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Chapter 40


My feet took a walk in heavenly grass,
All day while the sky shone clear as glass.
My feet took a walk in heavenly grass,
All night while the lonesome stars rolled past.
Then my feet come down to walk on earth,
And my mother cried when she give me birth.
Now my feet walk far and my feet walk fast,
But they still got an itch for heavenly grass.

--- Heavenly Grass
--- Tennessee Williams

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"Where am I going to find a fucking dolphin?"

Justin had been trying, for at least five minutes, to hide the grin that was his response to Brian's grumping, while Ron Peterson was sitting on the steps of the deck, looking as if he'd like to caution the father of his only grandson about his language, but didn't quite dare.

Gus, on the other hand, was as happy as the proverbial clam, currently engaged in building his own extensive version of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway around - and occasionally over - his father's golden-skinned, long-limbed body, in sand as white and fine as sugar, although he did take time out from his project to ask, "What is a fucking dolphin, Daddy?"

At that point, there was no longer a prayer of hiding the grin - or stifling the laughter - and Justin gave up and collapsed on his back, giggling like a teen-ager enjoying his very first hit of the kind of weed only the Brian Kinneys of the world could afford.

Brian was - predictably - annoyed, but a careful observer with a keen eye might have noticed that, beneath the characteristic glower, lurked the tiniest nuance of a smile. He would never admit it, of course, but the presence of his two favorite individuals in the world, both wrapped in a cloak of easy laughter, was enough to repel all his demons and banish them to the darkest corners of his mind - places where he could ignore them. Maybe even forget - for a while - that they existed at all.

But not forever, of course.

He was careful to remain very still while Gus constructed a ramp of sand and tiny stones to make a bridge which would allow him to drive one of his Hot Wheels Jeeps - Like father, like son, Brian thought, and didn't even try to suppress the quick surge of pride that coursed through him - across his father's ankle while the newest addition to the family - obviously a smart little beast - nestled in close between the outer plane of Brian's thigh and the warm sand and concentrated on not being a source of annoyance to the man who had - for some uncanny reason - fascinated its little canine consciousness. Although it required considerable effort, Brian managed to ignore it, lifting his eyes to stare out toward the ocean, where the breakers were tumbling in toward the shore with growing strength and fury. The tide was turning.

Brian Kinney didn't believe in forever, and he wondered - very briefly - if anyone had ever figured that out. He rather thought not, since he'd never shared that observation with anyone.

Far out beyond the bay, a commercial trawler was moving in broad side-to-side sweeps toward the Southeast, two deckhands barely visible on its rear deck, struggling with the thick lines of a massive net and a hoist cable, and Brian watched as a flock of gulls wheeled overhead, awaiting their opportunity to swoop down and make off with specimens of the catch. Waiting in vain, he was pretty sure, since more crew members were emerging from the main cabin, ready to guard against any incursion by foragers.

From here, he realized, the boat looked like a toy - something that Gus might play with in the bathtub - but it was obviously much larger than it appeared, since there were at least a half-dozen crew members aboard.

What would it be like, he wondered, to spend one's life trawling the endless seas, forever bound and constrained by the treachery of the waters below - treachery that rarely showed itself but was, nevertheless, ever present and ever ready to seize the moment.

Forever.

There was that word again.

"Daddy!" Gus's voice took on the faint shrillness of a whine. "You didn't answer me. What is a fucking dolphin?"

Brian huffed a deep breath. "A dolphin is a big fish, Sonny Boy - and don't say 'fucking'. Your mommie wouldn't like it."

"Actually," said Justin, sitting up and brushing sand off his body, "it's not a fish. It's a mammal that happens to live in the water. It's got . . ." He launched into a specific explanation of what made a dolphin not a fish, his tone of voice very similar to that of professors in history classes he'd attended during his truncated sojourn at PIFA. First Brian yawned. Then Gus yawned, triggering a burst of laughter from Trina Thomas as she stepped down from the deck, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses.

"Like father, like son," she said softly, leaning forward to offer a glass to Brian, and noting the bundle of fur tucked up tight against his thigh, but - wisely - deciding not to comment. Justin, however, was not nearly done with his subject and certainly not content to allow Gus to lose interest. Thus he began to provide visual aids, by sketching dolphin figures in the sand, and Gus was immediately re-engaged and fascinated. Soon there was a panorama of ocean scenes, as figures of whales and sharks and sea turtles and jellyfish and a plethora of other sea life came to life under Justin's fingers. Then Gus spotted an oddly-shaped shell beside one of the drawings, which served to inspire a new in-depth discussion, concerning the variety and composition of shells and how they formed and what purpose they served and . . .

Brian yawned - again. And this time, so did the dog.

"Except," said Trina, her dark eyes filled with warmth, "he talks way more than you do. I wonder, were you like him, when you were . . ."

She didn't finish the question, as she saw something - something dark and brooding, something almost frightening - rise in his eyes. "If you don't have enough to do," he remarked, "I'm sure I can come up with something sufficiently time-consuming to fill your morning."

She smiled, unperturbed - except for that whatever-it-was she'd seen in his eyes, which perturbed her plenty - and retorted, "Now is that any way to talk to someone who's preparing your favorite dish for lunch . . ."

He opened his mouth to deny it - no matter what dish she might be planning to prepare.

". . . And who might just be the only person in the vicinity who knows where you might find exactly the kind of 'fucking dolphin' you're looking for."

He was on the verge of offering up a typical Kinney-esque retort, but then he thought better of it, noting the smugness of her smile.

"Really?" he asked quietly - quietly enough to prevent Gus from focusing on the subject of the conversation.

She shrugged. "Close enough, I think, at least, until you're ready to take him back to Orlando, or schedule a run down to the Keys. If I recall correctly, he commented about wanting to ride a dolphin - not swim with one."

"So?" Brian frowned.

"So," she answered, tongue tucked firmly in cheek, "even when you swim with dolphins, you don't generally get to ride them. So a little bit of creativity would seem to be in order, and I don't think he'll object." Her eyes took on a speculative gleam as she tilted her head to look from father to son and back again. "In fact, I have an idea you won't either, once you get beyond the requisite spate of Kinney bitching."

Brian managed - barely - not to grin, and turned once more to look back out toward the sea, where the fishing boat was on the verge of disappearing below the horizon. Gone- forever.

That word again.

The discussion concerning shells and shellfish had expanded to include the ocean bed, and from there, it was only a logical progression to Finding Nemo, and then on to Justin's favorite "really old movie - Free Willy". The lovely cadence of the enthusiastic voices was almost soporific.

Brian took a deep breath, exchanged small smiles with Ron Peterson, and returned to his contemplation of the ocean vista before him. Something about the endless swells and the perpetual quality of the tides led to a realization that these waters spread out across the world, to Europe, and down to South America to skirt the bottom of the world and then on, into the Pacific, and across to Asia, sweeping down past Australia and on to Africa, before turning north once more, to surge up the coast and then, once again, back to the shores of North America; it spoke to him of the word that rang so insistently in his mind, although he didn't know why.

Forever. Perpetual. Eternal. Never-ending.

He closed his eyes, barely noticing that Gus had resumed his building project, expanding its scope to include shifting Brian's leg and foot to allow him to bury the entire lower extremity with damp sand, prompting Justin to smile again, thinking he really should get up to go find a camera in order to prove to any doubters - and it wasn't difficult to assign identities to that group - that Brian Kinney could, indeed, behave like a genuine, loving father.

But the smile was tentative and short-lived as he studied the look on Brian's face.

Uh-oh!

An airliner whistled by overhead, obviously beginning its descent to one of the major airports in the area, distracting Justin's attention briefly, but Brian did not move.

Forever. Why was it that the word always conjured up another phrase, the one having little or nothing to do with the other, except in his own mind. Why should 'forever' automatically trigger its companion phrase - happily ever after - when he really didn't believe in either one.

More than that. It wasn't only that he didn't believe in the concept; it was that he
knew, beyond all doubt, that no such thing existed, or was even possible.

He thought he
might remember believing - maybe - but it had been so long ago that it was pre-everything: pre-puberty; pre-sex; pre-self realization. Even pre-queer. So, really, really a long time ago.

He remembered listening to all the old fairy tales, or reading them for himself and studying drawings of the princess riding off into the sunset on the horse of the handsome prince. He hadn't believed it then either, so it was obvious that truth had come early to him. How could he have believed in happily-ever-after for young lovers; he had his parents to show him the truth of it all, hadn't he?

When, he wondered, had he come face to face with the brick wall of inevitability which had taken from him his ability to accept the possibility of forever?

When . . .

It wasn't common for Brian to doze off, but the last few days had been jam-packed with raw emotions and eventualities and confronting consequences, and now . . . He sighed softly, and settled against a strong, young shoulder that was suddenly there to cradle him, even if he would have violently denied the appropriateness of that particular word had he been awake enough to dispute it.

When indeed . . .

He had been telling himself all day that it didn't really matter - that it wasn't anything important. He had been careful to remember all the things he was always expected to remember - to ignore any lingering trace of his injuries which might tend to call attention to him in a negative way and to come up with a believable explanation for the bruises on his back and shoulders and the busted lip nothing could hide; and, above all, to never let anyone see him cry or cringe or show any residual sign of pain - and he thought he'd done okay with it. Mrs. Sutton had looked at him a little strangely when he'd tried to describe how he and a couple of kids from down the street had been racing on their bikes and somehow got tangled up together and tumbled off the edge of a walkway with him getting the worst of it because he'd wound up on the bottom of the pile. For just a moment, he'd thought she was going to ask for these kids' names, like she was going to demand witnesses to back up his story, but in the end, she hadn't, the look in her eyes confirming what he already knew, even though he was just seven years old. She might have a kind, generous heart, but - in the end - it was just easier not to know.

So he'd done okay with that part of it.

And he'd tried - really tried - not to eavesdrop when Coach Frederick had talked to his father, or, at least, not to
look like he was eavesdropping, because he knew for sure what that would get him if his father caught on to what he was doing, and he really didn't know if he was up to another of their little 'basement sessions'; that's what his father called it when Brian screwed up and had to be 'brought back to the straight and narrow'. He was still struggling not to let anyone see the stiffness in his lower back or the painful swelling in his wrist from when Jack had grabbed him the night before and twisted his arm up behind his back in a determined effort to teach him to 'take his licks like a man instead of a little pussy-boy'. And his biggest fear of all was that, if there were another one of those encounters within the next couple of days, he would not be able to pull himself together and overcome the damages in order to endure and prove himself to be something more than a total fuck-up, in the only way he had - so far - found to do so.

