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Chapter 5

 

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"You scared the shit out of me, Kiddo," said Margo Renton, administrative assistant, social secretary, and Jill-of-all-trades for Maxwell Bates, owner of the Bergerie Gallery, an exclusive little showplace for up and coming, avant garde artists. Like young Justin Taylor. She was fanning her face with a copy of his brochure, her hand clinched at her chest.

"I'm sorry, Margo," Justin answered with an apologetic smile. "When I saw the lights on and realized someone was still here, I thought I'd just check in, and see . . ." He paused, and rosy spots erupted on his cheeks.

Margo, a painfully thin woman with eyes as dark as Renaissance-era stained glass and cheekbones to die for (he thought he'd like to paint her someday as a stereotypical representative of dykedom, even though she claimed she wasn't) was not given much to sentiment, but she couldn't quite resist favoring him with a tiny smile. "It's okay, Honey. First time out of the gate is always traumatic. So you want to walk around, and take a look?"

"Can I?" he asked, almost afraid to believe.

"You may," she said pointedly, with a glance at her watch. "If you hurry. No time for a leisurely stroll - I do hope to get home in time to actually spend a few hours in my bed - but a quick pass should be okay."

"It's pretty dark," he observed, stepping forward slowly.

"In that case," she answered, stepping back behind the ultra-modern, angular reception desk and reaching for a concealed switch, "let there be light."

She watched with a small smile as Justin walked slowly to the center of the display area and then simply stood, surrounded by his art - the accumulated production of his life. None of it was new to him, of course. And all of it was new to him.

Along the left hand wall, portable display panels featured his impressionist work - abstract and emotional, almost turbulent, even bordering on violence once or twice. Here was his passion: lust, love, terror, rage, his biting need to strike back, to avenge himself and to reach out and grab the things he hungered for, to possess that which he desired; strong shapes and silhouettes, studies of light and shadow rendered mostly in shades of ochre and gold, in earthtones with slashes of crimson and copper, slashed through with blades of obsidian and swirling tempests of brilliance, lurking beneath dark seas under a swollen, bleeding sun. Colors that might have been reflected in eyes that never seemed to be the same color twice, eyes that changed with the seasons and with the passions that touched the heart.

Farther in, a group of haunting sketches and bright portraits and still-life studies had been arranged to compliment each other - faces, bodies, an open hand, a length of rope draped over a fencepost, a lock of hair that curled around a strong jawline, fingers that stroked a swollen penis. Two women, locked in a steamy embrace; a faded jacket draped across a chairback; two men, silhouettes only against a twilight sky; a little boy burying his face against his father's shoulder; a classic Corvette streaking down a rain-swept highway; a child asleep on an old quilt; two hands clasped - man and child; a dirty city street, neon-lit and lurid; broken pottery and tarnished brass; laughing faces, frowning faces, pensive faces - joy and sorrow; hope and despair, certainty and doubt.

On the opposite side, brilliant sprays of color formed the foundation for his graphic efforts - things created in the same place which had given birth to Rage and Zephyr and J.T. - massive bodies and muscles contrasted with slender grace; dark justice tempered by luminous mercy; unswerving purpose touched by whimsy. It was the art of the streets, of the masses - the art of childhood dreams and fantasies and nightmares.

His eyes swept over it all, and he felt his heart start to race with a rare, unexpected sense of accomplishment.

Then he moved forward, his eyes finally finding what he had really come looking for. The art . . . of Brian.

Strangers or casual acquaintances might not have recognized the identity of the model for all of the pieces arranged along the back wall of the gallery, especially since some of the images were shadowed and unclear, and many were only fractured glimpses of a profile or a feature. But anyone who knew Brian Kinney - really knew him - would recognize him at once, needing only the most minimal clues; the sardonic life of one eyebrow, the sensual half-smile barely touching sculpted lips, the strong lines of a broad back tapering into a slender waist. Brian, walking away, his face only just visible but something in his posture or the cant of his head announcing that he was trying not to laugh; Brian sprawled in an easy chair, illuminated by a pale lamp, lost in thought; Brian at rest, eyes closed, bare and beautiful and totally natural; Brian in the shower, or running on a treadmill, or relaxing in a spa. Brain thinking; Brian laughing; Brian brooding - dancing, drinking, working, smoking . . . grieving. Only one like that. Brian . . . beautiful.

