Chapter 56

When I'm tired and thinking cold,
I hide in my music, forget the day,
And dream of a (guy) I used to know,
I closed my eyes, and (he) slipped away,
(He) slipped away.*

-- More than a Feeling - Boston/Tom Scholz

*With apologies to Mr. Scholz for tampering with the lyrics of his rock classic. Couldn't resist because there is no way that either Brian or Justin is going to fit into the 'girl' or 'she' or 'Mary Ann' category.

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The image in the mirror was adequate, he supposed. He would have preferred to use a different term, like dashing, perhaps, or stunning, or roguishly attractive, but he couldn't because - even if he squinted his eyes and donned the mental equivalent of rose-colored glasses, there was another image in the mirror which would give the lie to any such claim he might care to make. Visible just beyond his left shoulder was a vintage advertising poster, hanging in a small alcove off the main corridor - an example of what all such promotional displays should aim for: the perfect sales pitch, featuring an iconic union of model and product: Brian Kinney, perfectly preserved and perpetually young and beautiful, poised on a surfboard, skin gilded and gleaming in a tribute to BareBronze, a suntan product that had enjoyed phenomenal international sales in the aftermath of that campaign. A thorough comparison of the image of that face and form and the flesh and blood version, sitting now at his desk in his private office, would leave any observer unable to comprehend that the photo was more than a decade old.

Brian had changed, of course. True timelessness was an impossibility. But he had not changed very much, and Ted could not quite suppress a small sigh. Brian had not, in fact, changed nearly enough to offer any measure of comfort for those forced to stand by and watch the years treat him with a ridiculous degree of kindness. From a certain point of view, of course. Ted deliberately chose to ignore the vivid, lurid memories of that perfect face defiled and bludgeoned and mutilated beyond recognition.

He remembered the day, just a month or two after Kinnetik's grand opening, when Cynthia had wandered around the building, seeking the perfect location for display of the poster and deciding that a sheltered area in the corridor leading to the art department would be more appropriate than a less private, more flagrant spot in the lobby. "In the interest of subtlety," she had explained, although Ted had not really understood her meaning. He had been less than convinced of the logic of her choice and even less convinced that it was a good idea to hang the poster in the first place, but she had been adamant as she supervised the actual placement. Brian had been away at the time, spending a couple of days in Chicago for client meetings. Upon his return, he had regarded the display with a frown, finally looking to his assistant for an explanation. Her words had been terse and slightly perplexing.

"When you've got it," she'd said with a smile Ted could not quite decipher, "flaunt it, but with class. That way you'll inspire others to do the same."

Brian - for a single moment - had looked like he might argue, but, in the end, he hadn't. Another example, Ted supposed, of him trusting the judgment of the woman to whom he had granted a great deal of power - far too much power in Ted's estimation.

So - on the one hand, there was Brian, Speed-o clad and mostly bare, the strong lines and glowing health of a perfect body contrasting beautifully against the tropical jewel-tones of sea and sky; on the other, there stood Ted Schmidt, moderately well-dressed in a pricey Brooks Brothers pin-stripe suit, Hugo Boss dress shirt, Dolce & Gabanna crimson silk tie, and Prada shoes; freshly shaved, courtesy of the electric razor he kept in his desk, hair freshly cut and styled, nails freshly manicured. Perfectly, carefully groomed in order to appear . . . adequate.

He sighed again, knowing it was an exercise in futility to try to estimate the depth or validity of Kinney's vanity, and a total waste of time to compare himself physically to his boss, since no amount of professional grooming or expensive skin care or creative plastic surgery could generate the kind of physical assets with which Liberty Avenue's #1 stud had been naturally blessed. On Ted's very best day, when he might have drawn an occasional interested glance from a stranger at a gay bar, he knew such a moment would only last as long as there was no Brian Kinney around to steal the show. Or Justin Taylor, for that matter. Or . . . but enough of that. If he stood here all evening, trying to think of someone whose appearance would present no competitive threat to his own image, he would probably not be able to come up with a single, viable candidate, and the hours would be squandered for no good cause.

