Brian

“Believe me Matt, if I had a choice, the client would win this one. But I don’t.”

Period, full stop, no explanation forthcoming.

“Brian,” Matt leans forward in his chair, spreading his arms across his polished desk top, “I need you to take care of this, it’s too important to fob off on a junior exec.”

“I’m a junior exec.”

“In title only, Brian, you must be aware of that. And if I didn’t have to fly to Denver on Sunday for a family thing, I’d do it myself.”

I turn back from the window where I was staring out at the LA skyline and move to stand in front of Bradford’s desk. Under normal circumstances I’d follow up on Matt’s teasing ‘title only’ throwaway line; instead I hear myself saying, “I have a family thing on Sunday also.”

“What?” Matt looks perplexed. “I thought you didn’t have family in California.”

“Visitors. From home.” I close my lips around the words, damned if I’m going to explain.

“They’ll understand. This is business.”

“Matt.” I sigh, shake my head, then slump down in one of the chairs facing Matt’s enormous desk. “Matt, if my grandmother were on her deathbed, I’d walk away to take care of a client, believe me. But. . . this is different.”

Damn it, I’ve piqued Bradford’s interest, I see a gleam in his eyes and he leans further forward over the desk, lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Tell me,” he breathes.

“No.”

Unexpectedly, Matt laughs. “My God,” he exclaims, “The only person in the world who could get me so wound up when I was your age was my mother-in-law.”

Fuck.

I keep my face impassive, but somehow Matt sees through me. “I’m right, then?” he demands, his smile growing wider.

“I’m not married,” I remind him.

“Your partner’s mother?”

I sigh deeply, glance away at the window, thinking seriously of throwing myself through the glass and dropping thirty stories to the ground. I’d almost rather do that than turn to look Bradford in the eye and admit, “Yeah.”

Bradford throws back his head and laughs. Maybe I’ll grab the lapels of his Armani suit and take him with me through the glass window.

“It’s nice to know that even gay guys are scared of their in-laws,” he gloats. “They’re arriving on Sunday?”

“Saturday. Tomorrow.”

“Staying with you?”

“No. No.” I repress a shudder.

“Doesn’t approve of you, huh? The mother?”

“I don’t discuss my personal life,” I remind him brusquely, getting to my feet. “And I think Patrick Mulcahey can handle the client. He may be a junior exec but he’s got the makings. I could brief him this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Unexpectedly Bradford capitulates. “But I’m still holding you responsible for this account. If Mulcahey fucks up, it’s on your head.”

I nod agreement and stand up to go, but Matt calls “Brian,” and I turn, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Good luck with your mother-in-law!” I just frown and get the fuck out of his office, I can hear the bastard laughing as the door closes behind me.

I could tell Matt Bradford that (a) I am not fucking scared of Jennifer Taylor, (b) I am not fucking intimidated by the woman, and (c) I don’t give a fuck that she hates me. But despite what people think of me, I’ve always been honest. So to myself at least, I have to admit to (d), all of the above.



Justin

I was sure Brian would come up with an excuse why he couldn’t go to the airport with me to meet Mom’s flight, but I was wrong and I feel vaguely ashamed of myself for misjudging him. He's quiet on the drive to the airport, I dared to ask him if anything was wrong but he just said he's thinking about a client problem. We park and go into the airport's waiting area and then I push aside worries about Brian and let myself feel the excitement of seeing my mom again after all this time.

On the arrivals monitor we discover that Mom’s flight arrived a few minutes early so we hurry to the baggage area and at first, I can’t see her in the crowd but then I do and I rush forward and grab onto her and hug her so tight!

“Justin!” She’s hugging me back and I see tears in her eyes. “Justin, sweetheart, I’ve missed you so much!”

“Me too, Mom!”

Then I see her look over my shoulder and I feel her pull back, pull out of my arms. “Hello, Brian,” she says pleasantly, smiling that not-real smile she pastes on her face whenever she’s around him.

“Hello, Jennifer,” he says, also smiling politely.

Fuck.



Brian

The first glance tells me that Jennifer Taylor still hates me. Well, what changed from the time we left Pittsburgh till now? I’m still corrupting her only son.

It was my fault, from her point of view (and Christ, even after all this time, from my own) that Justin got bashed. He’s alienated from his father partly because of me. I’m sure she blames me for Justin’s suspension from the IFA, and really, who wouldn't? Maybe I couldn’t have stopped Justin’s poster campaign, but I could have pushed him out of Vangard, and the fact that Justin misused his intern position was the real cause of his problems with school officials. And now I’ve dragged him three thousand miles away from his home and his family.

I can hardly wait till she sees our Hollywood bed. She’ll take one look at that icon of sexual excess, pull a .45 from her purse and shoot me dead.

"How was your flight?" I can't rise above the mundane when making conversation with this woman.

"Fine," she smiles in my direction but her eyes slide quickly away. "The pilot said we picked up some tail winds and that's why we arrived early." She turns to hug Justin again and I study him, knowing that he's worried about this meeting. He so fucking wants us to like each other, which is why I didn't weasel out of coming to the airport with him this morning. He's smiling too but at least his smile is real, he missed his mother, he's been homesick though he denies it.

Fortunately, the baggage carrousel begins to turn and spit out luggage so we're occupied with capturing Jennifer's suitcase. She points it out and I elbow Justin out of the way to grab it - it's rose tapestry, large and very heavy.

"It's heavy," Jennifer warns me worriedly, "Can't we get one of those luggage carts?"

"Got it." I swing it off the carrousel and turn toward the exit, smiling wryly when I hear Justin assure her,

"It's okay, Brian's very strong."

"It must weigh a ton, I always pack too many clothes."

"Don't worry, he can handle it,'" Justin says eagerly, "He picks me up all the time."

