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Chapter 35

525,600 minutes!
525,600 journeys to plan.
525,600 minutes -
How can you measure the life of a woman or man?

In truths that she learned,
Or in times that he cried.
In bridges he burned,
Or the way that she died.
*

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Sensation came slowly, and he was reminded - ridiculously, he thought - of a line from a very old poem - something silly about fog creeping in on little cat feet.** Only, in his case, it wasn't fog; it was physical sensation, touching him with impossibly delicate, gossamer fingers.

Truly ridiculous, except it wasn't quite, for the sensations - and the messages they carried - invaded his consciousness with exquisite stealth, as if to avoid setting off his emotional alarms and sending him scrambling for cover. As much as his mind might insist that this morning was no different from any other, something inside him laughed and called him an idiot for entertaining such a thought. Still, logic forbade him to look for differences. It could not really be different. The morning air was the same soft warm glide against his skin; the sheets caressed him with the same silken touch; the song of the surf was a pale susurration almost beneath the threshold of audibility, just like every other day; and the body stretched out against him was no different - warm and pliant and perfect. Only . . . it was different, and it mattered not in the least that he couldn't quite explain the how or why of it. The taste of the skin in the soft hollow of the throat where his face was buried; the scent of the hair that just tickled his nose; the unique shape and weight of the substantial, semi-firm cock that was braced against his thigh; the slight curl of the hand that was cradled against his crotch. It should have been the same; he had, after all, not exactly been waking up to a lonely, solitary bed of late. It should have been the same, but it wasn't. It was different, in a way that could only be described with one word.

It was Justin.

Or was it?

Could it really be that he was afraid to feel it, afraid to allow it to invade his senses? Could it be that he didn't want to admit the reason for his fear?

Of course it could. Because he didn't want to face the possibility that he might be wrong, and he didn't think he could stand it if he should open his eyes and find that it had been nothing but a dream, after all.

"You're thinking too hard." The voice was morning-hoarse, sleep-deprived/grumpy, and unmistakable, and Brian chuckled.

"God!" The speaker continued, still buried in a nest of jumbled covers and pillows twisted and disarranged so completely that feet and legs (one from each body) were exposed while faces were partially obscured and buried. "Nothing in the world feels quite like your dick in the morning." And to emphasize that observation, the fingers that were splayed across Brian's belly shifted quickly and gave a possessive little squeezing stroke of that much appreciated, semi-hard shaft, already filling with blood and stirring with morning arousal.

The chuckle became a laugh. "My romantic little hero."

"Umm. Your romantic, thoroughly-fucked-but-still-horny, little hero."

And Justin shifted then, up and across Brian so that he was draped completely over that not-quite-perfect-yet-but-getting-there body, and positioned so that he could nibble at the softness under his lover's left ear.

Brian grunted slightly, and then made a sound that was half-growl, half-purr. "You ready for round . . . what? Five?"

"Ummm. Six, I think. Maybe seven. Only . . ."

Brian shifted slightly so he could gaze up into brilliant blue eyes glinting with a reflection of the sunlight pouring through the window. "Only?"

"The spirit is willing," Justin announced solemnly, "but the hole is . . ."

"Weak?" Brian's voice was tender, achingly gentle.

The smile that touched perfect, soft lips was slightly winsome. "A little raw."

The bright hunger in Brian's eyes immediately faded before a shadow of concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"Never."

"Bullshit!"

The smile brightened. "Maybe, but whatever the result, it was worth everything. And I'll gladly stay sore for the rest of my life, if it means getting fucked by you three times a day."

"Only three?"

Justin pushed back slightly to get a better angle for studying the face looking up at him. "Silly of me. I forgot I was talking to the Sex Machine of Liberty Avenue."

"Guess I should remind you," said Brian, before surging up and pushing Justin over onto his back. He then proceeded to claim that luscious young mouth, but very gently. He would not speak of it, of course, but he was intimately aware of the soreness of Justin's body and would treat him as if he were as fragile as hand-blown crystal for as long as it took for him to heal and regain his resilience. In fact, Justin would be vibrating with need and impatience for a fresh round of rough sex long before Brian would relent and give him what he wanted.

Meanwhile, however, he would take advantage of the chance to look his fill, to make up for all the empty days when he'd longed for nothing more than an opportunity to feast his eyes on the face that wasn't there. He braced himself on his elbows and used both palms to smooth the flaxen hair back from Justin's forehead, so that he could examine every inch more carefully. He noticed a tiny scar within the curve of the left eyebrow, and wondered if it had always been there and he'd just missed it. But no; that wasn't possible. He knew every inch of that face; the scar was new, but minor enough to ignore. For now.

He continued to stare for a while, tracing the lines of brow, cheekbones and jaw with gentle fingers, before leaning forward and touching his forehead against Justin's, content to share breath and revel in the scent of sleep-warmed skin.

After a long silence - while Justin was content to stare up at the face that was still healing, and understand that others might see only the damage while he could only see the beauty he remembered, the beauty he knew he would always see when he stared into those chameleon eyes - Brian leaned forward and dropped a line of kisses down the side of that sweet face, to end up nuzzling at the corner of those perfect lips. "You are so beautiful," he whispered then, barely audible. "I thought I'd never have the right to tell you that again."

Justin closed his eyes quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent Brian from recognizing the flare of deep, visceral pain he could not quite suppress. "You pushed me away," he whispered, not quite able to resist a tiny nuance of accusation in the tone of his voice.

"You needed to go," Brian replied, deliberately resisting any urge to express his own sense of grief or betrayal. "You needed more."

"More?" Justin echoed, the first scintillant flare of anger stirring within him. "More than what? More than you?"

Brian simply continued to explore the softness of the skin of Justin's throat, not bothering to offer either answer or argument.

But Justin was not going to leave it alone. That was immediately obvious with his next comment. "That's the worst kind of bullshit, Brian. And furthermore, you know it."

Brian sighed, knowing this was a discussion he was not going to be allowed to dismiss or ignore or derail with his masterful - but currently impotent - skills in the art of distraction. "Justin, I . . ."

"There is nothing better," Justin said, in a voice as close to a snarl as his WASP upbringing would allow him to come. "Not for me. And you should fucking know that. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Brian smiled, which, of course, only enraged Justin further. "Don't fucking laugh at me. Why didn't you stop me?"

The smile changed, became just slightly wistful and more than a little tongue-in-cheek, as that talented mouth moved down to sample the sweetness under Justin's jaw. "You know better than that."

And just like that - in far less time than the space between one heartbeat and the next - Justin's anger was gone. Because the truth was suddenly staring him right in the face. He did know better than that. If what he required from Brian, in order to be happy and content, was for the man to lock him up behind closed doors and cut off all escape routes, then he was never going to be happy, because . . . God, why was it so hard to deal with this uniquely, irrepressibly Brian part of this equation? Because Brian was never going to be able to provide that for him; the man's genetic markers simply did not include that particular strand of human DNA, which would give rise to a predatory compulsion to own another human being.

Brian owned himself; he would never own - or be owned by - anyone else.

But that did not mean that he could not completely and irrevocably possess the heart of someone - the one - who loved him. It only meant it would never occur to him to place that heart into a lockbox.

Huge blue eyes darkened suddenly, and glistened with a sheen of unshed tears. "Brian?"

"Hmmm?" It was a not-quite moan issued from a mouth engaged in exploration of the delicious hollows of Justin's throat.

"Do you love me?"

Brian went very still before slowly raising his head, and allowing Justin to read the gleam of unshielded truth in the depths of eyes glinting topaz in the morning glint. "Don't you know that by now?"

Justin's cheeks flushed bright pink, but he refused to look away from those spellbinding eyes. "I do, but I still need to hear it. Do you love me?"

Brian's smile shifted then, became the perfect definition of tenderness. "More than my life."

"You mean it?"

"I do, but if you're expecting me to recite Elizabethan sonnets or serenade you with . . ."

Justin surged up then to interrupt the disclaimer in the most effective way possible. It was, after all, impossible to talk around a talented, acrobatic, exploring tongue.

Then he lay back and smiled up into eyes now gone dark with passion and pure lust. "There are better ways to show me," he whispered.

But Brian was giving him that knowing smile which announced that he knew he was being played. "You're sore, remember?"

Justin shifted slightly, and felt the burn of severely chaffed skin stretch around his pucker, which, he was sure, was currently as bright red as a cherry lollipop, which brought up a whole new train of thought he would gladly try to persuade Brian to pursue, once he managed to skirt this current issue.

"Yeah, but . . ."

"But," Brian interrupted, his voice sinking to that ultra-sexy cat-in-cream purr, "there are other ways."

After that, there wasn't much speaking for quite a while, because Brian, having learned exquisite manners at an early age, made a point of never talking with his mouth full, and was too busy tasting and swallowing Justin's beautiful dick, while Justin couldn't muster a single coherent word beyond, "Fuuuuuccccckkkkk" and "Pleeeeeze" and, of course, "Briiiiaaannnn."