He stood for a moment longer, listening to the hum of voices in the art department where Chelsea Archer and Jerry Glynn were still working, apparently enjoying their collaboration on the next phase of the Liberty Air campaign, and he debated taking a moment to go in and take a look. Maybe he could offer some profound insight, some . . .

But no. It was time to stop dawdling around - and fooling himself - and act.

He adjusted his shirt cuffs, straightened the knot of his tie, and prepared to enter the royal presence. Ordinarily, he would not be so formally attired for a week-end session at the office. But this, of course, was no ordinary week-end, and the task ahead of him was no ordinary task. What was at stake here was his future - the form and function of the rest of his life, and he had to act now to seize his last chance to retrieve the stature and superior position that had been taken from him. In order to succeed, he knew he had to present a professional image - stylish, confidant, and self-assured. Thus, he was groomed for the moment.

Of course, he was pretty sure he would find Brian in a wife-beater and fashionably ragged Levis - a circumstance that should put the big boss man at a considerable disadvantage - but wouldn't.

Shit! The bottom-line, unavoidable truth was that Brian Kinney could walk around in nothing more than a fig leaf and a smile - or not - in a crowd of Armani-clad sophisticates, and still - somehow - maintain his status as the dominant, alpha male in the room.

Taking a slow, deep breath, and checking to be sure the two files tucked under his arm were secure, he knocked, paused for a count of three, and opened the door firmly, as was his wont, without waiting for a response. He refused to consider the possibility that he no longer had the right to assume he would be welcome within Brian's sanctuary, but the look on Brian's face when he lifted his head and regarded his visitor was sufficiently cold to make Ted wish he'd been a bit less precipitous.

The smile that graced those perfect lips was slightly mocking. "No, as a matter of fact, I wasn't too busy to see you, Theodore, so, by all means, come right on in."

No wife-beater and jeans, and the accountant was slightly discomfited by his employer's casually professional appearance. The perfect body was clad in custom-fitted gray trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt - simple, tasteful, and elegant, although in this case, it was the wearer that conveyed elegance to the clothing rather than the other way around, and Ted was briefly reminded of the old adage about clothes making the man. Brian Kinney was living proof that not all old adages were created equal - or true.

"It's good to see you, Bri," said the accountant, moving to stand in front of Brian's desk and extending his hand firmly. No tremors allowed.

But Brian had never been predictable or subject to manipulation. There was a beat of silence as he regarded Ted's hand with obvious skepticism, before lifting a shadowed gaze to study the accountant's face. Finally, eyes glinting with some subtle trace of amusement, he offered his own, but the handshake was exceedingly brief and quickly released.

"Welcome back," Ted said quickly. "You look . . . fabulous."

Brian's smile was inscrutable. "You were expecting something else?"

"No. Of course not. We all knew you'd come through all this with flying colors. Everybody was pulling for you."

The smile grew wider, but no warmer. "Well, not everybody." He then looked pointedly at the files tucked under Ted's arm. "I assume you've got things for me to look over."

Ted nodded and gestured toward one of the sleek armchairs beside him. "May I?"

The pause was brief, barely noticeable, but the cold spark in those dark eyes said that it was deliberate. "Of course."

And the small hesitation - inconsequential as it seemed - accomplished exactly what Brian had intended; it made Ted even more nervous than he'd been before; so nervous, in fact, that one of the files he was holding slipped free and fell open on Brian's desk, revealing a stack of spreadsheets, tax forms, accounting statements, and professional contract data.

Ted could only scramble to pick up the mess, while thanking all the gods - real and imagined - that it had not been the other file that had fallen open, the one that was the real focus and crux of this meeting.

Brian said nothing, settling back in his chair, content to observe, but, somehow, his silence spoke volumes.

"Look, Brian," Ted said finally, giving up on trying to restore order to the paper chaos. "We might as well talk about the white elephant in the room, since it's obvious we're both thinking about it. I know you have questions about . . . about what I did. Maybe you even doubt that I still deserve your trust. And I guess I couldn't blame you for that. But I'm . . . I'm trying to make up for my mistakes. I'm trying to regain your trust, because . . . because it's important to me."

"Is it?" Brian asked softly.

"Of course, it is. How can you . . ."