So that's why he had taken the chance, holding his breath as he sub-consciously asked a God he already didn't believe in to not let Jack notice that he was close enough to hear what the coach was saying.

Very deliberately, he didn't allow himself even the tiniest sign of pride as he listened to the man's words.

"Jack, I'm telling you, the kid's a natural. I've been coaching kids' soccer for almost twenty-five years. Since my own boys learned to play, and then on with my grandkids. And in all that time, I've never seen any kid with the kind of natural talent that Brian has. It's like he doesn't have to learn it. It's like he was born knowing what to do, and how to do it. I know what I'm talking about, Jack. Provided he doesn't get hurt, this could be his free pass to go to college, or to any kind of a future he might want to have. He's . . . he's phenomenal. You should hear my son, Reggie, raving about him. In fact, he wants to bring one of the coaches from the elite league over here to see him play. Provided that's all right with you and his mom, of course. Can't imagine why it wouldn't be, but . . ."

"Jesus, Marty!" Jack Kinney's laugh was rough and impatient. "It's just fucking soccer. Not like it's a big deal, is it? I mean, he's not going to wind up throwing the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl or anything. It's just soccer, so . . ."

Brian risked a look up to catch a glimpse of Coach Frederick's face, and recognized a fleeting sadness in the man's eyes, as he offered up a small smile. "If you lived anywhere else in the world, you'd know that it could be a very big deal indeed. I mean it, Jack. His skill could be his ticket to a good life - to his own version of 'happily ever after'. Just pay attention, and you'll see it for yourself. You'll be . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," said Jack, his tone of voice revealing that he remained unconvinced and fundamentally uninterested. And Brian risked another quick look, fairly certain of what he'd see.

He was right, of course.

He had heard his mother talking with her best friend and next-door neighbor, Brenda, once, about 'that trollop, Sandy Corrigan'. Although he didn't know what a trollop was - exactly - he was pretty sure it didn't mean anything good, just as he was equally certain his mother would not have been happy had she been there to notice how Jack was looking at 'the trollop' at that minute.

Which she wasn't, of course. He wasn't sure exactly where Joan was, but it didn't require much thought to realize there were only two possible places - either at home, with Claire, sprawled on the sofa watching soap operas and sipping her special brand of 'tea', or at the church, doing her best to impress the new priest with her air of piety.

But Brian knew she would have been tight-faced with anger if she'd been there to watch his daddy grinning at 'the trollop', whose son, Rusty, was the goalkeeper on the opposing team, and Jack was looking an awful lot like he was about to go do some scouting behind enemy lines.

Probably going looking for some place to fuck.

Brian Kinney was little more than a baby, and there were plenty of things he did not yet know, but some things - once learned - could never be forgotten. He didn't know anything at all about love; would know even less about it as the years went on, until fate intervened, but he already knew about fucking. That, he had learned at the ripe old age of four- and-a-half, when he'd walked into his parents' bedroom one Friday evening, while his mother had been at a meeting of her altar society and his father had been 'entertaining' a friend in the bedroom - a friend who happened to be sprawled face down and naked across the bed when Brian had walked in, a friend who was giggling and grunting as Jack's big, swollen, dark purplish dick pounded into her, requiring his energetic, undivided attention. Undivided, that is, until he'd noticed his only son standing frozen and horrified in the open doorway.

Brian had actually learned two things that day; he'd found out what fucking was and discovered that walking in on anything remotely like that - and saying anything at all about it - was just about the biggest mistake he'd ever made.

That was the first time he'd ever wound up with actual broken bones, but he'd been pretty sure - even then - it wouldn't be the last. The damage had been inflicted with a double purpose: to make sure he never again opened a closed door unless invited to do so, and as a preventative measure, to illustrate graphically the perils involved in opening his mouth at the wrong time.

He'd already known what that meant, of course, but his father had made certain to reinforce the lesson.

He'd never said a word. It had become the mantra of his life.

'The trollop' was blonder than the woman who had provided young Brian's initial exposure to the wonders (or not) of the naked female body, but otherwise she was pretty much a carbon copy - big bust, big butt, big hair, big, red mouth; Daddy liked 'em big, and the little boy wondered, for just a minute, why on earth Jack had chosen to marry Joan, who was completely unlike the women who always seemed to catch his eye. Later, when he spared thoughts for such things - which he didn't very often - that question would occasionally recur, but he never really cared enough to explore it to its conclusion. Nevertheless, there would always be a quiet voice inside him to whisper that - for the Jack Kinneys of the world - piety and wifely virtue were synonymous with a pale, slender demeanor and a complete lack of passion. He never bothered to examine how that made him feel or why.

Standing on the edge of the soccer field, he pulled his lips into his mouth, in a facial twitch that would become an integral part of his repertoire of favorite expressions as time went on, and deliberately turned away from the male-female point/counterpoint going on in the bleachers, as Coach Frederick beckoned the boys to gather around him.

The coach gave his customary little pep talk to the team, stressing the importance of sportsmanship and teamwork, and trying to keep them from getting too tense and hyped up to play as well as they could. Then he took Brian aside, and knelt down before him. "It's a special day, Brian," said Marty Frederick. "If we win today, we're in the semi-finals for the league championship. But . . ." he paused as his eyes drifted toward the stands where Jack was now seated beside his blonde friend, "it's also the first time your dad's ever been here to see you play, and I want him to see you do your best. Okay? So go on out there and give it all you got. And watch out for Jamie. I know how he always tries to cut you off so he can look like the big hero, and I know how you always manage to score the goals yourself without making him look like a big dweeb, so . . . just do what you always do, Bud."

Brian grinned. He didn't really blame Jamie; it was good to be the hero. Unfortunately, Jamie didn't have the skills to make it happen, but Brian had no objection to sharing the spotlight - mostly.

He took one last look at his father, just in time to see the man returning from the concession stand with a plate of nachos and a couple of Cokes. The whistle blew then to start the game, and Brian turned away to concentrate on his playing, but not before noticing that his father never once looked toward the field.

It was a short game, of course. At their age, they played short periods. But it was hard-fought, and Brian got body-checked a number of times. As usual. Even at their age, the competitive spirit was already flexing its muscle, and opposing teams always figured out pretty quickly which players posed the biggest threats and reacted accordingly.

When it was over, Brian was even more bruised than when he'd arrived, and he had a black eye to match the busted lip. But he also had a victory, resulting from his very first hat trick, which meant that the injuries didn't even register. Nothing did, except for the euphoria of the win.

Until . . .

It hadn't really happened in slow motion; he only remembered it that way.

His team had tackled him en masse and lifted him up to their shoulders, to do a victory lap around the field, and all the parents had been milling around, cheering and laughing, when Coach Frederick had apparently decided that he needed to make a point of reminding Jack of how gifted his son was. So he'd wandered through the crowd in search of his objective and emerged from the happy uproar just in time to see Jack Kinney emerging from the woods behind the field, still engaged in zipping up, to be followed just seconds later by 'the trollop', flushed and disheveled and still tugging to adjust her big boobs inside her tank top.

In the vernacular which Brian would not learn until several years later, it had not taken a degree in rocket science for the coach to figure out what kind of tangling the two had been engaged in while their sons tangled on the soccer field.

Brian had actually tried not to watch, immediately recognizing the train wreck as it played out, but it had been impossible for him to look away. To his everlasting credit, the coach had tried to conceal his disgust and carry on as if he had noticed nothing. But Jack Kinney - whatever else he might have been - was nobody's gullible fool. In his mind - and from his unique perspective - he'd been busted; caught red-handed, and the fault could be laid at the feet of his damned kid who, by virtue of performing in a way that compelled the coach to seek out his old man to gauge and discuss his reaction, had virtually guaranteed that Jack would be caught with his pants down, so to speak..

There had been no celebration of Brian's victory in the Kinney household that night, and there had been no soccer for the rest of that season either, as the star forward of the Belton Avenue Strikers met with an unfortunate accident that evening, involving - according to the story provided for the emergency room staff - a tumble down the basement stairs resulting in a broken collarbone and a dislocated shoulder - among other things. The degree of the damage was compounded, of course, by the fact that it was several hours before anyone noticed that the injury would require medical attention, a source of additional resentment for both Jack and Joan since it would entail an unwanted expense.

The little boy could only sit on the sidelines and watch as his team was defeated in the semi-finals. He would never play for Coach Frederick again. His father made sure of that. Indeed, it was not until junior high school, when he was chosen for the school's intramural team, that he got another chance to demonstrate and develop his skills, and use them to reach for his dream, although - by that time - anyone who knew Brian at all would have figured out that - with or without soccer - he was going to find a way, no matter how much shit he had to slog through on his journey, to escape the nightmare of his childhood.

So much for 'happily ever after'.


Brian came awake with a sharp gasp, as if stricken with sudden pain, and Justin had to move quickly to compensate and grasp him tightly enough to prevent him from leaping to his feet, which would have destroyed Gus's complex construction project, and frightened the child into speechlessness if he'd gotten a good look at his father's expression.

Justin noticed, of course, but chose not to comment. He knew despair when he saw it, and figured - correctly - that nothing he could do or say would change whatever had triggered it.

Luckily, he was spared the necessity for finding a solution when Brian - ever vigilant - noticed the alarm flaring in his son's eyes and quickly erased every trace of panic from his own expression.

"Daddy?" The voice was tiny and tentative, and not the least bit Gus-like.

"It's okay, Sonny Boy." There was only the barest trace of anything out of the ordinary in the tone. "Just a charley-horse in my leg. I just need to . . ."

He paused, shifting slightly, unwilling to disrupt his son's play, but needing - really, really needing, if Justin was any judge - to get up and move.

Luckily, Justin was not the only one who noticed, and Chris McClaren walked out of the house and stepped forward at exactly the right moment, reaching down to hand Brian the wireless house phone. "You might want to take this inside," said the FBI agent in a completely neutral tone of voice, and Justin closed his eyes to hide the surge of gratitude in their blue depths. All things considered, he would just as soon tall, dark, and too-fucking-handsome did not realize that Justin - at that moment - could have kissed the bastard for being in the right place at the right time with the right solution.

"Hey, Gus," said Ron Peterson, also demonstrating a surprising degree of perception, "why don't you and I get busy on a new version of our sand castle. I bet your daddy will be amazed at what we can accomplish."

But Gus was not quite as oblivious as they'd all been hoping. He turned once more to study his father's face before replying. "Is that okay, Daddy? Because it's okay if you want to just . . . sit with me. I like it when you sit with me. And so does Beau."