There's dead silence behind me for a moment when Justin hears what he's said, no doubt he believes he's just divulged some dirty little sex secret, then he moves quickly ahead of me to hold open the door and I can see that he's blushing. Silly twat. I slant my eyes at him but he won't look at me, instead, he hangs back and walks with his mother. Jennifer links her arm through his and begins to fill him in on the latest Molly news.

Tuning them out - I have no interest in the activities of a prepubescent girl - I lead the way to the parking lot, stash the suitcase in the jeep's boot and unlock the doors. Justin offers Jennifer the front seat but she declines, then on the ride into the city, Justin hangs over the seat, chattering away and pointing out the sights, though there’s not much of interest in that area.

Jennifer tells us she's staying at the Peninsula and that makes my ears prick up; Bradford and Slate host special out-of-town clients at that hotel, it's one of the most prestigious in Los Angeles. "Good choice," I murmur, wondering to myself how a realtor's income affords this kind of luxury; of course I say nothing.

"Let me check the map." Justin opens the glove box but I tell him there's no need, I know where it's at. In Beverly Hills, not far from Rodeo Drive. Rodeo Drive, just about the most famous designer-label shopping area in the world, a place I haven't permitted myself even to drive through. Yet.

When we arrive at the hotel a bellboy hurries to take the suitcase and escort Jennifer inside; she's already told us she needs a couple hours to unpack and recover from jet-lag - her flight left the Pitts at six this morning. We've arranged to come back about noon and take her to lunch.

After leaving the hotel, we decide to go home for a while; I can get in a couple hours work checking over the draft of a presentation I'm doing for the Masterson Pen execs next week and Justin says he's got homework too. We both sit down at our computers but within half an hour he's pushed back his chair and come over to stand next to me.

"What?" I turn my head to peer up at him.

"Everything okay?" he asks, and when I merely raise my eyebrows he elaborates, "You were so quiet driving home, I just wondered, you know, if everything is okay?"

"Justin, I'm preoccupied thinking about this presentation I need to finish on Monday. Besides, I'm always quiet. When have you ever known me to be noisy?"

That makes him smile. "Sometimes you're noisy in bed."

I push back my chair and stretch out my legs. "You want me to be noisy right now?"

Taking that as an invitation, Justin moves between my open legs and leans his body against me, smiling seductively. Tilting his head to one side, he brings his face close to mine and whispers, "You make the most noise when I'm fucking you."

"That's just screams of agony."

"Liar!"

"It's true," I insist faux-seriously. "Your huge cock's a killer."

He's slipped down to sit on my right leg, wrapping his arms loosely around my neck. "Is that why you hardly ever let me fuck you? Because it hurts?"

Getting fucked is way down on my list of enjoyable sex acts but it's more fun to tease Justin than to explain; besides, he knows it already - we've done almost everything at least once. There's a few things I keep to myself, a few things I don't want Justin to experience yet. I'm not exactly sure why but fuck analysis, I'd rather slide my arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as I can, just to hear him say "Oof!" That always makes me laugh.

Pulling slightly away so he can breathe, Justin gasps, "Wanna make some noise now?"

"Nope." I stand up abruptly, dislodging Justin, making him lose his balance and almost fall to the floor - but I grab onto him quickly and lift him up in my arms, throw him over my shoulder and carry him into the living room. What he told his mom is true, I'm always picking him up. For some reason, it gives me great pleasure to be so much bigger and stronger than he is. Maybe it's a macho thing, a holdover from caveman days. But fuck analyzing THAT, too.

Instead, I say, "I'd rather listen to YOU scream bloody murder," and then gently I set him down on the sofa. He stretches out and makes room for me to crouch above him, I lie down on top of him, resting weight on my elbows so he's not crushed. "Okay?"

"'kay," he agrees breathlessly, one hand sliding under my shirt to caress my back, one hand sliding down beneath the waistband of my jeans.

We lie like that for a few minutes, softly kissing, his hands touching me all over like a blind man reading a Braille book he just can't put down. Slowly I rub my cock against his, heating up the fabric in the crotch of our jeans almost to Fahrenheit 451, or whatever the fuck temperature causes denim to burn. "Let's get naked," he murmurs against my lips.

I shake my head, no, giving him a challenging look. I grab hold of his arms and raise them above his head, then arch my back and begin rubbing my cock against his in earnest. He arches up to meet me, but he's insisting, "Brian, come on!"

"You come on," I counter, "I'm gonna make you ‘come on’ yourself. Gonna make you cream your pants."

"No," he chuffs a breathy laugh, "These are my new black jeans you bought me, I want to wear them to lunch, there's no time to do laundry."

"Spoilsport." But I let go of his hands and rise up to my knees, our hands get busy unfastening each other's button flies. Then I grab his jeans and roughly pull them off him, down over his hips and off his feet, tossing them over my shoulder.

"Brian, they'll get all wrinkled!" he protests, so with a grunt I rise up off him, picking the jeans off the floor and throwing them over a chair, divesting myself of my own clothes while Justin pulls off his shirt. Quickly we're naked and I return to crouch on top of him again.

"Any other requests?" I demand acidly though really I'm laughing inside but I don't let him see it; he always takes advantage of me when I'm in a good mood. The fact that Justin's little seduction scene has blown a couple solid hours of productive work out of the water doesn't stop me from giving in to his desire. And my own. Christ, definitely my own. It's absolutely amazing how hot he gets me, even now - this little one night stand I'm still fucking, three years later.



Justin

I was pretty sure a good fuck would improve Brian's mood and I was right. Afterward we still have some time to kill before picking up Mom so we adjourn to our computers but I'm too restless to concentrate on work, instead, I start surfing the 'net. Brian must be restless too because a few minutes later he leaves his desk and comes over to stand behind me.

"Cruising for tricks?"

I've logged onto a free website with pics of sexy guys. "Just looking."