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

Chris McClaren sat at the table at the edge of the deck and inhaled his third cup of coffee, as an accompaniment to his third cigarette of the morning and acknowledged that he was well on his way to breaking his own arbitrary record. He never drank more than a small cup of coffee before breakfast, and he never smoked at all until much later in the day. But this day, of course, was unlike any other he could remember.

Dawn had been no more than a pale swatch of coral against the eastern sky when he'd first come out of the cottage, and settled into his favorite spot near the deck railing.

He'd told himself he was getting out and about early because he'd already had too much sleep. He'd told himself he just wanted some quiet time to consider new security arrangements that needed to be implemented. He'd told himself he was planning to take an early morning run on the beach - something he hadn't done for the last couple of weeks.

He'd told himself he needed coffee - lots and lots of coffee - and cigarettes.

He had pointedly not told himself that if he heard one more soft moan, one more squeak of bedsprings, one more eruption of gentle laughter, he would come unglued and go ballistic on something.

He sat there and took a long drag of his cigarette, and gave serious consideration to going back into the cottage, to the discreet, nondescript little cabinet in the corner of the parlor which held a small supply of Brian's 'private stock'. But he didn't. He was, after all, a well-respected, highly-placed member of the FBI, who didn't do drugs. Not really. Except . . .

He watched a sandbird playing tag with the froth of a small tidal surge as it broke against the shore, and tried - again - to address the question that kept repeating in his mind.

How the fuck had he allowed this to happen?

He was still sitting there, still asking, and still without the smallest trace of an answer when Trina Thomas came out onto the deck carrying a small tray filled with croissants and another carafe of coffee.

She didn't speak to him,  unless one counted the gentle look of understanding in night-dark eyes. But then she didn't really have to voice her concerns or her conclusions. He was pretty sure Trina had known the truth before he knew it himself.

The question stirred in his mind again, spurred by the anger he felt stirring in his core.

How the fuck does a grown man - a very smart, very hip, very savvy grown man - allow himself to . . .

He never quite allowed himself to finish the sentence.

Instead, he concentrated on the lighter-than-air croissants Trina had provided - and another cup of coffee.

He was still sitting there an hour later when Alexandra Corey came out to join him. He raised his head then, just enough to note that she had forgone the jeans and cotton shirts she had sported during the last few days and re-donned her customary uniform - dark slacks, white dress shirt, and blazer.

"Today?" he asked, trying to show some genuine interest in her response, or, at least, trying to make her believe he cared, one way or another.

"This morning," she confirmed. "Which means I won't be here to go over the file with him. Are you . . . can you . . ."

"Yes."

He pretended not to notice when she took a moment to study his expression. Then she sighed. "I'm sorry, Chris," she said softly.

He didn't bother to deny the conclusions she had obviously reached, knowing it would be a waste of time. She was much too smart and too observant to be fooled by empty denials.

"Don't be," he replied firmly. "I'm not."

She drew a deep breath. "Are you sure?"

"No, but I . . . I think it will be worth it all, in the end."

She took a seat and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. "He should come with a warning label," she observed dryly.

His smile was slightly lopsided. "Such as? 'Beware of horn-dog'?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Enter at your own risk'."

Then he looked up, and she was tremendously relieved to spot a flash of amusement in his eyes. "How about 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here' - or however the quote goes. Still - some risks," he said with a bittersweet smile, "come with their own rewards."

The profiler allowed herself a tiny sigh. Chris McClaren was going to be all right, slightly battered, perhaps, and sporting new scars that might be slow to heal, but all right. "Is he really that special?" she asked softly.

But that was, apparently, a question that intruded a little too far into his personal space, as he confined his answer to a tiny, slightly condescending smirk, letting her know, as discreetly as possible, that some things were simply not open for discussion.

McClaren got to his feet and moved to the edge of the deck where he donned a pair of faded but still serviceable running shoes, and Corey took a moment to enjoy the view. He really was a lovely young man, especially with the fresh glow of the morning sun stroking his lean body in all the right places, and though she was a mature woman - old enough to be his mother, no doubt - she was still entirely capable of appreciating male beauty in all its radiance. She wondered if McClaren realized he was being watched. Then she caught the glint of amusement in his eyes, and knew it was patently ridiculous to wonder. Of course, he knew - as surely as Brian Kinney always knew - and enjoyed being the focus of avid eyes.

She had always had an irresistible weakness for beautiful, cocky, roguish scoundrels like these, although she usually managed to hide it better.

Kinney, she realized, was a horrible influence, on everyone.

"He'll remember you," she said suddenly, not quite sure why she felt a need to express her certainty, but knowing, somehow, it was the right thing to do.

His smile confirmed it. "We'll remember each other," he observed. Then he turned and jogged out toward the beach, feeling just slightly lighter on his feet and more able to face whatever the day might bring.

Something had ended; it was true, and there was no way to deny it. Something he would miss, much more than he had expected. But missing it would not prevent him from being glad it had happened in the first place. After all, if one were only concerned with remaining undamaged, unhurt, and uninvolved, one would never take risks in the first place, and then, there would be no memories to treasure.

He would rather remember the joy, he decided abruptly, than never to have known it at all.


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Justin was still struggling to breathe when the knock sounded on the door, and Brian was still grinning, enormously pleased with himself.

Neither of them said anything at first, and the knock came again, slightly harder and accompanied by a firm voice, completely devoid of inflection.

"Brian!"

If Justin had not been looking straight into his lover's face at that instant, he would have missed it, and later, in quiet moments when he had time for contemplation, he sometimes wished he had. The grin that trembled on his own lips as he identified the voice faltered immediately, as he caught the quick flicker deep in the greenest depths of Brian's eyes.

"Yeah?" Brian replied, after a quick, almost unnoticeable hesitation. Almost.

"We could invite him in," whispered Justin, trying valiantly to ignore what he did not want to see - or know.

"No," said Brian quickly, without offering any explanation.

"Jackson is here."

"Jackson?" echoed Justin. "Another conquest?"

Brian allowed himself a quick eye-roll, but it was slightly forced, not quite as natural as it should have been. "My physical therapist," he explained, before raising his voice to respond to the man still waiting in the hallway. "I'll be right down."

Another hesitation, and a brief shuffling sound. "Okay. Do you need . . ."

"No." Very quick, very clipped, followed by the faintest of sighs. "Thanks."

"Okay, but . . ." The sound of a deep inhalation. "Look, Agent Corey is leaving this morning. Back to Washington, then on to Pittsburgh to oversee the rest of the investigation. But I'll have the files here, if you still . . ."

Brian sat up quickly. "Yeah. I want to see them. Give me five minutes, okay?"

Justin was still watching Brian, trying to read the emotions flaring in dark eyes, but he glanced toward the door when he heard something - something that might have been a quick riff of laughter. "Five minutes, huh? Should I . . . time you?"

And again, Justin turned quickly to surprise a strange look on Brian's face - a look he could not quite define.

"Yeah. You do that."

And then Brian was disappearing into the bathroom, the click of the door closing followed immediately by the rushing sound of the shower.

Justin lay very still, suddenly conscious, for some strange reason, of the waxing and waning of the sounds of the ocean - a prime example of Nature's ultimate irresistible force - and he found himself barely able to restrain a compulsive urge to race into that bathroom and climb into that shower with Brian where he could proceed to reclaim the man's focus and seduce him into forgetting about his therapist and the files that were waiting for him, and anything - or anyone - else he might have on his mind.

Only . . . Justin sighed to realize that might not be as much a sure thing as he would have liked to believe, and he felt a strange sensation - something that was completely foreign and unprecedented in connection to his relationship with Brian Kinney.

Over the years, he had experienced a huge range of emotions during his pursuit of the Stud of Liberty Avenue: frustration and fulfillment, desire and anxiety, disgruntlement and dismay, despair and euphoria, but this . . . this was a first. He had watched an endless stream of tricks parade through Brian's bed or his personal section of wall in Babylon's backroom or . . . wherever - each hornier than the last and each fighting for the opportunity to suck or get fucked by that fabulous cock, and he had occasionally endured moments of resentment and annoyance with their intrusion into the life he shared with Brian. But he had never - not once - experienced a single pang of genuine jealousy. Some had been major-league hot, or incredibly beautiful, but, in the end, they had been just faces (and bodies) in a crowd - nameless and forgettable. So they had not inspired any emotion deeper than a passing curiosity or - at most - a quick surge of self-congratulatory smugness. No jealousy. Never.

 

Until right now.

And he decided abruptly that he'd have been content to maintain his perfect record. He was pretty sure he would not be adding Chris McClaren to his Christmas card list any time soon, and he would be very vigilant to make sure Brian did not do so either.

He sat up and gazed out the window to watch a huge breaker slam against the base of the headland, a violent exhibition of raw power. Somehow, it suited his mood.

Jealousy was new to him, and definitely not to his taste.

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


"So is the stage set?" asked Melanie, as she settled into the wingback chair in front of Ted's massive desk.

Theodore did not - quite - rub his hands together in anticipatory glee, but it was a near thing. "All arranged," he replied with a satisfied smile. "By the end of the day, the air should be clearer around here. And we should all be breathing easier."

