Chapter 20


The tall, thin redhead hunched his shoulders against the chill in the air, pulling his windbreaker more tightly around him and wondering when spring would finally arrive and chase away the last remnants of winter. Though the sun was bright and the sky incredibly blue overhead, the temperature hovered still around the forty-five-degree mark, and the fitful breeze that gusted through the streets and swirled bits of debris along the sidewalks still carried a hint of frost.

He leaned against the faded brickwork of the barber shop on the corner, ignoring the occasional glare of the wizened and apron-clad old man who was slowly pushing a broom around the interior of the front room, a man who appeared to be even older than his shop. The redhead kept pale gray eyes trained on the entrance of the building opposite, its flight of steps shaded by a garish red awning. He squinted to peer through the big front window, jamming his hands deep into his jacket pockets to warm them while focusing on the young man silhouetted against the mirror over the bar. He could have gone into Woody's, of course, and enjoyed both the coziness of the interior and a drink to warm his gut, but he knew he had to be prepared to move quickly should the need arise. And he also had to try to preserve his anonymity, according to the instructions he'd received from his boss, following a recommendation from his predecessor.

Jared Hilliard had passed the torch at the end of his shift with a wry smile and several well chosen words of wisdom, primary among them his conclusion that the subject of their surveillance - the young man whose safety was of paramount importance to them all - was chafing under the restraints imposed by his need for a bodyguard. Thus, it was pretty obvious that doubling the security, as Lance Mathis had decided to do, would disturb him even more.

So there had been no introductions, no public transfer of responsibility, no speech from Mathis to instruct the young man about how to make their job easier. Instead, there had been a quick, friendly good-bye from Hilliard, leaving Justin Taylor to breathe a big sigh of relief, in the belief that the powers-that-be had decided he was no longer in danger.

Thus, the tall, thin redhead, AKA Tommy Boyles, and his partner - a short, stocky Hispanic youth with the unlikely name Angel Diablo - had not yet had much time for getting to know each other or their subject, since they had never worked together as a team before, although they had known each other - casually - for many years. They were still getting acquainted on a professional level, still not able to interact instinctively, but Boyles thought they would be all right, given a little time. Only, in a situation like this one, there was no guarantee that they would be granted the time they might need. Still, they had both developed good street smarts over the years, and, more importantly, they both understood what was at stake here.

Liberty Avenue and its environs had been home to them both for most of their lives, and one did not remain long in the neighborhood without learning about the tour de force known as Brian Kinney. It was common knowledge that a smart person - a person who wanted to survive and thrive in this environment - did not risk pissing off that particular individual. Not if the person in question wanted to keep his balls intact and functional.

Kinney could be an exceptionally good friend and an exceptionally bad enemy - or so it was rumored - or he could be completely indifferent to those who never happened to cross his path. The fainthearted of the area usually preferred to take up residence among the latter group, rather than risk the extremes of the former, but Boyles didn't yet know enough about the man to be ready to make an informed decision. He needed more data - a chance to fill in the blanks.

He did know, however, that Kinney was so movie-star gorgeous, in a strictly physical sense, he generated rumors by simply walking down a street, although Boyles was quick to admit such knowledge did not require much in the way of deductive reasoning. The man was a legend in his own time, and the legend had it that he had been known to create spikes of sexual tension in men who had never before exhibited the slightest overt tendency toward homosexuality, although no one was quite willing to suggest that he had the power to turn straight men gay; only to expose tendencies previously denied. It was also said, with great accuracy, that he could have had almost any woman he might want, except for those of the lesbian persuasion - and even a few of those were considered not completely off limits. The fact that he'd never wanted one - mostly - apparently did nothing to dissuade the distaff legions of his fans.

In short, Kinney was everything every gay boy wanted to grow up to be - from a certain point of view.

Except that now, if common gossip - and the tabloids - were to be believed, the idol had been twisted into a mutilated caricature of itself, and Boyles was not quite sure how to feel about that. He, himself, was not gay, but he was the son of a Lesbian couple, and he had always admired Kinney for his in-your-face honesty, as did both of his mothers, even though they sometimes lambasted him for his renowned disdain for romantic commitments. Still, even when they'd disagreed vehemently with his attitudes, they'd never denied taking pride in his refusal to pretend to be anything other than what he was. There was no denying that he was stubborn and arrogant, impatient and willful, and completely unrepentant - but neither could it be denied that he had not a single ounce of pretentiousness or dishonesty in him, and most of the denizens of Liberty Avenue found those lacks sufficient to compensate for the intensity of the less desirable traits he did possess.

But whatever else he might be, the one thing no one would even consider disputing was his relentless sense of commitment which would drive him to exact retribution from those who did not perform up to his expectations in the framework of professional services. And that was exactly what this situation was, regardless of its genesis. Kinney's grim determination to protect Justin Taylor might have more to do with how hot the boy's ass was or how proficient he was in giving a blow job, but the arrangement with the security people was strictly professional, and they would all rue the day if they fucked up their assignments.

Thus, Boyles was quick to turn his face away, ostensibly to shield himself from the wind in order to light a cigarette, as young Taylor came stumbling out the front door of Woody's, with his best friend at his heels. The girl looked distraught, but Taylor just seemed focused - or determined, maybe. Like a man on a mission.

Boyles hesitated for a moment, just long enough to note that his partner had emerged from the shadows of the alleyway in the middle of the block, and taken a right angle into the sparse traffic on the sidewalk, with Justin and Daphne moving along at a good clip some twenty yards behind him. Boyles, on the other hand, hesitated just long enough to exchange quick glances with Drew Boyd, through Woody's front window, confidant in the big football player's ability to see to the safety of Emmett Honeycutt. Lance Mathis, after an intense discussion with the local constabulary, had agreed that the threat to Honeycutt was minimal, that the attack on him had been a case of mistaken identity rather than a deliberate assault; nevertheless, he had made sure Boyd understood that no one could be 100% confidant in such a conclusion, so the big quarterback would keep his eyes open and his focus where it needed to be to protect the man who was so vitally important to him.