"Don't do that!" The laconic, laid-back tone was abruptly gone. "Don't pretend you don't know why I might doubt you." Brian sat forward and laid his hands flat against the sleek surface of his desk, and Ted knew - somehow - that the gesture was a means to keep from clinching them into fists. "Your thoughtlessness and your scheming put people at risk who mean more to me than you can possibly imagine. And your tendency to run off at the mouth in efforts to prove yourself a member of the 'inner circle' might have cost me everything I care about - including my own life - if not for the skill and dedication of the people assigned to protect me."

"I don't know what you mean," Ted sputtered. "I would never . . ."

"What you never seem to do," Brian said firmly, "is remember that your actions - and even your words - have consequences."

"But . . . but nothing happened. To Gus, I mean, or, or Justin. Or you. So why . . ."

"Let's just say there are still things that you don't know, Theodore. Things that will all come out when everything is said and done. But until then, I'm not ready to satisfy your curiosity. So, for the moment, just accept the fact that you still have your job - for now - although certain security measures have been put in place, to safeguard my investments . . . and my family."

"You think you need safeguards - from me?"

Brian's expression was deliberately stern. "Do I really need to answer that question? Now, shall we get to the matter at hand? What is all this . . ." He nodded toward the polyglot of paperwork now clutched in Ted's hands.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Ted was careful to keep his voice steady as he bit down to suppress the outrage swelling within him. He wanted to let it all out, to let it erupt and douse his boss with the emotional lava of his fury. But he knew he couldn't afford to do so; he had to hold on, to reign in his anger in order to avoid ruining his one opportunity to repair all the damage and regain all that he'd lost.

So he held tight to his emotions, and took a small measure of comfort in envisioning how Brian would grovel and beg for his forgiveness once his plans came to fruition.

"Mostly standard stuff. A few proposals for variations in existing contract terms - Brown's squawking about the increase in the production costs for the television ads. As usual. And there are budget analyses of expenses on newer promotions, some contract renewal documents," he explained, once more trying to straighten all the papers he'd dropped. "Mostly standard forms that require your signature, nothing you need to bother reviewing. Some projected cost figures, that sort of thing. Just . . ."

"If you don't mind," Brian said slowly, "I'll be the judge of what needs reviewing. Just leave them, and I'll get back to you. As for Brown, he doesn't really expect us to cave in to his demands. He just likes exercising his right to grumble. Anything else?"

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Ted nodded. "As you wish, of course. I was just trying to save you the trouble."

"My company, my trouble." It was spoken without any particular inflection, but the message was abundantly clear. "And I think it only reasonable for me to exercise a bit more oversight than before. Don't you?"

Ted's hands flexed so tightly that the papers he was holding trembled. "Are you . . . are you going to fire me, Brian?"

"Why? Do you think you deserve to be fired?"

"No."

"Then prove it. Accept my decisions. Accept the fact that you've given me cause for some doubt, and prove to me that it was all just a momentary lapse."

"And how do I do that?"

"By doing your job, accepting any new ground rules I decide to put into effect, and trusting my judgment. Can you do that?"

"I think . . ."

"Don't think. Do. Now I repeat: can you do that?"

Ted took a deep breath. "Yes."

"Good. Now what else do you have for me?"

"Quarterly profit figures - I think you'll be very pleased. Also, summaries of projected expenses and earnings. There's a P&L statement in there, and a spreadsheet showing personnel salaries and potential income that will be generated from various projects the artistic team is working on. Authorizations for specific expenditures. Investment options - that kind of thing."

"Good. I'll look over it all. Anything more?"

Another deep breath. "Actually, there is one last thing. It's, um, it's something that was brought to me for presentation to you. An investment opportunity I think you'll find . . . interesting."

"Theodore, do I really have to remind you about the last 'investment opportunity' you tried to buy into - with my money?"

"No," Ted replied, cheeks stained with an ugly flush. "No, you don't. That was a huge mistake on my part. I trusted someone when I shouldn't have - when I should have been more skeptical and investigated more thoroughly, but I . . . I let myself be duped, and I am really, really sorry for the damage it might have done to you. But - in my own defense - let me just add that you weren't the only one at risk. The FBI stepped in and saved you from taking the loss, but nobody bothered to save me, or . . ."

