Chapter 18

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Fuck!

He didn't want to be here, but he'd had no choice.

Fuck!

And now the fucking plane was late, so he'd have to wait around even longer, and he had a momentary urge - almost a compulsion - to run out of the airport and hail a cab and leave his 'escort' in the dust. Only, if he did that, he would not only have to answer to Lance Mathis and his staff, along with half of the Pittsburgh PD; he'd also have to answer to Brian Kinney, once Brian had sufficiently recovered to voice his displeasure, and one thing Brian Kinney had never been loathe to do was use that voice, loudly, vehemently, repeatedly. It was silly of him to worry about it, Justin knew, as they had rarely managed to go more than an hour at a time without getting into some kind of argument over one thing or another, but he was hoping his first contact with an awake, alert, conscious Brian would involve lots of tongue action - albeit carefully administered due to the patient's condition - and sweet nothings and admissions of regrets for lost time, and not so much of recriminations and accusations.

So he was stuck - in more ways than one.

Fuck!

All he had wanted when he'd dragged himself to bed the previous night, tucked up safe in his mother's townhouse with his fucking bodyguards prowling the premises like hungry tigers, had been to grab a couple of hours of shut-eye to help him shrug off the remnants of jet lag, and rise in the wee hours of the morning to haul himself back to the hospital and wait for Brian to open his eyes. At that point, he had wanted nothing other than for Brian to open his eyes and look at him - and recognize him.

And yell at him. He knew that was on the menu, without having to be told. He didn't bother speculating on which emotion would be dominant when the moment came - anger or elation. But it didn't matter. He was prepared for either one; the only thing that mattered was that Brian woke up. Nothing else was relevant.

He had not let himself think beyond that point.

Earlier, when he'd left the hospital, he had intended to go to the loft - to the only place in the world that felt like a real home to him. But he had realized, in route, that the place would be too "Brian", that he would be inundated by memories and flashbacks and visions, and sleep would never find him there. He had understood that, in the final analysis, it wasn't the loft that was his home; it was Brian, and, without him, the loft was just four walls and a floor - beautiful, but empty.

So, after he and Emmett (and their eternally vigilant bodyguards) had shared a quiet drink and a brief conversation at Woody's, he had directed his driver to veer off so he could return to his family home and crawl into his bed, a remnant of his old life, pre-Brian, seeking nothing but unconsciousness. Still, sleep had not come easily, and he had tossed and turned until physical exhaustion had finally claimed him and pulled him to the brink of oblivion.

Unfortunately, that strange, timeless moment between awareness and slumber had provided the cue for Carl Horvath to enter, stage left, and present his soliloquy.

Justin had known, or course, that his mother was due to fly in early in the morning - had known that she had no idea of what had happened in her absence. Though the local news had been full of it, the attack on Brian had not made the headlines of the national press or the network broadcasts, primarily because it had not happened in New York or LA or Washington; Pittsburgh was still provincial enough to go unnoticed - mostly - by the national media. Thus, Jennifer was flying in without having any idea of what she would learn on her return or even that her son had returned from his adventure in paradise.

And that, he had believed, would be all right. Jennifer was nothing if not adaptable. She would hear it all soon enough, and she would cope, as she always did. But Horvath had insisted on forcing him to see another side of the equation, at the direction of a new player who had not yet made her appearance on the scene.

FBI Special Agent Alexandra Corey - despite the fact that she had yet to set foot in Pittsburgh - apparently had a very long reach and a mind keen enough to see things others might overlook. According to Detective Horvath, anyway.

It had been pushing two AM when he'd called, and Justin had grabbed for the phone on its first ring, his heart hammering in his chest as he leapt to a panicky conclusion.

His relief in learning he was wrong had been immediate - but short-lived.

In less than two minutes, he'd decided that Special Agent Alexandra Corey had earned herself a permanent spot at the top of his shit list and that he did not like the way her mind worked, although he could not - in good conscience - dismiss her concerns.

She had certainly done her preliminary homework, coming to conclusions he would rather not be forced to consider, especially when wrapped up tight in the spectral shadows inherent in the darkest hours of the night. Only, he couldn't refuse.

If she was right, there was simply too much at stake for him to ignore her concerns.

Thus, here he sat in a hard plastic chair, staring with weary, bloodshot eyes at the arrivals/departure board, noting that Flight 1611 was shown as due to arrive in ten minutes. That meant another half-hour, by the time it landed and passengers disembarked, and he wished, for the hundredth time, that he had simply insisted Horvath dispatch someone else to meet Jennifer and Molly on their arrival and give his mother the bad news. But the detective had pointed out - with annoyingly irrefutable logic - that Jennifer might very well refuse to accept the information provided to her unless it came from someone she could trust, and that, regardless of the source, she would be devastated and bordering on panic when confronted with any suggestion that she and her daughter might be in danger from some unknown, vicious assailant, or that her son might be in even greater peril.

That had been the scenario posited by Alexandra Corey, who had examined all the evidence and concluded that the primary target - going all the way back to the attack on Babylon, and maybe even beyond - might well have been Brian Kinney and, if so, those who were close to him - those he loved and cared about - might well be in extreme danger. Especially in the case of the young man who was widely recognized as his lover, along with anyone who might have family ties or close relationships to either of them.

Even the surviving Kinney family members - mother and daughter - were under discreet surveillance pending resolution of the investigation, which, Justin was certain, would not come soon.

He sighed and sat back, bracing his neck against hard plastic and allowing his mind to drift, watching idly as two birds - wrens, maybe, or sparrows, and how should he know since, in his estimation, one bird was much like another - flitted around through the exposed metal rafters of the domed ceiling. There were, he thought, plenty of places in Pittsburgh that could be described as uninspiring - but few more so than this very drab, very utilitarian airport. He felt sorry for the birds.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else - something bright and warm and pleasant and filled with color. Like Liberty Avenue. His smile was tentative, reflecting the fact that he really, really didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Brian, holding his hand, touching his face, breathing his scent. Savoring his essence - the thing that made him Brian Kinney, which distinguished him from everyone else on the planet.