"Fuck," said a cultured voice, close enough to send warm air into the blond strands at the nape of Justin's neck. "I really, really want to hate him, but . . ."

Justin turned to smile up at Steven Fletcher. "But?"

Steven shrugged. "But I can't. Because you make me see him through your eyes." He paused then, and moved closer, studying one particularly bold image, featuring Brian standing at a window with his arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips and smoke curling around his face. "Is he really that beautiful?" he asked finally.

Justin looked away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker in his eyes. "This," he said with a sweep of his hand, "doesn't even come close. He's the most vital, most intensely alive person I've ever known. Bigger than life; bigger than . . . anything."

"And yet," said Steven, reaching up to brace his hand against Justin's shoulder, "here you are."

Justin nodded. "Yeah. Here I am."

The rest remained unspoken, but Justin didn't have to be a mind-reader to know what Steven was thinking. If Brian Kinney was truly the love of his life, what was Justin doing in New York?

It was a question he frequently asked himself - and just as frequently could not answer.

"Well?" said Margo, moving forward to adjust the spotlight on a charcoal sketch of Brian, asleep at his desk with his head propped on folded arms. "Does it please you?"

"Oh, yes," Justin answered, his smile more than justifying his nickname, although no one here even knew his nickname, which pleased him for some reason he didn't care to explore. "You've done a beautiful job. But . . ." his gaze swept the room.

"Ahhh," she responded, a glint of something ambiguous in her eyes, "you're wondering about the piece de resistance, aren't you? Well, it's in the perfect spot, along with its companion piece. Perfect, that is, if you decide to display it. Have you . . . decided, I mean?"

"Not really," he answered, shoving his hands into his pockets. It was a curiously touching gesture, making him look even younger than his twenty-four years. He had lost no time in shedding the suit coat and the tie he had worn to the theater, and was now completely relaxed in dark pants and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and half unbuttoned. Margo thought his appearance perfectly charming - and achingly young.

"We're getting down to the wire, Hon," she said gently. "You're going to have to decide soon."

"I know."

Steven wandered a little further into the room, absorbing the energy and the beauty of Justin's work, allowing the young artist to follow with his eyes. Classically handsome, with dark hair, gray eyes, a sculpted face that always wore just a trace of stubble, and a tall, beautifully conditioned body, Steven looked perfectly at home in the elegant setting. He looked around the room, obviously savoring the items that caught his eye, but he couldn't quite resist glancing at the shadowed area at the top of the small, spiral staircase in the rear corner of the long, narrow room.

The gallery was not particularly large, but it was quite impressive. It had been converted from an old brownstone, and the contractor had carefully preserved the original lines and classic details of the structure. The main display area took up most of the ground floor, excepting only the shallow vestibule and reception alcove and a small utility area providing space for a tiny kitchenette and a powder room. Upstairs there was a balcony overlooking the main display room, leading to two offices - one for the owner and the second for Margo herself - and a small, secure area for storage of art work awaiting display or sale. In addition, there was a shallow offset, located directly adjacent to the stair well, and it was in this choice location that the gallery often displayed the primary feature of any exhibition. Featureless walls, covered with charcoal-colored raw silk, formed an octagonal chamber, a simple setting, with nothing to distract the eye of the viewer away from the room's focus. The lighting was dramatic and deliberate. Anyone who stepped into the alcove would see the artwork and only the artwork.

Such was the case now - pending Justin's decision.

There were two paintings set up on easels in the tiny niche, both covered with soft, dark drapes, with nothing else in the room except some tasteful greenery to soften the angles of the walls and floor. There was no window, no furniture. Nothing but the art.

The best things he had ever done, and he knew it - knew they were probably the best things he ever would do.

What he didn't know was whether or not he could bear to part with either of the two, or even allow anyone to see them.

