, Brian kept silent. He needed proper offices to house his recalcitrant employees straight away, or he'd be the one who turned into a blimp.

"There's skim milk in the fridge for you," Cynthia chuckled, "should you want to dilute your caffeine with that. If not," she added wryly, "you can chug it from the carton as an alternative to one of your disgusting soy-blend shakes."

"I thought you didn't do soy, in any form," Ted piped up, looking at his friend in surprise.

"Soy milk is different," Brian defended himself. "Besides, I only had soy shakes the one time."

"The one time lasting for six months," Cynthia elaborated. "You even had me mixing them for you in the break room at Ryder's."

"It got rid of that sleazebag who was always trying to grope your ass," the adman reminded her.

"A soy shake had that much power?" Ted asked, his eyebrows rising in astonishment.

"It not only was a revolting, sludgy brown," the blonde disclosed, "it also smelled weird. The bloke turned green, rushed over to the sink, and vomited."

"I tracked Cynthia down to find out what was taking so long," Brian explained, "entering the room right as the guy upchucked. It was that odor that put me off soy shakes for good."

"So, yeah, Ted," the secretary laughed, "it was a very powerful shake."

Joining in the merriment, Brian reflected that it might not be such a bad thing that his Vitamix blender had been stolen. He'd used the blender solely for the purpose of those shakes, which really hadn't tasted very good.

"Now that I know to assiduously avoid soy milk-" Ted began.

"Unless the professor wants you to drink it," Brian teased, grinning wickedly at his friend.

"The coffee's done," Cynthia announced.

"Thank fuck," Brian and Ted muttered at the same time, the younger man guessing that neither one of them wanted to argue the merits of soy milk.

Ten minutes later, the blonde was in stitches, almost rolling on the floor, as the men regaled her with what had happened at the bathhouse.

"Then, when you flounced out of the orgy room," Ted continued, "Hanson-"

"I don't flounce," the younger man interrupted. "That's something Em-"

Brian was in turn cut off by his assistant, who gasped out between bursts of laughter, "You so do flounce, boss."

"I do not," the adman contradicted, glaring at Cynthia. "I strut, stalk, storm, stride, but never flounce."

"You flounce," the stubborn blonde insisted.

"Either one of you want to hear what happened next?" Ted inquired.

Brian eyed his friend askance, noting he hadn't recanted that horrible ‘flounced,' but nevertheless waved at him to go on.

"Even though it was freezing cold inside the bathhouse," the CFO resumed, "Hanson was perspiring like he was in the depths of hell, certain the deal had gone tits up, babbling about how he'd knock off an additional five grand, beyond the twenty-five thousand that I'd already stipulated before we'd go inside the building." Ted stopped speaking, smiling in a very self-satisfied way.

"Well?" Cyn urged. "What was your counter-offer?"

"I stared at him as if he were demented, replying, ‘If you seriously want me to talk Mr Kinney into reconsidering, that's not nearly enough.'

"Hanson circled the drain in the middle of the room over and over, muttering to himself, and tugging at his hair so hard that he undoubtedly left bald patches."

"He was debating what the owners would accept?" Brian guessed.

"Yep, not even taking into account that I heard every word." Ted shook his head in disbelief. "I might've thought it was all an act - that the asking price for the property was still inflated enough that the buyer would think they were getting a bargain - but there's no way Hanson's that good an actor; no one sweats on command like that."

"Especially not in the midst of a Pittsburgh snowstorm," Cynthia concurred.

"I stayed ‘in character,'" Ted recommenced, "sneering, ‘I'll be in touch, Hamster, if a godly man like Mr Kinney can be convinced to redeem this whorehouse.'"

"Holy fuck," the blonde breathed out.

"As holy as a fuck can get," Brian mocked. Damn, but he was proud of Theodore. Calling the poor bastard of a realtor ‘Hamster' was exactly what the adman would've done.

"Hanson didn't cavil about the maligning of his name - if he even noticed it in his overwrought state," Ted concluded. "Instead he bleated after me as I strode" - the man winked boldly at Brian as he emphasised his method of locomotion - "out of the room, ‘I'll make a deal you can't refuse.'"

The three members of the Kinnetik team exchanged amazed glances.

"Well done, Theodore," Brian acknowledged. He wasn't much given to praising his underlings, but both Ted and Cynthia were more than mere employees. Without the older man's hitherto untapped thespian talent, the advertising exec wouldn't be able to drive such a hard bargain for the bathhouse.

"Okay," Brian exhorted, briskly rubbing his hands together, "how low can we go and have the bid accepted?"

The three of them swilled multiple cups of coffee as they debated the lowest possible bid. While Ted and Cynthia created and revised spreadsheets, Brian scribbled figures on scraps of paper - he did some of his best thinking with a pen and paper.

A couple hours later, the adman rolled his chair back from his desk. "We're agreed then? We'll lowball at fifty-three thousand dollars less than the current price?"

Both his accountant and his assistant nodded. Standing up, Brian paced over to the bank of windows along the side of his loft. "I wish we could put in the bid right away," he fretted, "but we need to wait a day or two, so we don't look overeager."

"Yeah," his CFO quipped. "I need a little time to persuade Mr Kinney that a ‘house of sin' is a good investment. Otherwise, the owners might smell a rat."

"The ‘hamster' won't think something's off because you want contractors to look at the place before you bid?" Cyn worried.

"No, it's normal practice," Ted expounded. "When remodeling is involved, the purchaser needs to factor estimated costs into their bid. Hamster will assume I'm assembling data to demonstrate to Mr Kinney that purchasing the bathhouse would be a smart financial move."

While the newly-formed team was discussing the remodel, Justin and Daphne were eyeing the rubbery lasagne on offer in the cafeteria with resigned expressions. "It's nothing like what Deb makes," the blond teen mourned as he accepted a helping of the pasta, a side of mixed vegetables, and an anaemic-looking piece of garlic bread.

"You're spoiled is what you are," the girl accused, "with your food at the diner comped and Debbie cooking for you every day."

Justin smirked at his friend, teasing, "We're kind of shorthanded at the diner, so Debs is on the lookout for a busboy cum dishwasher. If you're interested, I can put in a good word for you."

Beelining toward an empty spot in the crowded canteen, Daph set her tray down, placed one hand on her hip, tilted her head haughtily, and waved the fingers of her other hand in Justin's face. "Please," she objected in a la-di-dah voice, "it would ruin my manicure."

The lad raised a blond eyebrow at his friend, wondering what was up. Daph was a bit of a tomboy and didn't usually fuss with her nails, other than to file down any jagged edges. An unwelcome voice catcalling, "Fuck, we're stuck in ‘faggot central.'" clued him in that a gaggle of jocks and cheerleaders occupied most of the table, and that Daphne was mocking the pom-pom girls.

Justin was torn between ignoring the rowdy group - provided Hobbs and his buddies would let him do that - and confronting them. The choice was taken out of his hands, however, when one of the cheerleaders sneered, "Are you a lesbo now, Chanders? Turned to the dark side by the school's token faggot?"

"Nah, she's just a hag to the fag," one of the athletes claimed, hee-hawing at his own cleverness.

"Hmm," Daphne mused, tapping a forefinger against her lips. "You lot must all be closet cases, since you're so familiar with queers."

"I'm not a queer!" Chris shouted, his face turning red as he rose from his seat.

Protesting too much as usual, Justin observed.

Before the situation could escalate, Sydney urged, "Ssh. That horrid, hatchet-faced monitor - you know, the one who likes to send students to detention for the least little infraction - is watching us."

The entire group quietened, Hobbs immediately sinking down although he sent a death glare in Justin's direction.

Leaning against Justin, Daphne whispered, "I don't see Hatchet-Face anywhere."

"Neither do I," Justin agreed, unobtrusively glancing around. All the students were cautious when the beldame was on duty; she really did have a habit of coming down hard on those involved in a disturbance, regardless of whether or not they were popular - or at fault.

"Why would Sydney jump in like that?" the feisty girl wondered, before asserting, "It's not like I needed rescuing."

Justin shrugged, not wanting to say anything where he might be overheard and set Chris off again. He did want to get Daph's opinion of the cheerleader, but that could wait till tonight.

"Maybe she's on something," Daphne speculated, her voice rising slightly. "I mean, she was almost civil this morning. She didn't exactly acknowledge you, but she didn't make one of her snide comments either."

Justin floundered for a change of topic before they drew unwanted attention, but the other subject he particularly wanted to share with her - the mattress auction and how he didn't actually have a stalker - was also off limits, given the current company. Ah, he thought, as he lifted a spoonful of the dried-out veggie mix, he could always disparage the godawful cafeteria food some more. "Gross," he said. "Look at the white spots on these vegetables. They must've dredged these up from the bottom of the freezer before heating them; they've got freezer burn."

For a moment, Daph looked confused, but then she caught his mouthed, ‘Later,' and played along. She scooped up some of the veggies for herself, before letting the spoon drop onto the plate, her nose scrunched up in disgust. "No way am I eating those." She then poked at the lasagne before giving up and shoving away her tray.

"Maybe it's edible," Justin stated dubiously, sawing at the pasta and raising a bite to his lips. He chewed for what seemed like forever before finally managing to swallow the lump. "Ugh," he muttered, not bothering with the limp garlic bread, and pushed his tray over to join Daphne's.

"You got any lemon bars to tide us over, Jus?" the girl asked hopefully. "The ones you brought yesterday really hit the spot."

"I've got something even better," Justin enthused, rooting around in his knapsack. "Debbie baked a batch of Butterfinger cookies from scratch last night."