Melanie's smile was a little less smug - a little more venal. She did not like Cynthia Whitney; had, in fact, never liked her. There had been entirely too many times during recent years when Cynthia had overstepped her bounds and positioned herself to guard Brian's back during confrontations with the Marcus/Peterson household about matters pertinent to the raising of their son - the little boy whose only real connection to Kinney was that of biological descendant to sperm donor. That was all Brian was - all he had ever been intended to be, if only he had known his place and kept to it and Lindsey had been willing to stand beside her partner and enforce what was best for her true family, instead of always caving in to the man who kept inserting himself into their lives, and claiming a place in Lindsey's . . .

Melanie deliberately closed her mind at that point, unwilling to continue to the natural conclusion of that thought. Brian was nothing to Lindsey - had never been anything to her, or done anything for her, or for anyone besides himself, but Lindsey, blinded by her own silly romantic notions, had never been able to see him for the narcissistic, heartless cretin he was. And Brian had confused the issue even further by using his money and his position to exert pressure on them to allow him some measure of control over the life of the child who was 'his son', but only at 'his convenience'.

Of course, the money had come in handy at times. Even Melanie was forced to concede that, but it shouldn't have been enough to buy him credence as Gus's father. Gus didn't have a father. More importantly, Gus didn't need a father, especially one like Brian Kinney. He had two mothers, which should be more than enough. Of course, there was also the fact that the little boy looked more and more like his sperm donor with every day that went by, which made it even more difficult for Melanie to put Brian out of her mind, and out of their lives when she was confronted with a miniature version of his face every time she walked into her home. Still, Brian should keep in mind that the lesbians had actually done him a huge favor, as it was extremely unlikely that he would ever get another chance to pass on his genes or generate an heir, and the best way for him to show his gratitude would be to do the one thing they consistently asked of him - and butt out.

Somehow, it never occurred to her that casting Gus as the heir apparent to Brian's sizeable estate and genetic heritage was antithetical to her continued insistence that Brian had no place in Gus's life.

But maybe now - now that the spectacular good looks (she never let herself wonder why God would have blessed such a self-centered bastard with such an exquisite face and form) were a thing of the past (no matter how desperately Matthew Keller might disagree) and now that he had been revealed as the typical false idol with feet of clay, since he was obviously neither as invincible nor as irresistible as he'd always pretended, maybe things would change, once Lindsey could be forced to see the truth, as she had never seen it before.

Brian had been a myth, a larger-than-life hero in Lindsey's eyes, although - on rare occasions - Melanie had succeeded in convincing her partner that the prick was unworthy of her loyalty or her affection. Now, since he was definitely damaged goods, maybe she would finally see the man he really was - the selfish, egotistical, arrogant, opportunistic scoundrel who lived beneath the surface of the physical beauty, and spent his life interfering where he had no business.

She looked up then, realizing belatedly that Ted had been engaging in a five-minute monolog, listing the grievances he planned to use to illustrate the reasons for his criticism of Cynthia's stewardship of Brian's company, even as he continued to marshal his resources, arranging his facts in a logical manner so he could present his evidence without hesitation or any appearance of uncertainty. Kinnetik would be the first skirmish in this little war, she thought, a war which would serve a dual purpose: to expose Brian's shortcomings in the first place, and encourage him to retreat from the public eye, and to let reliable individuals - like Ted - take over the management of his assets. Though his employees, his associates, and his clients had always sung his praises and credited him with the superior skill and intellect required to have built his business to such a splendid success, Melanie had always thought his achievements had been more about luck than genius, and luck, after all, was finite. It was time now to allow more professional and more circumspect authoritarian figures - like Ted - to take over and set good fiscal standards to preserve the status quo. Brian, having lost his prestigious standing in the community, would do well to simply remain in the shadows and relinquish control to those better suited to it.

And Cynthia Whitney would be the first casualty in this initial assault against Castle Kinney and its minions. Of course, this conflict really had nothing to do with Melanie or her partner, except that she had to make sure that Gus's interests were protected. That was her only purpose here - that, and keeping a weather eye on the little nest egg she and Ted had coat-tailed onto Brian's major financial investment, the one that would ultimately indebt him to Ted in such a way that he couldn't possibly take sides against him in any confrontation with uppity, self-deluded subordinates. He would be much too busy expressing undying gratitude for the insightful action which would soon make him a very, very wealthy man.

Wealthy enough, she hoped, to send him sailing off into the sunset of the kind of hedonistic, pleasure-centric existence which would keep him far, far away from the people who had once been an integral part of his life. And, in that case, it might even be possible for the Marcus/Petersons to give up their sojourn in the wilds of Canada and return to Pittsburgh. Of course, it would be difficult for her to convince Lindsey that the motivation for returning had absolutely nothing to do with Brian's absence, but she had been perfecting her skills in manipulating her partner with great success over the years, and she was pretty sure she could manage it. Of course, in the privacy of her deepest thoughts, she admitted that she would have preferred it if the man who had been the bane of her existence could be sent packing in disgrace - broke and destitute and exposed as the cretin he was - but that just wasn't going to happen, so she'd have to settle for this. It wasn't idyllic, but it was the best she could hope for, and it would ultimately have the most ardently desired effect. Brian Kinney would be gone from her life - forever.

In order to achieve that goal, she could tolerate anything, even the certainty that he would spend his life lolling in the lap of luxury and fucking his brains out - the only thing for which she found him truly well suited.

Ted was still in mid-tirade, apparently having no need for any encouragement or attention from her, when his desk phone rang, interrupting him in mid-rant.

"Ted Schmidt." He was, of course, the consummate professional in tone and inflection any time he answered his office line; it was a matter of personal pride. He listened for a moment, before bright glints of satisfaction flared in coal-dark eyes as he settled into his plushly upholstered executive desk chair. "Mr. Wylie. How wonderful to hear from you! I've been expecting your call."

Then he listened again, and seemed to spend a moment considering his response before speaking. "Mr. Wylie, if you don't mind, I'm going to put you on speaker. My attorney and my business associate, Melanie Marcus, is here with me, and I'd like to have her input on this matter. Just to make sure we observe all the formalities, you know. Also, she's a talented and experienced fundraiser, so I think she might be able to help us."

Another pause, and then Ted depressed the speaker button on his phone. "Would you mind filling Ms. Marcus in on our little project?"

There was a brief pause, and both Melanie and Ted got a feeling that Mr. Wylie was considering his words carefully and - just maybe - getting input from someone else.

"Not really my project, Ted," the lawyer replied. "I'm just a bystander trying to do a good deed. Dave Graham was previously the manager at the Schickel Concert Hall, a valued associate of many years' standing and a personal favorite of several of the Foundation's directors. A fine man and an exceptionally good employee. He recently resigned from his position in order to devote his time to a charitable project that's become his primary purpose in life - specifically, raising money for orphans in Bolivia, the poorest country in South America. Dave's maternal grandparents still live there, and he spent a lot of time there as a boy, so his interest is very personal. He's put together a group of philanthropists to sponsor a free clinic and an orphanage in El Alto, a city of such poverty that, well, people like us can't even imagine it. It's going to take a major effort to raise funding for such an enterprise - nationally, and perhaps even internationally."

"That sounds like a very good cause, Mr. Wylie," said Melanie, "but how, exactly, does it involve Kinnetik Corp?"

"No direct connection, of course," he admitted readily, "but the project is near and dear to the hearts of some of our very influential investors. So influential that, when the contract for promotion of the concert hall's next season comes up for discussion, a firm's work in promoting this charitable effort could carry a lot of weight with the Board."

Ted was gazing out the window and watching a small, scruffy-looking spaniel chasing a rolling plastic cup around the half-empty parking lot. "So," he said finally, "it would be an investment of good will now, to secure a return on the investment later."

Wylie's low-pitched laugh was slightly grating. "Isn't that the purest definition of good investment policy? Investing now to assure a good return later."

Melanie grinned. "Makes perfect sense to me."

"Still," said Ted, vaguely disturbed by something that he couldn't quite put his finger on, "such a promotion could be a major undertaking, requiring a huge commitment in terms of funding and time. I'm not sure . . ."

"Well," said Wylie abruptly, "I do understand that it might be something you're not comfortable committing to, especially since your Mr. Kinney is not currently accessible to you. So . . ."

"What makes you think that?" Ted said quickly. "Brian may not be in the public eye these days, but that doesn't mean that he's unavailable to his associates."

"So you are in touch with him, then. I didn't realize . . ."

"Of course, I am" replied Ted, favoring Melanie with a classic, keep-your-mouth-shut glare. "He isn't just my employer, you know. He's a close personal friend. And beyond that, Brian's not the type to run away from anything, including the criminals who did this to him."

Wylie took a deep, audible breath. "That's very courageous. Not what the public expects from . . . "

"A faggot?" Ted's eyes were suddenly cold, as was his voice. Later, he would be amazed to realize he had actually allowed his resentment of a possibly homophobic comment to color his response and infuse his manner with a trace of hostility.

"No, no," Wylie said quickly. "I didn't mean that at all. It's just that . . . I saw those horrible photos, and it's difficult to believe he would still have the audacity to stand up and confront the public, after enduring such a terrible thing. That takes courage - a trait that's in short supply these days. It's a shame he'll never get a chance to pass it along to a new generation."