The redhead spared a quick glance for Honeycutt and suppressed a quirky smile; it was undoubtedly true that Boyd - football hero, super athlete, and steaming hot hunk - could have had anyone he wanted - male or female. The fact that he had chosen this young man, who gave a whole new meaning to the phrase 'drama queen', was proof positive that there was no accounting for how Cupid aimed his arrows. Boyles didn't really understand it, but then again, there were plenty of hetero matches that were just as mysterious and beyond his ken. Such as the marriage between his tomboy, tennis-ace sister and a music teacher ten years her senior, a quiet man with a fondness for hot-house orchids. Not just polar opposites - no. Originating in alternative universes, and proving . . . what? The farcical nature of fate?

No one in either family understood it, but none could deny that the two seemed tremendously happy and content in their joining. Perhaps Boyd and Honeycutt would prove to be cut from the same patchwork.

None of which had anything to do with his assignment, so he put such thoughts aside and strolled off down the street, maintaining a casual demeanor while never taking his eyes off his quarry.

When the two friends hurried toward the Liberty Diner, he allowed himself to relax a bit. There were probably few places in the neighborhood that could be considered completely secure, but this one came as close as any. Anybody who might have it in for one of the diner's patrons would have to be seriously psychotic to risk confronting the extended family dynamic of the clientele in this place. There were virtually no strangers in the diner, because any who might wander in had only two options: to make a quick exit, or join the clan wholeheartedly in order to earn a welcome.

Both Boyles and Diablo had known Debbie Novotny since they'd been school boys, and both decided spontaneously that they could get away with dropping in - separately - for a quick cup and a lemon bar. Plus it would give them a chance for a bit of eavesdropping, to find out what young Taylor might be up to - always a bonus in clandestine surveillance circumstances.

And - a bigger plus - it would be warm and welcoming.


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Michael had mentioned - at least five times since lunch - that he should get moving and go open up his shop. Though his hours of operation were often erratic and subject to the whim of the moment, he usually did try to open for a few hours every day except for Sundays, when he paid lip service to his Catholic upbringing. So he had continued to talk about it sporadically - as he watched Ben and Hunter depart for afternoon classes, both yielding to the need to adhere to prior commitments, but neither really comfortable leaving Michael to his own devices. Nobody had addressed the issue in depth, but all of them knew that this situation with Brian was harder on some than on others, and might well be completely devastating for Michael. Despite the rocky road the two had navigated over the past couple of years, their love for each other had endured somehow, in that they had both been reminded of what they stood to lose if they allowed the past to slip away and their differences to strand them on either side of an ever-widening gulf of petty misunderstandings.

Brian had been first to recognize the tragedy of the loss they were facing and try to close the gap, but Michael, in a pique of jealousy and old resentments and pettiness, had turned his back on the relationship they'd once shared and immersed himself in a new life with new loyalties, and told himself he was content and happy and better off free of old bonds. It had been a lie, of course, but comfortable enough to allow him to ignore the emotional bruises he still carried.

It had taken the trauma and tragedy of the Babylon bombing to close the rift, to remind them both of what they had been to each other - to bring them back together and repair what had been broken.

Except . . .

Michael wasn't entirely sure why he had always felt that something - some tiny, nameless, anonymous little something - remained unmended. Things had gone back to the way they had been before - before the bombing, before the rift, before the confrontations. Even, to some degree, before Justin and Ben and Hunter.

Except . . .

He had nodded as his partner and his adopted son had said their good-byes with hugs and kisses, assured him that they would be back as soon as possible, to be with him if he chose to stand vigil again, and made their departures, not entirely successful in concealing the degree of their concern. Michael was fragile right now, but they both knew there was nothing they could do to strengthen him. If anyone could prop him up and restore his balance, it was a task that would fall to someone else - someone who might no longer be willing or interested.

Ted and Blake had been next to depart - Blake to get back to the Rehab center and his afternoon session, and Ted, grumbling in one breath about having to be the pack horse to bear the weight of the absence of both Brian and Cynthia at Kinnetik, and observing in the next that he would take advantage of the opportunity to straighten out a few things while he had the chance to exert his own authority. The second comment had elicited a raised eyebrow from Emmett, a frown from Blake, and a look of intense interest from Melanie, who had gathered her belongings and made her exit next, murmuring something about researching some legal precedents in the local law library.

Emmett had been next to go, after receiving a call on his cell phone and explaining that he'd been summoned to a meeting. He too had lingered for a moment after rising, watching Michael with traces of misgivings darkening his eyes to opaque jade. In some ways, he thought, he knew Michael better than almost anybody; better even than Ben; better even than Debbie, though not - quite - better than Brian, and he understood, instinctively, what Michael was being very careful not to say. Indeed, might never be able to say, no matter how painful the silence might prove to be.

But he went, finally, acutely conscious that he could not ignore the desperation of the voice on the phone, begging his assistance. He went, but he wasn't particularly sanguine about it.

Still, in the end, there were only Michael and Lindsey, sitting across from each other and staring down into cold cups of coffee, both wishing they could go, wanting to go. But neither actually moving to go, both finding ways to avoid looking at each other.

Thus, when the front door banged open, propelled on a gust of chill wind, they both looked up and noted the entrance of a young Hispanic who slid into the booth behind theirs. Michael nodded to him, knowing that he had seen him before - at Babylon, perhaps, or out on the street, or here in the diner - but not recalling any specifics. Debbie, however, called out a friendly greeting, complete with name, but Michael was not sufficiently interested to pay much attention.

"So," he said finally, "I'm guessing we both have something else to do, but . . ."

Lindsey's smile was weary as she nodded. "Yeah, I guess. But I'm . . . just waiting."

"For what?"

She braced her elbows on the table and clasped her hands. "My father is bringing Gus to me. He always liked it here, so I thought it would be easier for him to come here first."

Neither of them paid any attention when the young man in the booth behind them stood up and went to the door, quickly pulling a cell phone out of his pocket.

"Does he know?"

She shook her head. "How do I . . . I don't know how to tell him."

He nodded. "Maybe it won't come to that."

But she was not comforted. "He's going to ask for his father," she said softly. "You know how they are . . . together. I just don't know . . ."

"What about Justin?" he asked. "Do you think he could . . ."

She smiled. "Gus loves Justin. Like a big brother, I guess. But Justin isn't . . ."

"His daddy."

"Right."

They fell silent then, still avoiding each other's eyes. Until Michael could no longer contain himself. Until he felt compelled to speak.