"Gimme!" Daph commanded, snatching the Ziploc container from his hand as soon as he'd retrieved it. Popping open the lid, she crammed one of the cookies into her mouth.

"And you ride me about my table manners," Justin kidded, reaching over his friend's arm to grab a cookie for himself.

"Well, duh," the girl retorted, elbowing her bestie. "You're all about feeding that beast you call a stomach. Are you sure you aren't part bovine?" she teased. "The second stomach growling as it senses food entering the first one, then the third and fourth joining the chorus."

"Moo," the blond teen lowed, drawing out the sound. "You've sussed me out, Daph."

"Pathetic," his friend pronounced. "I bet Harley could do better than that."

Pretending affront, Justin rolled his eyes. "Right, like a budgie chirping, ‘Moo,' would sound more like a bull than I did."

"A bull?" Daphne laughed, raising her eyebrows in mocking disbelief. "At best a sick cow."

"Hah! I'm no cow or steer," the teenage boy defended himself. Leering at his friend and wiggling his eyebrows, he drawled, "My gonads are in perfect working order."

"That doesn't mean you know how to imitate a bull's bellow," Daph maintained, grinning impishly as she stuffed another cookie into her mouth. "Like I said, at best a sick cow."

Justin reached over for another helping of gooey goodness, but felt nothing except plastic. "You ate the last cookie!" he sputtered. "I didn't get but two, and I know there were at least six in there."

"You snooze - or in your case moo - you lose," the girl joked as she stood up, hoisting her backpack over one shoulder. "Besides I needed them more than you do."

"How's that?" the blond asked, his brow furrowing as he followed the girl to drop off his still full tray.

"I want to grow my tits," Daphne quipped, "whereas your bodacious behind is already fully formed."

Justin shook his head fondly. "I could've sworn you learned about physiology with me, Daph. That's not how it works."

"It will for me," she insisted as they exited the refectory and wended their way toward their physics classroom. "It's all about mind over matter."

"Let me know when you're on Oprah," the lad giggled, holding open the classroom door. "I'll believe you then."

"At last," an irritated female voice exclaimed, causing Justin to look toward the front of the room, where Ms Mefford, the younger - and pudgier - of the two school secretaries, was standing next to the physics instructor.

Mr Horner appeared to be remonstrating with the secretary, the blond teen catching a reference to "coursework being more valuable than an arbitrary meeting," but he finally nodded curtly, turning away from the woman.

As if Justin should've known she was there to collect him, Mefford ordered, "With me, Taylor," and flounced out of the classroom.

The blond turned his head to the teacher, a questioning look on his face, which prompted an explanation, "Principal Perkins wants to see you. In case you don't make it back before class ends, why don't you leave your homework with Ms Chanders. She can check yours as well as hers."

Daphne cast a concerned look at her friend but immediately agreed. "I can bring it to you tonight, Jus."

The lad quickly dug out the assignment and handed it to his friend with what he hoped was a reassuring smile - even though he was also somewhat worried about why the headmaster wanted to see him; he'd never been pulled out of class before. He then trotted after Mefford, who was waiting outside the classroom, impatiently tapping one foot against the floor. He wondered why she hadn't left him to follow along since he knew the way to Perkins' office, but he didn't ask since she was clearly in a strop - her thin, mousy brown hair swinging from side to side as she stomped toward the stairs. When she muttered something about how he'd probably take off for the day if she didn't escort him, the blond's nervousness increased. It sounded serious.

"Have a seat," Mefford said, pointing toward the chairs outside the headmaster's sanctum. "Dr Perkins will be with you shortly."

After he'd been sitting there for five minutes, the teen decided, fuck this; he wasn't going to fret himself silly waiting on Jerkins. He pulled out his sketchbook and began drawing, endeavouring to capture the petulant expression on Mefford's face and the sour one on Cuthbert's. The two secretaries periodically sniffed at him dismissively, but neither one was as overtly hostile as the last time he'd been in this office, less than two weeks ago. Mefford did vaguely gesture in his direction and say, "That fa-" at one point, but she immediately shushed when Cuthbert frowned and shook her head.

Justin doubted they'd suddenly learned to behave in a professional manner, but he couldn't figure out what was going on. A good while later, when he'd given up on making it back to physics and was beginning to wonder if he'd miss his IT class as well, Perkins finally jerked open his door. He essayed a look that might've been meant as a smile but came across as a grimace. "Good. You're here, Mr Taylor. Come in."

Maybe it wasn't so bad then, Justin thought as he followed the principal into his office. Perkins hadn't been this cordial toward him since he'd been outed.

The headmaster waved Justin toward a chair in front of his desk before planting himself on the other side, taking a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his forehead with it. Then, bracing his fists against the top of his desk, he began, "I'm disappointed, Mr Taylor, that you'd question our impartial treatment of all students here at St James. You really have no grounds for complaint."

The blond lad frowned. What was the man on about? He'd never actually brought a complaint, although he had tried to get a new locker assigned.

Jerkins looked distinctly uneasy as he reached up and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, sententiously declaring, "Rather than siccing the police on me, you should have come to me if you had a problem. My door is always open."

Justin suddenly realised what was going on - Detective Wen must've paid the promised visit to St James and bearded Jerkins in his office. He was hard put to stifle a laugh, but he managed an innocent look, as if he had no idea what was going on.

For the next ten minutes, the principal blathered on about police intimidation, how the diminutive Chinese woman had completely disrupted his day, and the importance of school procedures and policies. Perkins never gave Justin a chance to say anything, which was just as well, since the teenager was certain he would have burst out laughing if he'd opened his mouth.

"Remember, Mr Taylor, I expect there will be no more visits from your friend with the police," Perkins reiterated as he guided Justin out of his office. "There's no call for such unpleasantness."

That was nicely understated, the lad thought. He understood now why he'd had to wait so long to see the headmaster, who had trembled slightly while talking at Justin; the man had been trying to compose himself after the ‘unpleasant' visit from the terrifying woman.

Noting he had a little time before his IT class, but not enough to make it worth returning to physics, Justin rushed to the restroom, where he leaned against the wall and howled with laughter as he envisioned the stone-faced detective putting the fear of Wen into his headmaster...

Back at the loft, Brian closed his cell phone after placing an order for a late lunch. "Besides the remodel," he ordered, "let's review the other costs necessary for this start-up. I want to have everything lined up before I approach PNC Bank for a loan, since my settlement from Ryder will only stretch so far."

Cynthia nodded, ticking off on her fingers, "Staffing, including salaries, vacation and sick leave, and bonuses. Health insurance. 401(k) or another pension. Legal retainer. Taxes."

"The IRS will always want its cut," the CFO wryly inserted.

"Death and taxes," the adman murmured, referencing the adage.

"Franklin had that right... unfortunately," Cyn ruefully agreed.

"Leave it to old Ben to implant Defoe's truism in our heads," Ted grinned.

"Constitutionally," Brian drolled.

Groaning, Cynthia resumed, "A comprehensive insurance policy."

"It might be a good idea," Ted interposed, "to purchase that insurance now, while we're working out of your loft."

"Seems like a lot of bother for what will hopefully be a short time," Brian replied.

"Once the agency is registered as a legal entity, it will be advantageous tax-wise," the accountant hinted, "since you're using your home computer and phones for business purposes."

"If it'll defray what I have to shell out to Uncle Sam, by all means go for it," Brian acquiesced.

"Since you're also using your jeep for business purposes," Cynthia commented, "you might want to class it as a company car. In that case, you'll want a vehicle insurance policy, which could later be adjusted to cover other company vehicles."

Ted's brow furrowed in consternation. "Wasn't your jeep provided by Ryder?" he probed. "Weren't you required to turn it in?"

"Honestly, I hadn't even thought about my jeep in conjunction with ending my employment," Brian divulged. "A certain bulldyke lawyer, however, reminded me and then raised the topic during my termination meeting - before we got into the nitty-gritty negotiations about the severance amount."

"What!" the irate blonde woman gasped. "You never mentioned that. Give!"

"You should've seen the constipated expression on Marty's face," the adman chuckled, "when Melanie matter-of-factly assumed that he'd be transferring ownership of the jeep to me, brazenly sliding an automobile transfer agreement across Ryder's desk. 

"Ryder just about exploded since the jeep is practically brand new. But then his desiccated, beanstalk legal beagle intervened, recommending that Marty might as well let me keep the car. He barely refrained from saying that no one else would want a vehicle that had been contaminated by a faggot, changing his wording at the last moment to something along the lines of ‘an employee accused of sexual harassment.'"

"What an asshole," Ted swore.

"Ryder spluttered about how the jeep could be returned to the dealer, intimating that it could be sold to another ‘faggot.' Melanie cut him off mid-word, though, bringing up the spectre of a defamation lawsuit. 

"Boy, did that ever make the legal fossil blench," Brian joyfully recalled. "Marty's lawyer grabbed him by the arm and whispered in his ear. After a few tense moments, Ryder folded, conceding that I could keep the jeep, that they'd just deduct the value from my payout.

"By the end of the meeting, the bulldyke had them so tied up in legal knots - again threatening them with a defamation lawsuit - that they signed the termination agreement and the vehicle transfer without dickering further."

"Christ," Ted choked out through a bout of laughter, "you really took them to the cleaners."

Cynthia giggled. "Your jeep must've added, what, another twenty thou, to your severance package?"

"More," the adman complacently asserted. "I had some bells and whistles thrown in at the dealership." In a way, Brian supposed, Craig had done him a favour by rear-ending his old jeep. He'd ended up with a newer, fancier model - at Marty's expense.

