Chapter 3

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Debbie Horvath, nee Debbie Grassi, AKA Debbie Novotny for much of her life, knew a thing or two about secrets and how to keep them. And another thing or two about pain, although no casual acquaintance would ever have entertained such a bizarre notion.

Debbie was belly laughs and crude humor, a foul mouth and an indestructible will, not to mention the Italian equivalent of a Jewish mother - squared, according to her only son.

But for all her brass and sass and superficial willingness to bare her own soul and everybody else's, Debbie knew full well which secrets needed to be aired and discussed and lampooned and exposed to a blast of fresh air - and which ones needed to be kept.

Brian Kinney was the perfect example of the latter.

There were only a handful of people who could lay any claim at all to knowing Brian - in other than a Biblical sense, of course. In that sense, the number of those with intimate knowledge of him was legion, and getting larger every day, or even every hour on some days.

But those numbers didn't count, although Brian would have disputed that premise vigorously.

But beneath all the glitz and the fucking and the raw sex, the number of people who had ever been admitted into the tiny enclosure at the core of his existence was minimal: Mikey, of course, who knew him best of all in some ways and, strangely, not at all in others; Justin, who knew him intimately but only through the eyes of love; Lindsey, who would probably have been his wife if they'd been straight, who accepted him for exactly what he was and who knew way more than she was ever willing to tell; Debbie's brother, Vic, who had finally succumbed just two years earlier to his HIV affliction after fighting it off for decades and who had had an uncanny ability to see through the bullshit and understand Brian better than almost anyone else. And Debbie - who believed, rightly or wrongly - that she knew him as no one else ever would or could.

It might have surprised her to learn that Brian sometimes agreed with her, but it would not have surprised her at all to know he wasn't particularly pleased to acknowledge it. Brian preferred to live beneath the layer of camouflage he'd created. He preferred to remain unseen and unknown, except for the surface persona he allowed everyone to see, and, for the most part, Debbie accepted that. Except, of course, for those times when she deemed the horseshit a little too thick and him a little too smug and in need of a subtle (or not) application of ego-busting.

Still, as she set a huge dish of cannelloni on the table and watched her husband and semi-permanent boarder (and the newest addition to her not-quite-adopted family) dig in, she was conscious of a vague disquiet lingering in her mind - a sense of impending gloom, if not doom. Was Brian really considering leaving Pittsburgh, and, if he was, what did it really mean?

Michael had told her once about an episode with his best friend, a quick little moment when Brian had mused about the perfection of those who had lived hard and died early, remaining forever young and beautiful. Legends like Kurt Cobain and James Dean and Jim Morrison.

She realized suddenly that she had never once been able to visualize Brian as an older man: Brian at 40 or 50; Brian as anything but young and beautiful. And it bothered her, although she had no idea why.

"Yummy," said Emmett, not quite drooling, but coming close as he sniffed at the aroma of his pasta. "Debbie, you are sooooo not good for my waistline, but who the fuck cares?"

She favored him with a smile. "You'll work it off later, Sweetie. Isn't it Cowboy night at Babylon?"

Emmett helped himself to a big slab of garlic bread. "It is," he answered with an exaggerated sigh. "Twinks in chaps.  Oh my God! A veritable parade of forbidden fruit - emphasis on the fruit, of course."

"Why forbidden?" she laughed. "I thought the idea was . . ."

"Oh, it is," he agreed. "It's just that they're all so eager to shake those fabulous little tushies in Brian's face, that the rest of us feel a little left out."

She winked at him. "But it doesn't usually take him long to make up his mind, leaving the field clear for the rest of you. Right?"

"What a wonderful way to look on the bright side!" he laughed. Then he frowned. "But lately, he's not . . ."

"Not what?" she asked, as he hesitated.

"Just not quite himself," he replied. "Not so quick on the uptake. Not so instantly interested, if you know what I mean."

She stared. "If you're trying to tell me that Brian Kinney has lost interest in fucking the latest twink-of-the-day, then I need to start getting ready for the Second Coming."

"No. Nothing like that. He's still the undisputed king of the fast fuck - not to mention the first fuck. He just . . . I don't know. It's like his heart's not in it."