Brian smiled - the tender, soft, intensely beautiful smile that was reserved only for Gus - and Justin had to struggle to maintain his neutral expression. That smile always - always - made him want to cry. "Thanks, Sonny Boy. I like it too. But I probably need to take this call. So why don't you - and Beau - go help Gramps with that castle. I can't wait to see it."

Gus leaned close - close enough so that he was rubbing his forehead against Brian's ear. "Gramps taught me how to build turts," he whispered.

Brian - deliberately - did not smile. "Turts?"

"Yep. You know, Daddy - the pointy things way up at the top . . ."

"Yeah, Gus. I know what they are."

Justin chuckled, as he leaned forward and said, "Hey, Gus, I think you mean turrets. They're . . ."

But Gus was shaking his head. "No, I don't. They're turts."

"But . . ."

One look from Brian was sufficient to cause Justin to shut his mouth - quickly.

"He knows what they are," said Brian firmly, with a brilliant smile for his son. "And I can't wait to see 'em."

"I'll make sure there's lots of 'em," Gus assured him.

"Good. A castle can never have too many turts." At Brian's side, Justin was not being very successful in his attempts to suppress a broad grin, but a quick look at the warning in Brian's eyes made him realize that, if he valued his life - and his dick - he'd do well to try harder.

Gus's smile was smug and very bright as he turned to pursue his new interest. Still, he was moving slowly, and paused after a moment to turn back and gaze up into his father's face. "You coming back?" he asked. "After your phone call?"

"In a little while," Brian reassured him. "I have a meeting this afternoon - Remember? But we'll have plenty of time later today. And all week-end. I promise. No meetings, no interruptions."

Two pairs of hazel eyes exchanged deep, solemn gazes. "Can I . . ." Gus paused, and swallowed hard. "Can I sleep with you?"

Brian, very deliberately, did not look up at Justin. "Of course you can."

And if Justin detected a tiny little spark of victorious, almost malicious amusement in the eyes of Chris McClaren - and an even larger spark of bright sympathy in those of Trina Thomas - he allowed himself not the smallest nuance of a response.

Brian rose then, taking advantage of the chance to use Justin's arm as a fulcrum to steady himself, as Gus turned his attention to his grandfather, while dragging his new playmate with him, despite the puppy's obvious reluctance.

"You have a new fan," whispered Justin, smiling as the dog looked back at Brian with huge, soulful eyes.

Brian confined his response to a blank stare, which, of course, spoke volumes.

He paused for a moment then, watching as his son plopped himself down on the sand at Ron Peterson's side, explaining in breathless detail about the castle they needed to build and the number of 'turts' he'd decided to include. Nine years later, when his father - still the kind of man who drew every eye and inspired lust in most of them - would take Gus to Europe for the first time, and introduce him to the fairy-tale ambiance of the great castles of the Black Forest region, the teen-ager would offer up the trademark Kinney laugh, and exclaim on the number and design of the 'turts'.

It would remain, forever, their private joke.

And it would be at that lovely, golden moment that Brian Kinney would experience a small but very significant epiphany - would finally be able to consider the possibility that 'forever' might just be possible.

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"Brian, are you sure about this?"

Kinnetik's owner huffed a small sigh, and accepted an icy bottle of water from Justin as he sat at the bar in the kitchen. He was unaccustomed to hearing Cynthia sound so uncertain, and he found he didn't like it much.

"Aren't you?" he retorted.

She drew a deep breath. "It's not that I don't understand that it's logical and justified. It's just . . . it's Ted, Boss. How am I going to tell him?"

"You're not," he replied. "I am. But I can't just let it slide until I get back. I'd prefer to lay it out for him face to face, but that's just not possible right now. So you just take care of business, and he's going to have to deal with it."

"You know he's going to think this is my idea," she pointed out.

"No, he won't, though he might pretend that he does, but I'll take care of it."

"Okay," she agreed finally, still not completely convinced, but ready to tackle the next item on her list - the one she wasn't sure Brian was going to like very much. "You're scheduled at the courthouse at two, right?"

"Yes." Brian and Cynthia had been associates and friends for many years, and each was skilled in reading and interpreting the nuances of the other's behavior. Therefore, he knew immediately that she had something more to say, something that was making her a little nervous.

"Cynthia?"

"Yes?"

"Just spill it."

Another deep breath. "Okay, here goes. When you get to the courthouse, someone will be there waiting for you. His name is Liam Quinn, and he's . . . well . . . he's your lawyer."

Brian blinked. "He's my what?"

"Your lawyer."

He took a swig of water. "My lawyer," he said slowly, "is a scrawny, balding, middle-aged breeder with two ex-wives, three kids in college - all supported by me - and a ridiculously stuffy office in downtown Pittsburgh. Why would I . . ."

"He's not that kind of lawyer," she interrupted. "This guy is a criminal lawyer."

Brian's eyes narrowed - an effect completely wasted on Cynthia, of course, but significant enough to make Justin think twice and edge closer. "Last time I checked, I wasn't one - a criminal, that is."

Another, still deeper breath. "Look, Brian, I know you're not particularly inclined to trust attorneys, but, in this case, I really think you should reconsider. I was lucky to be able to engage this guy, and . . ."

"And why," he interrupted, "would you take it upon yourself to even try to . . ."

"Because Agent Corey suggested it. Because you're plunging blindly and full speed ahead into uncharted waters, as usual, and . . ."

"Cynthia," he said sternly, "despite my well-deserved reputation as Pittsburgh's numero uno fag whose only concern is getting my dick sucked as spontaneously as possible, I never do anything blindly. So why . . ."

"Because this is new territory for you," she replied stubbornly, "and you need someone to guide you through and protect your interests. Look, Brian, just meet the guy. Talk to him, and do it before you give your formal deposition. He's really smart . . ."

"Which means he's costing me a bloody fortune."

Cynthia smiled. No point in denying an obvious truth, but, in the end, her boss truly believed in hiring the best - and paying for it - so she knew the bitching was simply Brian Kinney being Brian Kinney. Bitching was just something he did. "I sent him a copy of the statement Agent Corey has in your file, and he's looking over it. He had some concerns, which he needs to go over with you. And he's the one who stressed that you should talk to him before you talk to them, so . . ."

"Where'd you find him," he demanded, "always assuming that you didn't just look in the phone book for an Irish name?"

Cynthia didn't even bother to dignify that comment with a bit of sarcasm of her own. "Agent Corey provided me with a short list, so I . . ."

"So he's what? An FBI shill?"

Cynthia grinned. "As the only person in this agency who's better than the boss at doing research, I can say with absolute certainty that he's not an FBI anything. What he is is a highly respected, very successful criminal defense attorney who is independently wealthy and thus free to pick and choose his clients as he pleases."

"And he chooses me? I'm touched. Is he queer?"

The grin became a laugh. "I didn't ask. Does it matter?"

"How long have you known me?" he retorted, but the slight stiffness around his eyes was easing away, and Justin could almost feel him relaxing. "You really think this is necessary?" he continued.

"I do. And Agent Corey - she impresses me as being a person worth listening to."

"Okay," he said after a brief, thoughtful pause. "I'll talk to him. Although the feds may not be pleased if I'm late to the party."

"Are you kidding me?" she replied, still grinning. "In this case, you are the party. What have they got without you?"

And it was Brian's turn to grin. "I like the way you think. So what time is your flight?"

"Nine AM," she answered. Then her voice softened, and took on a hint of uncertainty. "You sure about this, Boss? Gus . . . and Katy together? It's not likely to be a quiet week-end, you know."

"I've had more than enough quiet week-ends lately. She there already?"

"Got in last night. God, Brian, she's grown a foot. Where does the time go?"

"I swear to God," he retorted, "if you start ranting about how we're going to be watching them graduate and have children of their own before we know it, I'm going to fire you. I get enough of that shit from Lindsey."

"Don't think that's something I'll ever have to deal with," she replied with a small sigh.

"Hey!" he said, very softly. "Listen to me, Cynthia. Are you listening?"

Her sigh turned overly dramatic. "When am I ever not listening to you, Brian?"

"Right," he replied with a smile. "So listen now. You can't know what lies ahead for her. You don't know what the future might bring. So . . . she's a little bit different from a lot of other kids. So what? So was I. So were you, unless I miss my guess. So don't jump to conclusions. She might . . ."

Cynthia laughed abruptly. "If you suggest she's going to turn out to be the female equivalent of you, I can't imagine how you think that would be comforting."

Then it was his turn to laugh. "Fuck you, Tink. Now go run my company, and make lots of lovely money to support my decadent lifestyle. And set up a video conference for later today - say five-thirty or so, in my office. And tell Ted I expect him to be there."

"All right. Oh, and by the way, someone else is demanding to see you."

"Demanding?" There was no missing the droll, tongue-in-cheek tone of his voice. Then he was silent for a moment before smiling up at his blond companion. "Let me guess - small, dark, loathsome, and of the female persuasion. Sort of."

"Yes. I know you told her to get the fuck out and stay out, but she's calling constantly, harassing the staff, and generally making a nuisance of herself."

"Our little Melanie?" he retorted. "A nuisance? Who'd a thunk it? Has she talked to Ted?"

She sighed. "I don't think so. I think he's dodging her calls."

Brian was quiet for a moment - considering. "Okay. Here's what you do. Call the Terror from Toronto, and tell her that, if she really wants to talk to me, she should come down and do it face-to-face - at the video conference. We'll suspend our exile - just this once. And then call Lindsey, and let her know about it. Just make sure she understands that she's welcome to come and watch, but only if she really wants to. Strictly her choice. Otherwise, I'll be delighted to do the honors."

"I hope you realize," she said slowly, "that you're risking a nuclear meltdown."

"Risking?" he echoed. "I'm counting on it."

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

"Come upstairs with me."

It was just a whisper, a soft susurration of sound against the velvety skin beneath his jaw-line, but it contained all the dynamic energy of a flagrant, irresistible seduction.

"Justin, Gus is . . ."

A quick movement to get a better view of the tableau arranged on the soft sand beyond the deck, and then the lovely lips were back at his throat. "Gus is currently constructing 'turts' and enjoying it thoroughly, but it's going to take a while because the dog is just as enthusiastic in tearing them down as Gus is in putting them up. So . . . please . . ."

Fuck!

Justin laughed. "Exactly."

And Brian had to bite down on an urge to chuckle and marvel over how well the twink knew him.

"Beau," he said, tongue planted firmly in cheek.

"What?"

"The dog's name."

"Fuck the dog's name."

Brian turned on the barstool and wrapped his arms around the blond's waist to pull him close - close enough for Justin to notice the rock-hard bulge beneath the cut-offs. "I think I'd rather fuck you."