Shaking her head in amusement, the blonde woman redirected their attention to the insurance topic. "According to my research," she informed her colleagues, "we should also have business interruption insurance."

"We're going to adhere to the United States Postal Service creed," the ad exec declared. "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor-"

"You'll be running the agency all by yourself if the furnace packs up in the middle of winter," Cynthia denied.

Ted's head bobbed up and down in vehement agreement. "It's not like we'd be able to rely on courier services like UPS and FedEx if their trucks are snowbound and the airports are closed."

"Pussies," Brian grumbled, lumping them together with the useless Pittsburgh realtors. "They shouldn't let a little snow hinder them. But based on the mess caused by the first snowstorm of the season," he conceded, gesturing toward the windows, where they could see more snowflakes swirling around, "that interruption insurance will prove useful. What other expenses are on your list?"

"Utilities. Office equipment and furnishings," Cynthia enumerated. "Office supplies. Travel, including mileage and per diem. Catering fees."

"We need to pad everything," the CFO asserted, "to account for unexpected expenses."

"True," the blonde woman joshed, "in case any of our new hires run screaming after Brian terrorises them."

"Murphy's law?" Ted wondered.

"Kinney's law," Brian gloated.

"It's a thing," Cyn stated solemnly.

The three friends cracked up before buckling down and analysing expenditures. While they consumed the Thai food that had just been delivered, the discussion turned toward office layout and staffing.

"If I'm going to meet with the contractors tomorrow morning," Theodore said, "I'd better have a pretty good idea of what you want done, Bri."

"Here," Cynthia turned her laptop around, showing the two men a basic outline of a building. "We can fill in some of the features you envision."

"An open floor plan," Brian instructed. "We'll want lots of light throughout" - he pointed to one section of the diagram - "but especially in the art department. More windows and skylights will need to be installed."

"You know," Ted mused, "once the grime is cleaned from the glass blocks in the orgy room and elsewhere in the building, they'd be a great light source."

The adman glanced approvingly at his friend, murmuring, "Great minds, Theodore. Our executive offices are going to be at least partially surrounded by those opaque blocks."

"How about the main conference room as well?" the blonde suggested.

"Good idea," Brian responded, jotting down a note before stressing, "I want to incorporate as many of the original features from the bathhouse as possible, while modernising the building."

"You want it to have sex appeal." Cynthia smirked at her boss.

"Damned right, I do," the advertising exec declared. "Sex sells, and we're going to be pitching sex in most of our campaigns, whether subtly or overtly. Kinnetik's premises should reflect that."

"We can leave some of the fixtures embedded in the walls," the older man proposed.

"Can't you just picture a prospective client turning the knob beneath a showerhead and getting drenched?" Cynthia questioned, laughter dancing in her eyes.

"Christ, it's tempting to leave one of the showerheads functional..." Brian deliberated.

The older man choked on his spoonful of green curry chicken. "Washing them free of sin," he finally gasped.

"Born again!" the blonde guffawed.

"Even if it can't be functional, it could be affixed to a wall outside the conference room, the floor sloping slightly toward the drain in the center of the floor," Brian decided.

"I can't wait to hear all the wild theories." Cyn grinned at her boss.

Ted chuckled. "They'll definitely have sex on the brain."

"Do you have a firm in mind for the renovations?" the blonde queried. "I can call now and arrange for them to meet Ted tomorrow morning."

"DC Mullins did a good job on my loft remodel," the adman replied. "They're local, licensed and bonded, handle electrical and plumbing as well as construction, and they're equal opportunity employers, period."

The older brunet whistled, "That's rare in a mostly white, male-dominated, macho industry like construction."

"DC was pissed when his father exiled him from his family after he came out as gay," Brian divulged, "so in a giant fuck you to dear old dad, he got together with a couple of friends, one of them straight, the other a lesbian, and started his own company."

"Is that the tattooed bloke who came by your office during the aforementioned remodel, threatening to rewire the kitchen outlets so you'd end up electrocuting yourself if you didn't stop micromanaging him and his crew?" Cynthia inquired, her blue eyes glimmering with amusement.

"I was not micromanaging," the adman protested. "I simply wanted him to measure the space for my bedroom closet again. It's important," Brian waggled his eyebrows, "to take advantage of every inch."

"Hmm," the blonde hummed. "‘For the fifth time,'" she quoted the construction worker, "‘just like with every other aspect of this remodel!' Must be why he was ranting and raving about Control Freak Kinney."

"He really does know you, Bri," Ted marvelled.

"You need to come up with a new comedy routine," Brian grumped. Secretly, he was enjoying the banter and the challenge of trying to get the best of his friends.

Evidently reading his mind, the blonde quipped, "Maybe after I meet Who's on first."

Shit, Brian thought when his little head plumped in response to Cyn's allusion to the teenaged brat. In an effort to divert himself, he speared a bite of Theodore's curry off his plate.

"Hey!" the other man squawked, "That's mine!"

Cynthia leaned closer to Ted and imparted in a low voice, "He's a sneaky food snitch. He knows the calories don't count if they aren't from his plate."

Sitting back up, Cyn sighed. "I don't know if I can cram in another bite of what may be the best Thai food I've had in the Pitts. What's the name of the restaurant?"

"Damned if I know." Brian shrugged. "The food's from a hole in the wall two blocks over. There's a takeout counter and a few rickety tables, but I've never seen anyone actually eating inside. The food is good, but I'd never dine in a dump like that."

Sotto voce to Cynthia, Ted ribbed, "But he frequents the Liberty Diner, which isn't much more than a dive, and always complains about the quality of the food.

Brian had to settle for glaring at the older man, since he could hardly refute that accusation.

"Where's the menu?" the blonde asked. "The name must be on there."

"The menu fell apart ages ago," the adman explained, "but by then I'd memorised my preferences and entered the number into my mobile under ‘Thai.'"

"You'd better have a menu for me in the next couple of days, boss," Cynthia threatened, "or you'll be down one employee."

"Aren't you working pro bono?" Brian jested.

"Jesus, I hope not," Cyn objected, "even if I am sans contract and putting in more than banker's hours."

"This has to be sorted," Brian pronounced, "now." A gentleman's agreement might be fine for the short term, but it wasn't the way he wanted to treat his core employees. On that thought, he grabbed his cell phone, flipped open the cover, scrolled through to Mel's direct office line, and pressed ‘send.'

After a couple of rings, a brisk voice answered, "Melanie Marcus."

Unable to resist jerking the bulldyke's chain, Brian stated without preamble, "I need your help."

"Who is this? How'd you get my numb-" The attorney abruptly stopped talking, before inquiring suspiciously, "Kinney, is that you?"

"Yeah," the adman confessed, chuckling.

"Normally," Mel observed, "I'd tear you a new one for that juvenile stunt, - one of my clients could have been in dire need of assistance - but since you've admitted that you need my help, I'll let it go this once."

Ouch. That round definitely went to the bulldyke. "I do want your assistance with legal matters for my new agency," Brian clarified. "JKL would be on retainer, with you as our primary legal representative."

After a beat of silence, the lesbian lawyer asked, "Are you grinding your teeth?"

"Huh?" the adman queried, noticing that he had clenched his jaw.

"It had to be painful to grit that out," Melanie teased.

Brian grunted noncommittally before prompting, "The retainer?"

"Let me just run it past my partners, although I'm sure they'll be glad to take you on as a client, with me as your principal contact," the lawyer replied.

"Good," Brian affirmed. "In the meantime, do you have an opening to discuss employee contracts?"

"You're in business so soon?" Mel uttered in amazement. "It's barely been a week since we negotiated your settlement with Ryder."

"I work fast," Brian asserted smugly. "I already have two staff."

"Ah, Ted must've accepted your offer," the lesbian commented.

Was that an approving note in her voice? the adman wondered.

"When he conferred with me," Melanie revealed, "I told him to go for it, to leave his humdrum job. I even said you're a heckuva businessman and that-"

"You did?" Brian interrupted, appalled when his voice rose in pitch to match his astonishment. "Did that hurt?"

Ignoring his quip, the lawyer drawled, "I also warned him that dealing with a drama queen like you will grey his hair prematurely, give him indigest-"

"Enough," Brian protested. "I'm not that bad."

"Uh-huh," Melanie replied skeptically. "My calendar's jam-packed for the next week," she then informed him. "How about Thursday, December seventh, at ten-thirty?"

"Can you free up at least an hour?" the ad exec requested. "I'll be putting in a bid on a property, and I'll have related paperwork for you to review."

"I've blocked off from ten-thirty till noon for you," Mel confirmed. Her curiosity evident, she then inquired, "What's the property-" Brian heard a voice in the background - probably her assistant - before the lawyer abruptly declared, "I've got to go. I'm due in court in twenty minutes. Bye."

Brian smirked as he pressed the red ‘end call' symbol. Curiosity about the property was going to be eating the bulldyke alive, and she wouldn't be able to discuss it with Lindsay since it fell under attorney-client privilege.

Justin entered the diner, giggling some more as he thought about Detective Wen's encounter with Jerkins. He hadn't been able to concentrate in his IT class, but it hadn't really mattered - Mr Süc and the other students had been distracted as well, concerned about another stormfront which was supposed to move into the area by the weekend. When he'd heard the forecast, the blond had resolved to continue catching the early bus in the morning, and especially, not to miss the afternoon bus. It wouldn't be right to ask Carl for a lift a second time.