"Or Melanie," Brian interrupted. "How big a bastard does it make me to admit that I don't give a shit what it cost her? And frankly, Teddie, you're not a child. You're a grown man, a man who is supposed to be a financial professional. If you choose to invest in a scam like that, without doing your due diligence, can you really blame anyone for not saving you?"

"No. I suppose not, although . . . if they knew something was hinky about the deal, would it have been such a big deal to share their suspicions? What did I ever do to . . ."

"But you weren't trying to do anything to them, were you? You were trying to buy my loyalty, and it wound up costing you a bundle. But - if you'd succeeded, if this Ponzi scheme had turned out to be legit and made me a billionaire or something, what would you have expected in return? What do you imagine it would have bought you - my undying adulation, my favor over anyone else who might try to influence me to see things their way, my instant obedience to your every wish? Theodore, do you really think that anything could buy that? Don't you know by now that 'obedience' just isn't in my vocabulary? I mean, how stupid can you be?"

"No need to get nasty about it. I was only . . ."

Brian lifted one hand, his face suddenly lined with weariness. "Enough. Whether or not you choose to admit it, I know what you were trying to do, and, until you know it too, and are ready to own up to it, I don't think we have anything more to discuss."

"No, no, no, wait. There is just this one thing. Brian, this is important, and I need . . ." He stopped and swallowed and struggled to regain his composure. "I need you to try to trust me, one last time. This is not the same as before. This really is a golden opportunity, and I've checked it all out. So please, for your sake and - yes, I admit it - for mine too. Please just hear me out."

For a moment, it appeared that Brian would simply turn his back and refuse to listen at all, but, in the end, perhaps because he was able to identify the desperation in Ted's demeanor and perhaps because he really wanted to be able to regain the trust that had been lost, he nodded and prepared to listen.

Theodore carefully opened and extracted the contents of the second file he was carrying - much thicker than the first - and arranged the display on Brian's desk with great precision. Then he took a deep breath and began to speak, choosing his words with exquisite care, knowing this was his final option, his last chance to step away from the brink of disaster and reclaim his life.

Brian was not smiling, was not nodding or giving any indication of agreement or approval. But he was, at least, doing the one thing that Ted required him to do. He was listening.

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From his vantage point in Brian's executive washroom, Chris McClaren watched as Ted Schmidt made his presentation - his very detailed, very focused presentation. Caring little for the nuts and bolts of the plan Schmidt was trying to sell, the FBI agent amused himself by watching Brian Kinney try not to yawn in the accountant's face.

He'd told himself - repeatedly - that he hadn't really been loitering in Brian's office for almost two hours. He had made a point of staying busy, of reviewing case files, making notes on points that needed follow up and allowing Brian to concentrate on catching up on everything that had happened during his absence.

But - in one way - he had been loitering. He had known, somehow, that Schmidt would put in an appearance at some point in the afternoon, and he had also known he needed to be present when that moment came - present, but unacknowledged. Looking on. Defending. Watching.

Thus he had moved quickly when the accountant had knocked at the door, and positioned himself perfectly to observe while remaining unobserved.

The fact that Brian chose to remain silent about McClaren's presence when Schmidt made his entrance was proof that Kinnetik's chairman of the board also understood the awkwardness of the situation and the need for discretion.

Schmidt might one day regain the right to be trusted without reservation, but that day had not yet arrived.

McClaren was leaning against the door frame and had a clear view of Brian and the surface of his desk. Schmidt was not visible, unless the FBI agent leaned forward to catch a glimpse. Mostly, he didn't bother. He was not interested in studying the accountant's face or form, although he did occasionally take a quick look, just to gauge the man's emotional demeanor - which was very revealing.

This was not just a sales pitch; this was an act of desperation, clearly revealed in tense body language and a slightly shrill tone of voice, and desperation always made McClaren nervous. On the other hand, this was Ted Schmidt, who might - with a masterful exercise of self delusion - consider himself a formidable opponent to anyone who might choose to cross him; the reality was a far different thing. Schmidt survived now - subdued but still uncrushed - because Brian Kinney had decided to hold off and weigh his options rather than allow the accountant to flounder and be ground to dust under the weight of his own guilt.