Justin moaned, and reflected that he really should have learned his lesson a long time ago. If he was going to tease Brian Kinney, he'd better be prepared to be teased - and tempted - and reduced to a quivering mass of lust - in return. "You really never get enough, do you?" he muttered.

"There's no such thing as enough."

It was truly amazing, thought Justin, as they raced upstairs, just how quickly the man could move - regardless of his injuries - when sufficiently motivated.

The door was barely closed behind them when he found himself claimed and fighting to breathe as Brian sought to devour him.

Brief memories, fleeting images, flashed in his mind as he remembered other times, other places. Other men - and smashed face-first into the wall of inevitability.

How had he ever managed to believe that anything - anything in his life - could ever mean as much as this - could ever even come close to equaling what resided only here, in Brian's arms, in Brian's bed. In Brian's heart.

He pushed back then, and evaded the luscious lips that immediately sought to reclaim him as they were moving toward the bed.

"Wait," he whispered. "Please, wait."

"Not a big fan of waiting, Sunshine," came the predictable response.

Justin grinned. "Bullshit! I've seen you find a way to wait - and wait - and wait - with your cock exploring every inch of me and forcing me to cum - and cum - and cum again, before you ever let yourself go."

A quick shrug. "Gotta live up to the reputation."

The grin morphed into a trill of laughter. "Oh, you're so far beyond that, it's ridiculous. No one - absolutely no one - is ever going to be able to one-up the Numero Uno Stud of Liberty Avenue. But now . . ." Justin lifted his hand and cupped Brian's face, and spent a few moments just enjoying the image, drinking in the beauty. "I want to ride you," he whispered, drawing close enough to lick a path up the side of that luscious throat. "I want you to sit down, with your back braced against the headboard, and let me take you into my body. All the way in - so far in that your fucking cock is pushing into my throat. I want to shove myself down on you, clinch my ass around you. Taste you from the inside when you cum. I want you to push yourself into me - harder and further than you ever have before, so you can be where no one else will ever be."

Brian closed his eyes. "If you keep talking like that, we're not even going to make it to the bed."

Abruptly, Justin pushed away and moved to the corner where he'd stashed his luggage. "Oh, yes, we will," he replied, digging for something in the carry-all.

"What are you . . ."

In what appeared to be one quick motion, Justin shed his clothes and turned to face his companion, lips twisted in a classic Justin-Taylor smirk as he lifted one hand to expose what he was holding.

Brian grinned. "And what do you intend to do with those?"

Justin sank down on the bed, and turned deliberately so the morning sun streaming through the big Eastern windows painted his beautiful, perfectly-shaped ass with a wash of soft amber. Then he reached up and fastened the two pairs of padded hand-cuffs he was holding to opposite ends of the top bar of the headboard, before turning to beckon Brian forward. "Take off your clothes, Bad Boy - and I'll show you."

He was pretty sure he heard the rip of fabric as Brian hastened to obey, but neither of them cared enough to investigate.

Thus it was Brian who wound up gloriously naked and perfectly positioned, with his arms extended and cuffed to the bedframe, leaving him with no choice but to watch as Justin prepared both of them for what would come next.

The preparations were almost excruciating, involving, first of all, a complete and thorough exploration of every orifice, every inch of that long, sensual body which was a study in bronze against the pale drift of Egyptian cotton sheets, with particular attention paid to the areas that were still healing, leading Brian to observe, finally, that 'kissing it - no matter how pleasurable - wouldn't really make it better'. At that point, Justin moved on to more specific areas, licking and nipping at the sensitive hollows of the throat, nipples and navel and perfect pecs and - finally, just as Brian began to believe that he absolutely could not stand it for another minute - to the hot center of Brian's manhood. There was no point in teasing by that time, so, in one quick rush, the blond swallowed the perfectly-shaped, painfully-throbbing, iron-hard penis, and proceeded to suck and hum and swallow around its length until Brian could hold off no longer, and erupted into a massive, mind-blowing orgasm, generating copious spurts of bittersweet cum, which Justin swallowed with all the eagerness of a nursing puppy.

Brian was pretty sure he had never climaxed quite so hard in his life, but there was little chance to dwell on it, because the twink was far from finished.

By the time Justin had retrieved the lube from the bedside table and prepared himself - taking the time to make sure that Brian followed and enjoyed the sight of each digit penetrating the lovely dark core of his body - and rolled the condom onto his lover's dick, Brian was already hard again, and eager for more.

"Jesus, Sunshine!" he whispered. "If anybody ever manages to wear me out, it'll be you."

The sunshine smile was more brilliant than usual. "That's never going to happen. There's only one Brian Kinney."

Then he straddled Brian's lap and proceeded to kiss those perfect lips, until both of them were breathless.

He paused for a moment, reveling in the perfect sensation of skin-to-skin, body-to-body - Brian-to-Justin. "I want you to claim me now," he whispered, "and I want to watch your face while you do. I want to see it in your eyes - in your soul. Show me, Brian. Show me what you never show anyone. Show me how Brian Kinney makes love."

To his surprise, Brian laughed, his eyes gleaming with a disconcerting certainty. "You," he said softly, "are the most conniving little shit I've ever known."

Justin wanted to protest - to proclaim his innocence. But, in the end, he didn't, confining his response to a scapegrace little smile which acknowledged - without actual words - that he was well and truly caught, and couldn't have cared less.

The laughter was sweet and quicksilver and beautiful, but then it was just a memory as the world seemed to narrow around them, until there was nothing - no one - outside this moment, this tiny, perfect space.

Justin shifted then, lifting himself up, but moving entirely by instinct, by the feel of his own body and the one beneath him, because he would not look away from the eyes that were like pools of truth before him. He might drown in them, be lost in them, but he would never, willingly, turn away from them again.

As he felt Brian's dick at his entrance, and pushed himself down so that the thick, slick head was forced past the first ring of muscle, he continued to stare, ignoring the pain that was as much pleasure as discomfort, that signaled the first rush of physical joy. Waiting - just waiting. Not even sure exactly what he was waiting for.

Until he saw it. Until he saw the bright, lovely warmth of what had been forever concealed behind the walls Brian had erected around himself when he was just a kid - the walls which had enabled him to survive. They wavered now, trembling but still resisting, trying to regain integrity. But it was much too late. Perhaps it had even been too late six years earlier, beneath the glare of a streetlight on a Liberty Avenue corner. Or perhaps it had happened more slowly, over long hours spent enjoying the thumpa-thumpa of Babylon, or the sweet slide of skin on skin in the dark luxury of Brian's loft. Perhaps even in the horror of blood pooling on cold, hard cement. But in the end, it didn't matter when or why or how; it only mattered that they shifted slightly, wavered under the force of the onslaught, and then simply crumbled away, as the light of a love Brian had never expected to experience, never allowed himself to believe in, poured through them like a flood tide and engulfed his heart.

"I'm yours now," whispered Justin, pushing down hard until Brian was all the way inside him, as far as anyone could ever be. "I'm branded, where no one else can ever touch me."

He knew he had been claimed.

Forever.

It wasn't a word Brian used often. Nor would he now - being Brian Kinney. But it didn't matter whether he was willing to say it or not.

It only mattered that they both knew it.

Justin sighed and wondered why he hadn't figured it out a long time ago, realizing how much pain such an epiphany might have spared them both.

Their orgasms erupted at the same moment, and Justin conceded that, of all the sounds in the world, nothing would ever be more precious or more beautiful than the mingled rough harmony of his own breathless gasping and his lover's guttural groan in the rapture of release. Shortly thereafter, after regaining lost senses and the ability to move, amid deep kisses and the continued velvet glide of skin against skin, Justin released Brian from the handcuffs. But it was no more than a symbolic gesture.

Some locks can never be opened, especially the ones loving hearts decline to close in the first place.

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

This is bloody ridiculous.

Despite the fact that McClaren had taken a certain amount of satisfaction from Justin Taylor's obvious disgruntlement when he had been instructed by his lover to remain at the beach house and see that Brian's son was entertained, the FBI agent found he could not quite dismiss his own misgivings about the scheduled events of the afternoon.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so annoyed with himself. Why the fuck was he nervous? It was Kinney who was going to be confronted by a panel of federal judges - an arrangement which would circumvent normal grand jury protocols but still allow multiple approaches - multiple angles - to the questions that must be asked and answered.

But - at this very moment - Kinney was confronting something else. Or rather, someone else.

The FBI agent had not yet decided whether or not he liked Liam Quinn, and he was pretty sure he was not alone in his indecision. Brian had studied the man very much as he might have regarded an escapee from Area 51.

Quinn was . . . different. There really was no other word that quite applied. Not in a negative kind of way. In fact, his appearance was quite pleasant, once one decided to look at him closely, which one didn't - at first. Except, of course, for the hair, which anyone would be hard put not to notice.

Otherwise, from a strictly physical perspective, he was not the kind of man who would stand out in a crowd - until he started to move - and Brian, who knew quite a lot about grace and fluidity and compact strength (being currently and - probably - perpetually involved with a twink who almost defined that particular combination of traits) had noticed it immediately when the slender, somewhat pale young man with the thatch of bright copper-colored hair and eyes that were either blue or gray, depending on the moment, had come forward to greet his newest client. Young - that was one of the operative words. According to the data provided by Cynthia, which Brian had not bothered to request since he'd known she'd provide it without being asked, Quinn had an impressive record in court proceedings in cities up and down the East coast, stretching over a period of twelve years. He had begun his college career with three years spent at Northwestern before transferring to Harvard Law where he'd graduated with honors. After completing his training by spending a couple of years as an associate with a prestigious Boston law firm, he'd opened his own practice in New York, and the rest - in classic cliché form - had been history. Yet he didn't look a day over thirty. Maybe thirty-five, in a pinch. A very slim pinch. Neither particularly tall nor bulky, Quinn nevertheless moved like an athlete, his stride strong and purposeful and his carriage fairly radiating self-confidence.

That much, at least, Brian liked. As for the rest . . . McClaren could almost see the wheels spinning in the ad exec's mind, only to conclude that it was too early to conclude anything. There was also a very slight degree of puzzlement, and the FBI agent knew one thing perfectly well: Brian Kinney did not ordinarily do puzzled.

That, in itself, made Quinn unusual, for Kinney was not given to uncertainty.