Debbie chuckled. "Honey, his heart was never in it. Only his dick."

He smiled and continued eating, and she wondered, not for the first time, why he wasn't three hundred pounds of blubber.

Across the table, her husband, Carl, folded his newspaper and took a big swig of his beer. "You boys aren't going out cruising by yourselves, are you?" he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Emmett sighed theatrically. "Alas and alack, mon amis. There aren't many of us left to cruise, since Ted's found his one true love in Blake and Mikey's wrapped up in wedded bliss with Ben. And Brian - well, Brian doesn't really cruise, does he? Never had to. So that pretty much leaves little ol' fabulous moi. Right?"

"Yeah, whatever," answered Carl who was still, even after all the time he'd spent getting used to Debbie's world, not always comfortable with Emmett's flaming gayness. "But just be careful, OK?"

Debbie fixed her husband with a suspicious glare. "What's up, Carl? What do you know that you haven't shared with us?"

He took a big bite of cannelloni, possibly hoping Debbie might just let it go if he took long enough to chew and swallow.

No such luck. Her gaze was steely and unwavering.

Carl allowed himself a small sigh of frustration. "I don't really know anything. But there are rumors going around. Seems like Stockwell is making a little noise - trying to get back in the picture - and gay-bashing would be right up his alley. Let's face it; he tried to downplay his homophobia last time out, and it didn't work, and there are plenty of homophobic assholes out there who would love to see him succeed in his agenda." He paused and studied his plate, obviously not ready to meet his wife's eyes. But he knew she wouldn't be content until she knew it all, so he looked up, and pretended not to see the small flinch when she realized that he was trying to avoid saying something she would not want to hear.

"Let's face it, Honey. Prop 14 only failed by a tiny margin, and its supporters are still around and still itching to put all the queers in their places."

"Or their graves," she snapped.

He didn't bother to argue, taking another sip of beer before going on. "And we all know Stockwell's trial was a big joke. No way was he going to be convicted. Even after all his nasty little secrets were exposed, he still had a lot of supporters, and he's got a long memory. And now he's got some new financial backing," he continued gently. "You remember Chris Hobbs?"

"How could I forget the little bastard who got a slap on the hand for nearly killing our Sunshine. Why?"

"His father and grandfather are among Stockwell's newer financial supporters, and that's some big money, and big money still talks around here."

Debbie waited, knowing there was more.

"And . . ." Carl looked as if he could hardly believe it himself, "Justin's father too."

Debbie recoiled as if she'd been slapped. "How . . ." She paused to take a deep breath, and tried again. "How could he do that? After what they did to his son, how could he . . ."

Carl shrugged. "How could Brian's mother celebrate the fact that he got cancer as a 'reward' for his deviant lifestyle?" He reached out to touch his wife's face with gentle fingers. "I don't know how, Honey. I just know there's trouble brewing. We like to think we've come a long way since Matthew Shepherd, but sometimes I think we're just fooling ourselves. There's been more vandalism in the neighborhood lately, and more street fights. That Casey kid from down on Quinton Street wound up in the hospital when he tried to defend his cousin against a street gang. Neither one of them is gay, but the cousin is small and a little effeminate, and somebody apparently decided he was close enough to crossing the line to need a little lesson. He got off with a few bruises, but the other one - bigger and stronger - wound up with a broken arm and cracked ribs."

"Jesus, Carl," said Debbie. "You really think . . ."

"Can't prove anything," he replied, "since there were no witnesses. The cousin claims the toughs said they were gonna make sure he was never tempted to turn faggot; they deny it. But I don't think there's much doubt. They wouldn't dare pull shit like that if they didn't think they'd get away with it."

He took a deep breath and dropped the other shoe. "I think he's looking for payback, Honey. He's out for blood."

She went very still and her eyes were suddenly dark with shadow, and he knew immediately what she wanted to ask. But she didn't, and her silence was a major indicator of how frightened she was to hear the answer.

The two of them stared at each other, both having forgotten that they weren't alone at the table until Emmett cleared his throat. Debbie turned to look at him and was momentarily stunned to note the tears in his eyes.