"Hmm. . . he's pretty hot." Brian points at a photo of a cute young blond in red Speedos.

"Of course you'd pick a teenager."

“Hunh," he snorts, "I’m not into chicken.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re no chicken," he insists. "You never were a chicken.”

“I was just seventeen. And a virgin.”

“You never were a chicken,” he repeats. “You were a fucking barracuda, from day one.”

"You're calling me a FISH?" I pretend to be outraged and he smirks at me.

"Barracuda aren't merely FISH, you twat. They're fucking predators with sharp teeth, relentlessly pursuing their prey."

"Well," I say reasonably, "I caught you, didn't I?"

He frowns. He doesn't like the way this conversation is going. His own fault, he started it.

"Didn't I?"

Brian doesn't answer, just turns away and returns to his computer. When I move to stand beside his chair, he stares at the computer screen. After a moment of silence, he says, "Swim away now, I'm busy."

I can't resist asking, "Got other fish to fry?"

"You're mixing metaphors. Go watch tv. Go draw a picture. I have work to do."

"Okay." I give in graciously, though I can't stop smiling. He won't look at me, so he doesn't have to acknowledge my smile, doesn't have to acknowledge that he lost this round.

My relationship with Brian Kinney is like a never-ending prize fight. We've knocked each other down a few times but somehow we always get up and start sparring again. What he doesn't realize is that I'd stop beating up on him if only he'd acknowledge his real feelings for me. But he's too stubborn to say it, to come right out and say the words. He'll draw pictures on my back, he'll tell people that we're partners, and he's shown me in a million different ways how important I am in his life. But the words won't come.

That's okay. That's more or less okay. I know he loves me, he knows that I know he loves me. What do words matter?



Brian

Jennifer's sitting in the hotel lobby when we return to pick her up. As always she looks cool and beautiful, Justin inherited more than her coloring, he got her good looks too. Thank God he doesn't look like his dad. Well, if he did, I wouldn't be fucking him, would I? We give each other tight meaningless smiles, then she puts her arm around Justin and we walk out of the lobby and get in the jeep.

Justin wanted to take his mom to Cicada for lunch but I convinced him we should go there for dinner instead, and I called a few days ago for reservations. Justin's second choice was Acapulco, an informal Mexican restaurant on La Cienega where we've eaten a couple times, he especially likes their humongous carnitas burritos. Not surprisingly they love him there, he eats like a starving orphan and always leaves a big tip. Usually, when we eat out, I pay the tab and Justin leaves the tip - his idea of course.

Justin has the carnitas with a double side order of guacamole and I have chicken fajitas. Usually, I have a Tecate but I feel the need for something stronger today so I have a couple shots of Beam before the food arrives. We eat and as usual though I forego rice and beans, I'm uncomfortably stuffed afterward. In fact, I'm feeling almost sleepy, so at first, I don't realize that Jennifer is preparing to make some kind of announcement.

"I need to tell you something, Justin," she says, smiling rather nervously. "I wanted to do it in person, not on the phone."

I glance at Justin and he looks - alarmed. I wonder if something's up with his father.

So does Justin. "Dad?" he asks quickly.

"No. No," Jennifer shakes her head and glances at me.

Tossing my napkin on the table, I push back my chair. "I'll step outside, have a smoke," I offer but Jennifer shakes her head again.

"No need for that, Brian, it's not really private. It's not private at all."

"What is it?" Justin demands, his voice rising slightly. I lean a bit sideways and surreptitiously slip my hand into his lap, grip his thigh and give it a gentle pinch. I'm rewarded by seeing him relax slightly. "Mom?"

Jennifer is obviously struggling to find the right words. Finally, she shrugs her shoulders and smiles at Justin. "Sweetheart - I'm seeing somebody."

"Huh?" he asks, "Seeing somebody? Like, a man? You're - you're dating?"

"Yes." Jennifer leans forward and rests her arms on the table, nodding her head. "More than dating actually. We're. . .well, we're engaged to be married."

Justin's speechless and I tighten my grip on his thigh. "Congratulations," I tell Jennifer, "That's great."

She doesn't look at me but keeps staring at Justin. "Honey," she says at last when Justin sits mumchance, "Honey, please be happy for me."

"I am," Justin says, then he repeats stalwartly, "Mom, I am happy for you. I'm just - just surprised. You never said a word to me before."

"I'm sorry, honey," Jennifer tells him earnestly, "I didn't want to say anything until the time was right. And I didn't want to tell you on the phone."

Justin nods okay, then asks, "Who is he? Do I know him?"

"No, I don’t think so. He's a doctor, an orthopedic surgeon, in Pittsburgh. Adrian Champlain introduced us, you remember Adrian?"

"Sure, the Champlains lived on Huntingdon Road, right behind our house."

"Adrian was friends with Rob's first wife. She died a few years ago."

"Oh."

They just sit there for a moment in silence so I ask, "When's the wedding? I know Justin will want to be there with you."

"Oh, sure," Justin sits up straight and pastes on a fake smile. "Of course I'll be there."

I'm not sure how he's taking this news but obviously, he's not terribly thrilled. I couldn't care less if my mother got remarried, but then we don't have a close relationship like these two have.

"We haven't set a date yet." Jennifer's brow is furrowed, she's picking up on Justin's lack of enthusiasm. "I wanted you to meet Rob first. He'll be joining us for dinner tonight."

"What?" Justin's surprised. "He came with you to LA to meet me?"

Jennifer shakes her head no. "Rob's in LA for a conference, it ends today."

That explains the very expensive Peninsula hotel. Jennifer's hooked herself a rich one.

"So," Justin's wadding up his napkin, his face revealing nothing but his agitation obvious, "So, you came to LA to be with him. This doctor. Not to see me."