The attorney had proceeded to compound the problem within sixty seconds of their initial greeting. Very few people would ever have any difficulty in recognizing Brian Kinney as a classic alpha male - a condition which had absolutely nothing to do with where he preferred to stick his penis - and it was almost certain that Quinn, given his level of experience in evaluating and gauging the personalities and character of the people with whom he interacted, had no trouble doing so. But unlike most other people, he seemed to have little or no interest in sitting back and waiting for Brian to establish the parameters of their interaction.

Instead, he had established the ground rules himself, with only the barest nod toward the niceties of introduction, escorting Brian into a small conference room before issuing what McClaren would later designate as an 'opening argument'. "If these were ordinary circumstances," he'd announced, following a quick, firm handshake, "I'm sure we'd have much to discuss, and you'd have preferred to go over my recommendations and demand an explanation of why I made them. Unfortunately, we don't have time for that. Federal judges - despite the fact that you're the plum they hope to pull out of this particular pie - are notoriously impatient and disinclined to be understanding of any delaying tactics on your part. Yes, they'd probably wait, if you insisted, but they wouldn't like it. And they wouldn't forget it, and you should trust me when I tell you that you really don't want to piss off anyone sitting on a federal bench. They're like fucking elephants: they never forget a slight, and they never pass up an opportunity to get even."

Brian - to his own surprise - had laughed. "I thought they were supposed to be these bigger-than-life, impossibly noble individuals, meticulously balancing the scales of justice, with appropriate blindfolds over their eyes."

Quinn had grinned. "No, you didn't. You're too smart to buy into that crap. So, anyway, here's how it needs to go. I've gone over the transcript of the statement you gave to Agents Corey and McClaren, and I've taken the liberty of doing a bit of editing." At this point, he'd retrieved a thick sheaf of documents from his briefcase and handed them to Brian, and, even from a distance, McClaren could tell that the document had been closely examined and much had been struck through with a red pencil.

Then Quinn had stepped forward and adjusted Brian's tie - Hermes silk in shades of charcoal, gray and teal - and the collar of his Gucci shirt, also teal. "Armani," he observed, smoothing the perfect line of the pin-striped jacket's lapel. "Very nice." He smiled then as he noticed Brian's eyes taking note of his own equally elegant attire, as he gestured toward the document in Brian's hand. "With your permission - which I'm assuming you'll give, even if it is after the fact - I've restructured your statement, putting emphasis on the facts as you know them, and playing down the elements of your testimony that might be considered speculative, for lack of a better term. Now I've already spoken to the clerk, and informed him that I'm going to be in the room with you. I had to promise, more or less, to keep my mouth shut, unless - and this is very important, Mr. Kinney - unless I feel that your rights are being violated, or even threatened in any way. So understand this. There is only one purpose for my presence here, and that is to protect your interests. The FBI, the justice department, the federal judges - though they must all at least pay lip service to protecting you, it's not their primary focus - except that without you, their case goes to shit. They're all about putting the bad guys away, and seeing that justice is served. Me? As far as I'm concerned, justice can take care of itself. I'll leave that to them - and to you, if you're the bloodthirsty, vengeful type. My only concern - my only job - is to make sure you are protected, and no one convinces you to risk more than you should. Understand?"

Brian had smiled. "Perfectly. Only . . . I am, you know."

"You are what?"

"The bloodthirsty, vengeful type."

Quinn smiled. "Yeah. I can see that. But you're also smart enough to avoid putting yourself at risk. This is the big leagues, Mr. Kinney. The people who were responsible for the attack against you are certainly thugs of the first order, but they happen to be thugs with old money and lots of political clout. You want payback, and I don't blame you. But it's my job to make certain it doesn't cost you more than it already has."

His voice softened, for just a moment. "You've already paid your dues."

Brian stepped back then and studied the pretty face looking up at him. Then he blinked - slowly - astonished that he'd just referred to this incredibly expensive, tremendously gifted, and obviously ballsy legal eagle as 'pretty'. Yet, he couldn't back away from the term, for it fit. Quinn was pretty; almost - but not quite - girlish in his prettiness, and Brian couldn't quite decide whether it was insulting to acknowledge it, or simply honest.

"So," he said slowly, "let me get this straight. You expect me to read this, exactly as scripted by you?"

Quinn shrugged. "The word 'scripted' implies that I changed your words. I didn't. In fact, I didn't make any fundamental changes to your original statement at all. I simply refined it a bit. Now it's obvious that I can't very well gag you, Mr. Kinney, and you're not a puppet I can manipulate on a string. However, what you're paying me for . . ." His smile was quicksilver, "and very well, I might add, is my advice on how to proceed to obtain the justice you want, while protecting your best interests. And to do that, you'd do well to give your statement, pretty much as I've written it out."

Brian glanced at the document before him once more. Then he nodded. "All right, within reason. And if they question me?"

Quinn chuckled. "Not if. When. They're federal judges with a lifelong history of exercising their authority and their right to be nosey, especially with a . . .  How shall I put it?  A colorful subject like you. You're a smart fellow, so I'm sure you've already figured it out. Just try to keep your answers in the same vein as the overall tone of the statement, and, if you're not sure about something, tell them you want to confer with me. You have that right. On the other hand, if they ask you anything or try to manipulate you in any way I deem unsuitable, I'll step in and put a quick stop to it. With your permission, of course."

Brian folded his lips into his mouth - considering. Then he nodded before repeating himself. "Within reason, of course."

Chris McClaren had watched the entire exchange, eyes narrowed as they moved back and forth between the two principals - the acknowledged Stud of Liberty Avenue and a young man for whom the term "Pretty Boy" might have been coined. But in the end, he couldn't quite figure out why he was becoming more and more certain that - in some ways - Brian Kinney had just met his match.

When a clerk appeared to guide Brian into the small courtroom where the judges and other staff members were waiting, McClaren stood up and moved forward to stand at his side, smirking in response to the quick lift of Quinn's single eyebrow. "Where he goes," said the FBI agent, "I go. That's non-negotiable."

"The judges may have a different . . ."

"The judges," McClaren interrupted, "are not ultimately responsible for his safety. I am. Now, are we going to stand here arguing, or are we going to haul our asses inside and get this over with?"

Brian was watching in silence, but the gleam in his eyes revealed that he was enjoying the sideshow.

Quinn hesitated, but only briefly. Then he stepped forward and extended his hand to the FBI agent, his expression not easy to read, but not entirely hostile either. "He's going to be spending a lot of time in my company," he explained, "until all this is over. And who knows? Maybe even beyond that. So you and I . . ."

The confrontation - such as it was - was interrupted by a quick, rich burst of laughter from Brian Kinney. "This is either the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . . or World War III. I can't wait to find out which."

Then he turned and followed the clerk into the conference room, leaving his two companions to scramble to catch up, neither quite sure whether to smile . . . or glower.

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


It had gone well, thought McClaren. So far. Despite his certainty that there were few things in life Brian Kinney could not handle - with considerable aplomb - he had not been able to completely dismiss his misgivings concerning this exchange of information. Especially once he'd seen and identified the members of the three-judge panel.

He had not had direct dealings with all three, but he did recognize them, to his chagrin. All were retired from active service on the bench, but still available for participation in hearings and procedures like this one, and all were well versed in the administration of justice. Though this setting was less formal than a normal courtroom venue, all three managed to look substantially magisterial despite the lack of an elevated bench and the robes of office.

Senior of the group - in age and years of service - was Judge Raymond Novak, a sixteen-year veteran of the DC circuit, a man so thin he almost seemed emaciated, with a sharp, hawk-like face, thin nose, thin lips, a severely receding hairline, and a vulpine gaze that had been known to reduce both hardened criminals and experienced attorneys to tongue-tied silence if they happened to get on his bad side.

Next in the judicial hierarchy came Alicia Wolf-Heigel, younger than Novak by at least a decade and more recently retired from the 4th Circuit, a slender woman with a coif of thick blonde, silver-streaked hair and a gleam of amused tolerance in large, dark eyes, beautifully clad in an elegant suit that Brian easily identified as Yves Saint-Laurent. She was known to be a staunch defender of victims' rights as well as an expert in Constitutional theory.

The third of the group and, in some ways, the most flamboyant, was Jonathon Blaine, a native of Philadelphia and an ardent conservative, recently retired from service on the 3rd Circuit. Blaine was a large man, with broad shoulders, a beer belly, and a face so florid and fleshy, it virtually gleamed under the lights of the conference room. Despite the rosiness of his countenance, there was nothing remotely cherubic about his face, as he sat at the conference table with his fat fingers clasped in front of him, wearing a forbidding frown designed to intimidate as he periodically dabbed at his forehead with a limp handkerchief. Unfortunately, from Blaine's perspective, Brian Kinney was not subject to intimidation, by anyone.

McClaren had taken his seat at the rear of the room immediately upon entry, but he noted that Quinn deliberately delayed Brian's progress to the chair reserved for him in order to whisper some last minute instructions in his ear. The way he was glancing toward the judges seated at the end of the conference table indicated he was at least as well acquainted with the three as McClaren was.

Preliminary instructions were dispensed with quickly by a justice department staffer who activated the recording equipment, made sure Brian understood the rules as explained, introduced him to the judges, and proceeded to swear him in.

After that, it took less than three minutes for McClaren to realize his nervousness had been completely unwarranted. Brian Kinney might have been born to give depositions. He presented his testimony in a strong, clear voice, completely at ease, and looking - as always - like he'd just stepped out of the pages of a GQ fashion spread.

The same, however, could not be said of the judges who watched his performance. Not all of them, at least.

Novak maintained his typical stoic demeanor, seldom bothering to look directly at the witness, although the fact that he frequently jotted something down in a leather-bound notebook seemed to indicate that he was paying attention. Wolf-Heigel seemed more focused and receptive, not to mention more capable of appreciating both the elegance and the easy candor of the young man who occasionally looked up and responded to the slight smile she wore.

But it was Blaine who appeared most involved in what he was hearing, as his face reflected a broad spectrum of reactions, from the flare of nostrils as the witness related the circumstances of his original capture, a deep frown during the recital of the injuries inflicted, and a squint of bulging eyes as names were named and attackers identified.

The statement, pared to a skeletal elegance under Liam Quinn's expert oversight, was read into the record in just under forty minutes, and Brian, as he set the document aside and folded his hands, looked over at the attorney and acknowledged his appreciation with a quick nod. The man had proved himself deserving of his undoubtedly exorbitant hourly fees.

"Mr. Kinney," said Judge Wolf-Heigel, "do you need to take a break? Given what you endured, we don't want to wear you out."

"Thanks," he answered, with a trademark killer smile, "but I'm fine."

"And you're recovering?" she continued. "Getting your strength back?"