"Did I hear you right?" he asked, barely audible. "Did Brian's mother really . . . really say that to him?"

Debbie frowned at her husband, before leaning forward and putting her arm around Emmett's shoulders. "That she did, Honey. But we shouldn't have mentioned it in front of you. Guess we've just gotten too used to having you around, but you know him well enough to know that Brian wouldn't want you to know about it. So if you ever mention it to him, he'll probably cut off your balls and feed them to you with milk and sugar, for breakfast."

"But . . ."

"But what?" she asked when he seemed reluctant to continue.

"But he's . . . he's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. How could she . . ."

She smiled. "And that makes him a hero, doesn't it? The entire gay world wants to fuck him, or to be him - or both." Her voice hardened. "And his own mother gloated when he was stricken with cancer. What does that tell you?"

Emmett shook his head. "That life sucks?"

She hugged him closer. "Sometimes, even for Brian Kinney."

Emmett was not, somehow, as surprised as he felt he should be.

And Debbie - Debbie played with the food in her plate, falling silent as she drifted back in time, as she allowed her mind to call up old memories and old images: Brian at 14, black and blue and bloody and broken, hanging on to consciousness with the last of his strength and remaining rigidly silent when pressed to explain the injuries. Brian at 15, stumbling to the door at two in the morning with his clothing torn and filthy and his back a mass of bloody welts, in agony but refusing to cry. Brian at 16, pulling himself up onto her porch with his one functioning arm, barely able to stand, with blood pouring from a swollen lip as he held himself at a strange, awkward angle to spare him some measure of the pain from broken ribs.

Brian - hurt and bludgeoned, and yet still - somehow - beautiful.

The physical abuse - or the marks it left at any rate - had ended when he got old enough and big enough to defend himself, but the physical abuse, as bad as it had been, had never been the worst of it. She didn't know when - or if - the emotional and spiritual abuse had ended.

Sometimes - even knowing all she knew about the history which had made him the man he was - he made her so angry she wanted to just beat the shit out of him herself. But she never would, because someone, at one time, had done quite enough of that, never managing to make the tiniest dent in the armor he wore around him.

Mikey knew, of course, and she was pretty sure that Brian knew, as well, although she'd never really told him. She was proud of her sons - the two of her heart, even if only one of them was of her blood - and she loved them both, though she didn't always want to. She loved Brian, and it hurt deep inside when she remembered how few were the people who understood that he deserved to be loved, and that he was capable of love in return.

He was, after all, Brian Kinney; out and proud - make that double-proud - and as arrogant as a young god. So, she thought with a rueful smile, what's not to love?

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I love the night life.
I got to boogie . . .

Michael felt the rhythm pound through his bloodstream as arms wrapped around him from the back, and he felt the firmness of a massive dick move against his ass, and he smiled, not stopping to wonder if some people might think it a little strange that he could recognize the touch of that body as easily as if it had belonged to his life partner. Which it didn't.

He turned within the framework of those arms, and gazed into smoky hazel eyes that always seemed to spend a tiny fraction of time staring directly into his soul before glazing over with the warm luster of casual lust and affection.

Michael blinked and wondered if there would ever come a time when the first glimpse of Brian's face didn't make him catch his breath, just a little, and raise a mental fist against whatever gods might be. Nobody deserved to be that beautiful.

Brian offered him that smile - the one that was only for Mikey, or so he told himself - and took his mouth in a hot, lingering kiss, but only after making sure Ben was watching. Michael knew, on one level, that he should refuse the honeyed sweetness of those lips; knew that Ben, even though he seldom said anything, didn't much care for the sight of his husband being semi-devoured by the ranking gay stud of Pa. or for the fact that Michael was always Brian's first dance of the evening, whenever the couple visited Babylon. But Michael could not bring himself to break the pattern. Not because he enjoyed the kisses, although he did. And not because he never quite got enough of watching and feeling Brian writhe against him, although he didn't. But those weren't the reasons he was reluctant to change things. His reasons were more simple than that. He didn't resist Brian's kisses because he was the only person who still had an opportunity to do so. Because Brian didn't kiss anybody else, any more. Not like this.