One he'd finished only a few days before, using a tiny photograph to refresh the image in his mind, but mostly working from memory, calling up a vision of a powerful moment he knew he would never forget; the other he'd done just before he left Pittsburgh, and had kept completely to himself, except for one person. Lindsey had seen it when she'd come to help him pack up for the trip - seen it and gone to her knees, rendered completely speechless.

She'd never managed to say a word about it, but then, she'd never needed to.

He knew it was a masterpiece, that it had the power, in and of itself, to make him an artist of great critical acclaim.

If only he could stand to expose it to the world.

"Justin," said Steven, very softly, "I understand that this must be difficult for you - that your art is very personal. God! Is it ever! Anyone could see that, and feel it. You have a huge gift, to be able to reach out and touch people where they live. But if you really want to light up the world, to make people see life as you see it, as you want them to see it, you have to . . ."

"Let it go," Justin supplied, when it was obvious that Steven could not go on.

Steven confined his response to a quick nod.

Justin stood in silence for a moment, eyes closed, his breathing shallow and steady and calm, careful to betray nothing of the massive conflict that arose in his core whenever he tried to resolve this issue. Steven was right; it was difficult, but only Justin truly understood why. It wasn't simply a matter of opening up his past, allowing people to see it through his heart; it was a matter of releasing his hold on it.

To share it was to give it away.

When he opened his eyes, Steven was staring at him, frowning slightly, obviously discomfited by what he read in Justin's face.

"You're right," Justin whispered, stepping forward and starting up the stairs. "You're so right."

"Justin? What are you . . ."

The blond artist paused and turned to look down at the dashing young man who only wanted to give him the world - Paris, Florence, Vienna . . . Tahiti, for God's sake - who offered so much and asked so little.

"It's time," he said, his voice carefully emotionless, "to let it go."

Steven looked away quickly, unwilling to allow his young lover to interpret the flare of emotion in his eyes, but Justin had already resumed his climb and seemed to be focused on nothing but the shadowy alcove where the heart and soul of his work were cached.

Steven, meanwhile, turned back to study the display on the rear wall and moved closer to examine a particularly striking portrait in which hazel eyes, half hooded by a fringe of long lashes, contrasting beautifully with a crimson shirt, looked up at the artist solemnly, without a single nuance of humor or passion or emotion - a portrait of repose which should have been boring, flat, without depth or meaning - but wasn't. It shouldn't have been able to speak at all. Instead, it spoke volumes. It said, "You can look; you can want; you can seek. You can even touch. But you will never own."

Bastard.

Steven was careful to say nothing, to allow nothing to show on his face. But inside, beneath the layers of sophistication and the meticulously crafted public persona, he could not deny the existence of a fleeting urge to reach out and destroy what he knew he could never have. If he was very lucky - and very clever - he would achieve his goal; Justin would be his. But something deep inside him, in a place he never allowed anyone to see, confronted a truth he would never be able to change; he might manage to be the last to claim his young lover's heart, but he would never be the first.

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The executive office of the owner of Babylon was neither large nor lavish, but it was distinctly Brian Kinney. There was very little furniture in the small room, but each item was a gleaming example of Mies van der Rohe's genius. There was only one painting, but it was an original by an artist who was currently unknown, but wouldn't be for long. Only one photograph occupied a place of prominence on the sleek surface of the desk, but it offered a likeness of an exquisite face, captured in a moment of bright laughter, and it was displayed in an antique Tiffany sterling silver frame. A bank of monitors covered one wall, the only visible evidence of a state-of-the-art security system. One decanter - Waterford crystal - containing Brian's favorite whiskey.

Spare. Lean. Elegant.

Like the man leaning back in his executive chair, illuminated only by the single lamp providing the sole source of light in the room which had no natural light of its own - no windows, no skylights, no reflections. He was more shadow than substance, but it was an elegant shadow - black Armani suit with jacket unbuttoned contrasting perfectly with a shirt of scarlet silk by the same designer, limned only by the lamp's indirect glow.

He wore scarlet often these days, and wondered if anyone ever remembered that Justin had always loved it when he wore that color. He rather hoped no one would make the connection.