And even more than that, he wanted to be walking down Liberty Avenue at Brian's side, waving to friends and acquaintances, enjoying the color and the raucous atmosphere around them, laughing at the antics of Emmett and Ted, or exchanging eye-rolls over Michael and Ben's latest exhibition of pseudo-hetero-convention, noticing but pretending not to see all the lustful looks and envious glances directed toward them from the people who watched them pass by, engaging in the verbal sparring that was the life-breath of their relationship - taunting, teasing, squabbling . . . wanting. Christ! He had never wanted anything or anyone more than he had wanted Brian Kinney - every minute of every day. How the fuck had he let himself forget that, or let someone else convince him that anything was more important than the feeling which raced through his body like a flood tide when he was in Brian's arms? A feeling of perfect belonging, of rightness, of destiny fulfilled.

Justin loved Lindsey - he really did - and he knew Brian also loved her, in his own rather oddball way. But sometimes - like now - he just wanted to smack her and sneer at all of her artistic pretentions. He had gone to New York because he'd allowed her fantasies to infect him with a hunger for recognition which he'd never experienced before, a hunger that made him forget what he would have to give up in order to reach for the brass ring she had dangled in front of him.

Fuck!

With an impatient shrug, he stood and moved toward the arrival area where his mother would soon (please God!) make her appearance, as he suppressed a grimace of irritation when his 'escort' took up his customary position behind him, strolling along and projecting an easy nonchalance which betrayed nothing of the man's skill and professionalism. Justin had definitely not wanted to like the man, nor to admire his abilities, but he'd reluctantly come to realize that Jared Hilliard was probably exactly the kind of individual you'd want to have around in a moment of dire need.

Tall, well-built, strong and graceful, the light-skinned black man had incredible eyes of a color somewhere between green and blue and managed, somehow, to fade into the background and achieve a level of obscurity, despite startling good looks and a brooding physical presence. In addition, he had an easy, self-deprecating humor that Justin found appealing, and he caught himself speculating on how Brian would react to the man, for whom the phrase 'smoldering good looks' might have been coined.

Then he frowned, realizing abruptly that he didn't like where his thoughts were leading.

He and Brian had never had a monogamous relationship, unless one took into account those strange, surreal weeks following the bombing of Babylon, when neither of them had been themselves. He had never admitted to anyone - except Brian himself, of course - that he had not much cared for the people they had become during that period. They had both tried to walk the straight and narrow and, in the process, become strangers with little or nothing in common, and that, as much as anything else, had laid waste to their plans for building a life together.

Bottom line? Brian would be all over this guy, if he got a good look. And if Hilliard was amenable. Justin wasn't yet sure, but Brian would be. That much was certain; the Kinney Gay-dar was virtually infallible.

Now all Justin had to do was figure out how he felt about the prospect. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Brian - fully recovered and restored and beautiful, smoldering hazel eyes undressing the delectable bodyguard and sending an unmistakable message in the process; Brian, shucking out of his clothes, never bothering with buttons - just pulling the shirt off over his head, along with the tie and anything else that might be in his way; Brian - sprawled on the bed, perfect body on display and perfect lips smiling an invitation; Brian . . . irresistible. And . . . what the fuck was the matter with him? He had just returned from a year in which he'd been denied the man, the body, the person who meant most to him, and here he was fantasizing about that same man, enticing someone else into his bed.

What the fuck?

He wanted Brian - exclusively, permanently, privately - with no outside intervention or interference. Didn't he?

He opened his eyes and found Jared Hilliard staring at him, brows arched and beautiful eyes alight with speculation and a tiny smile.

What the fuck?

"Justin?"

Thank God - and never mind why.

"Justin, what are you doing here?"

"Hi, Mom. Welcome home, and . . . let's get your luggage while I tell you all about it."

He really hated admitting he was wrong about something, but it was immediately obvious that Horvath - and that smart-ass FBI bitch - had been right.

He'd barely begun to tell her what she needed to know, when Jennifer stopped walking, hands clasped to her chest as if fighting to breathe. He was forced to pause and wrap his arms around her, with Molly gathered close to his side, and simply hold her, to give her time to adjust, to absorb what no mother should have to endure. She needed him now, and he could not just walk away, even though he didn't want to be here; he wanted to be with Brian, holding his hand and waiting for the moment of his awakening. But Brian, no matter how wounded, was strong - was always capable of surviving, of facing whatever life might throw at him and facing it alone if necessary, even when others could not.

It was one of the things he loved most about the man - and also one of the things he loved least - an intimate part of the enigma that was Brian Kinney.

Fuck!


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Jennifer's eyes grew wider and darker as Justin talked, and by the time he was done, her face was haunted and haggard as she contemplated the possibility of danger to her beloved son and daughter at the hands of some unknown cretin hiding out there in the darkness of his own evil, plotting his sick revenge against Brian Kinney individually, or against those who inhabited his world. She had known such fear before, but she was no better equipped to handle it this time than last. Memories blended with dread, and she flinched from the thought of Justin, bloodied and bludgeoned and suspended between life and death - past or future.

And one thing more.

When, she wondered, had this happened? When had the brash, brutally candid young scoundrel who had stolen her son's heart managed, somehow, without her knowledge or consent, to work his way into her own? When had it begun to matter to her what fate might hold in store for Brian Kinney, who certainly neither wanted nor needed her concern but . . . had earned it anyway?

She closed her eyes and thought about Brian, hearing pale whispers of everything Justin was not saying. Then she deliberately allowed herself to remember the first time she had ever seen him, fighting down the pangs of resentment that always rose in her when she thought about that moment. The memory was still vivid and harsh and heavy in her chest, stealing her breath away, as she retasted the bitterness of the sight of this man, this grown man, and the knowledge of what he had done to her innocent son.

And yet . . . she could admit now what she could never have faced back then. Even at that moment - hating him, resenting him, loathing him - she had seen it, and the voice had whispered in her mind.

Christ! He's beautiful. And together, they're breathtaking.

She had known it, even then, years before Kinney had finally faced his own truth, had finally admitted that he had fallen in love with her son; she had known that Justin's life would be irrevocably intertwined with that of Brian Kinney.

And now . . . dear God! What would happen to them now?


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Emmett stood silently, hands clasped tightly behind his back, awaiting his turn to welcome Brian back to the land of the living.

Well, not exactly. More like waiting his turn for execution, for he knew that Brian was not going to be pleased with him. He had, after all, been charged with one task, and one task only, and he had managed to fail spectacularly.