Ted's momentary irritation gave way to puzzlement. "I think you'll come to realize - provided you ever get to know him - that 'audacity' is practically his middle name, but I'm not exactly sure what you mean, about a 'new generation'."

"Well," said Wylie, with an odd note in his voice, "I know that homosexuality is becoming more and more accepted in society, but there's still the unavoidable scientific fact that gays can't reproduce. Not in the classic sense anyway, so I assume . . ."

"Well, you know what they say about assumptions," Ted interrupted with a tiny self-deprecating chuckle, having finally grasped what the man was trying to point out. "There's always a way, if a person is sufficiently determined. Brian, for example, chose an alternative method. He has a son - a perfectly healthy, beautiful six-year-old son, who will undoubtedly inherit all those fabulous Kinney genes so that, in the final analysis, the beat will go on - so to speak."

Following his announcement, there was a small, but noticeable pause - a moment of complete silence, and Ted would later wonder why he had the sudden distinct impression that the whole world was holding its breath. Even Melanie couldn't think of a single thing to say.


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

"God damn it!" Brian groaned. "You're a fucking sadist."

The physical therapist did what he always did when Brian had exhausted his last scrap of patience and begun to express his frustration, which was simply a tried and true method of refusing to express the physical pain that he was enduring.

For a queer-boy, Kinney was remarkably strong.

Jackson simply ignored the complaints and continued with his work, noting that the long dorsal muscles of the spine which were currently claiming his attention were growing stronger and better defined with every passing day. Whatever a casual observer might think of Kinney and his ilk, no one could fault him for lack of effort to restore the perfection of his body. The man worked like a tireless machine to regain his strength and beauty.

A funny word, perhaps, to use for a man, but appropriate nevertheless; he was truly beautiful, provided one could avoid dwelling on the damages which had not been repaired, and, from the looks of things, would remain so. The therapist thought it strange that the young man should want to hang on to such a macabre souvenir of the attack against him, but it was not his place to judge such a decision or the motives behind it.

He was here to help the body recover, and that was his sole focus. The mind and spirit were the concerns of others.

"And I hate this fucking pillow," Brian continued, trying - vainly - to fluff the lumpy cushion that Jackson always provided for his patient to use to cradle his face as he endured the deep massage and muscle manipulation required for his therapy.

"So you've said," replied Jackson. "Probably several hundred times by now."

"Yes, but it's still here."

The therapist shrugged. "So am I."

Brian finally subsided, confining his remaining comments to a guttural mutter, almost - but not quite - beneath his breath.

Their session was almost over, and the worst of it was behind him, but not even Jackson's deft massage techniques could totally ease the discomfort of the intense isometric and weight-lifting work-out. Of course, it was also true, on this occasion, that he was a little sore from exertions practiced throughout the previous night - exertions involving the hyper-sensitive responsiveness of a certain sleek young body.

Brian buried his face once more in the much-despised pillow in order to conceal the smile he could not quite swallow. The little twat was definitely going to pay for this, and sooner rather than later.

In fact . . .

"Jackson, you guys finished?"

Brian lifted his head quickly, turning slightly to study the face of his primary FBI babysitter. He had gotten to know Chris McClaren extremely well in recent weeks, so well that it was a simple thing to discern that something was definitely bothering him, and it had to be something relatively important, as the man had never before interrupted any of Brian's treatment sessions.

The therapist looked up, apparently on the verge of informing the agent that he'd have to wait a while longer, but something in McClaren's eyes seemed to give him pause, and he quickly grabbed a clean towel from his bag and proceeded to wipe away the traces of the ointment he had kneaded into Brian's trapezius and deltoid muscles. "Loose enough?" he asked then, dabbing at beads of sweat just below the nape of his patient's neck.

Brian pushed himself up and spun around to let his legs dangle. "As usual, Sensei, I'm putty in your hands."

He was wearing his customary smirk, the one that announced to the world that he was determined to get some kind of out-of-control, emotional response from the therapist before their interaction came to an end - a goal he had yet to accomplish - but the smirk faltered and faded as he looked up and read the disquiet in Chris McClaren's eyes.

"What?" he demanded, not bothering with excess, unnecessary verbiage.

"You need to hear something."

Brian neither questioned nor argued. He simply slipped into the pair of athletic shorts that he usually wore around the house - out of respect for Trina's sense of modesty - and followed the FBI agent into the small office Alexandra Corey had used during her stay. Although Justin had been nowhere in evidence as they'd begun their short trek, he was at Brian's side by the time they reached their destination.

Brian dropped to the leather sofa, his grace and physical strength disguising the fact that his knees had begun to shake, and only he could have said for sure whether it was from the exertions of his therapeutic work-out or the anxiety radiating from eyes gone dark and pensive.

"What's happened?" he asked, barely even noticing when Justin sat beside him and reached out to grasp his hand, and that, in itself, was enough to make his companions aware of the depth of his concerns. He simply did not ignore Justin's presence or Justin's touch. Ever.

And then Justin noticed that McClaren's gaze was shifting from the light coating of dust on the surface of his desk, to the seagull soaring outside the window, then to the bars of sunlight on the wood floor - to anything, indeed, except Brian's face, and that was even more significant than Brian's distraction. It had not escaped Justin in the course of all their previous encounters that the FBI agent was every bit as likely to follow Brian with his eyes as any other gay man with the good taste to recognize beauty when he saw it.

But he wasn't following now. Instead he clasped his hands on the desk and stared down at clinched fingers. "You know we've been monitoring phone calls at your office."

Brian simply nodded, but Justin experienced a moment of extreme resentment, a reaction reflecting a thoroughly liberal philosophy which, under ordinary circumstances, Brian would have shared. But a quick glance into changeable hazel eyes reminded him of what he had momentarily allowed himself to forget: these circumstances were far from ordinary.

McClaren took a deep breath. "This call occurred about thirty minutes ago. The agent in charge of the wiretap figured we'd better hear it, and your security chief was also calling in, probably before the last word was spoken."

He paused then, his finger poised to key the recording. "Brian," he said softly. "This won't be easy for you to hear."

He hit the switch, and there was a faint buzzing, followed by the double ring of a phone.

The voice that answered announced its identity, but it was, of course, completely superfluous. Both Brian and Justin needed no prompting to identify the speaker, or - just moments later - the speakers.

It was not a particularly long conversation, but it was, within a matter of moments, a deadly one, from Brian's perspective.

Once he realized what he was hearing, Justin stopped concentrating on the voices and what they were saying, and shifted his attention to the man seated beside him, and watched as this individual, this man more precious to him than anyone else would ever be, endured another massive act of treachery. And handled it. Handled it in spite of the huge, crippling bolts of pain that engulfed him as he listened, in spite of enduring the intimate thrust of the blade of betrayal penetrating his heart. Brian listened, and the only physical sign of what he was feeling was the uneven hitch of his breathing, and the darkness rising in his eyes. But Justin knew what he was going through, knew how terribly he was hurt, and was once more lost in admiration for his lover's courage and strength.

When the recording was finished, Brian closed his eyes for a moment, and gripped the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, before looking up to stare into McClaren's face. "Did you make the call?"

The FBI agent greeted the question with a tiny smile, acknowledging he had known exactly how Brian would react. "I did. They'll be here this afternoon."

But Brian was shaking his head. "I'm not sure that's the best way to . . ."

"Brian," said McClaren sharply. "You need to decide - right now - whether you trust me or not."

"How am I supposed to . . ."

McClaren rose then, and came around the desk and, with just a quick glance toward Justin, went to his knees at Brian's feet. "Don't do that. Don't evade the question. Whatever else may have happened here - last week, last night or today - you know me. Don't you?"

Brian could not quite suppress a sigh. "I used to think I knew a lot of things," he said softly. Then a glint of something hard and icy glinted in his eyes. "And a lot of people, but I . . ."

"Fuck that!" There was no uncertainty in McClaren's voice. "And fuck them! You trust this little twat, and you trust me. And you've got to go on trusting me now. Everything will be all right. I swear it."

"Yeah?" That beautiful face was suddenly, unutterably weary. "How can you be so sure?"

The FBI agent reached out and laid his hand on Brian's shoulder. "I swear it," he repeated.

Slowly and a little reluctantly, Brian nodded. "I need to call my office," he said. "I need to talk to Mathis first. Then Cynthia."

McClaren nodded.

"And then," Brian continued, "I want to see those files. I think I've had enough of being the victim of this little melodrama. I think it's time for a major plot shift."

McClaren frowned. "Brian, I don't . . ."

"Just place the call, McFed. And if you think I'm not going to hold you to your promise, you better rethink it. If anything happens to . . ."

McClaren reached out once more and laid his hand over Brian's mouth. Then, ignoring Justin's sudden hoarse inhalation, he leaned forward and replaced his hand with his mouth, just touching his lips to the ones still open to speak. "I promised you, didn't I? I swear it, on my life."

Justin wanted to be angry, wanted to leap up and jerk the usurper away from his lover - but couldn't. He really hated to admit it, but he was pretty sure the FBI agent had just earned the kiss he'd stolen, especially since the terrible pain that had arisen in Brian's eyes during the playback of the phone call had finally begun to ease.