Nevertheless, McClaren was uneasy.

Brian, however, did not appear the least bit bothered; he even seemed to be mildly interested, looking through the documents Schmidt provided for him, and even studying the blue prints the accountant had run (literally run) back to his office to retrieve, his haste and body language speaking volumes about his commitment to the project he was laying out for Brian's inspection. And the longer he talked, the more exuberant he became.

Of course, Ted did not share McClaren's perspective - the vantage point which allowed the agent to notice every time Brian's attention wandered, which happened repeatedly when Schmidt's lecture lapsed into pedantic enthusiasm. At those moments, hazel eyes lifted to inspect the increasingly amber hue of sunlight streaming obliquely through the skylight, or to gauge the balance and positioning of a grouping of Kinnetik's most successful promotional posters adorning the wall opposite the desk, or - still more frequently - to relish the room's only true work of art - the Justin Taylor original that occupied the place of honor above the newly-renovated fireplace. Then, fairly frequently, his eyes would shift to his right, to intercept McClaren's gaze before sliding down - with a small, barely-there but still lascivious smile - to appreciate the way the dark wool of the FBI agent's trousers or the teal blue of his shirt emphasized the lines of his body and the narrowness of his waist or the way his hair curled against the back of his collar, inviting the exploration of eager fingers.

Chris McClaren was not a particularly vain individual - not even remotely in the league of the current subject of his visual evaluation - but neither was he given to false modesty. He knew that Brian's gaze was admiring, because there was plenty to admire. He also knew that - much as he might try to deny it - he was enjoying the warmth in those dark eyes.

Nevertheless, he refused to be distracted - mostly. He was listening to Schmidt's spiel, and was only moderately surprised to realize that Brian was listening too - mostly.

'Think of it, Brian. Think of the potential for profits. Think of . . ."

"All right, Theodore. I understand your enthusiasm, but I have to ask. Why would anyone bring this to you? I mean it's obvious this might make someone very, very rich - and God knows, I got nothing against lots and lots of money. But - is it just me - or does this all feel a little too easy? A little too coincidental."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Ted replied with a grin. A real, honest-to-God grin, with no trace of glibness or snobbery. "Look, Bri, I know I messed up before. But this time. . ."  He paused to draw a deep breath. "This time my sources really are impeccable, and I've done my own evaluation of all the data, verifying everything. The property is just as advertised. It's beautiful and perfect for the purpose, and the corporation that's being set up is composed of the kind of people who don't get involved in suspicious activities. Pillars of the community, every single one of them."

Brian grinned. "Pillars of the community, and . . . Brian Kinney? And that doesn't seem a little bit odd to you?"

"Brian, they're not like that. I think they're trying to reach out to you. To make up for what happened to you. This could be . . . this could really be a beginning of a whole new understanding between the upper echelons of the gay and straight communities. They approached me with it because they've dealt with me before - or tried to at any rate - and they trust my judgment. And you should too. This could be . . ."

Brian lifted a hand, forestalling an outpouring of visionary supposition, and turned in his chair, his eyes seeking some indication that Chris McClaren understood his misgivings.

The sign was quick in coming - a glint of silver in azure eyes.

"Look," Ted said, with a sigh that barely avoided impatience. "You don't have to commit. Not yet, although . . . well, time is getting short. But, for now, all you have to do is listen. One of the primary partners would like to meet with you, to answer your questions and explain the time frame and the scale of the operation. Honestly, Brian, this could be the biggest thing to happen to Pittsburgh in decades."

Brian looked down at the plans spread across his desk. The Symposium of Pittsburgh - a center for the promotion and appreciation of artistic achievements, featuring a state-of-the-art concert hall and a huge, multi-discipline museum of fine arts - to be built on a lakeside meadow overlooking the city, on property that was available for a fraction of its value due to mismanagement and squabbling among the heirs of the original owners.

A gold mine indeed.

He knew next to nothing about architecture and engineering. But he did know beauty, and this - this would be a beautiful thing, except . . .

The drawings were exquisitely detailed, the planning obviously created with style, grace, and professional skill. Perfect - and yet . . .

"All right," he said finally. "When and who?"