"Sweetheart, of course, I came to see you!" She leans forward and puts her hand on Justin's arm and squeezes. She's squeezing his arm, I'm squeezing his leg, he must feel like there's tourniquets all over him.

Jennifer insists, "It was just good timing that Rob had to come to this conference, it provided an opportunity for you to meet him."

"You're staying with him? At that hotel?"

"Yes, of course."

Justin's silent for a moment, staring at his wadded up napkin.

"Sweetheart," Jennifer insists earnestly, "I came to LA to see YOU. It was just a lucky chance that Rob was going to be here anyway. A chance for you to meet him."

"Okay." His head is bent, he sighs deeply, then he glances up at his mother. "That's great. I'm happy for you." Justin's squaring his shoulders, he sits up straight and forces a smile. "I'm happy for you, Mom. Really."

There's strained silence for a moment which I break by announcing, "We made dinner reservations for seven-thirty. We'll swing by the hotel about seven to pick you both up."

"Oh, Rob made reservations someplace special," Jennifer says dismissively. "Dinner's going to be his treat."

"No," Justin insists, "We're taking you to dinner. If you're visiting me and Brian, then we're paying for dinner."

I want to tell him it doesn't matter, why should he care who pays for dinner? But obviously Justin's more upset about his mother's announcement than he was letting on - he wants some control over the situation and he's digging in his heels. Naturally, I back him up.

"He's right," I interject, tilting my head and trying to send a shut-up message to Jennifer. "We're taking you - and your fiancé - to Cicada. It's Justin's favorite restaurant."

Jennifer glances at me but refuses to follow my script. "Rob's made arrangements already. Let's not argue about it, please?"

Justin's face is flushed red, he jumps up and tosses his napkin on the table. "Excuse me," he mutters, turning and walking quickly away through the restaurant. He's going to the men's room, or maybe he'll step outside for a cigarette.

Jennifer makes a move as if she's going to go after him, so quickly I say, "Leave him alone for a minute - he just needs to get his bearings. This is all a big surprise to him." And not a happy one, obviously.

"What?" She's angry. "You think you're going to tell me how to handle my own son?"

"He's not a child having a tantrum. You've surprised him with your fait accompli, he needs some time to get used to it, that’s all."

"Oh come off it, Brian," she glares at me. "What do you really know about Justin? I raised him for seventeen years, you've been - you've been playing with him, playing him like a puppet, for what, two years now? Off and on. More off than on, from what I've been told."

Oh no, we're not going there. "I won't discuss our relationship with anyone, not even Justin's mom, but things are different than they used to be. So back off."

"I'm his mother, I'll never 'back off.'"

"You still see Justin as a child, he's not a child, he's a man. He's been a man for a long time now. What you and your husband put him through made him grow up pretty fucking fast."

"What about what YOU put him through, Brian?" she demands.

"Yes," I nod. "Me too. But I treat him like a man now, and you need to do the same." I compress my lips and tell myself to shut up, shut up.

We sit there staring at each other for a moment, then I say more gently, "Jennifer, he's been feeling homesick, despite his denials, and your visit means a lot to him. He'll come around, give him a chance."

She drops her eyes but she isn't ready to give up the fight. "He's homesick because you dragged him three thousand miles away from home."

I don't tell her it was his decision to come; she knows that already. "Children grow up and leave home all the time. Parents need to let them go."

She raises her head and narrows her eyes. "You're not much of a parent, from what I hear," she says quietly, "So what gives you the right to advise ME?"

What can I say to that? Nothing. Not anything.

Jennifer opens her mouth to dig into me again but Justin reappears at the table and he's smiling. It's not a very happy smile but obviously, he's been working on it. "Can we go now?" he suggests pleasantly, "You wanted to see our place, right?"

"Sure honey, of course."

I've already paid the bill so we stand up and follow Justin out the door, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. We're all quiet on the ride home, and once inside the condo, I move to sit down at my computer, ostensibly to check e-mail but really to get out of the way while Justin gives his mother a tour. I'm sure I'll find out later what reaction Jennifer has to our Hollywood sex bed, but I don't want to be there when she sees it. Maybe we should have disguised it as a hot tub after all.



Justin

After I give Mom a tour of our place – and I’m somewhat surprised that she doesn’t comment on our Hollywood bed, but I can’t bring myself to look at her as we walk through the bedroom so I don’t know if she’s shocked or not – we settle on the sofa and talk for a while, about Pittsburgh and family and friends. Debbie sent some lemon bars, which Mom said she put in the hotel mini-bar and forgot to bring today, and everyone else sent greetings and hugs. I don’t ask about Rob and she doesn’t offer any more information about this man she’s going to marry. Later we can talk about it, just not right now.

Brian leaves us alone for awhile, then he saunters over and perches on a chair near the sofa. There’s a lull in the conversation and he uses the opportunity to offer Mom a ride around Hollywood, a guided tour of the sights, something he and I had planned for this weekend visit. But Mom declines, says she’d rather spend a bit longer just chatting and then wants to return to the hotel so she can rest before dinner, she says she didn’t sleep well last night.

After that, we run out of things to say. I’ve noticed before that when you see someone after a long absence, you chatter and chatter for a while, then suddenly it’s as if everything’s been said and conversation grinds to a half. Before the pause can get awkward, Brian asks Mom if she’s ready for the drive back.

When we’re almost at the hotel, I take a deep breath and lean over the seat back. “We’ll pick you up at seven,” I say firmly. “Cicada’s a fancy place so you might want to dress up a little.”

“Justin,” Mom’s voice is plaintive, “Why won’t you let Rob take us all to dinner? He really wants to do this for you. And,” she appends quickly, “For Brian of course.”

I’m getting angry again, I’m gritting my teeth, then I feel Brian’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. “Justin,” he says, “It’s entirely up to you, but remember that we’re going to Aunt Emily’s for dinner tomorrow, so maybe you want to let your mom choose the restaurant for dinner tonight?”