So, struggling to control his breathing, the blond settled back in his seat, taking solace from the way Brian was gripping his hand as if it were his lifeline.

When McClaren went back to the desk, and proceeded to place the phone call, Brian turned to Justin and laid his forehead against the younger man's temple. "Justin, you don't have to be a part of this," he whispered. "It won't be pretty, and . . ."

"Shut up!"

"You have no idea what you'll see or learn, and . . ."

Justin hesitated, for just a moment, hearing something in that beloved voice that gave him pause, but, in the end, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the feelings deep inside assuring him they could face anything as long as they faced it together.

"Shut up!" he repeated. "What? You still think I'm this helpless little twink who can't stand to face the ugly truth? Do you really think I'm that weak?"

Brian settled back against the worn leather of the sofa, and closed his eyes, obviously considering what to say next. He knew, of course, what Justin had not yet been told, and he was pretty sure the young man was going to be livid for multiple reasons - livid at his dickhead, homophobic father, for being a part of the group that had tried to destroy Brian, and equally livid at Brian for not telling him about it sooner, and a little voice inside his head, which he was having trouble ignoring, was accusing him of being the worst kind of a coward for not speaking up immediately when Justin had first arrived on the scene. It wasn't, after all, as if he could claim he hadn't already remembered the damning truth. But how, he wondered, did you tell a son that his father was the epitome of everything in life he despised? And how would Justin deal with the knowledge?

He sighed then, and opened his eyes, facing the fact that he would have to confront those issues shortly, whether he was ready to face them or not.

"No," he said finally, turning to cup Justin's face with caressing fingers. "I think you're the bravest man I've ever met. But you . . . " Deep breath, to gather strength and courage to go on. "You have no idea how hard this is going to be, and you don't have to prove anything to me or to anybody else."

Justin leaned forward abruptly, ignoring the uneasiness flaring in his own gut, and claimed that luscious mouth, harshly, brutally, without a single nuance of tenderness. "Shut-the-fuck-up!" he said as he pulled away. "We are in this together, no matter how ugly or how hard it gets. And if you try to throw me out, I'm going to make you wait at least a week before I let you fuck me again."

Brian lowered his head and rolled his lips into his mouth. "A whole week?"

"At least."

Brian moved closer and nibbled at the soft spot under Justin's left ear. "You wouldn't last a day."

"Oh, yeah? Well, we'll just see about that. I bet I could go . . . " A deft tongue was suddenly exploring the whirls of his ear, and he found coherent thought increasingly difficult. "I could go . . . a couple of hours anyway. But that's not going to happen, because . . . oh, shit, Brian, that feels . . ." Hoarse, shaky breath to achieve renewed ability to speak. "Because you're not going to shut me out."

Brian went very still then, pulling back and peering deep into crystal blue eyes. "No," he agreed finally. "I'm not. I don't think I'd even remember how."

"Really? You realize, of course, that memory loss is the first symptom of advancing age - Geezer."

The smile he received for his audacity was brilliant, blinding, achingly beautiful - absolutely nothing held back and thus, incredibly rare - for Brian Kinney. "When we're done here, I'll just have to do my best to muster the strength to demonstrate my physical appreciation of your perky little ass - in the bed, on the floor, across the desk, out on the beach, in the water . . . " He emphasized each suggested location with the touch of soft, exquisite lips to another perfect spot on Justin's face and throat, finishing up with his mouth tracing a trail down velvet-soft skin and into the dark softness under the collar of the young man's shirt.

Justin, having no alternative, closed his eyes and fought to breathe while Chris McClaren wished - devoutly - that he was running laps at Quantico in August, or crawling through mine fields in Afghanistan, or having a root canal.

Anywhere . . . but here. And given what lay ahead for them and the revelations they would share as the day progressed, he was absolutely certain things would only get worse from this moment on. Thus, they needed a distraction, no matter how temporary or unpleasant it might turn out to be.

When Lance Mathis picked up his phone, the FBI agent was pretty sure he had never been more grateful for anything in his life.

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

She had never intended for The Meeting - and she was knew that Brian would offer up a classic Kinney smirk at her capitalization of the term - to take place in his inner sanctum, but in the end, there had been no choice. No other venue in the building was large enough, unless she was willing to forego confidentiality in one of the public areas.

She wasn't.

So here she sat, undoubtedly adding fuel to the leaping flames of Ted's resentment by having the nerve to seat herself at Brian's desk.

Again, it was something she had not intended to do, but circumstances had determined that it was necessary. Nevertheless, she had not failed to note the angry glitter in the CFO's eyes when he'd come marching into Brian's office, juggling his assortment of notes and evidence to support his case. And even though some part of her mind wanted to reject that term, she recognized it was probably appropriate; this was in no way a court of law, but Ted intended to put her and her management skills - and her loyalty to Kinnetik's true Lord and Master - on trial here today.

She sat back and watched the cast of characters assemble before her - most of whom she'd expected to see here, with only a couple of surprises - and speculated on how surprised the group might be when they realized the identity of the foreman of the jury, so to speak.

Melanie Marcus and Lindsey Peterson had been first to arrive, and Cynthia almost smiled when she realized that, even if she'd been naïve and gullible enough to be unaware of Ted's intentions in calling this meeting, one look at the dark malice gleaming in the lawyer's eyes would have tipped her off. In addition, the vaguely apologetic expression on Lindsey's face was equally revealing.

At Cynthia's invitation, the two women helped themselves to coffee and an assortment of the lovely pastries provided on a daily basis to Kinnetik personnel by Auntie Em's Catering. They then took seats at the conference table, and very carefully avoided looking at or speaking to each other. Cynthia was careful not to smile, imagining a tongue-in-cheek comment from a certain individual who would not appear here today - something snarky, no doubt, about troubles in lesbianic paradise.

Conversation was non-existent at first, and then only desultory as other members of the group drifted in and served themselves from the refreshment display.

Michael and Ben were next, both looking decidedly uncomfortable, and Cynthia could almost have persuaded herself to feel sorry for them. Almost.

Debbie Novotny, characteristically loud and bright, wandered in then, with Jennifer Taylor at her side, and Cynthia was a bit startled by the presence of Justin's mother, but it was immediately obvious that she was both ill-at-ease over being here at all, and had almost certainly been commandeered by Debbie's insistence on her presence. Carl Horvath brought up the rear of that tiny group, and Cynthia knew, instinctively, that - whatever his personal connection with the individuals assembled here - he was attending in a semi-official capacity. Whatever concerned Brian Kinney these days, concerned the Pittsburgh PD.

Though nothing much had been said during the early moments of the meeting, it was still painfully obvious that an awkward situation was about to get considerably more awkward when Joan Kinney and Claire DeFatta walked into the office. Cynthia once more had to resist a whimsical impulse to smile; the look on Joan's face clearly revealed that she was remembering her last visit to her son's office - and wishing she could forget it. At the same time, Claire's eyes were wide and filled with speculation. She had never been here before, and Cynthia was pretty sure she was busy figuring out how much everything in the room would bring in an Ebay auction.

And the answer, of course, was plenty, but Cynthia knew one thing for sure. No matter what happened today, or next week, or next year - or ever - Claire DeFatta would profit from her brother's estate only over Cynthia's dead body. And that was a literal truth.

When Ted walked into the room, accompanied by his better half, with Blake looking as if he'd much rather be facing a court martial than attending this little head-on collision, the group was complete. Save for one more - one who brought up the rear and closed the door behind him, and nodded toward Cynthia while ignoring the quick flash of anger in Ted's eyes.

It was immediately obvious the accountant had not invited Lance Mathis to participate in this little bull session, but it was also obvious, from the stern, uncompromising expression on the security chief's face, that any attempt to persuade him to leave was going to be spectacularly unsuccessful. He took up a stance behind Brian's desk, crossed his arms, and waited, saying nothing but noticing everything.

For a moment, Cynthia thought Ted might actually make an issue of the man's presence; he even looked, at one point, as if he were going to voice his displeasure and challenge Mathis' right to be there, but he looked up quickly, glanced from Cynthia to Mathis and back again, and elected, finally, to keep his objections to himself.

Cynthia responded with a tiny, fleeting smile of approval, designed to let him know that she had noticed his brief uncertainty and agreed with his final decision. What she pointedly did not say, because there was absolutely no need to reinforce the obvious, was that any attempt to oust the man would be met with the kind of resistance - verbal and physical - which Ted, on his very best day, would be ill-equipped to handle.

Instead of raising an issue he could not hope to control, Ted cleared his throat, made a brief show of re-arranging the documents he'd brought with him, and sat down at the head of the conference table, in a spot ordinarily reserved for the mega-presence who was not here today. No one spoke for a while, waiting for him to get things started.

The wait was brief.

"I believe everyone's here," he said finally, "and I want to thank you all for coming."

Cynthia sat forward and offered a diffident smile. "What? No Emmett?"

Only a very perceptive individual would have noticed the quick flush that touched Ted's cheeks as he replied. "Emmett had prior commitments."