In front of his desk, two men sat in Bauhaus chairs, waiting in comfortable silence as Brian poured out three shots of JB.

"You're looking good, Brian," said the larger of the two.

Brian smiled. "Thanks, Drewsie. You too."

Drew Boyd, star quarterback of the Ironmen and only recently outed, allowed himself a small grin. "Emmett's the only one who ever called me that."

Brian leaned forward, and there was something almost predatory in his posture. "You're lucky he didn't call you a lot worse."

The quarterback's eyes flared with a brief flash of anger, before he remembered the full circumstances of his final meeting with Emmett. Then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. You're right."

Brian smiled, silently reflecting that there were only a few people who would credit that he could admire a man's willingness to face truth without flinching. Still, he thought Boyd might be one of those who could understand and appreciate his attitude.

"So," he said after distributing the glasses, "what brings you here?"

Boyd leaned back in his chair, savoring the smoky sweetness of the whiskey. "Thought I'd do you a favor."

Brian's smile was just slightly venal. "Do you really think I need your favors?"

Boyd laughed aloud. "Don't be cheeky. Remember, I've seen you in your underwear."

"That's hardly a distinction."

"Anyway, I meant a different kind of favor. I hear you're looking to beef up your security."

For the first time, Brian allowed his gaze to wander, and to drift down and back up the body of the individual seated at Boyd's side. Broad-shouldered, buff, perfect six-pack, flat belly, dark hair and eyes and a lovely cleft chin (a feature Brian always found difficult to resist). This time, however, he'd make an exception, because he'd have no choice. This guy was straight - interesting, but straight. What a shame!

He looked the stranger straight (no pun intended) in the eye. "I take it that the beef he's talking about is you."

"It is. My name is Lance Mathis, Mr. Kinney."

"He's my cousin, Brian," said Boyd. "But he's a good man, for all that."

Brian nodded, studying the newcomer's face more intently. "Okay, let's get down to brass tacks, Mr. Mathis. I know queer when I see it, and I know straight. I'm never wrong. So how are you going to feel when - notice I didn't say 'if' - you have to stand up to a group of your fellow breeders in defense of a bunch of fags or a couple of drag queens?"

Lance Mathis smiled. "Do you know where I got my start in security? I grew up in Hyannisport. Near Cape Cod, you know. And my father worked his entire life for a pretty well-known family there. You've probably heard of them. And if there's any family, anywhere in the world, that's more devoted to equal rights for everybody, regardless of race, religion, or sexual preference, I can't imagine who they'd be."

Brian smiled. "Which would make you . . .?"

"Extremely well trained."

But Brian was not yet convinced. He leaned forward and braced his chin on his clasped hands. "Maybe we need to be a little clearer here. I frankly don't give a fuck about your political correctness - or lack thereof - or how liberal your family background might be or how much you're into the peace movement or Zen Buddhism. What I want is a strong man who knows how to use his fists when it's necessary, who fights when he needs to, not because he believes in the cause but because it's what he gets paid to do. That's what I'm looking for. Not some do-gooder crusader who'll get carried away in his devotion to truth, justice, and the American way, or some such crap. So can you deal with that, or do I need to look elsewhere?"

Mathis stood up and leaned forward, extending his right hand. "You're a straight shooter, Mr. Kinney. I didn't expect that, so no bullshit about my beliefs or my liberal leanings. Just my assurance that you'll get what you pay for."

Brian took the hand and shook it firmly. "Can't ask for more than that. You can start tomorrow. I assume you're expensive."

"The best always are."

Brian poured another round of drinks before pushing back and propping one Prada-clad foot on the corner of his desk. "I couldn't agree more."

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After Boyd and Mathis left his office, Brian spent a few minutes reviewing proposals for upcoming promotions and signing off on those he approved. Then the monitors lining the left-hand wall of the executive office flared to life as the big front doors were opened and regulars began to pour through the entrance, after getting the nod of approval from the over-sized muscle man Brian had dubbed "The Gatekeeper". Sipping at his whiskey, he sprawled back in his chair, spent a moment gazing at the lovely face looking back at him from the photograph on his desk, before spinning slowly to check the images on the monitors and gauge the size of the crowd. Then he smiled his satisfaction when he glanced at the exterior scenes to see the thick line wrapped around the block.