Brian's smile took on the slightest hint of a smirk, and Liam Quinn experienced his first tiny little nuance of a qualm, sensing the rise of something vaguely snarky in his client's demeanor. "I am," Brian replied. "We fags are remarkably resilient, you know."

The smirk was, by this time, firmly entrenched, but, if the witness had hoped to shock the female judge into an off-the-cuff, equally snarky response, he was doomed to disappointment, as she merely grinned, allowing him to notice and appreciate the quick sparkle in her eyes,

"Mr. Kinney," said Judge Novak, ignoring the exchange as if it had never happened, "you claim that you are sure about your identification of James Stockwell and Craig Taylor. Correct?"

"Yes."

"But you also admit that you did not recall the identity of any of your attackers until after you underwent hypnosis. Also correct?"

"Yes."

Novak nodded, flipping over a page in his notebook and studying what he had written there before proceeding. "You're a reasonably bright young man, Mr. Kinney, so I'm sure it's occurred to you that this could raise some questions in the minds of jurors and defense attorneys."

Brian could not quite conceal a smile. "As you point out, your honor, I'm reasonably bright, and I do see your point. Fortunately, although my testimony is required to open the doors, so to speak, and point the investigation in the proper direction, there should be plenty of other evidence to corroborate my statements. And, to answer the element of uncertainty that you did not - intentionally - raise, I know what I saw and heard. The fact that I didn't recall it prior to the hypnosis was due to the rather extreme conditions of the event." He let the smile expand then, but it never touched the ice in his eyes. "I was a bit distracted, as the situation unfolded."

It was at that moment that Jonathon Blaine cleared his throat, and Brian noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Liam Quinn suddenly sat straighter and leaned forward, as if to listen more closely.

And here we go.

Brian wasn't sure why that phrase was suddenly ringing in his mind, but he did not question its validity.

"Mr. Kinney," said the corpulent judge, "I assume you do realize that, so far, there's not much actual forensic evidence to support your testimony. And you don't deny that you have no idea as to the identities of the other individuals who were observing the episode. Correct?"

"Episode?" Brian echoed. "You make it sound like a TV script. I admit I have no idea who the others might have been, but I object to that particular term. This wasn't a story on a printed page or a movie screen. It was, I assure you, very, very real."

"Yes, yes," replied Blaine impatiently, "I'm sure, but the information you've supplied is sketchy at best, isn't it? You're reputed to be a very intelligent, very canny young man. As well as somewhat opportunistic. Would you agree?"

Brian's smile had shifted, becoming slightly venal. "I would."

"And you have something of a history with both of the individuals you identified, don't you? I believe that Mr. Taylor held you responsible for the estrangement between him and his son. And you were instrumental in sabotaging Stockwell's mayorial campaign. So . . ."

Brian's eyes were suddenly very dark, but the smile never wavered. "So . . . what? That gives them reasonable cause? In fact, I think I would rephrase your assumption, Judge Blaine," Every person in the room noted his apparently deliberate omission of the honorific title, "and say that both of them have something of a history with me."

"Well, no matter how you phrase it," said the judge, shifting slightly in his seat and causing the chair to creak almost ominously, "it's a history that's directly related to your homosexuality, is it not? You are a homosexual, aren't you, Mr. Kinney?"

Brian was looking directly into Blaine's face, mentally entertaining an idle wish that the creaking chair would splinter under the man's blubber and deposit him on his enormous ass, but then he noticed that Liam Quinn was rising to his feet, his mouth open and ready to offer his protest.

Brian, however, had never been one to allow anyone else to defend him, especially when he saw no need for such an intervention.

"I am," he said firmly. Then the smile became a bright, defiant grin. "However, my belief has always been that if I'm not sticking my cock up your ass, it's none of your business."

Blaine's face was suddenly bright scarlet and shading rapidly toward crimson as he threw up his arms in outrage and veins stood out on his neck and forehead. "You, you . . . that's . . . you can't . . . "

Next to him, Alicia Wolf-Heigel was struggling to suppress the smile that was trembling on her lips, while Judge Novak stared at his colleague with a flat look of disgust. "You asked," he observed with a slight shrug, when Blaine looked to him for support.

Liam Quinn, however, though pleased and gratified by his client's easy dismantling of the judge's blatantly homophobic condescension, was not prepared to simply drop the subject. He got to his feet, ignoring both the subtle frown of disapproval on his client's face, and the decidedly un-subtle expressions of impatience, dislike, and/or resentment on other faces in the room.

"Your honors," he said firmly, his eyes hard and glinting with barely suppressed anger, "may I just remind the members of the court that Mr. Kinney is here voluntarily, that he has suffered extensive physical injury at the hands of the individuals responsible for this crime, and he is still under the protection of federal authorities who have good cause to believe he continues to be in grave danger. In addition, this conversation has raised the question of the appropriateness of any member of this panel reviewing data concerning his prior interactions with the individuals he's identified in his testimony, prior to hearing his deposition. It suggests the possibility of preconceived notions. Furthermore, I'm compelled to point out it's highly objectionable to raise the subject of Mr. Kinney's sexual orientation in these proceedings, as it would seem to suggest that some among you might find the issue to be relevant, to be, in fact, an acceptable excuse for such abhorrent, unconscionable actions on the part of the criminals involved in the attack."

He paused then and stared at the three judges, his eyes meeting those of Jonathon Blaine finally, and holding his gaze as he continued. "If one were to even suggest such a ridiculous, spurious justification for such a crime, it might motivate higher authorities to delve more deeply into the attitudes of any individual who would proffer such a ridiculous notion, perhaps even going so far as to investigate seemingly unrelated circumstances." He paused then, very deliberately, and his blue-gray eyes glinted even colder. "They might even go so far as to look into things like personal history or family ties or political contributions, or even perhaps historical family links to extremist religious groups, connections which - if exposed - might prove to be extremely embarrassing for individuals in positions of authority. Not to mention, difficult to explain. It could get complicated, and messy, you know. Very - messy - indeed."

He fell silent then, but moved forward until he was standing right behind Brian, where he had a perfect view of the faces of the three jurists and their reactions to his words. It was obvious that two of the three were merely confused and slightly curious about his meaning. But the third had gone deathly pale, in direct contrast to the former florid condition of his face.

"Are we clear?" asked Liam Quinn very softly.

No one answered.

"Are we clear?"

"Absolutely," said Alicia Wolf-Heigel, with a wink that was not - quite - a wink.

"Very," answered Raymond Novak firmly, completely unperturbed, almost disinterested.

The last answer was just a whisper, but heartfelt nonetheless. "Yes," said Jonathon Blaine.

And Brian Kinney had to fight to resist an urge to turn around and kiss his new attorney to applaud the man's bold, unapologetic actions. He did turn to stare at him, to allow him to see and understand the appreciation in his own eyes as he felt a faint stir of realization, a growing awareness of what Chris McClaren had already begun to sense.

The Mighty Kinney had, it seemed, really met his match.

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


The mirror above the old dressing table was warped and discolored, and the light in the tiny room was dim at best. But Sharon Briggs thought it was probably better that way. The lack of illumination or a proper mirror prevented her from getting a clear, undistorted look at her own reflection.

She sat on the edge of her narrow, slightly lumpy mattress, and tried to see well enough to apply the minimal make-up that was appropriate to her current role as assistant chef at The Club and boarder in the home of Rachel Charles and her son, Buddy.

It wasn't difficult, since the purpose of her appearance was to allow her to fade into the background. A cook was not supposed to stand out or draw attention.

She drew a brush through her hair before reaching for a bottle of an Avon fragrance, and stifled a sigh.

She was dressed in Wal-Mart mark downs - subdued polyester shirt and skirt (The Club did not approve of trousers for women) and Pay-Less shoes - low-heeled conservative pumps. Perfect for her disguise. But she couldn't quite resist taking a moment to close her eyes and visualize what she would be wearing if she could just go back to her cozy little townhouse, spend an hour submerged in her sunken tub, and then wrap herself in Dolce & Gabbana or Vera Wang or even just a simple silk dressing gown before collapsing on her queen-sized bed on sheets of Egyptian cotton.

Sometimes, she realized, it was the little luxuries that one missed the most - the cut glass bottle of Shalini perfume instead of the cheap Avon spray; the Ralph Lauren snakeskin handbag to replace the canvas tote; a fine French sauvignon blanc in place of a screw-top bottle of chianti.

Shit, she was tired of this charade. It had been weeks now since she'd been able to go home and be herself, and she was beginning to think she had already learned everything here that she was going to learn. Both she and Jared had been exploring every possible opportunity and had managed to unearth a number of leads to turn over to the forensic investigators, but she wasn't sure if it was advisable to go any further. It was beginning to look as if all the roads available to explore ultimately led to nowhere.

Except for Nicholas Avolar. There, she was pretty sure, was a gold mine of information, if they could only find the right key to unlock it. The young man was a decent sort, but he was tightly controlled and very repressed, and a victim caught in the very center of conflicting loyalties, and she was almost certain it would be Jared who might eventually find a way to break through that control, if anyone could.

Still, she was reluctant to give up completely. Her identity here was well established, and she knew she would hate herself if she abandoned the project only to learn later that she might have made a difference if she'd just stuck around a bit longer. Especially given it was Brian Kinney who was the primary target of the people she was trying to identify.

Brian Kinney . . . and those who loved him. Which brought someone else to mind, someone she had known for many, many years, and rarely ever spared a thought for. Only now . . . what, she wondered, had changed? What made her suddenly prone to thoughts of someone who had always been something of a rival for the affections of the only man in whom she'd ever had even the slightest romantic interest. A romantic interest which had lasted for no more than a few days, a week at most, before she'd realized she was guilty of casting him in the role of Prince Charming in their little personal drama.

She grinned into the mirror. Brian Kinney - Prince Charming! She'd never quite dared to tell him that, but she'd wondered occasionally if he hadn't figured it out for himself. He did, after all, have an uncanny ability to see through facades, even to read minds to some degree.

She applied the cheap hair spray that was another concession to her alternative persona, and spent a moment remembering the events of the previous few weeks. In particular, she thought about the evening when she'd met with Detective Horvath and the Kinnetik security people, to go over the details they'd discovered and discuss new lines of investigation - the very same day, as she'd discovered later - that Brian Kinney and Cynthia Whitney had taken on the world and won. The meeting had gone well, and she'd been pleased to conclude that she and Jared Hilliard were becoming a very effective team, able to interact almost instinctively and much more efficient together than individually.

It had been a good meeting, and she'd been pleased, perhaps a bit smug, when she'd gone strolling out of the security office, laughing a bit over Hilliard's typical tongue-in-cheek running commentary, only to come face to face with Lindsey Peterson, who was seated in the foyer of the building, waiting for Lance Mathis to drive her back to her hotel.