Brian Kinney was not the kind of man who tolerated failure or fools, and Emmett's first instinct, on realizing that Brian had awakened during the ugly exchange between the members of the group who were supposed to be his friends, had been to hit the door running and not look back.

But the lapse had been brief. He always thought it ironic that he - the ultimate drag queen - should have such an unswerving sense of what it meant to be a real man, a definition that had nothing to do with sexual identity and everything to do with honor and decency. He had acquired it not from his father or his other male relatives, but from his beloved Aunt Lula and the grandmother who had died when he was still living in Hazlehurst, Mississippi - the only members of his family who had ever really loved him and accepted him for what he was. It would be a shameful thing to run away from the consequences of his own actions.

So he would stay here and await Brian's displeasure, no matter how much he dreaded the lash of that sultry voice and the ice that could flash in those beautiful eyes so much better suited to seduction.

He deeply regretted that Brian had wakened in time to overhear the ugly commentary from his so-called bosom buddies. And there was little doubt that he had heard it, even though he'd said almost nothing about it. But it was there to see, should anyone care to look for it - not in his words, but in the tone of voice and the shadows in his eyes, barely visible within the frame of snowy bandages.

He had spoken to Cynthia first, their words barely audible and very brief, and almost entirely professional, except for an initial emotional exchange, demonstrated by the quick brush of a kiss and hands clasped gently. Then Lindsey had pushed forward, barely able to restrain a desire to throw herself into his arms and obviously determined to distract him from what he had overheard, carefully phrasing questions about his injuries and avoiding any reference to the attack, and babbling about Gus and how eager he was to see his dad.

At that point, Emmett and Drew had exchanged glances, wondering if they were the only ones who noticed how much Brian was striving not to say, dismissing her concerns with typical Kinney aplomb.

Emmett had turned away then, finding it too painful to watch the tears welling in Lindsey's eyes and the extraordinary gentleness with which Brian managed to lift a hand to wipe them away. Instead, he chose to stare out into the growing brightness of the morning and wonder how many times the exact same thing had happened in Brian's life - how many times he had simply stood tall and firm, shrugging off the pettiness and the jealousy and letting it fall away, never allowing himself to react or respond to the hurt. Probably, never even allowing himself to feel it - although Emmett wasn't exactly sure how one could achieve that level of stoicism. . Unless it had become necessary for survival. Unless one had endured so much thoughtless cruelty and withstood so much pain at the hands of those who purported to be friends that it became automatic to raise new layers of insulation, new walls to deflect new hurts, so that, eventually, one became invulnerable, untouchable.

Alone.

Reluctantly, he allowed his mind to drift back, to sift through years of random memories - of nasty little barbed comments dropped deliberately into lulls in the conversation and intended to be overheard, of snide observations uttered to compensate for feelings of petty jealousy and inadequacy and the gay equivalent of penis envy, of gleeful responses to every occurrence that could be twisted to reflect badly on Brian or might result in some kind of discomfort for him, even though he never once displayed such a reaction, of the cruel smiles and venal laughter at his expense whenever anything happened that might prove painful or inconvenient or costly for him - as if he'd deserved their scorn and ill will.

And how - exactly - had he done that?

Emmett was appalled to realize he couldn't come up with a single rational response, except for the one truly unforgivable sin; Brian had earned their contempt and enmity by having the flair and the intelligence and the moxie and the courage to be the man they all wanted to be - and couldn't.

"Will you kindly stop dripping all over me."

Emmett grinned. Now there was the Brian Kinney they all knew and . . .

Christ! We really do love him, although I don't think any of us have ever realized how much, or stopped to consider how often we turn to him or how much we need him. Or what we would do . . . Christ!

"Sorry." Lindsey managed an awkward little laugh, obviously grateful for something to cover up the silences that were dwelling all around them, filled with words none of them dared say, as her eyes remained fixed on a patch of bare skin just above Brian's ear, as if she couldn't bear to look anywhere else.


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Brian watched as the mother of his child tried not to stare, not to see and comprehend what she was seeing, and he took a deep breath, understanding that this was the first hurdle - the first instance of people trying to be kind, trying not to flinch away from the sight of him. He would get used to it - in time - just as he'd managed to get used to other things over the years. It was amazing what one could learn to endure when one had no other choice.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, in a soft, strained voice.

"Where else would I be?" she replied, reaching out to take his hand.

"With Gus," he answered, managing to convey his impatience in two clipped syllables.

"Gus will be here soon," she said, thinking to reassure him.

"Why?" Even more clipped and more impatient.

"Because he wants to see his daddy."

"Lindsey." He managed, barely, to avoid snapping at her. "He won't even recognize me, and, if he does figure out who I am, it's going to scare the shit out of him. Don't even think about . . ."

"Don't you even want to see him?" Typical Lindsey - all sentiment, no sense.

"Why? So I can watch him scream and try to run? All he's going to see is Frankenstein's monster. Don't you get that?"

"But . . ."

"No buts," he said, his voice sinking to a whisper. "I'm not going to subject him to that."

"But what do I tell him when he asks to . . ."

"Tell him I love him. For now, that's all he needs to know. He shouldn't have to think about the rest."

He lifted his hand and smoothed a lock of hair back from her face. "Now, go make peace with your husband who is bound to be majorly pissed off because you're here with me instead of . . . wherever with her. I need to talk to Emmett."

For a moment, she hesitated, and he could see that some small part of her wanted to argue, or, more accurately, felt that she should argue, should insist on remaining at his side, even while a larger part of her was grateful for the reprieve. He debated whether or not to comment on it, but decided it was better to ignore it and allow her to escape with dignity. He was sure it was a reaction that would become more and more familiar with time.

He also noted the sympathetic glance she directed toward Emmett and almost opened his mouth to offer reassurance. But that would have been completely out of character, and he wasn't quite ready to face the questions that would undoubtedly arise too soon for his liking. So he just waited until she made good her escape before shifting his gaze to the big Nelly-bottom. When Emmett stepped toward him, obviously nervous but managing to maintain eye contact in spite of it, Brian felt a twinge of conscience over what he felt compelled to do, but he was caught off guard when his old friend began to speak without waiting to be addressed.

"Brian, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"For what? For not doing the one thing I asked of you?"