"I talked to Cynthia," he said softly, his hands clinching around his coffee cup. "Or - more accurately - she talked to me. She doesn't exactly mince words."

She nodded. "Yeah. And I'm pretty sure she's not done yet. With any of us."

"Do you think she's right?"

"About what?"

He sighed. "I don't really know. I think there was plenty more she wanted to say - but didn't. But I'm pretty sure she was right about one thing, which she didn't come right out and say, now that I think of it. But she didn't have to. He's changed, Linz. Changed right in front of our eyes, and we didn't even see it. I think we might have finally let it go too far. I think we might have . . . lost him."

He looked up then, and had no trouble identifying the panic rising in her eyes. But she didn't get a chance to voice it, as a blond tornado swept through the entrance at that moment, and shot toward them with all the purpose and intent of a guided missile, equal parts anger and determination gleaming in hard, blue eyes.

Justin did not bother with greetings. "You," he said, jabbing a finger toward Michael, as he slid into the seat at Lindsey's side. "If anyone can tell me the truth, it's you. So tell me."

Michael's eyes were suddenly huge and filled with hard shadows, and he was obviously not entirely happy with the role assigned to him.  He looked away quickly, desperate to find something else to look at, someone else on whom to focus his attention. When a lanky redhead in an Ironmen jacket came through the door and moved toward the counter, he wasted a minute trying to figure out if he was supposed to know the guy's name. But then he sighed, realizing he could not simply continue to ignore Justin's demand. "Tell you . . . what?" he asked roughly. "How the fuck should I know what . . ."

But Justin was in no mood to be dissuaded or distracted, and appeared to focus even more tightly on Michael's face as Daphne slipped into the booth, slightly out of breath and red of face.

"He says . . ." Justin had to pause then, to take a moment to try to swallow around the lump in his throat. "He says that he . . . finally wised up. That he realized I was never going to be happy just to be with him, and he got tired of waiting." He hesitated briefly, and swallowed again, an audible gulp that was painful to hear. "He says he moved on, and found somebody new.  Someone who won't always be looking for something else or somebody else. Somebody who'll accept him for what he is, instead of always pushing him to change into something he's not."

Michael and Lindsey found that they could not bear to see the anguish building in those blue eyes. Instead, they looked at each other and tried not to remember what Michael had been saying before Justin's arrival. Was it all part and parcel of the same circumstance? Had they lost Brian? Had all of them lost Brian?

"So you answer me," Justin insisted. "You know him better than anybody. Or . . . you used to. So if he has moved on, if he has found somebody else, you'd know it."

But Michael was shaking his head, still avoiding Justin's eyes. "That might have been true before," he said gently, "but I'm not sure it's still true now." He forced himself to look up then, and meet the younger man's desperate gaze. "He's changed, Justin. And I don't think any of us realized how much. I don't think we . . . know him any more."

"But why would he . . ."

"Because," said Lindsey, strangely reluctant to give voice to the words rising within her, but unable to suppress them - or the tremor in her voice. "Because . . . maybe he got tired of having to be what we needed him to be. Instead of what he is."

"I don't understand," whispered Justin. "I never left him. I never could leave him, except when he pushed me away. Why would he think . . ."

But Lindsey was not prepared to deal with empty assurances or specious claims. "Yes, you did, Justin." Then she took a deep breath, as the truth tore through her like an Arctic blast. "Jesus Christ! We all did."

Justin just stared at her, his face a mask of denial. "No," he said finally. "No, that's wrong. He could have stopped us. All he had to do - all he ever had to do was just . . . say the word."

And they all saw it then - the truth that none of them had ever been willing to confront before - but only Lindsey found the courage to say it. "But he wouldn't. That's what none of us ever understood. He wouldn't say anything or take any action, to keep us from doing what he believed we really wanted to do. He wouldn't hold us, when he thought it was against our will." She closed her eyes, and felt something cold and heavy seize and shatter inside her. "Brian Kinney doesn't believe in locking people in. He gave us all our freedom, and we took it, never once stopping to think of what it cost him to let us just . . . walk away. Or what it might cost us, in the end."

She drew a deep, shaky breath and touched her fingertips to her temples to ward off the beginning of a headache. "He even told us - I can't begin to count how many times he said it - and none of us ever once stopped to ask ourselves what it meant."

"What?" snapped Justin. "What did he tell us?"

"That he wouldn't expect anyone to stay with him, to be tied to him, out of love. That that wasn't love; it was sacrifice." Her eyes were huge and dark now, and filled with old shadows. "And we just . . . let him believe that. Because it was easier. Because it let us do whatever we chose to do, without having to stop and think about what it might do to him."

Justin found, suddenly, that he couldn't bear to look at her and read the truth in her eyes, so he turned to Michael instead. "So you're saying you don't know if he actually found somebody else?"

Michael decided to ignore the sad, knowing smile on Lindsey's face and address the question directly. "If you're asking if he's told me - about anyone - the answer is no. I know he's still tricking. Hot and heavy and enjoying it, but that's Brian, isn't it? In some ways, he's gone right back to who he used to be, but . . ."

"But?"

Michael shrugged. "In some ways, he's different. But I can't really explain how. It's just a feeling. I'm not even sure . . ."

"Of what?" Justin asked quickly, when Michael looked as if he didn't know how to continue.

Michael took a deep breath. "Whether he's changed . . . or I have."

Justin's hands were clinched in front of him as he lowered his head to brace his chin against his fingers and closed his eyes. "So you think it's possible that he . . . doesn't want me any more." It was not a question.

"Maybe," said Lindsey slowly, a note of speculation in her voice, "we're all asking the wrong question."

"What do you mean?" asked Justin wearily, realizing suddenly that he had never felt so tired in his life.

"Maybe we should stop asking whether or not he wants us, and ask instead just how much - how desperately - we want him."

"Meaning?" That was Michael, obviously confused.

"We all assumed he would always be there, for us to come back to, whenever we wanted. But now - if we finally recognize how much we need him, how much he means to us - maybe we have to fight for him. Maybe it's time we stopped insisting that he prove himself to us and finally prove ourselves . . . to him."

Justin closed his eyes, unable and unwilling to see what was being laid out for him. "But if he . . . if he's really moved on, really stopped loving me . . ."