I’d forgotten Sunday dinner at Brian’s aunt and uncle’s house.

“Who’s Aunt Emily?”

“Brian’s aunt and uncle, they live in San Bernardino, they’ve invited us all over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“I didn’t know you had family in California, Brian.”

“Neither did I,” he answers wryly. “We met them a few weeks ago. Uncle Hank helped Justin get his job at the studio.”

"Oh, I forgot to ask about your new job," Mom tells me. As if I didn't notice that she's not very interested in our life in LA. She hasn't asked me anything about my job or school. She hasn't asked Brian about his job either but he doesn't mind. I mind, for my sake but also for his.

But we've reached the hotel so I let it go, I get out and walk Mom into the hotel while Brian waits in the car. I decide to let this Rob take us to dinner, like Brian suggested. I'm not happy about it but I guess I'll live. Joining Brian in the car, I tell him I've agreed to let this guy buy dinner tonight and he starts the car. As we're waiting to pull out of the parking lot, Brian slides his hand between my thighs; no punishment-pinch this time, only a squeeze.

"It'll be okay," he murmurs, and I nod.



Jennifer

Justin's taking the news badly and I'm upset that he's not happy for me. Children never realize the difficulties their parents face, maybe he took it for granted I'd never remarry, that I'd always just be his and Molly's mother and nothing else. I've been married half my life, I enjoy the companionship of a man, just because I'm almost middle-aged, that doesn't mean my life is over.

Justin also doesn't know that my marriage was rocky long before the complications of his being gay added to the family problems. Craig and I hadn't been happy for a long time, though we both decided - without discussion, but still, it was mutual - to stay together for the sake of the children. Craig spent more and more time at work and I got involved in the women's auxiliary at the country club. My life was okay, I loved our children and my beautiful house, things could have continued on that way for a long time, maybe until the children were grown and on their own. But the revelation that Justin was gay, and his involvement with a disreputable older man, blew apart the careful construct of our outwardly happy family, and the pieces simply could not be put back together again.

Friends told me I should have gotten a better divorce settlement from Craig, but what I never told anyone was that Craig threatened to create a scandal around Justin's involvement with Brian, and after my darling son barely escaped being murdered, the heart to fight Craig just went out of me. I didn't want our names smeared in the newspapers, it was easier to accept a smaller settlement, find a job, and begin to rebuild my life alone after the divorce. I still had Molly to care for, and her relationship with her father continued to be a good one. It wasn't my fault that Craig virtually disowned Justin, and Justin - like father like son - deserted me, too. He stayed with Brian instead of coming home, he left me to fend for myself. So now what right does he have to be upset that I'm going to remarry? I try not to feel bitter, but it's hard to believe that children can be so ungrateful.

And Brian. . .Brian sat in that restaurant today frowning at me and telling me how to handle my own son! This man who's at best an occasional father to his own son, this man who has treated Justin like a toy, or like a puppy to pick up for awhile and then put down and walk away again. . . God, he's done that over and over to Justin, and while I don't know all the details, I've heard enough from Debbie to know that Brian's a very damaged man, even his own mother and sister won't have anything to do with him. I know that Brian will hurt my son again, but Justin won't listen to a word against him. I stopped trying a long time ago, eventually, I grew resigned to the relationship. And I try to treat Brian fairly and to be nice to him. But he doesn't make it easy.



Rob

I think I'm prepared for this evening with Jenn's son and his 'mate' but when they enter the hotel lobby where we're seated on a large sofa waiting for them, I take one look at the other man and I can feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Of course, I cover it up, we stand and greet them, Jenn makes the introductions and we all shake hands. Justin's partner - that's how he introduces him - is Brian Kinney. Jenn's already told me that he's in advertising and that he's much older than Justin, but seeing them together is still a surprising experience. Not a very pleasant one; no, not at all.

Brian offers to drive but I explain that I've rented a car for the weekend and I move aside to give the key to the concierge so a boy can bring the car around front. We move outside and make meaningless chat till the car arrives, it's a four-door Mercedes similar to one I have at home. The two of them slide into the back seat and a quick glance in the rearview mirror shows them huddled close together, they're even holding hands, another surprise.

"I've made reservations for L'Orangerie," I say, looking over my shoulder as we wait at a red light. "Do you know it?"

"No," says Justin.

"Yes," says Brian, "I've had a couple client lunches there."

That surprises me, he must be higher placed at his job than I thought. "Who's your employer?" I ask, as the light turns green and the car surges smoothly forward.

"Bradford and Slate."

"Oh really?”

“You know it?” he asks.

“Yes," I answer, surprised again. "They did some work for a friend who opened a cosmetic surgery clinic in LA a couple years ago." George wanted the best and apparently, this agency fit the bill. "He was very pleased with their work," I add. "You're happy there?"

"Yes."

Well, he’s not very forthcoming, but he's gone up a bit in my estimation - he must be good at his job or he wouldn't have been hired by that top-notch agency.

Conversation lags, we're riding along in silence for a few minutes. Another glance in the mirror shows that Brian has put his arm around the boy's shoulders. So Jenn was right, they are lovers, though Justin looks much younger than his years and somehow seeing the two of them together. . .unnerves me. I think Brian knows it - he catches my eye the next time I look in the mirror and he raises a quizzical eyebrow. After that, I keep my eyes on the road.

A twenty slipped into the maitre-d’s hand gets us our table right away without having to kick our heels in the waiting room, we’re seated in a white-silk-covered banquette in a private alcove. Justin sits between Brian and his mother, and since Brian’s right hand and Justin’s left disappear under the thick white tablecloth, I’m guessing they’re holding hands again. Should I be touched? Instead, I’m annoyed. Jenn’s probably oblivious, which is just as well – she’s told me she doesn’t much like Brian and I understand why. His glance is downright supercilious, he slouches in his thousand-dollar suit as he carelessly glances at the menu. He looks up quickly and catches my eye again, damn it, I have to stop looking at him.