"What's got you grinning like a loon, Sunshine?" Debbie greeted him boisterously. "You open your mouth any wider, you'll be able to swallow two dicks at once."

His face crimsoning, Justin stuttered, "Ehm, I think one at a time'll do."

"It's awkward at best," a bronzed queen interjected. "No matter how your partners angle their dicks, you don't get more than an inch or two - not a proper mouthful at all. If you want two cocks, sweet cheeks" - she paused to admire Justin's bum - "I strongly recommend double penetration. That way you can enjoy the whole shebang."

The blond lad's jaw dropped as he stared at the tanned queen in shock. He'd seen DP in porn vids a couple of times, but never was the word that sprang to mind when he thought of being the one in the middle of the sandwich. Heck, he hadn't participated in a threesome of any kind - although it might be exciting with Brian and another hot guy - let alone anything so daring.

"Christ," Deb breathed out, "you've actually done that?"

Justin wasn't sure if his surrogate mother was shocked or awed, probably a bit of both. For all the redhead's bravado when it came to sex talk, the teen suspected she might be relatively inexperienced and would probably prefer to engage in more ‘conventional' sex.

"A few times," the queen proudly revealed. "I was so stuff-"

While the conversation was weirdly fascinating, the young man was glad when two lesbians with a crying baby trooped into the diner, one of the harried mothers flagging him down and inquiring, "You got anything to soothe my little girl? She's teething and has been grizzling for hours from the pain."

Happy that he'd checked what to do in anticipation of Gus sprouting his first tooth, Justin grinned at the dark-haired woman. "I'll grab a cold washcloth," he offered, "and put a crushed ice cube inside."

"Ta, that would be great." The woman smiled gratefully at Justin. 

Thinking of Gus, the blond teen chuckled as he trotted toward the kitchen, where he grabbed a washcloth and an ice cube, dampening the cloth in cold water before crushing the ice. The tyke still had no teeth, which had caused Brian to fret that his son was behind in his development, especially after Dusty commented that her little girl already had three teeth at four months. Brian was only partially mollified when Justin had gone into PSA mode, explaining that some babies got their first tooth at three months, while others remained toothless until they were past their first birthday. 

Dusty chiming in that girls tended to get their teeth earlier than boys hadn't improved Brian's mood. It had taken Justin teasing, rather illogically, that Gus must be a natural born cocksucker - after all it was critical that one's teeth be covered - to get the brunet stud to smile proudly at his son.

"Here," Justin said as he returned to the booth a couple of minutes later with the washcloth. "I can steep some camomile tea if you'd like, and drop in some ice to make it cold. If you dunk the washcloth in that, it should help. I remember my mum doing that with my little sister."

"That's a good idea," the other mother, a blonde, stated. "Camomile can really assuage pain."

"Have you thought about a ‘teething star'?" the teen asked. "I read that the vibration distracts babies from their pain. It's supposed to be better than the rings you put in the fridge or freezer because it's not too cold for the child."

"We were on the way to the store to see what products are on offer," the brunette explained, rocking the baby in her arms, "but decided to duck in here since Chrissy was so fretful."

"Even though our ob-gyn told us that some babies are born with teeth, when that didn't happen with our baby girl, we foolishly didn't prepare for Chrissy's teeth to arrive early. She's barely two months old!" the blonde wailed, looking just as frazzled as her partner.

"Why don't we have a spot to eat, hon?" the brunette suggested. "Chrissy looks to be settling down now. We can relax before we bundle up again and brave the store."

After the women placed their order, Justin started some camomile steeping at the counter, glancing in concern at a rather flushed Deb, who was fanning herself.

"Don't worry, Kiddo. I'm okay," the redhead reassured him. "I was just a tad overwhelmed chatting about DP; that's some racy shit."

"Erm," Justin grinned hugely as he recalled the perturbed expression on the face of St James' principal that afternoon, "speaking of, Dr Perkins looked like he'd been double penetrated today."

"Really?" Deb asked. "What happened? Did that lady detective visit him?"

Geesh, the teenager mused. Debbie cottoned on much more quickly than he had. Then again, he'd given her a pretty big clue that he wasn't privy to as he'd waited outside the headmaster's office. 

"Yeah, Perkins had one of his secretaries collect me from my physics class," Justin shared. "But then, he kept me waiting for, like, half an hour, so I was getting more and more anxious. That it might have to do with the intended visit from Detective Wen didn't even occur to me."

"He probably had to change his pants," Deb opined, smiling in malicious satisfaction. "With the way his hands must've been shaking, it probably took forever to accomplish the task."

Giggling at that visual, the teen resumed, "After Jerkins finally opened his door, he was all false geniality, prating on and on about how St James is fair toward all the students, that he was always there for me, yadda yadda yadda. He tried to twist everything, so it seemed like I'd ‘tattled' about some minor incident that was hardly worth mentioning. Really, though," Justin snickered, "it just made me want to laugh, the way he was scrambling to cover his arse."

"Hypocritical jackass," Deb fumed. "He's the one who threatened you with reporting the torched locker to the fuzz. I bet the detective put him in his place, though. She sounds downright scary."

"I mean, I knew she would," the teen disclosed cheekily. "She has a resting murder face if I ever saw one."

"Serves Jerkins right that she put the ‘fear of Wen' into him," the fiery waitress chortled.

Justin shook his head, laughing with her. "I hope she never hears us talking about her like this," he gasped. "I'd probably have to change my pants too."

Debbie smirked at him before asking, "So how'd things end up? You got yourself a new locker, right?"

"Nah," Justin shrugged philosophically. "Not that I care. Frau Rose, the librarian, is really cool about letting me leave books with her if I want to. Plus, not using the lockers makes it easier to avoid Hobbs and his cronies; they like to hang out there and bully unsuspecting students."

Debbie frowned at him like she wasn't entirely happy, but when she didn't say anything, the blond disclosed, "The last thing the headmaster said was that he'd appreciate it if my friends didn't harass him the next time."

Arms akimbo, her eyebrows rising almost to her hairline, the redhead asked incredulously, "He anticipates a ‘next time'? Doesn't he know that would mean another visit from Detective Wen?"

"If he'd made that correlation," Justin chuckled wryly, "he never would've said that. No way does he want another visit from Stone Face Wen."

"Maybe the man does have a mite of common sense," Debbie guffawed. Sobering, she then stared at the teen, her face earnest. "Promise me, Sunshine, that you won't wait to report any other incidents, even if it does seem like it's tattling. I don't want anything to happen to you, hear? I want you safe. I want you around for a long time."

Suddenly, Justin had to blink away tears. He couldn't believe how lucky he was to have such a great surrogate mother. Impulsively, he planted a kiss on her cheek before pretending to wipe away lipstick, as Debs had often done with him.

"You scamp," the redhead teased fondly, voice a little choked up. Swatting at him with a dish towel, she ordered, "Back to work with you!"

At the loft, Cynthia, who'd apparently cleared away the remnants of their lunch while Brian spoke with Melanie, reported, "Everything's arranged with DC Mullins. He and his foreman will meet Ted at the bathhouse tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. They'll inspect the place, and then Mr Mullins will provide a cost estimate and a time frame for the remodel."

"You spoke with Hanson?" Brian inquired of Ted.

"The man was practically crying, he was so ecstatic to hear from me," Theodore disclosed. "When I explained that there was only a sliver of a chance that you'd decide to invest in the property, he kept repeating, "Just tell me what I can do. I'll make you a deal you can't refuse."

The adman and the accountant exchanged shark-like grins.

"Does that mean..." Cynthia trailed off, raising an interrogative eyebrow.

"You betcha," Ted gleefully responded. "We can drop our offer some more. Another five to ten thou, I reckon."

"We're going to need more staff," the exhilarated but weary blonde woman declared once they'd settled on lowering their bid by an additional eight grand.

"Soon," Ted concurred, raising his arms and stretching them above his head, "or we won't be able to keep up with everything."

"Contact Gertrude, your friend in Ryder's accounting department," Brian directed Cynthia. "Sound her out about whether she'd be interested in working for me and when she'd be able to start. Make sure she'll keep mum, though; I don't want Marty to get wind of our plans."

"I'll give Bethany a ring this evening," the blonde promised. "Maybe we can meet somewhere for a drink."

"Better warn her that she'll be a jack of all trades for a while," Brian interjected.

"Mmm," Cynthia slyly suggested, "I'll just charge a box of Godiva chocolates to your AmEx and give it to her as an inducement."

"Buy a box for me too, would you?" Ted requested. "I'm not above being induced."

"Too much chocolate will make you fat," Brian cautioned.

"You can just work out on the treadmill for an extra hour," the blonde airily dismissed the adman's warning, "like Brian did for the five pieces he snatched and gobbled down from my last box."

"It was the vigorous, hour-long fuck afterward with the guy on the neighbouring treadmill that really did the trick," the stud proclaimed. 

"No problemo," Ted countered, his brown eyes glinting devilishly. "I'll have Ben devise a workout regime."

"Don't forget to ask about that cousin," Cyn interjected. "I want a workout partner too."

"You know, boss, an incentive that would be even better than chocolate," the accountant chuckled when Cynthia shot a shocked look at him, "would be us acquiring shares in your company."

"Wow," the stunned blonde added her two cents, "you're right. That would be a great incentive. You could offer that option to all new employees. Not that I intend to do without chocolate," she added with a smirk.

"I'm willing to consider it," Brian allowed, "but only for the two of you. Now, let's concentrate on how much time we'll need before we can realistically open for business."

"I'll add to the list of things that need doing, and plug the tasks into our joint calendar," the blonde offered.