Another big night at Babylon; another sizeable chunk of change in his pocket.

He did not move nor turn his head when a discreet knock sounded at the door.

"Brian?"

"Hmmm?"

"Got a minute?"

Lazily, he spun away from the monitors to look up at the tall blond standing just inside the doorway.

His smile was minimal. "Barely. It's . . . Brett, isn't it?"

The blond's smile was a trifle slow in forming. "Actually, it's Brandon."

"Oh." Brian let his gaze settle on the computer monitor on his desk, obviously uninterested in continuing the conversation. "Sorry about that. I'm not good with names." He paused then, reaching out to tap in a command on his keyboard and then waiting a moment to check out the data that came up on the screen. Only then did he look back up at his visitor's handsome face. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Not exactly," said the man who had once set out to topple Brian's position as the most desired man in Pittsburgh - and failed. "Just wondered . . . can I sit down?"

With the regal aplomb of a king of the realm, secure in his arrogance, Brian nodded toward a chair. Privately, he had long since admitted that their little competition had been an exercise in stupidity. Still, it had been a victory, albeit a small one in the grand scheme of things. Nevertheless, in a world where failure was too frequently the norm, he always reminded himself to savor the triumphs. Even the small ones.

The visitor seated himself, and Brian waited, feeling not even a slight compulsion to break the silence.

Brandon braced his elbows against the arms of his chair, and steepled his fingers. "This is a little awkward."

One single lifted eyebrow was the only indication that Brian had even heard him.

Realizing at last that Brian was not going to give him any kind of verbal cue or comfortable opening, the blonde leaned forward abruptly and focused his gaze on Brian's eyes. "I want to know why."

"Why . . . what?"

"Don't fuck with me. You know what."

Brian shrugged. "It's been a long time. Why are you asking now?"

Brandon tilted his head and examined Brian's expression closely. "You're a busy man."

It didn't really qualify as an answer, but Brian let it pass. Then he decided abruptly that he didn't much care for this game. "I am indeed. As for your question, the answer is simple. Sometimes, a man discovers that having something is not nearly as much fun as wanting it. Your ass is charming enough, but in the end - if you'll excuse the expression - it's just an ass, not really very different from any other."

Brandon blinked. "One might say the same about your cock."

This time the grin was slow and easy and insolent. "One might. One might also say that Everest is just a mountain, or the Pacific is just an ocean. Right?"

He stood then and slowly removed his jacket and dress shirt, revealing the black wife-beater he wore beneath, his actions declaring that this little interview was over. Then he retrieved his new Hugo Boss leather jacket from the tiny closet in the corner and checked his image in the full length mirror on the door, as Brandon Wright watched, the rage swelling within him betrayed only by the tense lines of his body - rage tempered by an unexpected and unwelcome surge of lust.

He did not want this arrogant prick. He did not.

His dick, however, seemed to disagree.

He got to his feet and moved forward, almost - but not quite - invading Brian's personal space. "You know," he said in a soft husky voice, "if we walk in together, we'll attract every eye in the place."

Brian grinned before leaning forward and dropping a kiss on the blonde's forehead - the kind of kiss a rock star might bestow on a rabid fan - or a maiden aunt. "I already do, and I don't like to share."

Brandon looked down quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent Brian from identifying - and ignoring - the flash of fury in his eyes. With a final tug to make sure the leather jacket was perfectly arranged to show off the body beneath it, Brian stepped around the blond and opened the door, gesturing for his guest to make his exit.

Brandon paused as he turned to leave and stepped close again, to stare directly into Brian's eyes. "You're playing with fire, you know," he whispered, before leaning close and licking at Brian's lower lip.

Brian just smiled. "You're not that hot," he answered, and pushed his visitor out the door, none too gently.

Then he stood and waited while Brandon walked away, dismissing the tall blond from his thoughts as soon as he was out of sight.

No one would ever be able to say that Brian Kinney didn't live in the moment.

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