Jenn wants a cocktail, she’s partial to mango margaritas, I order a Chivas and Brian asks for a double Jim Beam. A plebian choice but a man’s drink at least, no cosmopolitans for this guy. Justin orders a Coke, he’s underage of course, but when the drinks come and the waiter disappears, Brian picks up his glass, smilingly offers a toast to ‘the happy couple,’ then as we’re drinking he turns and pours half his bourbon into Justin’s Coke glass.

“Brian, no,” Jenn complains, but immediately Justin exclaims, “Christ, Mom, I drink all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Brian corrects him, his mouth curving in a smile, “Your mom will think you’re a lush.”

Jenn’s still frowning, so Justin adds, “That time I visited Dad, he gave me a glass of whiskey. So don’t go blaming Brian for corrupting me, okay? I’ve been drinking for years and years.”

“You’re making your mother feel a lot better, keep it up,” Brian suggests. His voice is harsh but the look he gives Justin is anything but. Justin looks back at him and his annoyed frown disappears, he laughs and leans briefly against Brian’s shoulder.

“I’ll be good,” he promises.

Then it’s quiet while we peruse our menus. “Brian,” Justin whispers, “It’s French - translate for me.”

“There's English subtitles underneath."

"Well duh, I can see that, but I mean, tell me if I'll like stuff or not."

Brian rolls his eyes but leans over to point at menu selections. "You'll like the cotes de porc, pork chops with potato souffle. And you like lobster, you could try the langouste de Santa Barbara..”

”Oh, pork chops! That’s what I want. What are you getting?”

“You tell me. You'll end up eating half of it anyway.”

“Maybe you want rack of lamb?”

“I’ll order lamb,” Brian concedes, “But it won’t be well done, the French refuse to overcook lamb and beef.”

“Ugh. Then order some chicken.”

The waiter arrives and we order, Brian obligingly asking for poulet en croute. Then we’re left alone in our alcove and I ask Justin to tell me about school.

“I’m just taking one class this term,” he says, pushing the hair off his face and leaning back in the booth. “Because I’m working almost full time at the studio.”

“School’s more important right now,” Jenn chastens him; spoken like a mother.

“His job was supposed to be part-time,” Brian tells her, “But they’re so impressed with Justin that they keep loading him down with extra work. He even had his own project, creating a background for an animated short the studio was going to job out.”

Justin laughs, “Careful, Brian – you almost sound proud of me.”

“Nah,” Brian denies it, “I’m just glad you’re bringing work home too, so I don’t have to listen to the tv blaring Nick at Night all the time.”

“And how is your job, Brian?” Jenn asks. “Are you doing the same things you did back in Pittsburgh?”

“Yes,” he answers briefly. “More or less.”

Conversation sputters to a halt again, then Jenn says, “Debbie told me that Lindsay and Gus visited you recently, that must have been fun?”

“Yeah,” Brian agrees, “Three-year-olds are a barrel of laughs.”

“We took Gus to Disneyland,” Justin says eagerly, “While Linds was at a conference. It was great! But we couldn’t go on any of the thrill rides of course, so I’m trying to get Brian to go back again on Gay Day at the park.”

“Brian, it’s hard to imagine you at Disneyland,” Jenn marvels.

“Isn’t it?” he agrees, and then our dinner arrives, rescuing us from personal conversation for an hour or so. The only thing remarkable about the meal is the way Brian and Justin share bits of their food back and forth, Brian cutting off half his chicken and putting it on Justin’s bread plate, and Justin insisting that Brian eat a couple bites of his entree. For those few moments, they remind me of nothing so much as some silly young newlyweds. A thought I’ve no intention of sharing with Jennifer.



Justin

Dinner went okay, at least the food was really good, nearly as good as Cicada, and Brian was so nice I hardly recognized him. I know he doesn’t much like being around Mom but you’d hardly guess it, he was so fucking polite I almost thought he’d smoked a dozen joints when I wasn’t looking.

Mom's boyfriend seems all right, he's awfully old, though, like fifty or even more. Mom's only forty-something, he seems too old for her. Of course, since Brian's so much older than me, I guess I can't say anything. At least he's not bald or fat or anything, he's good looking for a straight guy his age, he's tall and looks physically fit. And he's a doctor so he's probably got a lot of money. At least Mom won't have to work so hard, maybe she won't have to work at all when they get married.

We spend a couple hours at the restaurant, then I invite them to come back to our place, though God knows what we'd do with them there. Luckily they don't want to, Mom says she's still tired from the flight and Rob says the conference wore him out. That's good enough for me, I don't press it, we all climb into the Mercedes and drive back to the hotel. Rob shakes our hands again, Mom hugs me, and we arrange to meet up after breakfast tomorrow. We're going to drive Mom around Hollywood, though Rob begs off, he wants to play golf in the morning. He invites Brian to go with him but Brian shakes his head no, he doesn't golf.

When we get in the jeep I blow out a huge sigh of relief, to have tonight over with.

"You okay?" Brian asks as he helps me fasten the seat belt.

"Sure." I hesitate, then say, "This guy seems all right, don't you think? He was nice to Mom, and he doesn't seem homophobic."

"No," Brian agrees, "I don't think he's homophobic."

"You were so polite," I marvel, as he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. "I hardly recognized you."

"Hunh," he snorts, pulling into the street and heading toward home. "It's exhausting being nice. I'll probably be a grouchy bastard for a week or so, just to make up for it."

"Yeah, I'm sure things'll get back to normal now."

He doesn't laugh but he reaches over and slides his hand between my legs, his fingers delivering a punishment-pinch. A hard one.