"Assuming that our bid is accepted by the current owners," the adman mused, "the opening date is contingent on DC's assessment of the bathhouse building - whether it's structurally sound and how long it will take to complete the renovations. If at all possible, I'd like to throw open the doors on the second of January, in conjunction with the start of the new year."

Cynthia excitedly proposed, "We could place advertisements in all of the major publications in a lead-up to the grand opening."

"Invite local movers and shakers," Ted suggested. "Even if they aren't on our radar as clients, they'll spread the word about Kinnetik if we knock their socks off at the gala."

"Whoa!" Brian reined in his enthusiastic employees. "We have to decide whether it's even feasible to do everything in one month. Those are good ideas, however, so, Cyn, you'll put together a list of publications and fees to place the ads. Make sure to include Pittsburgh Out."

Turning to the older man, he observed, "You'll assemble that list of bigwigs, Theodore. Skip the virulent homophobes - no point in inviting them to voice their hate and cause trouble. Heck, invite Wertshafter when you hand in your notice. That should soften the blow of losing you as an employee." Brian bit his tongue as soon as he'd uttered those words. If he didn't watch it, he'd be gushing like a lesbian.

"I'm on to you, Bri," Ted claimed, making the adman start. The blond brat had forever been saying that to him; of late, the stud had been thinking he wouldn't mind hearing it again.

"How so?" Brian inquired with feigned nonchalance.

"You dangle something enticing in front of me - no, not that," Theodore chided when his friend waggled his eyebrows. "I meant the compliment, you doofus, which is supposed to keep me from noticing the assignment you're dumping on me."

"You volunteered," Brian defended himself.

"That'll teach me to keep my mouth shut," the older man joked.

"What about a logo and business cards?" Cynthia asked, diverting the advertising exec's attention. "Maybe Justin could design them?"

"Might as well have him do that," Brian assented. "I'm sure the boy'll come up with something classy."

The team talked through their plans for another hour, parcelling out duties. Finally, taking another sip from his AdStud mug, Brian ventured, "We're agreed then? As long as DC and his crew can finish the remodel, we'll be set to open on the second of January."

Both Ted and Cynthia nodded. "Maybe Emmett could cater the gala," the accountant suggested. "He's been talking about how he'd like to get into the party planning business."

"Honeycutt does have flair," Brian acknowledged, "but..." He trailed off, concerned that the flamboyant man might go overboard.

"Talk to him," Ted urged. "He's chock-full of creative ideas, and he has them all meticulously organised. I'm certain he'd come up with something restrained yet provocative to advertise Kinnetik."

It couldn't hurt to do that, Brian decided. Em just might come up with the perfect party to help launch Kinnetik - and generate more business in the process. "Okay, I'll sound him out," the adman said. "If you feel compelled to mention it to him in the meantime, make sure he knows to keep his trap shut."

"For all that he loves a juicy morsel of gossip, Emmett knows how to keep a confidence," Theodore insisted, looking a bit affronted on his friend's behalf.

Brian gave his CFO an equivocal, one-shouldered shrug. While the flaming queen was loyal to his friends, it was best to emphasise that all news about his agency had to be kept on the down-low. That was far more important than Emmett's feelings getting a little bruised.

Glancing at his watch, Ted yelped, "I've lost track of the time again. I'd better get going since Wertshafter is expecting me."

"What do you say we call it a day, boss?" Cynthia asked. "All the numbers in these spreadsheets are starting to run together. Plus," she held up Brian's AmEx, "I have to select just the right box of chocolates for Bethany's inducement. That will take a while."

"It can't possibly take long to grab a box of Hershey's," Brian teased.

Cynthia sniffed dismissively. "As if you'd want an employee who could be wooed with dime a dozen chocolates."

"Yeah, Bri," the older man chimed in as he slipped on his coat. "Admit it. You're a label queen with chocolates too."

Ignoring his rambunctious friends, Brian helpfully slid open the door to the loft, motioning them out.

Ted, however, stopped with one foot over the door sill. "You know," he chuckled, "I've just realised that I never gave you an answer in regard to working for you."

Brian raised an eyebrow. That couldn't be right.

"Really?" Cynthia inquired from the lift, where she was holding the grate open.

"I told you I'd think about it," the accountant remembered, "and then I took off the past two days to help you out."

"It's too late for you to change your mind, Theodore." Brian smirked, resting a palm against the man's back and pushing him into the hallway. "We shook on it. So go be a good little accountant and hand in your notice to Wertshafter." The adman closed the door, shutting out his friends' laughter, busily strategising how he'd approach Justin.

Later in the day, Brian sauntered into the diner, casually looking around for the blond teen. He'd changed into an outfit that made him look even hotter than usual - not an easy feat since he was always drool-worthy, the stud reminded himself. Although he was convinced that Justin would jump at the chance for an all-night fuckathon, he figured it was a good idea to hedge his bets. He'd therefore chosen an outfit that had made it impossible for the lad to tear his eyes away from Brian in the past - a black-on-black Armani ensemble of hip-hugging jeans and a sleeveless, buttoned shirt that showed off his toned arms. Not that he intended to sit around with bare arms exposed for long - it was too fucking cold for that - but once he'd gotten the teen's attention, he planned to slip a black sweater over the shirt.

The brunet slowly shucked his coat, scarf, and gloves, waiting for Justin to appear. Dammit, he thought, the brat must be in the kitchen. Brian settled into a booth across from the counter, stretching his arms along the banquette. Goosebumps pebbled on his bare skin, and he gritted his teeth, barely restraining himself from grabbing his jumper and immediately donning it.

"Have you lost your marbles?" a woman screeched.

Brian winced. Deb's less than dulcet voice wasn't the one he'd hoped to hear.

The redhead popped her gum, poking the arm nearest her. "Even with the heat on, it's hardly the Sahara in here, buster. Why're you half naked?"

"It doesn't bother me," Brian lied.

"Uh-huh," Debbie cackled, one red talon poking him again. "That's why you're all over goose pimples. Looks to me like your teeth are almost chattering."

Glaring at the interfering woman, Brian clenched his teeth just to be sure he wouldn't prove her right.

"Hey, Sunshine," Debs called as the teen emerged from the kitchen, "bring this moron a cup of coffee, wouldya? He's about to get frostbite; the cold has already affected his brain."

The blond jogged over with the carafe of coffee, a cup and saucer, and a spoon. "Are you okay?" Justin asked. "You look half frozen."

The adman wanted to bang his head on the table. This wasn't going how he'd planned. He quickly dumped sugar into the cup, which Justin promptly filled, eyeing him in concern as he took a sip. 

Apparently not noticing the toned arms so tantalisingly on display, the teenager suggested, "Why don't you drape your coat over your shoulders? That'll help you warm up." He reached for the garment as though the brunet were too infirm to do that for himself, uncovering Brian's sweater in the process. "Oh, this is even better. Here you go," he said, holding out the garment.

The brunet stud wanted to make a quip about using Justin to warm himself, but he couldn't do that with Debbie hovering over him. She'd immediately suspect he had ulterior motives. Donning his jumper, he briskly ran his hands up and down his arms. Fuck. That did feel better. 

Tipping his chin at the waitress, he sought for a way to distract her and take advantage of the temporary lull, before the dinner crowd came streaming in. He settled on, "I think Fahad's looking for you, Debs."

"Hmm?" the redhead responded. "Can't be. The Finn's on duty tonight."

Shit. Wrong cook. Making a mental note to order fish if he decided to eat something, Brian chose a safe subject that should keep the teenager talking to him, offering, "I appreciated your tip about the bathhouse, Justin."

The blond's demurral, "It's not really me that-" was overridden by Debbie exclaiming, "You want the bathhouse for your agency, then? Sunshine told me about Dr Dave stopping by," as she slid into the booth across from Brian.

The advertising exec made a shushing motion, not wanting any of the other diners to overhear. Fortunately, there was no one seated nearby. "Yeah, it's just what I was looking for," he replied. "But it's not in the bag yet, so I don't want anyone to queer the deal."

"Queer the deal!" the redhead guffawed, while Justin giggled. "Good one, Brian."

The brunet stud realised the inquisitive woman wasn't going to budge anytime soon, leaving him to persuade Justin to come over for a night-long fuck. He'd have to throttle his impatience and wait for a better opportunity. In the meantime, it wouldn't hurt his cause to show a bit of genuine concern for the boy, so he probed, "You didn't go over to the bathhouse by yourself, did you? That stalker could have been following you."

"Erm, I thought you'd have heard," the blond revealed, "there was no stalker. It was just-"

"What the fuck!" Brian barked in irritation, interrupting him. "Why didn't someone tell me?"

The lad looked quite abashed, clearly getting Brian's message that he should have informed the older man.

"Don't burst your britches," Debbie chided. "Sunshine just found out a couple days ago from Detective Horvath. It's not the kid's fault that the silly, gossiping queens in this burg fabricated the whole thing, or that they haven't spread the word that there was no stalker."

Brian grunted, not particularly mollified, even though he knew the rumour mongers wouldn't be titillated by such a tame resolution and probably wouldn't disseminate the news anytime soon. 

His irritation eased a trifle when Deb hoisted herself up and left the booth. Snatching his chance, the adman opened his mouth to invite the teen over to the loft, but then the waitress urged, "Shake a leg, Sunshine. Here comes the hungry horde. My shift's just about over, but I'll help you take orders until Kiki turns up. She should be here any minute."