Cynthia - who was always extremely perceptive - simply nodded and gestured for the CFO to continue.

"First of all," Ted began, "I want to assure you, Cynthia, that we have not come here to criticize your handling of Brian's affairs in his absence. We know it must have been an overwhelming experience for you, to have the weight of so much responsibility dumped on you without adequate time to prepare to handle the load. And it's not as if Brian had the time or the opportunity to make detailed arrangements for how he wanted things handled during this very difficult period. It was very brave of you and very generous to take on so much responsibility. Under ordinary circumstances, your efforts would have been more than sufficient to safeguard the company and see that his interests were served."

He paused then, probably for dramatic effect, and Cynthia tilted her head slightly, noting that Lance Mathis had shifted a bit in order to focus more tightly on Ted's face. The moment, no doubt, was at hand.

"However," the accountant drew a deep breath, "we - the people who have been Brian's family, both real and extended, over the years, who have made it our purpose in life to guard his back when it needed guarding - have some serious concerns, and felt compelled to raise these questions, to make sure that we don't allow things to get too far out of hand before we intervene. I'm assuming that you're willing to hear our questions and comments, in the understanding that we have the right, perhaps even the duty, to speak up on his behalf if we feel it wise to do so."

Cynthia braced her elbows on Brian's desk and balanced her chin against her clasped hands. "I'm listening," she replied, and Lance Mathis wondered if anyone else had noticed how non-committal her response had been.

Ted nodded, and flipped open the file folder on the top of his stack. "It goes without saying, of course, that Kinnetik is the rousing success it is primarily because of the talent and commitment - and yes, even the genius, though some might dispute that term - of Brian Kinney. That accounts for the origin of the firm. When it was brand new and needed a strong, compelling force behind it, Brian was that power. His fire, his brilliance, and his audacity were the components of putting it together and making it a success. But when a company matures and is no longer the new kid on the block, so to speak, its needs change, and the power that propels it must also change. It grows and broadens, and one person, no matter how gifted or bright, is no longer able to handle it all. And that's what has happened to Kinnetik. It might have been Brian's lovechild - at birth - but it's now reached its adolescence, and it needs more than the vision and the energy of one man to drive it.

"It had already progressed to that stage by the time Brian got hurt, so it was already entering a new stage of existence. Unfortunately, Brian had not had the opportunity to take that into account in planning how things should be handled should he be unable to perform his administrative tasks. Does everyone understand that?"

Cynthia smiled. "You're not exactly teaching warp physics here, Ted, so I think we can all grasp what you've said. However, I feel that someone should point out that Brian didn't exactly 'get hurt'. A bunch of motherfuckers tried to kill him. I don't really like euphemisms much."

Joan Kinney leveled an outraged stared at the blonde young woman who was currently sitting behind her son's desk and acting as if she had a perfect right to do so, but she said nothing.

Once more, deep sparks of anger flared in Ted's eyes, but he bit down on his spirited retort. "Whatever you choose to call it, the truth is that Brian is not here to oversee that the company runs as he would want, and those of us who are in position to monitor the daily operations of the firm have become . . . alarmed, over a period of time."

"Concerning?" The blonde's voice was colder now, without a trace of a smile.

Ted's smile was almost triumphant, and Cynthia took a deep breath, bracing herself against what was to come. Although she did take some measure of comfort from the looks on the faces of some of the group members - like Michael and Ben and Lindsey and Blake, none of whom appeared particularly sanguine with what was happening.

Ted began to go through his list of grievances, referring to his notes periodically, and growing more and more confident with every word he spoke. He addressed a wide variety of issues, ranging from the handling of certain national campaigns for some of the company's oldest clients; the rejection of certain new accounts and clients suggested by various associates and employees (including Ted); the participation - or lack thereof - of the firm in certain charitable endeavors and promotions; the hiring and - more pertinently - the firing of certain staff members contrary to the recommendations of members of senior management; the contracting of professional services with a new circle of professionals not previously approved by Brian; the donation of sizeable sums to a newly-formed foundation for funding research into children's cancer; even matters as trivial as challenging trusted art department favorites on the theme of a new campaign for the Remson Pharmaceutical account.

He spoke for almost a half hour, listing Cynthia's shortcomings and errors in judgment, all the while attempting to project an air of concern and sympathy for the 'untenable position in which Brian had put her'.

At the end of his recitation, he shifted into a more personal mode, talking - with occasional verbal support from others in the crowd - about the unfairness of keeping Brian's friends and family at arm's length, of preventing the people who were his most loyal friends and supporters from going to him in his hour of need, and - finally - of ignoring his most ardent wish by disclosing his location to Justin Taylor, the one thing that he had specifically forbidden.

When he had said everything he had to say, he sat back in his chair, folded his hands, and regarded Cynthia with a self-satisfied little smile, the look in his eyes expressing his certainty that she could not possibly refute his charges or explain her actions.

For her part, Cynthia turned once and lifted an eyebrow at Lance Mathis who responded with a quick nod. Then she turned back and regarded the group seated around the conference table with a steady, non-committal gaze, taking a deep calming breath before beginning to speak.

"All right then. I've listened to your comments and your questions - very patiently I think - and I will address the issues you've raised. But first, I want to talk about one thing that you mentioned repeatedly in your little speech - specifically loyalty.

"Do any of you know how Brian and I met for the first time?" She paused then, and allowed her gaze to drift from face to face. Then she smiled. "No. I didn't think so."

"The very fist time Brian Kinney ever laid eyes on me, I had just dumped an entire tray filled with iced soft drinks and beer all over Mario Lemieux, who had just come off the ice after scoring his gazillionth hat trick of the season. Or so it seemed to me."

She turned away from the group then, and chose to stare out into the windswept parking lot, but it was obvious she was seeing something entirely different.

"Brian and I started working at the Igloo on the same date, but we didn't actually meet until a few days later. I was sixteen, and he was a year older, and we both really, really needed the paychecks. Anyway, I was trying desperately to do a perfect job, to work hard enough to impress my supervisors so they'd be sure to keep me for the rest of the season. So, just before the end of the game - the Penguins were playing the Blackhawks - I was sent down to the locker area with a tray of drinks for members of the press corps. Most people have no idea how hard professional sport teams work to guarantee friendly press coverage. At any rate, I was so busy concentrating on not spilling anything on the floor, that I failed to watch out for the team coming off the ice. I was sixteen years old, my first week on the job, desperately poor and needing to work just to survive, and I looked up just in time to see Mario Lemieux skating toward me with all his teammates hanging all over him in a mass victory hug. I didn't even have time to brace myself before I was on the floor, with him on top of me, and he was soaked through with icy soft drinks and beer."

Her voice was suddenly very soft. "Lots of people never realized that Lemieux was a lovely man - soft-spoken and gentle and polite. But on that night, he was just coming off a particularly rough game, he'd been in a couple of fights on the ice, he was scheduled to face the press and be interviewed about his latest record-breaking performance, and here was this bland, blonde, slip-of-a-girl who had just soaked him to the skin, and . . . " She hesitated then, remembering being virtually paralyzed with fear. "Jesus! I figured I'd be lucky to get out of there alive. Then, he pushed off me, and opened his mouth to give me hell, when I looked up, through tears, and saw the face of an angel standing over me. Brian Kinney. He was just a kid himself, young and green and probably scared to death - I mean, it was Mario Fucking Lemieux, the guy who had already broken most of Gretzky's records, who was the equivalent to God in Pittsburgh that year, and he practically had steam shooting out of his ears. And Brian, with more guts than sense, told him in no uncertain terms that it really wasn't very appropriate for an international hockey super-star to flatten a poor little girl who was just going about her business, trying to earn a living.

"For a period of about thirty seconds, it was like the whole world went silent. Nobody said anything at all, and the only thing I could hear was the roughness of Brian's breathing, which was the only way he showed how terrified he was.

"And then, to my amazement, to everyone's amazement - especially Brian's - Lemieux started laughing. He helped me up, grabbed a towel to help dry my hair, and slapped Brian on the back. The next week, during lulls in practice, he sought Brian out, pulled him out on the ice, and proceeded to teach him how to handle a puck. I think they got to be pretty good friends over the next few months.

"I also think," she continued with a rakish grin, "that Lemieux was what Brian always calls a Classic Breeder, about as straight as a man can be, but if any gay boy ever had a shot at him, it would have been Brian who, even way back then, never once tried to hide who or what he was, and I can guarantee you there was more than one pair of eyes that managed to focus on his charming ass and follow him around on the ice while he got his lessons from the pride of the Penguins. Anyway, that was the beginning of our friendship, but it doesn't even begin to tell the whole story."

She paused for a moment, and seemed to debate how to continue. Then she reached down and opened a briefcase that was sitting at her feet and pulled out a photograph.

"This is not something I've ever shared with a lot of people," she said slowly, obviously still not 100% certain she really wanted to do this, "but perhaps it's time I did. Perhaps it's time for a little eye-opening."

Ted's smile was brilliant, as he turned to exchange satisfied glances with his chief supporter, but Melanie was not as convinced as he obviously was that their victory was at hand.

Cynthia's next words proved her point.

"But if you think it's my eyes that need opening, you're in for a bit of a shock."