"Ow!"



Brian

Naturally, Justin's mapped our route, he's planned this Hollywood sight-seeing venture for his mom and I'm content to play chauffeur. I'm not as bored as I thought I'd be, it's comical listening to his quasi-knowledgeable tour-guide spiel as we drive around Hollywood Boulevard, stopping a few times so Jennifer can see Graumann's Chinese and the Kodak Theatre. Then we drive through the hills, Justin wants to get close to the Hollywood sign, but after a few dead-ends, we wind up at Griffith Observatory, where scenes from "Rebel Without A Cause" were filmed, there's even a bronze bust of James Dean mounted on a marble pillar, with a clear view of the Hollywood sign behind his head.

At Justin's insistence we have lunch at Wolfgang Puck's on Sunset, where he's always on the lookout for celebrities; this time he actually spies one - John C. Reilly's at a table in the corner. He's a good actor but I don't want to fuck him. The food's okay, nothing special, except that Justin always orders the crème brulee sampler for dessert - three different flavors of custard that send him into paroxysms of delight. I refuse to taste them and I just pick at my Caesar salad - all this eating out is making me sick, I've probably gained half a pound already.

We drop Jennifer at the hotel and arrange to come back about six, to pick them up and drive to San Bernardino for this boring family dinner. Christ, I'll be glad when we get back to normal, I'd rather be working my ass off at the agency than making polite small talk with Justin's mom and her fiancé, Doctor Rob.

It's a nice break at home, we each spend a couple hours working on our computers and then we start getting ready early so we have time to play in the shower. At the hotel once again, I'm vaguely annoyed that Dr. Rob insists on driving to Pasadena but I quickly acquiesce, murmuring that no doubt it's difficult for middle-aged folks to climb into the back of the jeep.

Fuck it, I’ve been nice for days, I was bound to snap sometime.

Actually, it's very comfortable for Justin and me, slouching in the back seat of the rent-a-Mercedes and besides, I enjoy catching the good doctor's eye when he spies on us in the rearview mirror. I put my arm around Justin and play with his hair. . .partly for my own pleasure of course, but also to give the good doctor something to look at.

Aunt Emily and Uncle Hank both answer the door, greeting us with hugs and kisses. Justin eats it up, he loves the attention, and it’s not as awful for me as I’d expect. I’ve come to realize that it’s not an act for them, they adore Justin and they even seem to like me too. We had dinner with them recently, at Justin’s insistence – I was sure they were just being polite when they invited us over, but they made us feel so welcome, and both Hank and Emily treated Justin like a darling son; I’m starting to think they might be for real.

“What a pleasure to meet Justin’s mother!” Emily exclaims, hugging Jennifer and kissing her cheek, and when Jennifer introduces her intended, both Hank and Emily proclaim great joy and promise to break out a special bottle of champagne they’ve been saving. They escort us into the living room and offer cocktails. Without asking, Hank brings me a double shot of Beam; he’s holding a glass of red wine and he clinks it against mine, winking at me as we each take a sip. It’s funny, I’ve always loathed winkers, but damned if I don’t catch myself almost winking back before he moves away toward the liquor cart. Fuck, I’m losing my cynical edge.

“It must be so hard for you,” Emily’s sympathizing with Jennifer as they sit close together on the other sofa. “Your son moving far away from home! Our son and daughter both moved away too, but that happens so often when children grow up and get married, they have to go where their spouse works.”

The implication that Justin is my spouse sets my teeth on edge, I lean forward on the sofa and open my mouth to utterly deny the insinuation, but before I can speak, Justin throws himself down beside me and grabs my glass. “Just one sip,” he whispers, “While they’re not looking.” I’m distracted glancing over at Emily, she won’t let Justin drink anything stronger than wine in their house, and I lose my momentum. When I remember that I was going to make a crack about spouses, the conversation has moved on and I missed my chance. Pissed, I grab the glass away from Justin and gulp the remaining bourbon in one swallow.

Emily goes to the kitchen to finish fixing dinner and she says yes when Jennifer offers to help her. Justin jumps up and follows them, either to beg for recipes or sneak a bite of whatever’s cooking. Hank excuses himself to hunt up the promised bottle of champagne, and Dr. Rob and I are left alone in the living room.

“You a sports fan, Brian?” he asks, moving to sit in an easy chair near the sofa. He’s sipping white wine and pauses to swirl the liquid in the bowl of the glass and sniff the bouquet, looking at me over the rim.

”No.”

He nods. “I play a little tennis, golf, it keeps me in shape.” When I say nothing, he adds off-handedly, “You look fit yourself, I’d guess maybe you played a sport too.”

“I play racquetball sometimes,” I admit. “And I use to play soccer.”

“Soccer’s an exciting sport. Lots of injuries, though, for serious players. A lot of my patients have been soccer players.”

“Yeah?” Draining my already-empty glass, I get up and move to the liquor cart, helping myself to another half-inch of JB. “Yes,” I repeat, “I had a couple injuries when I was playing.”

“Did you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

There’s a pause, then I say, “I’m going to grab a smoke,” and I move toward the patio doors.

“I’ll come with you,” he offers, “Though I quit smoking a few years ago.”

We stand near the pool, it’s dusk, the sun is starting its descent.

“So, you were injured playing soccer?”

Taking a deep drag from my cigarette, I nod. “Fractured my elbow once, playing soccer in the park with friends. I was older then, twenty-three or twenty-four. Luckily I had a good doctor, the arm healed quickly and there’s only a small scar today.”

Rob turns slightly away from me and gazes into the still turquoise water in the pool. We don’t speak for a moment, then he says calmly, “You knew right away, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not what you think.”

I study his profile for a moment, then ask, “What do I think?”