The adman groaned when saw that Michael, Dr Dave, Emmett, and Ted formed part of the horde. His opportunity to talk to the teen was lost for now, since he didn't want them to overhear. He wasn't ready to give up though; if nothing else, he could offer Justin a lift home at the end of his shift, taking him to the loft instead of to Debbie's.

Brian was pleasantly surprised when Michael didn't crowd into the booth beside him; instead, his friend continued to clutch his boyfriend's arm, beaming up at the doc as they seated themselves opposite him. He really had made a smart move, the adman congratulated himself again, reconnecting the two men. After a few pointers from Brian, the chiropractor was clearly making Michael happy, and he also seemed to be providing a good role model for the short brunet. His childhood friend did best, he reflected, with someone to give him a bit of direction.

Without bothering with a greeting, Emmett slid in beside Brian, while Ted squeezed in next to Michael. The tall queen enthused, "Did you see the specials? They have crab cakes!"

"Real crab?" Brian probed. If that proved to be the case, he just might indulge.

"Dunno. Let's find out," the flamboyant man proposed, calling, "Yoo-hoo, Baby!"

Just finished with jotting down an order for another table of new arrivals, the blond teen hustled over to their booth. "Hey, guys," he greeted them, flipping his pad to a new page. "You already know what you want?"

"First, I'll take a hello kiss," Em purred, tugging on Justin's arm until the lad obligingly bent over, and bussing him on the lips.

Brian scowled. No one but him should be kissing the blond brat. "Quit pawing at the kid, Honeycutt!" he demanded.

Emmett rolled his eyes, mocking, "Whatever, Bri. No need to-"

Defusing the imminent spat, Ted hastily inserted, "We were wondering if the crab cakes are made from real crab."

"They are," Justin instantly responded, his eyes lighting up. "No whitefish. And the crab's really good."

"That's what I'll have then," Emmett announced, "with a side order of fries and a Dr Pepper to drink."

Ted ordered the same, while Dr Dave and Brian opted for a healthier side, a green salad, and sparkling water to drink. Brian knew the greens would likely be wilted, but it was still a better choice than fattening fries.

Scrunching up his nose in distaste, Michael asserted, "I don't know how you all can eat fish. I'll stick with a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke."

"Uh, crab isn't fish," Justin said. "It's-"

"Yes it is," the little brunet insisted, folding his arms across his chest. "It's from the sea. Everything that comes out of that salty water is fish. And it's slimy!"

"So whales are fish too?" Ted choked out, his eyes dancing with hilarity.

"Yep, really big ones," Michael affirmed.

Fuck, Brian thought, yet another Jessica Simpson moment. "Michael," he cautioned, "the Finnish bloke's manning the cooker tonight, so anything you order is going to taste like fish."

"You know, babycakes," David intervened, "crab really doesn't taste fishy. I think you'd like it."

"I still want a hamburger," Michael maintained, batting his eyes at the doc, "but I'll try a bite of your fish, just for you, honeypie."

The brunet adman couldn't quite suppress a flinch at the latest saccharine pet names. He glanced at Ted, catching the man grimacing in disgust, while Em murmured in his ear, "Where are they getting these from? Some kind of specialised muncher dictionary?"

Although Dr Dave and Michael continued to gaze soulfully into each other's eyes, unaware of the other men's disdain, Emmett's whisper apparently hadn't been all that quiet, Theodore leaning over the table and muttering, "Even lezzies aren't this godawful. Granted, when I stopped by to visit the girls the other day, Lindsay called Gus ‘lambskin', but at least she was addressing a child."

Brian frowned, thinking he'd have to call a halt to that. He didn't want his son to turn into a namby-pamby mama's boy.

But then, Ted continued speaking, "Mel immediately put the kibosh on mawkish endearments, however, declaring that they should call the tyke by his name, so he'd grow up strong and butch."

"And recognise his own name," Brian muttered, sagging in relief and silently thanking the bulldyke for using common sense. He might even show his appreciation somehow, maybe buy her a bottle of Beam to replace the one they'd necked. Not that he'd sample it with her, though; he shuddered at the notion of ever again waking up to the butch lawyer drooling on his chest.

"So," their blond server requested confirmation, "crab cakes for four of you, two with side salads and fizzy water, the other two with fries and Dr Pepper. Plus one cheeseburger with fries and a Coke."

"What're you still doing here?" Michael complained, surfacing from a lingering smooch. "I'm hungry. I thought my burger would be ready by now."

Visibly gritting his teeth, Justin replied, "Now that all of you are sure what you want, I'll go place your orders."

"Wait!" Michael yelled when the teenager was almost to the kitchen pass-through. "Make that a double cheeseburger."

Brian grinned when Justin's stride didn't falter, nor did the lad alter what he'd jotted down before pinning up the orders for the cook to fill. He couldn't blame the lad for ignoring the last-minute adjustment, something Mikey was notorious for. The brunet stud couldn't actually recall a time when his friend had eaten only a single patty, never mind one sans cheese, although he'd been known to order a triple burger instead of a double and to supersize the fries. Where Michael put all that fattening food, Brian had no clue; it wasn't as if he had a bubble butt to rival Justin's. Of late, Michael had looked suspiciously like he was developing love handles, but maybe he was working it off with the doc's assistance... Hurriedly redirecting his thoughts before images of such activity cemented themselves in his brain, he blurted, "Who's your money on to win the long schlong contest?"

The men debated the merits of their favourites, Ted mischievously commenting that if a picture he'd recently seen proved to be unembellished, that man would win hands down. He refused to give into the nelly bottom's entreaties for more information, however, even when Emmett pouted, claiming he'd take the man for a ‘test drive' and report back to the gang.

"Don't worry Em," Theodore quipped, "I'm quite sure the inches were inflated."

Brian stewed in silence, unable to determine how to refute the older man's fallacy without revealing that he was the subject of the picture, and that he'd been the first to purchase one of Justin's masterpieces.

The gang's heated deliberations were interrupted by the blond artiste delivering their meals. "What's this?" Brian asked when the teen slid a small dish of fries in front of him, in addition to his crab cakes and salad greens. "I don't eat grease."

"I thought I'd spare Em having you filch from his plate," Justin teased.

The stud's huffed, "I'd never!" was drowned out by his friends' laughter, not even Michael coming to his defence.

It was Brian's turn to smirk when, seconds later, Michael issued a plaintive, "Why's my cheeseburger so skimpy?" their blond waiter feigning not to have heard him.

Long after the five men had polished off their food, Justin, who was nearing the end of his shift, stopped by their table one last time with the carafe of coffee, in case anyone wanted a refill. "You guys heading over to Woody's?" he asked congenially.

"Trying to get rid of us, Sunshine?" Brian snarked as he pushed his cup closer to the teen.

"Uh, no, just making conversation," the teenager stuttered, taken aback by the bite to his ex-lover's tone. What bug had crawled up Brian's ass since he'd thanked him for his help with the bathhouse? the lad wondered. 

"Let's leave the muppet to work on his social skills," Michael sneered dismissively, "and play a couple rounds of pool. I bet my fluffernutter and I can beat you and either Ted or Emmett."

Justin's eyebrows rose in astonishment. He'd never heard ‘fluffernutter' used that way.

"Are you comparing Dr Dave to a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich?" Em inquired, coughing, the teen surmised, to disguise a laugh.

"Yeah!" Michael bounced in his seat. "He's a pale tan on the outside and crea-"

"Honeybun," the chiropractor interceded, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek, "that's better kept between us, don't you think?"

Please, Justin begged in his mind. Please don't share.

Michael's slight moue of disappointment became a full-fledged pout when Brian declared, "I'm fine where I am, Mikey. But the rest of you should go ahead. You can demonstrate your newly acquired skills to ‘Temmett.'

"No." Michael slouched down in his seat. "We'll stay and keep you company."

"As will I, for a while at least," Ted announced, winking at Brian. "My boss cracks the whip early in the morning, so I'm going to pass on Woody's tonight."

"Oh pooh," Emmett declared. "You're all turning into a bunch of fuddy-duddies, but I'll stay with you until it's time to head to Babylon."

"Hey up, Jus," Harry called as he dashed into the diner, brushing off a layer of snow. "Soz. I left home in plenty of time, but màu d‘o to doesn't handle the icy streets very well."

Taking in his colleague's dishevelment and wondering for the umpteenth time what màu d‘o to stood for - Harry looked rather embarrassed and refused to translate when he'd asked - Justin teased, "You need to trade in your moped for something more rugged. What's that make - the third time this week the red beast has dumped you on your keister?"

Right as Harry opened his mouth to defend his beloved motorbike, the bell over the door jangled again, Daphne breezing into the diner this time. "I'm not late, am I?" she asked, glancing at the wall clock. "Fifteen minutes doesn't count," she contended, before Justin could say a word.

"Just don't use that excuse on Dickhead," Justin warned, as Daph settled into the only empty booth, right behind the one where the gang was seated.

"I wouldn't dare," the girl agreed. "I can't afford any more demerits. C'mon, Jus," she urged, "we have a shitload of material to cover if I'm going to raise my grades in both calculus and physics."

Brian's and Ted's coffee topped up - everyone else had passed on a refill - the blond lad carried the carafe over to the counter, poured cups for himself and Daphne, and pulled his apron over his head. With a cheeky smile, he tossed the pinny to Harry. "Hang that up for me, would you?" he asked. "And bring us a couple of servings of crab cakes as soon as the Finn has more ready."

"Crab cakes?" the Asian waiter tossed over his shoulder as he hurried toward the kitchen. "First time we've had those in an age. I may have to save them all for myself."