"Then you have a big decision to make," said Daphne firmly, pragmatic as always. She waited until he opened his eyes and turned to face her before continuing. "No matter what he feels now - or says he feels - you have to know that he did love you. God! It was like this blinding light blazing around the two of you. It was there, for anybody who wanted to see it." Then she spared a sympathetic little smile for Michael. "Although there were some who chose not to. So here's the thing. Even if he has moved on and decided to put you behind him, that doesn't change how he felt about you, and . . . well, call me a romantic fool if you like, but I don't think a love like that ever really dies. So here's your question, Blondie. Do you love him enough to fight to win him back? Or . . ." Again she paused, and this time the sardonic smirk was aimed directly at Justin. "Is it easier to just let him go? Because he will, you know. He'll go; he'll accept whatever you decide, just like he always did. He won't try to lock you up in a place you don't want to be."

"But why should I have to fight . . ."

Lindsey and Daphne exchanged sad smiles. "Why do you think?" asked the blonde, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on his arm.

And he saw it then, as he had not before; saw the destination toward which he was being led - the place he had to go, unless he was willing to simply accept defeat and walk away.

"Because," he admitted softly, barely audible, "I never did."


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Nobody with a soupcon of taste could have found fault with the interior design of Kinnetik Corp. It reflected Brian's sense of style, of course, which was impeccable, not to mention unique and definitive. Anyone who had ever visited his loft would have recognized the ambiance immediately: spare and elegant and classic - Brian Kinney interpreted in form and function.

But the exterior of the building was something else again, something more in keeping with the neighborhood in which it stood. It had been structurally restored, of course, and thoroughly cleaned when Brian bought it, but nothing could really make it look like anything other than what it was: a former bath-house. All the polish in the world would not make it possible for it to disguise its humble beginnings.

Ted had voiced his misgivings about the place several times, patiently pointing out that it was an affront to affluent clients to expect them to navigate the byways and back alleys in the vicinity of Liberty Avenue in order to reach the company's main office, but Brian - being Brian - had steadfastly rejected Ted's conclusions, pointing out that Kinnetik was not like Vanguard or any of the two dozen other successful - or not - ad agencies in the greater Pittsburgh area; he and his staff did not think in a box, did not work in a box, did not function in a box - and would not be housed or confined in a box.

All of which, thought Ted, was just Brian being . . . Brian - insisting on marching to the beat of a different drummer. There was no disputing the fact the he was the heart and inspirational soul of the firm, but he was, in Ted's professional opinion, a little too caught up in preserving his own mystique to pay sufficient attention to the process of growing his company.

Ted knew about growing things - financially - and he often chafed under his employer's singularly unconventional corporate philosophy. Brian saw things from a unique perspective, which had, up until this point, paid off handsomely, but Ted was quick to realize that a large part of Kinnetik's success had more to do with luck than skill. Flair and intuition - no matter how intense - could not make up for solid practical management policies.

But the bottom line, for the moment, was that Brian still held all the reins and made all the executive decisions; thus, the headquarters of an increasingly successful company - currently on the verge of international acclaim - still looked like a slightly modernized example of urban blight, in an area where one hesitated to walk alone at night.

Of course, there was security; Brian might be obstinate, but he was never foolish, and he had hired professionals to assure the safety of his staff and his clients. Thus, there were two visible uniformed guards on duty in front of the building during business hours, and constant electronic surveillance - inside and outside - that was closely monitored by Kinnetik's chief of security and his staff.

Ted had often suggested that such expensive security arrangements would be unnecessary if the firm were located in a more upscale area, but his suggestions were greeted with nothing more than a smirk and an eye-roll from his employer. Brian seldom resorted to stating the obvious, but everyone who worked for him knew the elemental truth: it was his way or the highway. There was no in-between with Brian Kinney.

Still, Ted thought, as he strolled into the Kinnetik lobby, things might change. Even Brian . . . might change. He had, after all, never been a victim before, and being forced into such a position might encourage him to rethink his life and his philosophy. He might be a little less sanguine, or a little more biddable.

He paused in mid-stride. Biddable? Brian Kinney? What the fuck was he thinking?

The receptionist - a comely young man with huge gray eyes and a swimmer's build - greeted him with a smile and handed him his messages. The kid's name was Garrett Delaney, and he had been Brian's personal choice for the job. When Ted had objected, recommending a young blonde woman with big tits and long legs as more suitable for a 'public face' for the company, Brian had simply laughed at him and gone ahead to do exactly as he pleased.

As always.

But now . . .

Ted made his way back to his office, stopping to speak to a couple of his assistants along the way, and looking in at the art department where two of Brian's pet graphic artists were working on a new Liberty Air campaign. The airline, which had once been a small, local company, had grown by leaps and bounds in the period since Brian had begun to handle their advertising, having expanded into Europe and the Middle East in recent years and currently expanding operations yet again, planning new routes to South America and the Pacific. Brian had planned the theme of the campaign with his usual meticulous attention to detail and then turned the project over to the two young artists who worked directly under his supervision, his most trusted assistants. Both Chelsea Archer and Jerry Glynn seemed to be excited and happy with the ideas they'd developed to carry out the campaign Brian had planned, but Ted was less enthusiastic. According to Brian's fundamental advertising philosophy, it was always all about sex - in the end, but Ted thought maybe it was time to expand the company's horizons and reach out to a more mature, more conservative audience.

He even mentioned that thought to Chelsea and Jerry, and found himself thoroughly annoyed when they looked at him with studied nonchalance before exchanging smug, secretive smiles. They undoubtedly thought that the wise course would be to appear to agree - and then go around him to get to Brian for his approval, since his was, ultimately, the only approval that really mattered at Kinnetik. As always.

For now.

But things could change, Ted thought, as he continued on to his office, pausing for a moment to reflect that it was a little strange - given the man's obsession with preserving his own youth and beauty - that all of Brian's employees were physically quite lovely. Wouldn't it make more sense to surround himself with less attractive individuals in order to provide a greater contrast to his own stunning good looks? One day, when he had more time for philosophical musing, he would explore that train of thought to help him better understand the man who ultimately controlled his professional destiny.

He went into his office and closed the door, enjoying the elegance of the setting. Though most of the firm's executive offices were decorated in the same style as Brian's suite, if not quite so lavishly, Ted had been allowed to indulge himself in the décor of his own personal space, and chosen to go with softer, more muted tones - mocha and taupe and cream with occasional touches of dark amber - to blend with the warm finish of his hand-rubbed maple desk. It was a retreat for him, a place to get away from the sleekness and chrome and pale leather, and he believed he functioned better here, thought more clearly here. It felt like a sanctuary.