He was caught even more off guard when Emmett shook his head. "No. Not that. I'm sorry that you had to hear all that bullshit. I know you understand it - that you figured out a long time ago why they all . . . why we all treat you like . . . "

"The black sheep of the family?" If he could have smiled, he would have. It was unfair, perhaps, to enjoy Emmett's squirming, since he had been one of those least guilty of multiple offenses, but even tiny nuances of vengeance should be savored when offered up so sweetly.

Emmett nodded. "You didn't deserve it."

This time, he did smile, and felt the burn of abused muscles and tissue around his mouth urge him to avoid doing so again. "After all these years," he said softly, "do you really think I give a shit?"

Emmett's smile was very gentle. "Of course you don't."

Brian closed his eyes, and was grateful that his injuries and the bandages that covered them made it unnecessary for him to guard his expressions. He was, of course, a master of doing so as he'd had years and years of practice, but he was pretty sure it was an art he would no longer need to depend on. He doubted anyone would be looking close enough to notice from here on out. "I assume he refused to listen to reason."

"I did try, Brian. Honest to God. I told the cops, and I made sure that nobody in the family called him. But . . . somebody did. I don't know who, and there was just no way to stop him. You know how determined he can be when . . ."

"When duty calls." And even though the face was completely obscured, there was no way to avoid hearing the caustic wit erupting in those three simple words.

"Duty?"

"Yeah. What else?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Emmett did not mean to sound quite so irritated; God knew Brian had enough to deal with without having to fend off verbal jabs, but this was really too much.

"Figured out what? That he's here because we're 'committed'? Because it's the 'right thing' to do?"

"Brian, you can't . . ."

"Get out!"

"What?" Emmett's eyes were suddenly huge, and dark with tears unshed. "Why would you . . ."

"Because," thick with acrid sarcasm,"I don't want you here."

"But . . ."

"Mathis!"

"Yeah, Boss?"

Brian turned to meet the steady gaze of his chief of security. "You still work for me?"

"Unless you're firing me." Mathis was not - quite - smiling.

"Then get him out of here."

Emmett watched in disbelief as the security chief turned toward him, eyes cold and determined, and knew that, if he chose to turn this into a confrontation, he would inevitably lose.

"I don't understand you," he said slowly, looking back at Brian and trying to determine what it was he was seeing in those hazel eyes.

"Few do." Was that a glint of humor, of smug satisfaction he saw there? Or was it something else - something darker and heavier?

Emmett took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He really didn't want to allow himself to express anger or frustration at such a moment, and he didn't want to fall back on Lana-Turner theatrics to save his dignity, but there were times when a drag-queen just had to do what a drag-queen had to do. Thus, he spun toward the door and made his exit with a flourish, pausing only to direct a smoldering glance toward Drew Boyd. "Are you coming?"

Boyd's smile was achingly tender. "In a minute. Wait for me in the hall."

When Emmett was gone, there was a moment of expectant silence, before all four occupants of the room shared a moment of awkward laughter. Then Boyd stepped forward so that he could look directly down into Brian's face. "Under other circumstance," he said, with a diffident smile, "I'd beat the shit out of you for treating him like that."

"That would be redundant," replied Brain, completely deadpan.

"But, for the moment, I think I'll let it pass."

"That's big of you. Now why don't you toddle along and go console your boyfriend. There are things I need to discuss with . . . my people."

Boyd nodded and started to turn away, but was held in place by Brian's hand clasping his sleeve with a surprising amount of strength for a man who had just awakened from a coma. The big quarterback allowed himself to be pulled forward until he was close enough to hear the words the patient whispered. It was only one sentence and, when he pulled back to try to read the eyes within the bandages, Boyd could almost believe he'd imagined it.

Then he smiled and straightened up, confining his response to a quick nod, eyes filled with a soft glow of understanding and, perhaps, something more - something that recognized and mourned the textured layers of tragedy and unavoidable destiny.

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Cynthia had been glad to be given tasks that required her to focus on the minutia of the situation - to handle pending business decisions and practical problems, to address the needs of clients and work assignments, to find Matt Keller and advise him that Brian wanted to see him.

Thus, she left the room feeling relieved - and feeling guilty for feeling relieved, knowing that Brian had seen and understood what she was feeling - and why.

It had never mattered to her that her boss was a creature of rare beauty, except for the fact that it was a source of pride for him and a formidable weapon in his ongoing assault against the narrow minds of the advertising establishment. After an initial hormonal stir - something she was sure every woman experienced on first sight of Brian Kinney - she had shaken off any latent feelings of attraction and determined that it was more important, from a professional standpoint, to get to know the man beneath the façade rather than the luminary who lived on the surface.

And she had never regretted that decision; nor did she regret it now.

But being one of the few individuals ever allowed to get close to the inner Brian had never prevented her from dwelling on the gorgeousness of the package or his ability to use it to his advantage.

And now - Matt Keller's promises notwithstanding - that gift, that package, might be gone forever, irrevocably damaged. It would not impact how she saw him or how she felt about him; there was no question of that. But it might very well impact how he saw himself, and that could create fundamental changes in the man he was, changes she wasn't sure she could deal with.

So she set about her errands with firm resolve and a degree of satisfaction in having enough to do to allow her to avoid thinking too much.

Only she'd failed to anticipate one thing.

Michael.

When she rounded the corner to approach the nurses' station, she realized she should not have been surprised that he had waited. The only real surprise was that he had done so alone, as there was no sign of his mother or his lover or any of the rest of his customary entourage.

She ignored him at first, taking her time in addressing the charge nurse and arranging for Dr. Keller to be paged to Brian's room, but if she'd hoped that Michael might take the hint and take his leave, she was doomed to disappointment.

When she had finished her conversation and carefully reviewed some insurance release forms, she turned to face the young man, schooling her features to show no emotion beyond mild curiosity.

"Michael," she said firmly, "I don't have a lot of time, so . . ."

"Cynthia," he interrupted, his eyes downcast and bruised, somehow, as if battered by the emotions raging inside him, "please. Just . . . give me a minute."

She wanted to say no; more than that, she wanted to shout at him, to tell him to either stand up straight and stop acting like a pussy, or to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness he didn't deserve. Either way would be an improvement over this timid, self-effacing demeanor. Still, this was Michael, who was beloved of Brian Kinney, whether or not he deserved it.

"Come with me," she said finally, leading him into an unoccupied consultation room and closing the door to give them some privacy.

"Michael," she began . . .