"Shall we start with physics?" Justin proposed, nudging Daphne over on the seat and handing her one of the coffees. "We haven't tackled that one yet."

"Sure," the girl agreed, hauling the heavy textbook out of her backpack and letting it drop onto the table with a thud. "Oh," she said, opening her notebook, "here's the new assignment and your worksheet that we went over in class today." 

The blond turned the paper over and couldn't find a single mark.

"You could've made one mistake, you know, Jus," Daph responded to his quizzical expression. 

With a smug smile, Justin averred, "There'd be no fun in that."

"No fun. Right." Daphne shook her head in fond exasperation. "Sometimes I think you live on a different planet. I mean, look at this," she despaired, showing him her own worksheet, which was a jumble of scribbles and scratched-out answers.

"You're usually on Planet Brainiac with me," the boy reminded her, "with your own perfect score."

For the next forty minutes, the two teens pored over the worksheet, addressing the areas where Daph was having difficulty. 

"Fresh crab cakes," Harry broke into their deliberations, "piping hot from the stove." He waited for them to shove aside their coursework before depositing the steaming patties in front of them, along with a large bowl of onion rings and two ice-cold Cokes. 

"Thank fuck," Daph sighed. "My head hurts."

"This'll keep your brain cells churning," Harry assured her.

"Ta," Justin thanked his friend, who bustled back to the kitchen window to pick up another order.

Daphne dived into the food right away, inhaling a large bite of crab cake and moaning, "So good. Will these be a regular menu item?"

"Dunno," the blond shrugged. "But I'm going to ask Debbie. Her shift ended before these were added to tonight's specials."

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, while they ploughed their way through the repast. "I can't believe I forgot to ask," Daph suddenly exclaimed, "after worrying all through physics. What happened with Jerkins? Why'd he yank you out of class?"

"What?" Emmett squawked from the next booth, startling Justin, who, intent on helping Daphne, had actually forgotten that Brian and the rest of the gang were there.

"That do-nothing jerk pulled you out of class?" the queen continued, his voice rising in pitch.

As Justin repeated what he'd told Debbie not long ago, he noticed Brian's eyes were riveted on him and that he was scowling. Geesh, he speculated, was the brunet pissed at him all over again, just because he hadn't been the first to hear about the meeting with Perkins? He was beginning to feel a bit upset with Brian in return. They weren't together; he wasn't obliged to share the details of his life with the man. 

Focusing on the tale he was relating, Justin abruptly started laughing. "I just realised that I didn't utter one word the entire time I was in Jerkins' office."

"He never apologised?" Michael inquired in consternation.

"Nope," the blond teen verified. "He just talked at me for at least ten minutes."

"What a prick," Michael denounced the headmaster.

Surprised by the short brunet's show of sympathy, Justin could only nod, along with Daphne and the other men. 

"The boy is a fount of information today," Brian drawled in a voice that didn't sound as indifferent as he'd probably intended. "Turns out the brat doesn't have a stalker."

"Stalker?" Daphne queried sharply, punching Justin in the arm. "You thought you had a stalker? You could have been in danger! Why didn't you tell me?"

Rubbing at his arm - his bestie packed quite a punch for someone so small - Justin related the tale of the mattress auction and how it seemed he might've acquired a stalker.

"I talked to Todd," Em elucidated, "but he couldn't remember where he heard the bit about the purchaser fancying Justin, only that it was probably from a couple of different guys."

"And you didn't tell me because?" the irate girl demanded of her friend.

From the corner of his eye, the blond noted that Brian was now smirking at him, evidently pleased by Daphne's reaction. "Uh, I didn't want to worry you," Justin attempted to justify himself. When her glower didn't diminish, he continued, "Plus I was distracted by the terrible weather on Monday, the results of our calculus test, and..." After pausing for a moment, he finished, "...hunger pangs during lunch."

Daphne's lips twitched at his final excuse, but she remained stern. "You should've called me on Thanksgiving, Jus, after you found out about the stalker. Think how pissed off you'd be if I'd left you out of the loop about something so critical."

"Sorry," the boy apologised. "You're right. I'd be livid."

"I'll forgive you for forgetting to tell me on Monday. Those hunger pangs did drive pretty much everything else out of our heads." his friend teased as she polished off a second crab cake. "So how'd you find out there wasn't actually a stalker?"

"Detective Horvath" - he couldn't bring himself to casually refer to the man as ‘Carl' in front of everyone - told me on Monday that it was entirely the result of wild, unfounded gossip. I was teed off at first, since I couldn't go out on my own for days, but now it sounds more like an amusing story."

"If I'd known, I wouldn't have let you out of my sight," Daphne asserted. "You got off light, Jus."

Justin shuddered as he remembered how freaked out he'd been.

"Ehm," a flustered Emmett interposed, "I'm sorry I helped spread that canard, Baby."

Michael frowned in confusion and asked loudly, "Why would you care about spreading a duck?"

"Uh?" Emmett replied, everyone else looking equally bewildered. "What duck?"

"You know," Michael prompted. "A big duck, like the Canard cruise ship."

Laughing hysterically, Emmett choked out, "A canard is not a duck, sweetie."

"And the name of the cruise line is Cunard," Ted enunciated precisely, "not canard. Anyhow, why would you think a canard is a duck?"

Justin noticed that not only were he, the guys, and Daphne glancing inquiringly at Michael, so were patrons at nearby tables.

The short brunet squirmed in his seat, and his brow furrowing in perplexity, he turned to David. Again mispronouncing the word, he asked, "Don't you think ‘cunard' sounds like a duck?"

"Sure, Honeybun," the doc replied, sounding dead serious. "It's a logical word association."

Christ, Justin mused, Dr Dave was dumbing himself down to Michael's level.

Relieved, Michael broke out in a giant grin, crowing, "I knew it! You guys need to look in the dictionary. I bet it'll show a ‘cunard' is a male duck!" He jumped up, saying, "I've gotta tinkle; I'll be right back."

"Tinkle?" a queen at a nearby table questioned in disbelief. "How old is he again?"

"That explains all the squirming," Emmett giggled.

"We're trying to eradicate ‘bad words' from our speech," David proudly claimed.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brian drawled insolently.

The blond couldn't see Dr Dave's face, since the man had his back to him and Daphne, but he did hear the bitten-off retort, "You ass-"

The two teenagers giggled, returning to their study session, while the gang hotly debated the usage, efficacy, and relevance of curse words.

About an hour later, Daphne rested her head on her textbook, groaning, "I don't think I can handle any more, Jus. Information overload."

"You're doing great," the blond lad encouraged his friend. "I'll just grab a couple lemon bars; a sugar boost should do the trick to get us through the last couple of problems from today's assignment."

Justin had been so engrossed in helping his friend complete the new homework assignment - he thought it was pretty easy, although he knew better than to mention it - that he was startled to find the gang still firmly planted in the neighbouring booth. What the heck was up with that? the teen puzzled. From what he could ascertain, the men had returned to the topic of a name for Brian's agency, with Michael again lobbying, loudly, for TopAd. The blond was itching to find out whether the adman had decided to go with his proposed name, but he refused to ask.

He was surprised when Daph didn't immediately scarf down the sugary morsel that he'd placed in front of her. Instead, she picked at one edge, seeming to dither about something. "Uh," the flustered girl suddenly blurted, "I dumped Glenn today."

"That's good?" Justin half-stated, half-asked. "As long as it's something you wanted to do anyways."

"Erm, yeah, he was forever pressuring me to go all the way," Daphne revealed.

"Good," Justin said firmly. "The choice should absolutely be yours."

"Uh, about that," the girl forged ahead, cheeks pink, "would you be my first?"

Flabbergasted, the teen could only stare in shock for a moment, wishing that he'd phrased his previous statement a little differently. While he fumbled for a response that wouldn't hurt his bestie's feelings, he glanced at the adjacent booth, where, fortunately, everyone still appeared to be involved in a ‘name that agency' discussion. He was certain neither he nor Daphne would want any of the men to overhear this conversation.

"Daph," he gently declined, "I'm flattered, but I'm not the right person. You should have sex for the first time with a guy you're in love with."

"But," his friend protested, "there's no way you were in love with Brian that first night. Infatuated... maybe, but not in love."

The lad could feel himself flushing as he acknowledged, "No, not right away. At first, it was nine-tenths lust... and one tenth something else. I like to think that one tenth was love. I was nervous as all get out, but Brian was really sweet in the way he picked me up, for all that he was high on E." Justin peeked at the other booth again, verifying that the gang was occupied. He could just imagine his former lover's reaction to being called ‘sweet'.

Daphne was gazing at him with stars in her eyes as he resumed, "I mean, sure, he teased me about the clubs I was supposedly checking out, but he could've been really cruel about it. Instead, he made it clear that he thought I was hot and that he wanted to fuck me."

"You don't want to fuck me?" the girl asked, the hurt expression Justin had been dreading settling over her face.

"Hey," Justin cajoled, bumping her shoulder with his own, "I'm gay, remember? I could probably get it up, but that's not the same as being into it."

Daphne giggled a little, before wistfully commenting, "If you weren't gay..."

"I'd have you in bed so fast, you wouldn't know what hit you," Justin assured her. "The bloke you do have sex with, though, should be someone who will want to have sex with you more than once. He should make you feel hot, like Brian did for me."

His bestie heaved a sigh. "Well, that's definitely not Glenn. He made me feel more like a handy kewpie doll than someone he desired." 

"Tosser," the blond lad growled. "Fuck him."