He lowered himself into his buckskin colored suede chair and sat back to survey his domain. His. All his. He closed his eyes, and . . .

Suddenly the soft, comforting warmth around him faded and he was surrounded with black walls and film props and slick bodies gleaming under strobe lights, and he was inundated with the sounds of flesh slapping flesh and guttural moans and . . .

He sat up quickly. What the fuck? Why would he have slipped like that - back into a time he had long since put away in the darkest cupboards of his past?

He had been Ted Schmidt - Porn king. A rich man. A successful man. A man who lived a life other gay men could only dream of. Until it had all come crashing down around his ears, leaving him broken and destitute and dependent. All because of something that was not his fault. He had been reduced to depending on the charity of people who had once depended on him. Reduced to a shadow of himself, needy, drugged out, drowning in self-pity, and blaming everyone for his fall.

Everyone. Everyone except . . . but he quickly buried that thought in a place he didn't want to see.

Ted clinched his hands in front of his face and braced his forehead against them. And he would have stayed there, mawkish and needy and pathetic. Except for . . .

Oh, God! Could it really be that he had never completely understood how much he had needed what Brian had provided? And was he only seeing it now because . . . because he might actually lose Brian?

He did not often let his thoughts drift in this direction, for, if he did, he would be forced to try to analyze the relationship he shared with his employer, and that was a place he would prefer not to go. If he allowed himself to think about it, to study it, to explore it, he might find that everything he'd ever let himself believe, every opinion he'd ever held about the man Brian was . . . might be wrong. Dreadfully, totally, dynamically wrong.

For years, he had cloistered himself in the sedate, unapproachable realm of his ivory tower, constructed on his own private patch of the moral high ground, and observed the phenomenon that was Brian Kinney through the eyes of moral superiority. Brian Kinney - vain, promiscuous, vapid, shallow, narcissistic, unprincipled, unapologetic.

Unapologetic.

And what, when one got right down to it, did the man have to apologize for? For living the life that Ted and all of his buddies hungered for, even though they would have denied it with their last breath? For being the person they all secretly wanted to be - but couldn't? For never pretending to be anything except what he really was and for laughing in the face of others' pretensions?

And now someone, some vicious, vindictive, nameless someone, had struck Brian down, trying to destroy the private individual behind the public persona. Someone compelled by spite and contempt and undoubtedly convinced that they were acting on a moral imperative.

Someone not so awfully different . . . from me.

"Oh, God!" he whispered, burying his face in his hands. "What do we do if . . ."

He was so immersed in the first stage of raw panic that he did not hear his door open or notice the person who entered and stood looking down at him, until she spoke.

"I was wondering how long it would take," said Cynthia, not unkindly.

Ted jerked upright, trying vainly to wipe away the evidence of his tears. "What? How long what would take?"

But Cynthia knew Ted quite well, much better than he had ever realized. "For you to remember what he really means to you."

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, eyes going cold and distant. "He's my boss, for God's sake. And we need to figure out how to manage in his absence. That's my only concern."

"Of course," she agreed, tacitly accepting the restriction he was placing on the conversation. "I'll set up a staff meeting. First thing in the morning, I think, if that's all right with you."

Ted, being Ted, was determined to project an attitude of disinterest. "As you wish, of course. You are, after all, his 'good, right hand', as he so often points out."

Cynthia had turned to go, but something in his tone caused her to hesitate and look back at him. "This is going to be a difficult time," she said softly. "For all of us. But it'll also be a good opportunity for us to prove ourselves, to show that we can be what he needs us to be, to protect what he's built."

"Of course," he agreed, swallowing his annoyance that she seemed to think he needed to be reminded of how to do his job.

But still she lingered. "Ted," she said slowly, "there might be complications. Problems that arise from unexpected directions. We'll need to be very careful."

"I," he retorted, "am always careful."

She managed - barely - to suppress a sigh. Life, she thought, was never simple, and she was pretty sure it was going to grow more complicated by the hour, from this point on. She wanted to say more, to discuss the deeper issues that might arise, but it was obvious that Ted was already resenting her assumption of authority in Brian's absence, and the fact that it had been Brian himself who designated her to take control only seemed to compound the problem.

Complicated indeed.

When Ted's phone rang - his cell phone - she made good her escape, still wondering how to begin to mend a fence she had not realized was broken.

For his part, Ted was relieved to see her go and answered the call, grateful for the interruption. He was not, however, quite so grateful when he realized who was calling, and was even less so as the conversation proceeded. By the end of the caller's opening paragraph, he was wondering what else could possibly happen in the course of this godforsaken day.

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

The level of pain was rising in fits and starts now, at times growing at a steady pace and at other times, progressing in leaps and bounds. But he forged ahead with his statement, pushing the pain away with the power of his mind and dredging up every fragment of memory, every scrap of perception, and every nuance of intuition in order to flesh out his story. He was successful, mostly, in resisting the urge to give in to the pain, but by the time he was finished, he was pale and shaking and slick with sweat, and everyone else in the room was staring at him, amazed by the degree of his determination and the depth of his courage.

Detective Horvath, Agent McClaren, Dr. Keller, and Lance Mathis were all forced to take a minute, to struggle to regain their composure after listening to the full account of the attack. Only Cynthia had been spared, when Brian had insisted that she get back to the office to see to the oversight of his company. She, of course, had not been fooled; she had known exactly why she was being dismissed and had come very close to refusing to go. But then she had realized the truth; there were some things she preferred not to know. She had made her exit then, after getting some last minute instructions on various business matters from her boss and assuring him that she would be back in the evening.

Only after she was gone, with Nurse Beck following her out, had he begun to tell his story, his voice mostly steady - only occasionally faltering as he worked his way around a particularly vile, difficult moment.

"Anything else?" asked Horvath finally, clearing his throat and speaking very distinctly.

Brian shook his head. "If I think of anything else, I'll let you know."

"And you're sure," said McClaren, "that there were at least four individuals among the . . . observers? And you didn't recognize any of them?"