"Wait!" he replied sharply, his voice breaking as he struggled to find the right words. "I know what you're thinking. I know that I've . . ."

"Sit down, Michael," she said abruptly, accepting that this was a conversation she was not going to be able to avoid. "Maybe it's time we had a little talk, whether I've got time for it or not."

"I know what you're going to say," Michael answered.

"Do you? Somehow I doubt that," she replied. "Because, if you did, you probably would have run out of here screaming before coming anywhere near me."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean," she said, her voice steady and flat, "is that you should have been the one to stand up and tell your so-called friends and family where to stick their fucking attitudes. Instead, Emmett had to do it, while you sat there with your thumb up your ass, letting them do what they always do - vent their anger and petty jealousy at Brian's expense. Would it interest you in the least to know that he heard it all? He was awake the whole time. Doesn't that make you want to run out and tell them? It'll probably make their day - and yours."

He sat heavily, dropping into the nearest chair and rubbing his face with his hands. "Shit!"

"I'm always amazed that you guys never seem to figure it out," she observed, "that you always get caught. Do you really think he doesn't know what all of you think of him?"

"But I always speak up for him. You should know that."

"I know you make a token attempt," she retorted. "Occasionally. But I also know something else - something no one else knows - but you. Which makes it even harder to understand how you can just stand by and let it happen. He trusts you, Michael. And he loves you. The only person he ever loved more was Justin, but that was a different kind of love. Which might explain everything, I guess, if you're like your mother, and can't forgive the fact that he was never able to give you the kind of love you wanted from him. He loves you like a brother - like you were blood - but maybe that wasn't good enough. It certainly wasn't good enough for your mom. But . . . Christ, Michael! How could you have turned your back on him the way you did? How could you forget all the times he was there for you? Even when Ben wound up in the hospital, and you were scared shitless that he might die, who came through for you? Who bolstered you up and gave you the strength to face it? Who dropped everything to be there when you needed him? He spent years and years taking care of you, and when I think about how you betrayed him, how it was more important to you to impress your cunty new neighbors than return the loyalty he showed you every day of his life, I wish . . . Shit! I wish I was big enough to punch your lights out. And it's pretty obvious to me - hell, to everybody if they only had the balls to admit it - that you only decided to treat him like shit when you'd found somebody else to watch out for you.  When you thought you didn't need him any more. So you figured you'd get even, since he wouldn't lie and pretend to feel something he didn't. You decided you'd do everything you could to pay him back for not giving you the one thing you wanted from him - the lie that he wouldn't tell."

"No, I . . ."

"Do you have any idea," she said coldly, "how many people have ever - ever - seen Brian Kinney cry? No, I can see that you don't, so let me enlighten you, dear, sweet, innocent Michael. There are exactly two of us. That's how much he trusted you, how much he believed in you. You and I know things about him no one else knows. Not even Justin. We know what his parents, his family did to him, how much they hurt him, how strong he had to be to survive. Things he's never said to anyone else, things no one else would even believe. So how do we come to this - this unbelievable bullshit, which is just another example of how you repay him? And now . . . what? You want me to run interference - to clear the way for you to take your place at his side again? Until the next time it's not convenient for you to remember what he should mean to you?"

"He told you all this?" he asked, appalled at how much she knew . . . and just slightly angry, although he couldn't have said exactly why.

She stared at him. "What? You're insulted because he talked to me? Well, let me remind you of something, Michael. Everybody - even the mighty Brian Kinney - needs someone to talk to, sometimes. Although, in my case, it was usually when he was drunk as a lord or high as a kite, or so Goddamned hurt that he just couldn't manage to keep it to himself."

He flushed and looked down, flinching away from the contempt he read in her eyes.

"Jesus! Don't you people ever think beyond the end of your noses? Don't any of you ever try to understand how he feels or why he does the things he does? Or is it just easier, not to mention more comfortable, to assume the worst? Even when you should know better."

He continued to stare down at his hands, hardly daring to look up to meet her gaze. She was right, and he knew it, but it was something he didn't want to think about. He had never wanted to think about it, because it was easier not to know. "So . . . are you going to help me? Or not?"

She sighed, obviously considering her options. "If I do," she said finally, "it's not for you. Whether you deserve it or not, Brian loves you."

"So you'll talk to him for me?"

"I'll talk to him," she replied, "but not for you. The choice is his, and I'll expect you to abide by it."

He nodded and leaned forward impulsively to give her a hug, assuming immediately that everything would work out as he wanted, since Lindsey had been completely right in one of her observations: Brian really did always forgive them. It was only logical to expect him to do so again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After Cynthia's departure, Lance Mathis moved to the window to gaze down into the park across the street, watching a group of elderly men sitting on park benches, enjoying the growing warmth of the spring morning. He was careful not to look directly at his boss, sensing that Brian needed a few moments to organize his thoughts and figure out how to express them most efficiently. Mathis understood that there weren't many people who would go to such lengths to make sure their words would be understood so completely, and he admired both the ability and the determination.

But he knew, instinctively, that he was not going to enjoy this discussion. Kinney was entirely too perceptive - too bright to have failed to ferret out the truth of the situation.

When the first comment came, it was exactly as he had foreseen - straightforward, to the point, and undebatable.

"This was no random act of violence." It was not a question. "This was personal."

Mathis confined his response to a nod, knowing Brian had more to say.

"If you're as smart as you think you are, you've already figured that out. So where's Horvath?"

"He'll be here later," Mathis answered. "He's waiting for the big boys to make an appearance."

Brian nodded. "FBI?"

"Yes."

"A hate crime then."

"Yes. And these people are extremely good at their jobs. Just so you know. I've worked with them before."

Brian nodded, but did not appear overly impressed. "And have you - or they - come up with a theory about how far it goes, or what it means?"

Mathis moved forward and stood looking down at his boss, trying - without much success - to read the expression in those shadowed eyes. "Only the obvious. That you were the primary target. You've made a lot of enemies, Brian. Possibly very powerful enemies. It might have started out as a political issue, but . . . you said it yourself. At the end, it was personal."

Brian was silent for a while, his eyes turning toward the light streaming in through the window, but Mathis was certain that whatever he was seeing had nothing to do with what was really there. "It's not over. Is it?"

The security chief could not quite suppress a sigh. "No way to know. But you've already figured that out."

"Yeah. I have."