She spent a moment staring at the image on the photograph in her hand, before she turned it so that her audience could examine the face displayed there.

"This is Katy Howard," she said very softly. Then she looked up and deliberately sought out the eyes of Ben Bruckner, although she would later be unable to explain why she had done so. Instinct, she would decide, and she'd be right. "My daughter."

"Bear with me while I tell you a little story," she continued. "It might take a while, but not as long, I'm thinking, as your little recital of my shortcomings.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess . . ." Her tone had become deliberately ironic. "A princess who should have been born into the lap of luxury, in one of the great houses of Europe, perhaps. Unfortunately, in the manner of all classic fairy tales, the poor stork got confused in the course of its appointed rounds and dumped the princess into a housing project in Pittsburgh. Instead of a royal family and a magnificent future, the princess wound up as an extra, unwanted mouth to feed in a welfare family with a drunken, abusive father." She paused again, and looked directly at Joan Kinney. "Sound familiar? But the little princess was luckier than some other examples of misplaced royalty, even though she was born into poverty. At least, she wasn't cursed with a drunken, unfeeling, self-centered, cold fish of a mother - like a certain beautiful young prince who shall remain nameless - but the princess' mother, while a good, decent woman, was in poor health, uneducated, and virtually helpless to control her violent husband."

She looked to Ben again, and found comfort in the kindness in his eyes. "It was a different time back then, and people - even very good people - were loathe to interfere in private family matters, an attitude that was, of course, very convenient for abusers. At any rate, the beautiful princess, and her beautiful princess older sister, learned early how to gauge their father's moods and stay out of his way when he was at his most dangerous, and their mother, while not strong enough to resist or defy the man, often put herself at risk to draw his attention away from infractions the girls might have committed." She smiled then, but there was no warmth or humor in it. "Infractions like eating the last piece of bread in the house when he was hungry, or answering the phone when he was trying to dodge the latest loan shark looking for payback. Things like that.

"It was not an idyllic life. So when I say that the job at the Igloo was important, that's not an exaggeration. It was, potentially, the difference between eating or going hungry. By that time, my big sister had run away, and my mother was in declining health, so . . . well, long story short, I really needed the job. And Brian . . . I'm pretty sure that Brian saved my life. And I know for a fact that he saved my job, on more than one occasion, by covering for me when I couldn't manage things for myself. Like the time that I was sent to fetch supplies for the concession stand from the storage warehouse and couldn't handle the weight of the boxes because . . . because I was so badly bruised and bludgeoned by one of my father's drunken assaults that I was too weak to do any lifting. I think Brian had already guessed that I was a victim of abuse - it wasn't as if he wouldn't recognize the symptoms firsthand - but that was the first time he ever saw the evidence, up close and personal, so to speak.

"I'll never forget the look on his face when he sat me down and lifted up my shirt. If you've ever faced the Wrath of Brian Kinney - and if that has a vaguely Biblical sound, it's entirely appropriate - you'll remember what that expression looks like, because it's sure as hell not something you'll ever forget."

A number of people in the group nodded, their eyes closed as they remembered - and then wished they hadn't.

"He took care of the task at hand for me, and then he dragged me to the ER," Cynthia continued. "And then he took me home and confronted my father."

"He was just a seventeen-year-old kid - one my father would later refer to as 'that fucking little fag' - but he was . . . he was like an avenging angel or something. And, fag or not, he was a strong, cocky little bastard and physically already pretty damned impressive."

She looked down then, obviously caught up in a memory she'd have preferred to forget. "He took me to the pharmacy first, to pick up my medication; then he took me home and told my mother what the doctors had said and helped her to put me to bed. Then he asked to speak to my father. In all the years before and since, I don't think I ever saw my mother more frightened than she as at that moment, but she took Brian into the kitchen and told him to sit down and wait. And then she went to fetch my dad.

"He never told me what happened in that room, and my mother and I couldn't make anything out, after the first blast of outraged anger from my father - the first 'Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you want?' After that, things went deadly quiet. They were only in there for about fifteen minutes. Then my father walked out of the kitchen and out of the house. And Brian came out, came into my bedroom and flashed me one of those trademark-Brian-Kinney smiles, and explained - to me and my mom - that everything was going to be all right. Then he left.

"Later, my father would occasionally make ugly comments about my 'little fag friend', but here's the real revelation." She paused then, and looked up to meet the eyes that were trained on her - actually riveted to her. "My father never laid a hand on me again."

Then she smiled. "Of course, it was still a miserable existence. We were still poorer than church mice, and he still took advantage of every opportunity to make sure we knew how worthless and contemptible we were. But he kept his fists to himself, and I know it was a terrible burden for him." She laughed then, an ugly, sarcastic sound. "I could see it in his eyes that he wanted to beat the shit out of me, time and time again, but he didn't. Something always held him back, even when I got brave enough to speak my mind to the old bastard, which I never would have done before. I don't know what Brian said to him, or how he managed to coerce him into controlling his violent impulses. He never did explain it, even when I asked him. But I know this as surely as I know that the sun will set this evening. Whatever he said or did, it worked, and it's entirely possible that it saved my life."

She took a moment then to look down at the photograph on the desk before, and to trace the delicate young face displayed there with a gentle finger.

"We stayed good friends after that, of course. You don't turn your back on someone who's saved your life, do you? And there were times when Brian needed . . . well, when Brian needed. No point in going into the details." Joan Kinney shifted in her chair, and shared an uneasy look with her daughter at that point, but Cynthia decided to leave the subject unexplored. "At any rate, although my father no longer abused me physically, he continued to mistreat my mother, and he excelled in verbal and emotional abuse. And often, my job was the only thing that kept a roof over our heads. I was desperate to escape from it all. Brian kept encouraging me to hang on, to get my diploma and win myself a college scholarship so I could build my own life, but I was impatient."

She smiled then, but it was bittersweet. "And then, along came Bobby." She deliberately looked at Lindsey and read sympathy in the woman's eyes. "Isn't there a 'Bobby' in every woman's life, even if he's sometimes a 'Brian'? I was sure that Bobby was the answer to my prayers, that I had found my white knight to sweep me up and carry me off to his palace where we would live happily-ever-after. God, is there anything quite as naïve - or as stupid - as a self-deluded teen-aged girl? Anyway, let me cut to the chase here, and tell you that A. Cinderella meets Prince Charming. B. Prince Charming gets Cinderella pregnant. C. Cinderella is ecstatic and expects Prince Charming to take her away to a new life, and D. Prince Charming turns out to be a fucking bastard of the first order and a coward to boot. He runs, as far and as fast as his pigeon-toed little feet will carry him, and Cinderella is alone, penniless, and pregnant. And the fairy tale, of course, instantly becomes a horror story."

By this time, Cynthia was focused only on the face looking up at her from the photograph; thus she did know notice the softness in the eyes of many of her listeners. "My sister was luckier than me. She actually found a Prince Charming of her own. Of course, he was just a simple farmer from Iowa - a guy she met when he stopped in at the diner she was working at in South Bend, when he was on a trip to visit his grandparents. He wasn't a gorgeous, super-smart, super buff type of guy, but he had one thing going for him that made up for everything else. He fell deeply in love with her, and he then spent years proving it. By the time I realized that I was pregnant and found that, despite my fears and misgivings, I didn't want an abortion, my sister Bonnie had been married to him for almost two years. She and her husband, Alan, provided the answers to my prayers.

"My father never knew. In fact, no one in Pittsburgh knew, except my mother and Brian. I had hesitated about telling him, thinking that he'd be disappointed in me for making such a stupid mistake, but I should have known better. After he spent a few minutes laughing at me and making fun of my ridiculous romanticism, he helped me figure out how to do what needed doing. In the end, he even drove me to my brother-in-law's farm outside Sioux City. The timing worked out well, so that I only had to miss a couple of weeks of school, and the doctor who delivered the baby gave me a medical excuse, claiming I'd had mono, to get my absences excused."

Cynthia's voice softened noticeably. "Katy was born in September. Kathleen Amanda Howard - daughter of Alan and Bonnie Howard. There was no adoption. The birth took place at home, with a country doctor attending, and the only people who knew the truth saw no reason to complicate things with legal issues." She shrugged and smiled. "It seems a little simplistic, I guess, given how complicated our lives have become in this day and age, but it seemed the best way then, and I've never had cause to regret it."

"She's very beautiful," said Debbie suddenly, eyes fixed on the little girl's photo, but something in her voice suggested that she was wondering about . . .

"Yes, she is," Cynthia replied, taking another deep breath and resuming a more business-like tone. "But, although she was perfect to me - and to her parents - she wasn't perfect, in a physical, developmental sense. She was just a year old when we all began to realize that something was wrong. She was a truly beautiful, loving child, but she was not progressing as expected, and there were some disturbing developments, the most noticeable being an epicanthic fold in her eyelids.

"I could read you chapter and verse if you like - give you all the medical jargon and explain the presence of an anomaly in the 21st chromosome, but the bottom line is easier. Katy was a Downs Syndrome baby." She looked up then and stared straight at Ted, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Some people have a different, more disparaging term for her condition, but I'm sure you can figure it out for yourselves. She hasn't had an easy life.