They had known each other for years - since college - and the only things they'd ever had in common were a sorority . . . and Brian Kinney. They'd never been friends exactly; more like satellites around the same primary. But their interactions had always been pleasant enough, always allowing for a bit of jealousy whenever the primary in question leaned a bit too far in one direction or the other.

But their orbits had never once actually intercepted. Not until that moment, when Lindsey had looked up from the copy of GQ she was paging through, and allowed her old sorority sister to read the despair and loss peeking out of her eyes, and there was suddenly an open line of communication between them which had never existed before, which they immediately began to explore. The talk had been tentative at first, but quickly evolved into something more - something deeper.

Carl Horvath had hurried off into the night for a late dinner with his significant other, and Lance Mathis, after a few moments of thought, had suddenly recalled that he needed to go over a few more things with Hilliard, so he'd ordered pizza for all of them, assured Lindsey he would escort her back to the hotel if she could be patient a bit longer, and then left the two women alone to continue their conversation.

On impulse, the two of them had moved from the lobby into Brian's private office, where they would have access to Brian's private bar and his private stash.

After a few hits of primo quality grass, both were feeling ridiculously mellow and more relaxed than they'd been in a very long time.

Lindsey had moved to the desk where Cynthia had left the portrait of Brian which Justin had painted, and stood for a while in silence, looking down at the beautiful face that was offering up the quintessential Kinney half-smile.

"You do realize," drawled Sharon, entirely tongue-in-cheek, "that we wouldn't even be acquainted if it weren't for him. It seems Brian Kinney is the glue that binds a lot of people together, even though he'd never admit it."

Lindsey smiled, and turned to observe her dark-haired companion with a tiny smirk, realizing as she did so, she'd never before noticed how beautiful the young woman was. "Did he fuck you?" she asked, and then gasped as she realized how incredibly inappropriate that question was.

Luckily, Sharon was sufficiently high to accept the question in the same inebriated spirit in which it had been offered. "No. Why? You?"

Lindsey sank into the softness of Brian's beloved Barcelona chair. "Once," she admitted, knowing as she said it that, under ordinary circumstances, she'd have denied it with her last breath. "He always called it 'midsummer madness'."

Sharon was quiet for a moment, debating whether or not to go to the next logical step. Aw, fuck it! "And how was he?"

Lindsey giggled. "Massive . . . and very, very skilled. Even falling-down drunk, Brian Kinney gave a whole new meaning to the term, 'multiple orgasms'."

Sharon had grinned. "I think - maybe - I'd have enjoyed learning about that myself."

"Did you ever . . . " asked Lindsey, not quite willing to put it into words.

Sharon nodded. "Experimenting - as a teen-ager. I guess I bloomed late. Actually, I bloomed under the tough love approach of one Brian Kinney, who refused to allow me to take the easy way out. He was the one who convinced me. By example, mostly, and by laughing at my pretensions. When I saw that there were people out there who were bold enough and brave enough to live their lives without apology . . . that was the push that I needed. So whatever I am today, it's largely due to the influence of the Stud of Liberty Avenue."

Lindsey gazed out into the darkness beyond the windows. "Maybe that's where things went so wrong between us," she said softly. "Maybe I let myself forget what he really is because I was too busy . . ."

"Fantasizing?" Sharon's smile was gentle. "It's not like you're the only one. He's been inspiring fantasies in everyone around him since puberty."

Lindsey could not argue. "But most people didn't let it go any further than that, didn't let it complicate their lives."

"Lindsey," said the brunette earnestly, sitting forward on the sofa and clasping her hands before her, "you and Brian share a child. No matter what else happens in your life, that's never going to change, and no fantasy is going to matter in the face of that. And . . . I'm sorry, honey, but Melanie should have been mature enough to accept that and to realize it as a fact of life she needed to learn to live with. To simply assume that the connection would just dissolve with time was just stupid. Sorry if that sounds harsh, but . . ."

Lindsey sighed. "Actually, that sounds absolutely accurate. How did everything get so fucked up?"

They had spent the next two hours discussing the answer to that question, and devouring pizza and raiding Brian's liquor cabinet - just the two of them initially, and later, in the company of Jared Hilliard and Lance Mathis.

Sharon couldn't remember when she'd had a more enjoyable evening, and when it ended, as she was resuming her Shirley Harper identity, she came to a surprising conclusion. She had not expected to like Lindsey Peterson, but it turned out that she did. A lot.

She put on her lipstick and headed toward the door, hopeful that this day might prove to be the last of her current assignment. Jared, in his Jed Harper persona, had a late date with Nicholas Avolar after work tonight, and he thought this might prove to be the beginning of the end. They both believed that, once he started talking, the young man would not be able to stem the tide.

She was just approaching the door when she heard voices on the back porch, just outside the only window in her tiny little bedroom. She almost ignored them, almost stepped out to go on her way, but - at the last moment - she froze as the voices grew louder and clearer.

"Guess who was at Jo-Jo's last night," said Pete Ruiz, his voice accompanied by the creaking sound of the old lawn chair as he sank into it. "Glenda and Sammie."

"Yeah?" replied Buddy Charles, obviously not particularly interested. "So what?"

"So," said Ruiz, sounding smug, "Sammie said his ma heard from her cousin yesterday. You know, the good old boy from down south."

A brief pause before Buddy answered, this time showing a bit more interest. "And?"

"And it looks like we guessed right. The new man on the beach and the Pittsburgh pretty boy are one and the same. Guess he took off for parts where he'd be unknown so he could bare his ass and tan himself on the beach. Word is that he's getting treatment from some fancy/shmancy doctor down there - some genius that's supposed to be able to fix the damage. They say it looks like he's gonna be good as new when they're done with him."

"Shit!" Buddy did not sound pleased. "Some folks ain't gonna be happy about that."

Ruiz chuckled. "Yeah, well . . . it ain't over til it's over, is it?"

Rachel Charles' son was not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, as indicated by his next question. "What does that mean?"

Ruiz laughed again. "You'll see. But for now, y'er better off not knowing."

Both boys rose then and walked out into the yard, leaving Sharon Briggs to exit her room and go looking for her landlady. There was no choice now, and the possibility of blowing her cover was no longer of any concern.

The only thing that mattered was finding out who Glenda and Sammie were and the name of the southern cousin.

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

"How did you know?" asked Brian, as he settled into the chair behind the desk in the little office, watching as McClaren set up the video feed for the conference.

Liam Quinn opted to take a seat on the battered old love seat before turning to regard his client. He didn't bother to pretend he didn't understand the question.

"Sometimes," he said with a quick grin, "you get lucky."

"Meaning?"

"I had the dubious pleasure of attending law school with a young lady name Marcia Osgood. By sheer coincidence, she was a former step-daughter of Jonathon Blaine."

"And that was lucky, how?"

"Well, if I'd gone to school with Pamela Blaine - his natural daughter - I'd have been forced to listen to all the super-loyal bullshit about what a paragon of virtue the man is. Instead, his step-daughter was more inclined to honesty, despite the fact that her mother, as a part of the divorce settlement, had agreed to keep her more candid, less flattering observations to herself. Marcia, however, was beyond the scope of that agreement, and she couldn't stand the old fucker. With good reason, as it turns out. His family history and his connections to extreme right-wing groups have been carefully excised from his official records, offering proof positive to that old adage: money does indeed talk. Good old Marcia, however, was an endless source of gossip, speculation, and venom concerning one-time Daddy-not-so-dearest."

"And no one ever pursued it? Launched any kind of investigation?" asked McClaren. "Why would . . ."

Quinn smiled. "In the eyes of the law, it would have been regarded as the meaningless ravings of a kid with a grudge, and you can be pretty sure that any proof would have been extremely hard to come by. You don't get to the appeals court level without being able to withstand some pretty intense background checks."

It was Brian's turn to smile. "So you couldn't have been certain there was any truth to what she said. You took a pretty big chance in using it to force him to back down."

The attorney nodded. "Life's full of risks, isn't it? Makes things interesting."

McClaren looked up then, and spotted the pale gleam in dark hazel eyes. Brian Kinney, apparently, was making up his mind about something, and the FBI agent wasn't entirely sure he liked what he was seeing.

Eventually, Brian smiled. "OK. I've got a little business to take care of here. You want to listen in?"

"Do I need background?"

The smile became a slightly wolfish grin. "No. I'm pretty sure you can figure it out with no help from me."

And that, thought McClaren with a smirk of his own, was something he could agree on, wholeheartedly. Quinn would figure it out PDQ.

When Justin walked in, with Gus in tow, Brian concentrated on greeting his young lover and his son, listening to Gus's monologue about castle-building and the horses he'd spotted down the beach, and the fudge brownies that Trina had made for him. He concentrated on his son, but he noticed, via peripheral vision, that Justin had not failed to notice the presence of the newcomer among them and was looking daggers at both Quinn and McClaren.

For some reason, that seemed to amuse him, and he appeared to enjoy Gus's soliloquy  even more.

He still did not suggest an introduction, and ignored the intensity of Justin's glare.

"How did it go?" Justin finally demanded, getting right in Brian's face.

"I was fabulous. As always. What else did you expect?"

"And who's he?" Apparently, Justin had decided the direct approach would serve him best.

Brian sighed. "Justin, this is Liam. He's my . . . defender."

Justin indulged in an eye-roll. "And since when do you require . . ."

"A smart man knows when he needs help." Brian smiled; then he grinned; then he laughed, and Justin . . . finally joined him. In the end, it didn't matter who the newcomer was or why he was here. It only mattered that Brian was able to laugh.

And at that moment, the video feed kicked in, and the tv screen flickered to life.

"Mommie!" shouted Gus, zeroing in immediately on the face of his mother as Lindsey moved toward the camera, her eyes huge and devouring her son's face.

"Hi, Baby," she answered. "It's so good to see you. Are you having fun with Daddy and Gramps and Justin?"

Which, of course, signaled a new monologue which went on for roughly five minutes, as Gus filled in the blanks for his mother.

Meanwhile, Brian sat at the desk and watched the faces of the others on the screen, his hands clasped in front of his face and his eyes filled with unsettling gleams of speculation.

Cynthia and Mathis were there, of course. And Ted and Blake and Melanie, and there was no way anyone watching the screen could fail to notice that the only thing that did not actually show up in Melanie's demeanor was steam shooting out of her ears. Otherwise, she was the perfect portrait of rage simmering on the verge of boil-over.