Mathis was surprised to realize that he didn't want to hear the rest, although he knew he had no choice. "So . . . what have you decided to do?"

The answer was little more than a whisper. "What I have to."

"Brian, I'm very good at what I do, and I can . . ."

"Can what? " Brian's voice was suddenly strong and steady, without a nuance of uncertainty. "Guarantee that nothing else will happen, that no one else will get hurt?"

Mathis hesitated, and while it was obvious he wanted to give the reassurance Brian was asking for; it was equally obvious that he couldn't, in good conscience.

Instead, he settled for taking Brian's hand, as if to shake it. "So . . . tell me what you want me to do."

"Whatever you can to repair what's broken," Brian answered. "But this is my fuck up. Mine to fix. Just . . . try to be in the right place to pick up the pieces, if I screw it up."

"All right, but . . ."

"And one more thing. The main thing, which has two parts."

Mathis understood, somehow, that this was the crucial moment - the point of this entire conversation - as he watched Brian awkwardly shift his arm, cast and all, to allow him to touch the fingers of his left hand to the bracelet that circled his right wrist; the meaning of the gesture was not lost on the security chief. Then the young father turned his head slightly, just enough to be able to see the photograph of Gus that Lindsey had left on the table beside his bed . "You work for me," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, "and I'm telling you that you have one job that supercedes everything else. You use whatever resources you might need to try to prevent further trouble. Money is no object; you do what's necessary. But this one thing is your personal responsibility, and I want your word on it."

Mathis nodded. "You have it."

"Then you understand what I'm saying? If it comes down to a choice . . ." Brian's eyes were suddenly filled with a terrible, steely resolve. "There is no choice. And no bullshit excuses. Got it?"

The security chief wanted to pretend he did not comprehend, that he could hedge his bets and claim a simple misunderstanding should the need arise. But he couldn't. One did not play word games with such a request. It meant too much; it asked too much. He would follow Brian's orders if there were no alternative, even though he wasn't entirely sure how he would ever learn to live with it.

"Got it," he answered finally.

But Brian was not quite ready to let it go. "You understand that this is the only thing that matters to me. If anything happens to . . ."

"It won't." Mathis met Brian's gaze squarely, his eyes clear and filled with resolve. "I swear it."

Brian spent a moment studying the man's face. "Fuck this up - either part of it," he said finally, "and you're a dead man. That's a promise."

Mathis did not smile, for, in truth, he wasn't entirely sure the man wasn't dead serious.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometimes, she thought, you learned more from what a person didn't say. Like now.

Cynthia did not allow herself the luxury of a sigh. She had been playing this role for many years, and now was certainly not the time to start regretting it. It was what she was expected to do. She was Brian Kinney's good right hand, and if that sometimes meant acting as the palace guard, then it was just another part of the job description. Even when it went against the grain.

He had not explained his reasoning; he frequently didn't.

But she knew the whys and wherefores. She only wished she didn't, as she walked into the waiting room, knowing that the next few minutes would not be pleasant. But it wasn't really the next few minutes that concerned her. After all, she didn't get paid (and paid extremely well, incidentally) to waste time worrying about Michael Novotny or any of the members of his pseudo-family.

But there was very little she could do for the man to whom she did owe her loyalty, and that was the really hard part of all of this. She knew, better than anyone, what this day would cost him, even as she realized that, this time, he would never speak of it. There were still some things too personal, too intimate, to be put into words. He had told her what he needed her to do, expecting her to follow his instructions and ask no questions, but that didn't mean he didn't understand how difficult her tasks would be, or appreciate the fact that she would do them, no matter how much she might prefer not to. The day wouldn't be easy for her either.

Michael was no longer alone when she found him. Ben and Hunter were with him, and Debbie had obviously had time to regroup and reassess and make up her mind to reassert her place in the ensemble of Kinney manipulators.

Cynthia felt a twinge of sympathy as she recognized the flare of joy in Michael's eyes when he saw her coming toward him. It was obvious he'd already leapt to a conclusion about how he expected things to go.

"So," he said by way of greeting, "is it safe to go in?"

She took a deep breath and put on her most professional demeanor. "I'm sorry, Michael. He's not seeing anyone today."

It was truly amazing, she thought, how quickly that boyish countenance could morph into crushed martyrdom, complete with puppy-dog eyes and trembling lower lip.

It was Debbie, of course, who stepped forward to speak for them all.

"Now just wait a minute here. You have no right to keep him from us. We're family, after all. His only real family, and . . ."

"Mrs. Novotny." The voice was firm and unyielding, and Debbie faltered, unaccustomed to being addressed so sternly. "Please don't make this any harder than it has to be. Cynthia is simply following Mr. Kinney's instructions. It would be a shame if hospital security had to be called in to reinforce them."

But Debbie was not one to give up without a fight. "And just who the fuck do you think you are?" she demanded.

Lance Mathis smiled, and the entire group who had turned to stare at him felt a distinct chill as they noted the ice in his eyes. "I'm the man who gets paid to see that he gets what he wants. And what he wants, right now, is to not have to deal with his . . . 'friends'." Though the inflection on the final word was slight, they all heard it . . . and knew exactly what it meant.

Ben shifted slightly, and, for a moment, seemed to debate the wisdom of challenging Mathis on Michael's behalf. But he quickly abandoned that notion as he saw the security chief turn to study him, dark eyes filled with steely resolve. The professor immediately relaxed his posture as he realized that his size advantage would mean nothing in a confrontation with someone with advanced combat skills and the will to use them.

Finally, reluctantly accepting the futility of further protest, the group gathered their things and headed for the elevators, as Cynthia and Mathis turned away. But Hunter had lingered for a moment after the rest of them departed, and laid his hand on Cynthia's arm to delay her.

"Just do me a favor," he said quickly. "Just tell him . . . he's still Brian Kinney - to me."

Then he was gone, and Cynthia busied herself with digging for something in her handbag, refusing to meet the solemn gaze Mathis turned on her. He was not, of course, the least bit fooled, but he decided to let her think she'd managed to conceal the shimmer in her eyes. She was a spunky, resourceful woman, with the tenacity of a bulldog, and he admired her tremendously, and had no desire to embarrass her.

"Nice kid," he observed, deliberately walking away to return to Brian's room and prepare for the next task at hand - the one he would rather have avoided if he could.