"Or not," Daphne laughed, her normal good spirits beginning to return. "I've been a total moron," she declared, "so absorbed with that wanker and fretting about losing my virginity that I've let my grades slide. I'm gonna swear off boys for now, and buckle down and study."

"It won't take you long to improve," Justin asserted, "now that you're applying yourself. Look how much you've caught up on physics in just one session."

Frowning, Daphne bemoaned, "But it's well past ten, and we haven't gotten to calculus at all."

"Your grade on the calculus midterm went from a D- to a C," the blond reminded her, "so you've already made a big leap."

"True," Daphne allowed, "but I've got a long ways to go if I'm going to raise my grade to at least a B- and earn the bonus my folks are dangling in front of me. Flaming heck," she pouted, "I feel like a donkey chasing after a carrot that's just out of reach."

"Just don't start braying," Justin mocked, earning himself an elbow in the side. "Jesus, Daph," he complained, rubbing at the spot, "you're turning me black and blue all over."

"Wuss," the girl accused, elbowing him again.

"Speaking of grades," Justin prompted as he scooted to a safer distance, "who do you think turned up last night?"

"Huh?" Daphne's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What are you on about?"

"Grades," the blond reiterated. "The diner." When her blank look didn't alter, he provided another clue, "tutoring," and finally, "pom-pom girl."

"Sydney?" his friend squealed. "That stuck-up bitch showed up here?" She glanced around, clearly unable to visualise the cheerleader in this setting.

Justin chuckled at his friend's gape-jawed disbelief. "That was pretty much my reaction," he admitted. "In fact, I didn't recognise her at first; she was so out of context. I have to say, though, she handled herself with aplomb, pretending to be unfazed and ordering me to ‘get with the program.'"

"Her usual bossyboots self, then," Daphne inserted with a roll of her eyes.

"This time, I think it was more out of defensiveness than anything else. I couldn't help but admire her for venturing into the diner," the blond teen reflected, "so I told her to take a seat until I was finished with my shift. I figured I could talk with her then and decide whether or not to offer her a bit of help."

"Was she on her best behaviour?" Daph asked cynically. "Since she needed you?"

The lad proceeded to relate what had happened, starting with the make-up tips the cheerleader had given the cosmetically challenged queen. "Ehm," his bestie confessed, "I wouldn't mind a bit of that advice for myself. Even though her attitude sucks, Syd always looks really good."

"You look good to me," Justin declared loyally. "It's not like you ever cake the gunk on or use garish colours."

"Gee, thanks, Jus," his friend wryly replied. "I thought one of the benefits of being a fag hag was that you'd know all about make-up and fashion."

"I think the fashion gene missed me." The lad giggled when Daphne shook her head in vigorous agreement. "You could always talk with Emmett, though."

"Erm." The young woman cast a dubious look toward the flamboyant queen. "Maybe."

"Em has really good taste," Justin assured her. "Better than Sydney, I reckon. He'll make you look smokin' hot."

"I'll think about it," Daphne promised. "Now tell me more about the blonde pom-pom girl."

The boy described how Sydney had blown hot and cold - how elated she was when she'd finally grasped the material, how she ridiculed him for helping her even though she'd showed up the day after he'd jokingly offered to tutor her, how she'd played on his sympathies because she was an ostracised ‘fatty' when she was younger.

"Oh, please," Daph begged, "you didn't fall for that ‘woe is me' garbage, did you? Even if she was telling the truth, carrying a bit of baby weight till you hit puberty doesn't make you a fatso."

"I don't know. She seemed pretty distraught," Justin observed.

"What I think is that she's a clever minx!" his friend stated hotly. "She's in my psych class, a subject none of the other ‘in crowd' are enrolled in, which makes Sydney less reluctant to drop the brainless bimbo act and show her smarts. She's very attentive whenever the instructor talks about how easily people can be manipulated. I think Syd's using that knowledge to manoeuvre you into doing what she wants," Daphne warned.

Scowling, Justin disputed, "I'm not that much of a pushover." Daphne was carrying this psychoanalytic business too far, in his opinion.

"Not usually," his friend agreed, reaching over to give his hand a quick squeeze. "But don't you sometimes wish, deep down, that things would go back to the way they were before you were outed? To be on the soccer team? To be well liked? To be living at home with your parents and sister?"

The lad opened his mouth to issue an emphatic denial but then paused, before admitting, "Okay, you're right. Sometimes I do wish for all those things. But even if I could, I wouldn't go back into the closet." Sitting up in his seat, Justin addressed the other points Daph had raised. "I bet I can take soccer for my phys ed elective in college. With you for a friend, I'll survive the bullying at St James. As far as family, well, I've made a new one. And I'm going to work out how to see Molly; I don't want her to think I've forgotten about her, that I don't love her."

"Just be careful with the cheerleader," Daphne urged. "As soon as she's improved enough in maths - whatever she considers ‘enough' to be - she'll probably treat you like dirt again."

"I told Syd I wouldn't put up with any more bullshit," Justin insisted. "The minute she reverts to her previous behaviour, I'm done."

"Does that mean you're going to tutor her again?" Daphne asked suspiciously.

"Uh," the boy stammered, "I may have invited her to join us next Wednesday evening."

"What?" his friend squawked. "That's our time to study together!"

"It's just the once," he defended his action. "Then it'll be up to Syd to cram for the final. But," Justin promised, "you and I can study together as often as you want. In fact, why don't you plan to come home with me after the mandatory calculus session on Saturday morning? We could study some more and just hang out."

Daph's countenance brightened. "That sounds like fun, Jus. I can find out what new phrases Vic has taught Harley. Hmm, I wonder if BOB will feature somewhere in there?"

The blond teen groaned at the notion of just what Vic might be priming Harley to say. Before Justin could reply, though, a car horn started blaring outside.

"Geesh," Daphne complained, covering her ears, "who's the jackass?"

"Must be a pissed-off bulldyke," the lad joked, "whose power tools got nicked."

While they were laughing at Justin's sally, a heavy rapping against the window next to their booth caused them to start and glance toward the noise, only to be confronted by Mr Chanders' angry visage.

"Shit!" Daphne cried, "It's my dad. I completely forgot he said he'd be here to pick me up at eleven o'clock on the dot." She hastily stuffed her books into her backpack, slung on her coat, and ran out of the diner, calling over her shoulder, "Later, Jus!"

Despite the girl's anxiety - he knew Daph's father would forgive her before they got home - Justin couldn't stop laughing, envisioning the man decked out as a drag queen.

"Baby," Em's voice intruded on his hysteria, "would you like to share a taxi? We could swing by Deb's before I head to Babylon."

"That's not necessary," Justin declined the offer. "It's only a few blocks. I'll hoof it."

"Nonsense," Ted declared, exiting the booth behind his tall friend. "It's too fucking cold to walk, even a short distance. I live in that direction. I'll give you a lift."

"Ta," the lad shrugged. "That would be great." It really would be nice, he mused, not to slip-slide his way home on the slippery cement, his sneakers providing little traction and the freezing wind cutting through his flimsy jacket the entire way.

The teen waved a cheerful farewell to the other boys before following Ted out of the diner, needing only a few steps to reach the man's sedan, which was parked directly in front of the eatery. As he slid into the passenger seat, he wondered why Brian had been scowling so fiercely at him. There was no way the brunet had been waiting to give him a ride, and he shouldn't any longer be in a snit about the fake stalker. Not his problem, Justin decided, shrugging off his ex's moodiness.

"Wow, you're really good at driving in these conditions," the blond boy remarked as Ted competently manoeuvred his way toward Deb's house, maintaining a steady speed and braking without skidding when they reached a stoplight.

"Lots of practice," Ted informed him. "I had to get to and from Carnegie Mellon somehow during my student days."

"I was forever pestering my folks about practicing in snowy weather, but they always fobbed me off with one excuse or another." Justin heaved a resigned sigh.

"Maybe I could give you a lesson sometime," the brunet suggested.

"You're serious?" Justin asked, blinking in surprise. "You'd let me drive your Mercedes?"

"Sure," Ted replied easily, before quirking an eyebrow and inquiring, "You know it's a Mercedes?"

That was a strange question, the blond thought. "Well, duh," he replied, "even without the prominent star emblem, it's got the classic lines of a Mercedes Benz."

The older man chuckled. "You'd be surprised who can't tell a Benz from, say, a Chrysler."

Must be someone he didn't know, Justin decided. None of the gang would be that clueless.

"Anyway," Ted continued, "we all have to learn sometime. I doubt you'll have a fender bender, but even if you do, that's what insurance is for."

"Maybe during my winter break?" the blond inquired hopefully.

"Absolutely. Just remind me," the older man said as he pulled up in front of Debbie's house.

"I will!" Justin responded enthusiastically. Beaming at Ted, he reached out and gave the man a quick hug before opening the car door. "Thanks for the lift."

"Anytime," Ted assured the teen, smiling back at him.

The blond jogged up the walkway, unlocked the door, and beelined for the kitchen, where he made himself a midnight snack - a roast beef sarnie. After carrying the sandwich and a glass of milk over to the table, he pulled his sketch pad out of his rucksack and began drawing in between bites of roast beef.

Ten minutes later, he sat back, grinning at the rough sketch of how he imagined the meeting between Wen and Jerkins to have gone. He'd like to turn it into a series of caricatures, he mused, and give them to her. He wouldn't want to offend the detective, however, so he decided to sound out Carl about the idea beforehand.

Suddenly exhausted after the long day, the teen quickly rinsed the dishes before hotfooting it upstairs. He'd barely shucked his clothes when he fell on the bed, dragging the covers over himself, one bare leg hanging over the side.