"They never stepped out of the shadows," Brian replied, "and they didn't talk much. One of them never said anything at all, and the others kept their voices down. Barely above a whisper."

"So there's nothing you can tell us about them." That was Horvath, obviously discouraged.

"Not much," Brian admitted. "Except that they weren't street toughs." He dredged up a painful smile. "They were obviously vicious, homophobic cunts - but they were educated cunts."

McClaren nodded. "Yet - in spite of their precautions - you're sure they knew you. That you were targeted for a reason."

Brian gasped as a particularly sharp bolt of pain thrust through his torso. "You don't hate like that," he managed to reply, "without personal motivation."

"Is there anything you need?" asked Horvath, frustrated by his own sense of helplessness.

"Morphine," retorted Brian through clinched teeth. "With a bourbon chaser."

"Your wish is my command," said Matt Keller, syringe in hand.

But Brian was not quite done. "One minute," he said softly to his old friend. "I need just a minute. With my . . . beard."

"Brian," Matt said softly, "you're running on sheer adrenaline. And Kinney stubbornness. And it can't last. Let me . . ."

"Soon. Just give me one more minute."

When Keller, Horvath, and Mathis simply folded their hands and continued to regard the patient with steady resolve, he actually managed to roll his eyes to express his frustration.

"In private, please," he growled.

None of the three looked pleased with his request, but they all took a couple of steps back, granting some small illusion of privacy in lieu of the real thing.

McClaren, on the other hand, stepped closer and leaned forward, apparently content to wait for whatever Brian might throw at him.

"Are you gay?"

McClaren smiled, relieved to see that his first impression of Kinney was correct. The man would not tolerate bullshit or evasions.

On the other hand, he had not developed his reputation for matchless undercover work without developing certain invaluable skills. "Does it matter?"

"It could." Clipped and dry, and the FBI agent got the distinct impression that Kinney didn't really care if he was gay, bi-sexual, or devoted to bestiality. It was the impression that would count.

"Explain."

Brian sighed. "Look. I have no interest in getting myself killed. Or mangled - again. I'll do whatever it takes to avoid that. But when it gets right down to it, everybody has something that means more to him than his own life. In my case, there are actually two somethings. One is my son, but there's not much you can do about keeping him safe. Except to understand that if anything happens to him, I'm going to hold all of you assholes personally responsible. But the other thing . . ." He paused and McClaren found himself mesmerized by the sheer power radiating from deep-set hazel eyes. "The other thing that matters to me is only safe if he - and everybody else - can be convinced that I no longer care about him. That I've found myself a new boytoy to obsess over. So this is the bottom line. I don't give a shit if you fuck girls, guys, grandmothers, sheep, or Persian melons, just as long as you can convince the world that you're getting fucked by me. Capiche?"

McClaren grinned. "If I'm that shallow, wouldn't I run from the newest version of Quasimodo?"

Brian actually managed a tiny laugh, which he had immediate cause to regret as bruised and bludgeoned abdominal muscles protested their abuse. "You'd be in love with the old me - and I was . . . irresistible," he said, tongue definitely in cheek.

"Yeah. I know."

"You know what?"

McClaren smiled. "I didn't get to be the best in my chosen field by going into situations without doing my homework. I know all about the notorious Brian Kinney."

Brian was silent for a moment, studying the man's face. "And do you return the favor? Do I get to know all about you?"

The FBI agent was not entirely successful in suppressing a smirk. "What do your instincts tell you?"

Brian sighed. "Right now, they only tell me that I'm past due for my morphine cocktail. But later . . ."

"Later?" accompanied by the quirk of an eyebrow.

"I'm never wrong," Brian replied softly.

McClaren laughed. "We'll see about that."

Matt Keller decided, at this point, that he had waited long enough, and stepped forward with syringe in hand. "Time for your candy, Lover Boy," he announced, "and no more procrastination."

Brian sighed, more ready for pain relief than he cared to admit. But still he held McClaren's eyes. "Talk to Cynthia," he said as the doctor administered the drug and it quickly began to work its magic. "She can tell you what you need to know. To be convincing."

"I'm always convincing," McClaren replied, but his tone was strangely gentle as he watched Brian's eyes begin to close.

"If you know what's good for you," the patient whispered, "you better be."

"Is he always like that?" McClaren asked as Brian finally allowed himself to settle into the welcoming arms of slumber.

Matt Keller huffed a tiny laugh and regarded the federal agent with exaggerated sympathy. "You have no idea," he answered, "and I'm not about to spoil the fun."

"His . . . or mine?" McClaren looked genuinely interested.

But Keller's only answer was a smile.

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

It wasn't often that Ted lamented the fact that he no longer had recourse to the blissful oblivion of an alcohol-induced haze, but he thought that, right at this moment, he'd have bartered his eternal soul for a couple of shots of Grey Goose and tonic. He didn't like what he was hearing; he didn't like being forced to shift his perspective and examine things from a new point of view. But he couldn't quite convince himself to ignore the possibilities being laid out for him.

Melanie Marcus was certainly not a perfect human being; she had her share of flaws, and some (such as, for example, the man who paid Ted's salary) would contend that she had a lot more than that. But whatever flaws she might have did not prevent her from being an extremely skilled attorney with a remarkable ability to organize her facts and use them to support her always rational arguments.

Exactly like the one she was making now.

Ted had listened for a while, interrupting only twice - once to voice his initial discomfort with the general topic and once to register the de rigueur protest of the direction her monologue was taking. But mostly, he'd just listened - cringing away from the stridency of her tone and the harshness of her language, but not quite able to dismiss the points she was making.

When she finally fell silent, apparently convinced that she had said enough to give him food for thought, he found that the words to express his misgivings did not come easily. Ted knew he had not led a blameless life; on the contrary, he was to blame for plenty of things - many, or even most, of which he had never publicly owned. But he was not given to betraying loyalty that had been hard-won in the first place.

Finally, very cautiously, he expressed his first line of defense. "It won't be up to me," he said. "I'm an accountant, and that's the beginning and end of my territory."

"But it's a business," Melanie pointed out, once more entirely rational. "Isn't the money - the finances - the foundation for any business?"

"That's true, of course. To some degree. But Kinnetik is a lot more than a balance sheet. It requires . . ."