Oh, he might drop a quick smooch on Em or Lindsey or some casual acquaintance who managed to claim his attention for a little while. Or even Cynthia, his girl Friday, on occasion. But real, deep, tongue-filled kisses were reserved for only one person. He only kissed Michael; everybody else he just fucked, one way or another.

They moved to the music for a while, body to body, until another set of arms, surprisingly strong, slipped around them, making Brian the filling of a queer sandwich. He leaned back, turning his head slightly, to brace against a buff shoulder, and fitting himself into the space beneath the brim of the silver spangled cowboy hat worn by the new arrival.

"Why, Grandma," he drawled with a grin, wriggling his hips suggestively, "what a big basket you have!"

Emmett laughed and nuzzled against the dampness of the soft hair at the nape of Brian's neck. "The better to fuck you with, my prince."

Brian laughed. "In your dreams, Queenie." But there was no hostility in words or tone, and he was content to continue dancing, braced in the arms of both his friends. And Michael reflected that this too was something new. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Emmett would have been hesitant to approach Brian, unless specifically invited to do so; when, if he dared join their little duet at all, he would have stepped in to embrace Michael, avoiding intimate contact with Brian's sculpted body. These days, he no longer had such reservations, although he undoubtedly knew there were lines drawn in the sand that he would be foolish to cross.

Nevertheless, Michael thought, as he watched how Brian allowed his big Nellie friend to enjoy the closeness of their bodies, there was a sweetness about the image of the two of them together, and neither seemed eager to pull away from the intimacy.

Until the inevitable happened. One moment, the three friends were moving as one; the next a new arrival shoved his way into the tableau, and Brian was suddenly targeted for individual attention.

Emmett watched and smiled as a sweet young thing in fawn-colored suede - chaps, vest, boots, and hat - draped himself against Brian's torso and wrapped well-muscled arms around his neck.

"I been looking all over for you," said the young man.

"Yeah?" Brian's smile was just slightly arch. "For what?"

"They say . . ." Dark, thick-lashed eyes fluttered closed as Brian wrapped an arm around a slender waist.

"They say . . . what?" he asked, pressing close.

"They say you're the best. They say nobody fucks like you."

The smile became a grin. "And you always listen to what 'they' say?"

The lithe body scooted closer. "Shouldn't I?"

Long-fingered hands gripped slender arms, hard enough to bruise. "How the fuck old are you?"

"Eighteen," came the answer breathlessly. Then the young man leaned close enough to whisper. "Legal - and old enough."

Brian smiled, and wrapped both arms around the boy's waist, resting his hands on the ass cheeks left bare by the chaps. Then he began to walk, pushing the firm young body along ahead of him.

"Brian!" Michael called after him. "We need to talk."

Brian didn't pause. He just turned enough to shout out his answer. "Later."

"But . . ."

Then he did pause, to maneuver his young partner around in a quick spin so he could see Michael's face. "Later, Mikey. Right now, I've got a lesson to teach." He smiled into dark eyes, and stroked a soft cheek with the back of his hand. "This won't take long."

Then he continued on his way to the back room.

"Shithead!" Michael muttered, to no one in particular.

Emmett, engrossed in an inspection of a line-up of chaps-clad bare bottoms, getting ready to compete for the title "King of the Babylon Cowboys" heard the note of disgruntlement in his friend's voice, and managed to drag his eyes away from the rosy mounds of flesh long enough to offer up a sympathetic hug.

"Let it go, Michael," he said, leaning close enough to be heard. "You know you're not going to change his mind. Brian Kinney doesn't do changing his mind."

"Yeah, but . . ."

Emmett deliberately looked away, not because he didn't want to see what was in Michael's eyes - he already knew what he would see there - but because he didn't want his young friend to see what might show in his own.

It wouldn't do for Ben's partner to realize that the whole world knew the elemental truth about what was in his heart. He was truly devoted to Ben - truly cared for him, truly loved him.

But his heart belonged to Brian - and always would.

"Where are you going?" Michael demanded as Emmett strode away, adjusting his spangled hat to a rakish angle.

"So many rosebuds," replied Emmett with a sweeping gesture toward the row of chaps-wearers, "so little time."

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