Rob turns back again and looks directly at me. “That was a long time ago. My wife and I were estranged – she was on an extended trip to Europe. I was. . .curious. And bored. I had a few – experiences. Got it out of my system. I’ve never looked back.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The question is,” Rob says earnestly, “Are you planning to tell Jennifer?”

I’m silent for a moment, then shake my head. “None of my business.”

It’s the truth. What happened so long ago means nothing today.

It’s amazing that I even remember the man. By twenty-four my tricks were already into triple digits. But he was my first doctor. An orthopedic surgeon, a specialist highly recommended by Marty Ryder. I don’t remember now how I ended up at his apartment – a penthouse overlooking the river. We’d shared a couple joints, we’d had one fuck, and I was out the door. I knew he was straight – he never pretended otherwise. I’ve fucked a lot of straight guys over the years, he was just one of many. What happened nearly ten years ago has no relevance now.

“There you are!” It’s Aunt Emily. “Dinner’s ready, finish your smoke and come in.” Obediently we follow her back into the house and take our places in the dining room.



Rob

He’s not going to tell.

My relief is palpable, I almost fall into my chair at the dining table, exhausted from our brief tete-a-tete. I told Brian the truth: I’d had a few homosexual experiences that summer Brenda was in Europe and never again after that. I’d had a lifelong curiosity about homosexuality, but once I got it out of my system, that was an end to it. I’m not gay, I’m not really even bisexual.

I had sex with three men that summer, and for the life of me, I can’t remember the other two. Brian stuck in my memory for many reasons, mostly because he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen but also because he was so free and open in his sexuality. He positively smoldered with passion and I remember thinking of a sermon I’d heard as a boy, the old minister shaking his hand in the air, his quivery voice warning of the dangers of lust so fiery that sinners would go up in a burst of flame. It had felt like that with Brian. I’ve never before or since experienced that feeling when having sex – that feeling of being engulfed in flames; it was like being burnt at the stake. Not entirely pleasant, oh no; and not something I’ve ever wanted to repeat.

I glance at Justin now, across the table from me, happily stuffing himself with lasagna, and I wonder if it’s still the same with Brian – I wonder, does he set this boy on fire?

It’s not surprising that Jenn thinks Brian is a dangerous man, but seeing him with this boy, this young man, I get the feeling that their love affair is not so one-sided as Jenn imagines. A man like Brian Kinney wouldn’t suffer fools, and he wouldn’t stick around very long with someone who wasn’t his equal, his equal in all ways – intellectual, emotional, physical. I have a feeling that little Justin Taylor is a very lucky individual.

I’m lucky, too. Lucky that Brian’s generous enough to let sleeping dogs lie, and so very lucky to have met Jennifer. I never really believed that love could come again so late in life, that I could look forward to marriage with an open heart. I don’t realize that I’m staring at her now, where she sits next to me, our arms brushing against each other as we eat. When she glances up and catches me staring, we smile and I lean over to kiss her lips. Christ, I’m a happy man. I hope Brian’s happy, too.



Justin

“You’re happy, Brian.”

“Am I?” he asks. We’re driving home from the hotel where we’ve said our goodbyes to Mom and her fiancé, and Brian’s relief at having the ordeal of my mother’s visit over with is obvious.

“Yeah,” I confirm, “You’re rid of your mother-in-law, at least for a while, and you can relax now, stop pretending to be nice.”

“She’s not my – “

“Yeah she is, so shut up. I’m your spouse and she’s my mom, so – “

Luckily I intercept the hand slipping across the seat and grab his fingers before they can add another bruise to my poor tortured thigh. This weekend’s been hard on Brian, but it’s also been hard on my leg.

“You’re not my fucking spouse,” he growls. “At least. . .not yet.”

My hands stop struggling with his pinching fingers and I swallow twice before I can repeat, “Not yet?”

“Don’t get hysterical,” he warns me, his fingers relaxing and squeezing my suddenly nerveless hand, keeping his eyes on the road. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just that, after three months at Bradford & Slate, employees are eligible for insurance for their. . .” Brian pauses to gag loudly, then continues, “For their DOMESTIC PARTNER.”

He makes the gagging noise again.

“Brian – am I your domestic partner?”

“There’s some paperwork to sign. We have to confirm that we’re committed, or some other bullshit terminology, and sign on the dotted line. Then you’ll be covered under my medical insurance. Which,” he concludes by releasing my hand and raising his arm to gently slap the back of my head, “Which we fucking well need, in case you fall off any ledges.”

“Brian!”

“We’re not going to talk about this.”

“Brian, you’ve told people that we’re partners, right?

“Hmm.”

“And now I’ll be your – your domestic partner. That’s the same as ‘significant other,’ isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

“Brian – so am I sort-of, kind-of, your. . .spouse? For real?”

“Hideous word.”

We pull up at a red light and I grab Brian’s arm and shake it. “Tell me,” I demand, “Tell me right this minute: Am I your significant other, or am I your domestic partner, or am I your spouse?”

“Fuck you,” Brian mutters, staring out the windshield. Then he turns and gives me an exasperated look.

I sit silent, waiting for his answer. He sighs and shakes his head. “(d), okay?” he finally murmurs, “(d) - all of the above.”

“Oh Brian,“ I cry, “I can’t wait to tell Mom that I’m engaged too!”

“Fuck,” he mutters, “I knew this would make you crazy.”

“I’m not crazy, Brian – I’m happy.”

“Same difference.”

After a moment of silence, I can’t help but ask, “Brian - are you crazy too?”

“I must be,” he agrees. And then despite his harsh frown, despite his agitation, Brian leans across the seat and kisses my mouth, a loud smack. Unexpectedly, he laughs. “I’m crazy all right,” he repeats, leaning down for another kiss. “I’m fuckin’ certifiable.”

Shifting gears as the light turns green, Brian burns rubber through the intersection and heads the jeep for home.