"What?" This time, a faint vein of impatience erupted on the surface of the clipped response. "Creativity? Artistic integrity? Finesse? It's a fucking ad agency, Teddie. And it belongs to the biggest whore in Pittsburgh. Do you really want to use the word 'integrity' in any sentence remotely involving Brian Kinney?"

"Mel," he said quickly, "I know you and Brian have . . . issues, but . . ."

"Issues?" she snapped. "You think we have issues? Do you have any idea what he's done to my life, how he's ruined everything that's important to me? He's fucked up my relationship with Lindsey, and with Gus, and it just never ends. Even when we're in Canada, he still manages to screw me over, every chance he gets. So don't talk to me about issues."

But Ted knew a lot about Brian's relationship with Lindsey and with his son; more, he suspected, than Melanie did, for it seemed unlikely that Lindsey had been completely up front about the support Brian provided, given the depth of Melanie's resentment of anything remotely related to Gus's father. "Even if that's true, do you really think this is the time to think about payback? You're talking like he engineered this whole thing to lure Lindsey and Gus back to Pittsburgh, and you know that's not true. Whatever resentment you may have toward him, even you have to admit that he didn't deserve this."

Melanie confined her response to a sigh, but Ted got the message loud and clear. She didn't quite dare to speak it aloud, but Melanie could not summon up an ounce of genuine sympathy or concern for Brian's plight.

"But to get back to the point I was trying to make," he continued, "Cynthia will be the one making the day-to-day operational decisions, until he recovers."

"And if he doesn't?"

"What do you mean? The doctor said . . ."

"I know what he said," she interrupted, "but let me ask you this. Do you really think that a man who's based his whole life on being the hottest Stud of Liberty Avenue - on being able to fuck whoever, whenever, wherever - is going to simply accept that he's been transformed into an ugly, mutilated troll, to just pick himself up, dust himself off, and get on with his life? Or even that it would be possible to go on like before? Let's face it, Teddie; to reach the level of success he's had, the first thing he had to sell to his rich clients was himself. Are they going to be willing or able to continue their professional relationship with the lump of twisted flesh he's become?"

"I don't see why it should affect his work," he replied slowly.

"You don't?" she laughed. "Everything Brian does is bigger than life - his job, his lifestyle, his sexuality. Every fucking thing. Do you really think there's anything that won't change after this?"

Ted took a deep breath. "But you're still missing the main point," he insisted. "Kinnetik is wholly owned by Brian Kinney. No partners, no stockholders, no board of directors. In short, no one with any authority to interfere. And Cynthia is the person he will entrust it to, for as long as it takes for him to do whatever he decides to do."

"And what about the people who depend on him? What about his loyal staff, and I'm pretty damned sure they're loyal because he'd have fired their asses a long time ago if they weren't. And what about my son? Don't his interests need protecting too?"

Ted, being Brian's personal accountant as well as the firm's financial officer, had full knowledge of the trust fund that had been set up for Gus, but he was fairly sure that Melanie did not know of its existence. And he did not feel comfortable in giving her the particulars, considering such knowledge to be privileged information. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to defend Brian's intentions toward his son. "I 'm sure Gus will be well provided for. No matter what. And it's all moot anyway. You're still not understanding that there is no one who can intervene in how he chooses to run his company, or who he chooses to take over on his behalf."

She was silent for a moment, obviously weighing options. Thus, when she spoke again, she seemed to shift her focus. "And what about Cynthia? Do you trust her?"

He sighed. "Whether or not I trust her is beside the point. Brian trusts her. That's all that matters."

"Because she's so eager to kiss his ass." The observation was laced with verbal acid. "And I notice that you didn't really answer my question."

"Actually," said Ted, recalling certain confrontations he'd witnessed between Brian and his assistant, "she doesn't. She's very quick to speak her mind, even when he doesn't like what she has to say. I think that's why he trusts her so much, because she never lies to him, or says what she thinks he wants to hear."

"Jesus!" she almost snarled. "He's got you all brainwashed."

"Mel," he began, growing increasingly weary of the venom in her words.

"Okay," she retorted. "I get what you're saying. But I'd be ignoring my responsibilities to my son if I didn't at least suggest that someone needs to keep an eye on how the business is run. Someone with the acumen to focus on the profit margin and the company's financial stability, and not get caught up in the Kinney Mystique bullshit."

Ted relaxed back into his chair, recognizing that he was being schmoozed, but grateful for it nonetheless. His ego had taken a bit of battering in the last few days, because he did believe that he, rather than Cynthia, would have been a more logical, more prudent choice for running the firm in Brian's absence. He had, after all, proved himself repeatedly during the years he'd worked for Kinnetik, stepping in for Brian on many occasions and holding his own pretty damned well.

Of course, he had hardly ever been involved in the actual development of campaigns or exercised any artistic oversight, but how hard could that be?

Still, it was Brian's right to make the choice, and he had made it. Now Ted had to live with it.

Unless . . .

"You don't really think he'd just walk away, do you?" he said finally, barely able to articulate the thought.

Melanie replied without taking the time to censor her words, and thus spoke without artifice for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. "We should only be so lucky."


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


It was late by the time Cynthia made it back to the hospital - much later than she would have liked. But it couldn't be avoided. She had spent several hours on the phone with Kinnetik's most important clients, offering assurances, easing nerves, soothing anxieties . . . doing all the things that Brian usually did, in times of crisis.

She didn't fool herself; she wasn't Brian Kinney, and she didn't have his gift for juggling fifteen accounts at once and making them all squeal with delight in the process. But she had learned a lot from him over the years - enough to know that what they all wanted to hear was that they would get Brian back, in time.

So she had given them the reassurances they needed, all the while praying that she was telling the truth.

She believed in Brian, but she understood that everything could dissipate like smoke on the wind if he could no longer believe in himself.

The hospital room was silent and deep in shadow when she entered, after having a quick but concise conversation with Matt Keller, getting the latest on Brian's condition and an update on the impending arrival of the great and mysterious Dr. Turnage.

Tomorrow would be an interesting day, she thought.

She was relieved to see that Brian was resting, and that he seemed more relaxed tonight than earlier in the day. He was not tossing in his sleep, or struggling for breath. And yet, as she approached the bed, she noticed something only a couple of people had ever been privileged to see. The faint glow of a lamp in the corner illuminated the track of a tear as it traced its way down his cheek.