Cynthia, with exactly the same thought in mind, followed reluctantly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Britin! Perhaps the name had not - quite - been brilliant, but it had grown on him. Briefly, anyway. For as long as the dream had lasted.

The last night there had been magical, although he had been the only one to understand that it would be the last night. He had chosen not to mention it to Justin, realizing there was no point in underscoring the inevitability of the truth he had discovered.

He would allow Justin to hold on to his fantasy, for as long as he could, knowing he would awaken to the starkness of reality soon enough.

And now, it was only a memory, fading slowly into the tapestry of his life.

But he could still go back, still recall enough details to bring it vividly to life.

The crackle of the fire generating showers of sparks to rise into the darkness of the chimney and dropping reflections of brilliance on the hardwood floors; the velvety crimson of the duvet and the way it provided perfect contrast for the pale luster of Justin's hair, and the luxurious texture of silk sheets against warm skin; a tray of appetizers sitting on a low table by the bed, offering foie gras, turkey Galantine with truffles, mousse de Saumon Fumé, and mushroom quiches, along with a fine bottle of cognac, and a separate platter of the tiramisu that was Justin's favorite; the soft glow spreading out from clusters of candles scattered around the room, painting the shadows with traces of golden radiance; the blended fragrance of the gardenias, rubrium lilies, and eucalyptus that filled the huge porcelain vases flanking the full windows; the mellow drift of soft romantic voices from the speakers - Melissa Manchester and la Streisand and the Isley Brothers; the sound track from "Moulin Rouge".

And, if he concentrated, he could still call up the lyrics rendered in Patti LaBelle's dulcet contralto:

"Give me the world,
And I'll give you heaven.
Love will set us free
As long as we believe
The best is yet to come."*

He had tried not to listen, not to recognize the irony of hearing that song in those circumstances.

Most of all, he could remember Justin, in all his perfection: skin like pale satin, face flushed with need, exquisite lips rough and swollen with passion, pupils dilated and rimmed with sapphire, warm breath tasting uniquely Justin, body trembling with anticipation.

He had knelt at the foot of the bed and found it almost impossible to catch his breath as he surveyed the feast laid out before him, his cock steel-hard and twitching as he tried to resist an overwhelming urge to simply leap forward and plunder that soft, yielding body. Justin had smiled, knowing exactly what was in store for him, reading Brian as easily as a printed page, and biting his lip, barely able to contain his desire.

Brian had crawled forward, and draped himself over that supple body, easing himself down and fitting himself into the v between his lover's legs, hardness meeting hardness. He had closed his eyes then, indulging a need to memorize the sensation, to store it up so that he would be able to call it up. When it was gone.

For he had known the truth, even then, even when he'd determined that he would not speak of it. In just two days, Justin would be gone, and the 'For Sale' signs would go up in front of the house. 'Britin' would revert to what it had been before - just another big country house, with a tennis court and swimming pool and stables - and no one would ever realize what it might have become.

For a while, they had simply gazed into each other's eyes, neither quite sure what to say. After a time, Brian had leaned in and begun exploring the face, the mouth, the body that he loved so well, saying with actions what he chose not to say with words. Then Justin had turned the tables, and pushed Brian over onto his back so that he could proceed to initiate his own exploration of the exquisite body beneath him.

They had taken their time, stretching out the experience until finally, unable to hold off any longer, Justin had slipped a condom over Brian's leaking cock, greased it with a liberal portion of lube, and then lifted his body until he was in position to push down and impale himself, gasping as he felt the rigid hardness breach the first ring of muscle. Then he had pressed down, until he was filled, ignoring the initial pain until it gave way before the first wave of euphoria, when he began to ride, leaning forward periodically to explore Brian's mouth with lips and tongue, until desperate need compelled him to move faster and push harder. At that point, Brian had gripped him with bruising hands and held him firm while he thrust up into molten tightness, thrusting harder and harder still until they had both fallen over the edge of rapture, into a star-struck landscape of mindless oblivion.

Afterwards, they had lain together in silence, neither knowing what to say, both sensing that it was a good-bye of one sort or another.

The house would survive perfectly well without them. The only question - unasked - was whether they would survive without the house.

In the end, it had been Brian who extinguished the fire and doused the lights and locked the door behind them as they walked out of the house for the last time.

It had been Brian who never looked back. Not even once.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian wasn't sleeping - exactly. Instead, he was drifting between planes of existence, floating on a layer of intravenous painkiller and exploring a painfully reconstructed memory. It was preferable, for the moment, to inhabiting reality, but he knew it couldn't last.

When he gradually became aware of muted words and whispered exchanges in the room around him, he felt a momentary urge to sink deeper within himself and allow sleep to take him, to avoid the necessity of re-entering the moment.

Only he couldn't quite convince himself. It was a matter of taking the coward's way out and postponing the inevitable, so he took a moment to reinforce his resolve before reaching for full consciousness, bracing for what lay ahead.

But he would allow himself one tiny indulgence, one infinite moment of time suspended before stepping into the next phase of his life. He was careful not to move a single muscle, to allow his eyes to open only slightly. Just enough to see the face of the individual who was standing at his bedside, eyes moving down the length of his body. Just enough to revel in the gentle stroke of fingers trailing across a patch of bare skin on his bicep - a touch he was pretty sure he would never experience again.

God! Why must the little twat always be so beautiful? Why couldn't that beauty at least begin to fade, so that it would not be quite so painful to behold? He was frowning, of course, blue eyes dark with concern, undoubtedly distressed by what he saw, but there was no mistaking the faint smile just touching those perfect lips. A smile that said he was glad to be home, glad to be in this place, glad to be at the side of the man he still loved, regardless of the circumstances.

Brian knew that Justin did love him, only not - quite - enough. Not even close to enough to compensate for everything it would cost to indulge it. That was what had sent him to New York, and to Hollywood before that, and to his twink fiddler even before that. The love was real. But it had never been enough, and it sure as hell wasn't enough now to justify risking life and limb.

It was time, he knew; the only course of action open to him was to close the door on the past and lock it tight enough to assure that it could never be re-opened.

He opened his eyes and waited to see how long it would take before anyone noticed; he took advantage of the short-lived chance to look his fill.

It didn't take long at all.

"You're awake." There wasn't a trace of uncertainty in Justin's comment. "Are you . . ."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice was scratchy, slightly hoarse, but steady enough.