"She is not as severely affected as some. She learned to walk, to talk, to feed herself. Her progress was slow, but steady, and her loving disposition made her a favorite with the doctors in Sioux City who were charged with her care."

Cynthia paused again, clasping her hands tightly before her before continuing. "It was difficult for me to accept that she would never live a normal life. I was in college by the time the diagnosis was confirmed, and, once more, it was Brian Kinney who stood by me, who helped me endure what I had to and offered what support he could. Only there really wasn't much he could do. There wasn't much that anyone could do. It's not like there's a magical cure that will fix everything and make my daughter whole and healthy, but he finally helped me to see that it could have been worse."

She smiled then, obviously entertaining another memory. "He even drove me out to see her one week-end. She was five by that time, and I . . . I was more than a little nervous over the idea of Brian - given his penchant for impatience and total lack of tolerance for bullshit - coming face-to-face with my mentally-challenged daughter." She laughed then. "I needn't have worried. He was . . . well, he was Brian, and, by the end of the week-end, my sister was dead set on convincing him of the error of his homosexual ways so he would make an honest woman out of me. Needless to say, that was never going to happen, but Katy - Katy loved him. Still does, actually. And once again, he made me see that it could have been so much worse."

Cynthia sat back in her chair and sighed. "And then, Fate stepped in and proved him right. It got worse.

"Again, I won't bore you with the clinical details. She was almost thirteen when it started. Odd symptoms that seemed to come out of nowhere and make no sense. The doctors were puzzled, my sister was frantic, and Katy . . . Katy was just lost. She was in pain sometimes, and couldn't understand why. Didn't know what to do or who to trust. She wouldn't even talk to me when I flew out there to see her, and Katy always talked to me, even when she was in one of her funks and wouldn't talk to anyone else. It was a very bad time, and it went on for months. It took almost a year for the medical people to figure it out. She had a very rare type of childhood cancer, which occurs in only a couple of hundred cases a year in this country. Something called Ewing Sarcoma, of the metastatic variety. Some varieties of it are treatable, with a good recovery rate, but Katy's . . . Katy's wasn't one of those types."

She sat forward again, and clasped her hands once more. "You know, you see all these public service announcements on TV, about hospitals that do fantastic work in curing and researching children's diseases, and they're all true. But what you don't know is that they concentrate on the more common cancers, and logically so. If you're going to spend millions of dollars to find a cure for a disease, it makes perfect sense to focus on a disease that impacts a larger segment of the population. The only problem is that such an approach doesn't help those who contract rarer diseases. Researchers concentrate on helping the maximum number of people for the money invested. When Katy was diagnosed, there was only one clinical study being done, anywhere in this country, on that particular type of cancer, and Katy . . . well, given her other physical and mental problems, she wasn't a very good candidate to be included in such a study."

She smiled then, and looked up, and everyone in the room was immediately transfixed by the brilliant glow in her eyes. "Except that they had never expected to have to deal with an irresistible force of nature, named Brian Kinney.

"Long story short, it just so happened that Brian had some powerful contacts in the field of medical/pharmaceutical technology. He'd just completed a campaign for a newly-developed piece of Boston Scientific cardio-vascular equipment, and the doctor who was the primary force in getting FDA approval of the instrument just happened to be a member of the board overseeing the studies at the Proactive Research Foundation. But there is a simpler truth. Yes, he happened to have the right connections, but I believe with my whole heart that it wouldn't have made any difference if he didn't. He would have found a way, because that's what Brian does, isn't it? He finds a way. So I'll leave it to your imagination to figure out what happened next."

She sighed then, but it was an expression of relief, of contentment. "Today, my daughter is a happy, contented, healthy child. Cancer-free, and doing what teen-agers do all over the world - lusting after Justin Timberlake and trying to learn to dance like the Pussycat Dolls. She goes to school, and she is learning to play the piano. Last week, she learned how to make an apple pie, and never mind that it came out a bit lopsided and overcooked; it tasted just fine. She will never write papers about nuclear physics or explain the mystery of Schrodinger's cat or find a way to perfect an alternative fuel, but she will spread joy and happiness around her wherever she goes, because she's a loving, giving, generous young woman, truly a treasure beyond value.

"Brian Kinney understands that, but I doubt that most of you would. At any rate, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. You may question my intelligence, my instincts, my knowledge, my common sense, and my talent, but . . ." She stood up slowly, and looked around the room, facing each of them in turn. "Don't you ever - ever - question my loyalty to Brian Kinney. Are we clear on that?"

It was Ted who managed to work up sufficient courage to speak. He got to his feet, opened his mouth, and uttered one word. "But . . ."

"Shut - the - fuck - up!"

The room went deadly quiet as everyone - except Cynthia and Lance Mathis - looked around, completely bewildered. There was, of course, absolutely no mistaking that voice; they had all jumped to obey it - in one way or another - for years. But there was no tall, dark-haired, Armani-clad figure with sardonic hazel eyes standing in the shadows of the room looking at them as if he couldn't quite credit the stupidity of the masses.

"Brian?" That was Michael, of course, who really didn't give a shit where the voice was coming from, who only wanted to hear more.

"The one and only. Are you a part of this little ambush, Mikey?"

"No, Brian. I just . . ." Michael went silent, hardly knowing how to proceed. "Brian, I'm . . ."

"Yeah. I know you are. But one day, Michael, you're going to have to learn how to stand up."

"But . . ."

"Let me guess," said the noticeably absent owner and prime mover and shaker of Kinnetik Corp, "we have our Muncher representatives, Mel and Linz, who are, of course, only here to protect Gus's interest; our earth mother, the flamboyant Debbie Novotny, who has never once failed to stick her nose in, whether she has the right or not; Ted's main squeeze, looking very counselor-ish and not particularly happy to be a part of this little debacle; our dear professor Bruckner, very Zen and above all the pettiness around him; Mother Taylor - who should know better; and - oh, yes, let's not forget - my own loving family, St. Joan and her little vampire bat. Is that everyone?"

"I'm here, Brian." That was Carl Horvath, speaking up for the first time.

"Ah, yes, Pittsburgh's finest. Anybody else?"

"That's it, Boss." That was Mathis, saying almost nothing but managing, somehow, to convey a singular depth of contempt for what he'd just witnessed without actually expressing it at all.

"Cynthia," said Brian softly, his voice shifting into a gentler mode, "you all right?"

"I'm fine."

There was a quick sound that might have been a tiny burst of laughter. Could have been from Brian, or maybe from whoever might be at his side, and there wasn't much mystery about who that might be.

"Of course, you are," Brian continued. "Which is one reason that you were put in charge of the company in my absence. So . . ."

His pause was very dramatic, and he seemed to know it, because he took his time before speaking again. "I want you all to understand something. Understand it so well that there is no room for any further questioning. In just a moment, I'm going to hand this little dog and pony show back over to Cynthia, who is perfectly capable of fielding your questions and responding to your comments. She doesn't need Big Bad Brian to step in and defend her. But know this - if you don't know anything else in your life. She is doing the job exactly as I want her to do it. She knows full well when to make decisions on her own, and when she needs to contact me. And she does. Furthermore, she's scrupulous about keeping me informed on every major concern. Every single one, from the hiring/firing issues, the acceptance or rejection of new clients, changes in campaigns, financial decisions - everything. She has my complete trust - my complete loyalty. So here's the bottom line: if you question her, you question me."

He paused then, and there was another whisper of sound, as if he might be listening to something from someone else.

"So," he said finally, "let's just make sure there's no room for a misunderstanding. Whatever decisions Cynthia makes on behalf of Kinnetik are, in effect, my decisions, and, in the final analysis, none of your fucking business!

"Are we clear on that?"

There was a general, vague muttering, but Brian was not going to just let it drop at that.

"I repeat," he said coldly. "Are - we - clear?"

The chorus of responses was sharp and clear, ranging from a simple 'yes' from a very disgruntled Melanie Marcus, to a resounding 'absolutely' from Jennifer Taylor, who had become progressively more mortified as the meeting continued.

"Excellent!" And everyone in the room could imagine the smug, well-satisfied smile that was forming on that perfect face, or was it still perfect? But that was a question nobody was quite prepared to broach at this stage.

"Theodore!"

The accountant did not actually, physically flinch, but Lance Mathis was pretty sure it was a near thing. "Yes, Bri?"

"In your office! Now!"

Ted turned toward Melanie, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Alone!"

Dark eyes blinked, and the CFO actually appeared to shrink a bit before the eyes of all those who turned to look at him, which was everyone in the room.

For a moment, it almost seemed that he might defy the summons, but then he looked up and saw that Lance Mathis was staring at him, and that the look in the security chief's eyes was almost hungry, almost eager, like a lion contemplating a tasty morsel as it decided whether or not to try to run.

In the end, Ted could only sigh. "Yes, Boss."

Cynthia watched him gather his pitiful little assortment of books and papers and notes and slink toward the door, and she almost - but not quite - managed to feel sorry for him.

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* Seasons lf Love - Jonathon Larson
** Fog - Carl Sandburg

 

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