So intent was she on watching him that she did not notice the figure that was sitting motionless in the alcove by the window.

"Why?" The voice was soft, almost silken, but it still startled her enough to make her drop her Dooney & Burke.

"Shit!" she muttered, bending to retrieve her handbag. "Why what?"

"Why is he crying in his sleep?"

Chris McClaren rose from his place by the window and stepped forward, pausing a couple of feet away from the bed with his eyes fixed on Brian's face.

"In case you haven't noticed," she retorted, "somebody beat the bejesus out of him."

He ignored the snarkiness of her response, and favored her with an understanding smile. "I noticed, but that's not why he's crying."

"How do you know that?"

The smile grew wider. "Because I always get to know everything I can about the people I'm charged with protecting. And physical pain, no matter how extreme, is not going to make this one cry."

She turned to stare at him, noticing for the first time that he had changed his clothes - and his persona - since she'd seen him last. Gone was the business suit, the dress shirt, silk tie and cuff links, the Prada shoes, along with the professional demeanor. The FBI agent had been replaced by a young, hip, playboy type - relaxed and cool, clad in jeans, boots, and black leather . . . and still drop-dead gorgeous.

"Wow!" she said as she got her first clear look at him. "You look wonderful - and different."

He shrugged. "It's work."

She nodded. "OK. So who are you supposed to be?"

"We'll work that out in a minute," he answered. "After you answer my question."

She turned back to study Brian's face. "It's complicated."

He smiled. "Yeah. I figured. But I still need to know whatever you can tell me."

She sank into a chair beside the bed, and reached out to adjust the blanket that had slipped down to expose Brian's left shoulder. "I've worked for him for almost eight years, and I still learn something new every day. But the short version is that what you see on the surface is hardly even the beginning of the story."

"Deep then?"

"Deeply scarred, and coming from as far back as he can remember I think. That's something almost nobody has ever been allowed to see. So . . ." She turned to examine McClaren's face with a hard, demanding gaze, "whatever insider info you may have, you'd do well to keep to yourself."

"But this - these tears - they aren't for old scars. This is about the kid, isn't it? The reason he's so willing to accept my intrusion in his life. It's not to save his life. It's to save Justin Taylor. Isn't it?"

"You have done your homework, haven't you?"

He nodded. "But all the preliminary data in the world can't provide the intimate details. That's what I need from you."

She sighed. "It's fairly simple, actually. Brian Kinney never - never - believed in love. He believed in fucking, and he was the first to admit it. Until Justin Taylor came along, and kept coming back - no matter how many times Brian pushed him away. He just kept coming back, and one day, to his own astonishment, Brian woke up to find out that he loved Justin. Against his will, against his better judgment. He even proposed marriage - bought a big country house for them, planned a wedding. Until . . ."

"Until what?"

She hesitated. "Well, that's the real mystery, isn't it? According to Brian, they both decided that marriage wasn't for them, that neither of them was willing to let the other sacrifice the life they were meant to live, in order to be together. So Justin took off to New York to become the new Andy Warhol, and Brian went back to his old life. Only . . ."

"Only?"

Once more, she studied Brian's face. "He never explained it. Never even mentioned it much, but I always thought he came to believe that Justin needed more than he could ever give him. I think he pushed Justin away one last time, hard enough this time to be sure he would never come back. Not because he didn't love Justin enough, but because he loved him too much."

"And Justin?"

Her smile was gentle. "Needed Brian's love, like you or I might need air to breathe. Only, once he had it, he always seemed to find other things to grab his attention. I always thought it was because he was so young, that he still needed to explore everything life might have in store for him. Only, I think he might have overlooked the fact that Brian would eventually come to believe that he wasn't what Justin needed at all."

The FBI agent reached into a slim leather case on the bedside table and extracted a photograph of Brian Kinney, taken at a recent awards banquet. He spent a moment examining the man's perfect features and elegant body, and noting that the smile he wore seemed just slightly out of character. "Would Brian be right to assume that?"

She sighed. "I don't think so. I think Justin will eventually come to see that nothing could ever be enough to compensate for losing Brian. Only by then . . ."

"By then?"

"You have to understand who Brian really is to understand. Once he's convinced that Justin will never be happy with him, there is nothing that anyone - including Justin - could do to change his mind. He's truly the ultimate immovable object."

McClaren huffed a small sigh. "Nothing's ever simple. So, do you think I'm his type? Will young Taylor buy into our little ruse?"

She let her eyes drift once more down his buff body. "Oh, you're definitely his type, from a strictly physical perspective. But who else are you supposed to be?"

"The name's the same," he answered, "but the identity is different, though it's one I use on occasion. I'm set up as a freelance photographer, working on a documentary about the impact of the outsourcing of jobs by American corporations on the working classes in places like Pittsburgh. All the records are in place to document my story. And I really am a trained photographer, so the studio that's been set up for me is supplied with a wealth of examples of my work."

"Interesting," she observed.

He grinned. "Like I said before, I do my homework. And I was pretty sure Kinney wouldn't waist his time on a postal worker or a violin teacher or a mama's boy from Newport Beach."

"Unless," said a hoarse voice from the bed, "he had a great ass."

Cynthia grinned, noting that McClaren seemed annoyed - for just a second - that Brian had regained consciousness without attracting the attention of the well trained agent.

But there was no time for discussion or repartee as they were interrupted by a soft, steady knock at the door.

"Brian? Can I come in?"

Brian and Cynthia breathed the name in tandem. "Emmett!"

"Didn't I throw him out earlier?" asked Brian, slightly confused over what day it might be, and where he was in the framework of time.

Cynthia's smile was gentle. "It's Emmett, Brian. Do you really expect him to give up without mounting a new attack - or six?"

Brian turned to look up at McClaren, noting the change in the man's appearance and approving of the look. Black leather might have been invented for just such an individual. "You ready for your debut, Friend?"

McClaren stepped forward and very deliberately, very gently leaned over and covered Brian's mouth with his own. "Action, Baby," he whispered.

His timing was perfect, as Emmett, obviously impatient and tired of waiting, came barreling through the door just in time to witness the end of the kiss.

The big Nelly-bottom did not - quite - voice the question that trembled on his lips, but he might as well have, as they all heard it anyway. It fairly reverberated in the silent room, as it flashed in his eyes.

Who in the hell are you?

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