Ted, on the other hand, was looking furtive, his eyes darting from person to person around him and then to the video camera, before starting on the same circuit again.

Eventually, even Gus felt the tension coming through the images before him and turned his eyes to stare at his other mother.

"Hi, Mama," he said, very softly.

Melanie dredged up a smile that was so brittle Justin wondered if her face might crack under the strain. "Hi, Gus," she managed to reply in a relatively calm voice. "You having fun?"

He nodded. "Disney World was great, and the beach is great, and Daddy . . . "

"Yeah," Melanie interrupted. "I'm sure Daddy's great. Everybody agrees about that, don't they?"

"Gus," said Brian suddenly, reaching out to touch his son with a gentle hand, "why don't you go in and see what Miss Trina is fixing for dinner. If she's making dessert, I bet she'll let you lick the bowl."

"Can I tell her you said I could have a Coke?"

Justin grinned. The kid wasn't Brian Kinney's son for nothing.

"Sure. Tell Gramps to get you one out of the cooler."

When he was gone, with a last wave toward the video camera, Lindsey regarded her son's father with a lopsided grin. "You're spoiling him," she observed.

"It's in my job description," he replied.

"Yeah?" said Melanie, in a voice that was almost a snarl. "What else is in there? Ruining his mothers' marriage? Destroying his mama's life? You really think you can just get away with this bullshit, and he's never going to know what a dick you are? Well, let me open your eyes, Mr. Kinney. He will know . . ."

"Lindsey," said Brian firmly, sharply, "do you want to go now? You don't have to stay to watch this . . ."

"Yes. I do." She sank into a chair at the conference table and folded her hands in front of her. Waiting. Just waiting."

Brian nodded. "Melanie," he said coldly, "I've never been one to hide who I am, and I won't start by hiding from my son. Now, does anybody have anything they want to say before we get started?"

"You called the meeting," observed Ted, looking in the general direction of the video camera but never quite meeting Brian's eyes.

"So I did." Brian took a deep breath. "Just so there's no misunderstanding here, let me lay it out for you. Because the FBI had advance warning that I might be targeted for some kind of corporate fraud, they were monitoring my financial holdings to avoid any potential problems. Thus, when Ted decided to transfer a substantial amount of my money into the Hargrave-Correll Fund, they acted quickly to prevent the transfer. Turns out the administrators of the fund - including Ted's old buddy - have been under intense scrutiny from the SEC and other federal agencies for several months. What happened yesterday and this morning is the result of a complex Ponzi scheme, and the FBI's actions saved me a boatload of cash."

He paused then, and looked directly at Ted, and then at Melanie. "It was their job to protect me, just as it was your job,Teddie, to protect my money. And your job, Melanie, to protect my son, and exercise financial restraint to make sure your family was not adversely affected. If either of you had bothered to come to me, to explain what you were doing and what you wanted to accomplish, then all of this would have been avoided. None of us would have lost anything."

"True," snapped Melanie. "And if you had been honest enough - caring enough - to share the information you had, then Ted and I would have been protected too."

"Uh, huh," Brian replied coolly. "Exactly as you tried to protect me. Right?"

"We were trying to make you rich." That was Ted, still not looking directly at Brian, but offering what he thought was a convincing argument.

"I'm already rich," replied Brian. "And making me rich was strictly secondary to what you wanted. You wanted me to be obligated to you, to be eternally grateful for your genius. To be indebted. "

"I didn't . . ."

"You didn't?"

"I only wanted . . ."

"Go on," Brian said softly. "You only wanted . . ."

Ted closed his eyes, admitting for the first time that he could not stand to look directly into Brian's eyes. "I wanted to be your . . . "

Brian nodded. "My go-to guy?"

Ted nodded. "And instead, I've lost everything."

Brian hesitated. "Not quite," he said finally.

The accountant looked up, hearing something unexpected in his employer's voice. "No?"

Brian's smile was slightly lop-sided. "You know me well enough, Theodore, to understand I already know my legal rights - what I can do and what I can't, as well as what the law says about what you've done. Right?"

A huge, deep breath, and whatever hope Ted had allowed himself began to fade. "Right."

Brian stared directly into the video camera and waited and - finally - Ted forced himself to confront the man who had been such a huge part of his life, and who would, no doubt, determine what came next. Brian nodded slightly. "If you tried to access the Kinnetik bank accounts today, then you already know you are no longer authorized to initiate transfers or sign checks; you also no longer retain the title of CFO of the corporation, and you should consider yourself fortunate the funds transfers were intercepted and did not go through because if they had, I'd be a lot less inclined to be forgiving. Your losses in the fund are yours to deal with. Your choices - your consequences.

"However, assuming there are no further surprises and you avoid taking actions that are not in Kinnetik's best interest, and that you do not commit my company to any contractual obligations which might prove to be harmful in the long run, there will be no further investigation of your actions, and no formal complaints filed against you. You keep your job - with restrictions - and your professional credentials remain intact. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Ted found that he couldn't summon up the strength to answer in anything but a whisper. "Yes, I understand."

Brian took a deep breath. "Then I want your word, Theodore, that this crap ends now. That you will do your job, as I need you to do it, respect my wishes, and accept that Cynthia has my complete confidence and is empowered to act on my behalf. That you will come to her - or to me, if necessary - before you commit my company to any course of action. So are you prepared to live with those conditions?"

Ted turned to Blake, and almost winced away from the look in his partner's eyes. It had been a long time since he'd felt himself an object of pity, and an even longer time since he'd felt that he deserved it. Did he deserve it now? Could he accept that this was how he was perceived - by his lover, his friends . . . his boss?

"Theodore." Brian's voice was not harsh or demanding, but it was firm, unyielding.

"Yes, Brian," said the accountant slowly. "You have my word."

"My, my!" said Melanie, clapping her hands slowly. "How touching! You really are conducting your own campaign for sainthood, aren't you? Saint Brian. What a fucking joke!"

Brian's eyes were very dark, very cold, as he turned his head to look at her, and Lindsey was quick to look away, realizing she hoped the day would never come when she'd be forced to see that look on Brian's face as he looked at her.

"I believe you wanted to see me, Melanie," he said softly. "So here I am. What do you want?"

She laughed, but it was not a pretty sound. "You really think you've got it all under control, don't you? You fuck with Ted, with me - let us lose money we couldn't afford to lose, because we're just poor mortals, unlike the mighty Kinney, who can afford anything he wants. Can even buy the affections of people who should know better." Her eyes drifted toward Justin then. "How long do you think it's going to be before they all figure out the truth about you - that you're using them? That you'll only hurt them in the end? That you're . . ."

"That's enough."

Everybody in both rooms went very still then, as all eyes turned toward the speaker. All of them seemed a bit confused because . . . it was not Lindsey who had spoken. Nor was it Cynthia.

It was Justin, who was standing directly in front of the video pick-up, fists on his hips, eyes blazing with scintillant heat. "Don't say any more, Mel," he warned, "unless you want to forfeit any right to ever have any connection to any of us again. Including Gus. You should know that this . . ." He gestured toward a slender, red-headed man seated across from Brian's desk, "is Brian's new attorney, so anything you say here is not likely to be forgotten. You need to stop."

"After all he's done to you," Melanie snapped. "How can you . . ."

"I know what he's done to me," Justin answered. "I also know what he's done for me. And for you, for Gus, for Lindsey. For all of us. And I'm not listening to any more bullshit like this. So you lost money. It's not like he held a gun to your head and forced you to invest. This was your choice - not his. You got greedy, and now you have to deal with the consequences. Just do yourself a favor, and shut the fuck up."

Lindsey cleared her throat. "Where . . ." Her voice quivered, forcing her to start again. "Where did you get the money?"

Melanie's eyes narrowed. "From my savings account."

But Lindsey was shaking her head. "As far as I know, you don't have a savings account. The only account we have is . . ." She fell silent, and her eyes were suddenly huge. "Please, tell me you didn't."

Melanie squared her shoulders. "I did what I thought was best. Please, Linz, understand that it was a huge opportunity. That it was . . ."

"We had scrimped together $15,000.00 in Gus's college fund," Lindsey said quietly, as much to herself as to the others around her. "If I go online to check the balance, what am I going to find, Mel?"

"I thought . . . I wanted to take advantage of the chance to make sure that he'd have what he needs, when the time comes."

But Lindsey was shaking her head. "His father is Brian Kinney. Do you really think there's the slightest possibility he'd lack for money to go to any college he chooses? So where did the rest of it come from?"

"I borrowed it," Melanie snarled. "OK? I wanted . . . I wanted to fix things, Linz. I wanted to make it all right between us. I wanted . . . I wanted things to be the way they used to be. The way they were . . . before Babylon. Before Sam. Just . . . before. I wanted you - and Gus - to need me, to depend on me. To forget . . ."

"Brian," said Lindsey, completing the sentence when Melanie faltered. "That's the bottom line, isn't it? You are never going to be able to forgive that I will always love Brian, no matter how much I love you." She regarded Melanie with huge, tear-filled eyes. "And that, Melanie, is never going to change. There was always room in my heart for both of you. He always knew it, but you . . . you never will. Will you?"

Melanie closed her eyes, her hands clinched at her sides. "So what does this mean? For us?"

Lindsey swallowed, and turned to study Brian's face as he looked back at her. She saw the sympathy in his eyes, saw that he would stand by her no matter what she decided, but also saw that - as far as Gus was concerned - there would be no turning back. Brian would reclaim his son and was prepared to fight whatever battle might ensue in order to win the war.

The blonde turned to her partner of eleven years, and made no attempt to hide the sorrow in her eyes. "I think that's up to you, Mel, but you have a decision to make. I'm not going back to Toronto. My life - and Gus's life - is here, where he can be a part of his father's life. You have to decide whether or not you can live with that."

"And J.R.?" Melanie's voice was rough, as if her throat was filled with shards of glass. "Don't you care about her?"

"I love J.R. more than you can imagine. So much that it almost kills me to think of leaving her with you, because I now question whether or not you're capable of loving her enough to give her the life she deserves, to put her first ahead of your own needs. But I can't - I won't sacrifice my son to placate your need to hurt Brian. You've used him as a weapon for the last time."

For the first time, Melanie staggered, reeling as if the words had imbedded themselves in her body like blades. "You . . . surely you don't believe that? You can't mean that? I've always loved Gus."

Lindsey nodded. "I know you did, but apparently, you've hated Brian more."

"No." It was just a whisper.

"Get out, Mel," said Brian, but his voice was strangely void of anger or resentment. "Get out, and don't come back."

She went, and the silence in the room behind her was heavy and cold and very dark.

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