"Nice to see you too," the blond replied with a smirk, leaning forward as if to drop a kiss on the patient's forehead.

But Brian managed to flinch away from contact, and spoke again, voice cold and distant. "Why aren't you in Pago Pago, or wherever the fuck you're supposed to be?"

Justin's smirk morphed into a smile that spoke volumes, that said he didn't give a shit how annoyed Brian might be that he'd ignored the warnings and the prohibition and come anyway. "This is where I'm supposed to be."

Brian moved his head slightly, his eyes sweeping once around the room to see who was present, stopping briefly on the faces of Justin's mother and his best friend, before moving on to read the sadness in Cynthia's eyes. She appeared to be the only one who had any idea what lay ahead, and he was briefly sorry he'd felt compelled to make her a part of this.

"Why?" he snapped.

"Why what?" Justin was still smiling.

"Why do you think you should be here?"

"Because we're . . ."

"What? Committed?" Cold, clipped, sneering. "You've said that to me before, you know. Only, it didn't last very long, did it? It was only a couple of months before you were jetting off to Hollywood to grab your share of the good life there. And then, when they tossed you out on your ass, you came crawling back . . . for a while. But that didn't last either, because you got your little heart broken again, so you decided to run off to live with the Stepford fags. And then, after I went temporarily insane and let myself be suckered into offering to marry you, you had to go chase your dream to seek fame and fortune in New York. Did it ever occur to you that I might eventually get tired of your shit and find myself a new blond boy-ass to fill my bed and suck my cock?" He paused and closed his eyes, knowing it was a cowardly thing to do, but unable to stop himself. "It wasn't all that hard to do, you know."

"I know what you're doing," Justin said quickly. "We go through this every time something happens to you, when you don't want me to . . ."

"How about if I just don't want you . . . period. Fuck you, you little shit. I don't need you. I never did. The only reason I kept you around was because you were a hell of a fuck. That's all."

"Brian," said Jennifer Taylor, obviously confused and reluctant to interfere, but unwilling to see her son treated so, "stop this. You don't mean this, and . . ."

"Why does everyone assume I'm incapable of speaking for myself? I'm tired of this shit. I was right from the very beginning. I never should have let myself buy into the whole 'love and marriage' bullshit." He turned and looked straight into Justin's eyes, steeling himself against the misery rising there. "I don't love you, and I don't want you here. I decided to cut you loose the last time you turned tail and ran. Now get out. Go back to your rich, sugar-daddy, Wall Street banker and your Greenwich Village-Boho lifestyle. You should never have come back."

But it still wasn't enough. Even though there were tears in his eyes, Justin was still shaking his head. "Being mean to me has never worked," he whispered. "You're not getting rid of me."

"I already did. Yesterday's fuck. Does that ring a bell for you at all?"

"You're just saying this," Justin said slowly, fighting hard to hold on to his composure, "because you're scared for me. And you don't want to be a burden for me. It's what you always do. I know you too well."

"You don't know me at all." There wasn't a single nuance of warmth in Brian's tone. "I've moved on, Justin. I've done what I should have done a long time ago. You should have done the same."

"I don't believe you."

Brian was momentarily grateful that his face was swathed in bandages, for he wasn't sure he could have managed to conceal how much it hurt to proceed to the next step. He lifted his hand and beckoned Cynthia to come forward. "Tell him," he snapped.

Cynthia had watched the exchange between the two former lovers with growing dread, hoping against hope that her participation would not be required, that Brian would be proven wrong in his assumption that he knew how Justin would react in this situation. But she sighed as she prepared to recite the lines she'd been given, realizing that she should have known better. Nobody knew Justin better than Brian, and if he hadn't been completely sure, he never would have asked her in the first place.

"Justin," she said slowly, looking down at her hands and obviously unwilling to meet his eyes.

"I said, 'tell him'," Brian snapped.

Cynthia nodded. "He . . . found someone new. After you left."

"So?" Justin retorted, his jaw set in stubborn resistance. "Isn't there always someone new? Every fucking day?"

"Not like this one," she answered gently. "This one . . . he keeps this one around."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Jesus Christ!" Brian snapped. "What did you expect? That I'd spend the rest of my life grieving over you? That I'd go into mourning and wind up alone and heartbroken? Don't fucking flatter yourself. I'm Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. I don't do heartbroken. I picked myself up, dusted myself off . . . and went out and found the perfect man for me - the perfect fuck who knows how lucky he is to have me. That's something you never managed to learn. Now - for the last time - get the fuck out of my sight."

"So where is he?" Even now, even reeling under the emotional assault, the young man still had the courage to fight back, to demand, and Brian could barely breathe around the pain in his heart. "If he loves you so much, where is he?"

"Where I want him to be. Where he's safe," he snapped. "Where nobody can get to him. Unlike you. So, if you're smart, you'll haul ass out of here, before you get mistaken for somebody who matters to me."

It was at that moment that Matt Keller walked into the room, just in time to hear the end of the conversation. His eyes, very green and glinting with understanding, locked with those of his patient and conveyed that Brian was going to owe him - big time - for his timely intervention.

"What's going on here?" he asked sternly. "He doesn't need anyone upsetting him, you know. So I suggest you all leave."

Brian deliberately turned his head toward the window, away from the young man who was still staring down at him. He didn't want to see any more, didn't want to say any more. Didn't want to be any more. But there was no avoiding hearing the last thing Justin would say before accepting defeat and turning to walk away.

"I love you, Brian," said the young blond, barely audible voice thick with unshed tears. "I'll always love you."

That was all, except for the flurry of footsteps and a quick whisper from Daphne. "Fuck you, Brian!"

Then they were gone, and the silence in the room after their departure was profound and heavy. Matt Keller busied himself for a moment with studying the patient's chart, while Lance Mathis made a quick call on his cell phone, before taking up his post at the doorway to make sure no one else could gain entrance.

Only Cynthia dared to approach the bed and stare down at her boss, saying nothing, but waiting until he decided to acknowledge her presence. When he did, with nothing more than a shift to allow him to meet her eyes, she did not flinch away from the misery she read in his gaze.

"Sometimes," she said softly, "I really, really hate you."

He could only sigh and touch her hand with trembling fingers, knowing exactly how she felt. "Yeah. Me too."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*"The Best Is Yet to Come" - Cynthia Di Mari Biggs, Dexter Wansel

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