Ted smiled. "Thanks, Bri. I swear you won't regret it. I promise . . ."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Theodore. I'm only agreeing to listen to what he has to say, and that's no guarantee of anything. If I decide - once I've heard his pitch - that I'm not interested, I expect you to accept my judgment, and shut-the-fuck-up about it. Capisce?"

"Absolutely. But . . . this is going to blow your mind, Bri. Better than poppers; better than the best eighth of chronic you ever had. Better than sex!"

Brian grinned. "Bite your tongue, Teddie. You're getting hysterical. Now, I repeat; when and who?"

"How about Monday afternoon? I'll set it up as your last appointment for the day, so you won't be rushed, if that's all right with you."

Brian closed his eyes for a moment, considering. Then he nodded. "But no later than that. I might be unavailable for a while."

"Right," Ted replied, a quick frown the only indication that he was wondering what 'unavailable for a while' might mean. "I'll set it up then."

"Hold on," Brian said quickly. "You told me when, but not who, so . . ."

"Oh, sorry." Ted took a deep breath. "It's C. R. Wylie." He managed to avoid flinching when he saw recognition dawn in those dark, hazel eyes, but only barely.

"Wylie," Brian echoed. "As in the C.R.Wylie of Schickel Hall fame? That Wylie?"

Ted stood very straight. "Yes. That Wylie. And I understand that you have reservations about him, but there's no cause for concern. The . . . the . . ." He paused and swallowed hard. "The fuck-up - spilling the beans about your relationship to Gus - was my mistake, Brian. He just happened to be the one to hear it. And nothing happened; there were no ugly consequences, and - before you can point out the obvious - I know I was lucky. That it was him, I mean; someone who wouldn't take advantage of my lapse in judgment. He's an honorable man, and he was just as astonished as everyone else when he learned about the nature of that whole Bolivian charity scheme. I'm pretty sure he'd invested a bundle of his own money in it, since he's well known for his participation in charity work. And now he's taking advantage of this opportunity to reach out to you, to prove himself worthy of your trust by inviting you in on this project; it's a huge honor, Bri. I hope you understand that."

Brian's expression was inscrutable, as his mind moved back in time, dredging up a memory of Emmett Honeycutt's face after a confrontation with this self-same 'honorable man' who Ted was now so eager to support and defend, and he wondered how it was that he remembered, while Ted - who should remember vividly, given his role in Emmett's life at that time - apparently did not; then he smiled, but it was not the characteristic Kinney smirk, blending sardonic wit with droll humor. Instead, it was reserved and slightly enigmatic and . . . something else.

"Yeah, Theodore. I hope so too."

And standing in the shadows of the executive washroom, just out of Ted's line of sight, Chris McClaren heard the note of reservation in that steady voice and made himself a mental note to be sure to be back in this exact place at the exact time of the scheduled meeting on Monday. Schmidt was probably right; Wylie was probably every bit as upstanding and trustworthy as the accountant believed.

Probably - which was a far, far cry from certainly, and thus, not nearly good enough.

When the accountant had gathered up all his paraphernalia and made his exit - juggling files and blue prints and still grinning - McClaren walked out of the washroom and stood looking at the object of his protection detail with one lifted eyebrow. "You sure you know what you're doing?" he asked finally.

"Care to be my date for the big event?" Accompanied by the real, absolutely unmistakable Kinney smirk.

The FBI agent grinned. "You could at least offer to buy me a drink first."

Brian laughed, but the shadow in his eyes lingered, giving the lie to his air of nonchalance.

"Wouldn't miss it," McClaren said softly.

Brian nodded, and tried to ignore the faint chill that seemed to be lingering at the base of his spine. It was nothing to worry about; he was sure of that, especially since his bulldog protector would be there to back him up and shield him from harm. So there really was nothing to worry about. Really. And never mind the fact that he didn't like the idea of needing protection - from anyone. He had been pretty good at providing his own defenses throughout his admittedly flamboyant life. Still . . .

With a deep breath, he rose and stretched and deliberately turned his thoughts toward what would be waiting for him at home, and the quick swelling at his crotch told him it was past time to go.

There was really no cause for concern.

Really - and never mind that the look in McClaren's eyes said otherwise.

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Sunday morning dawned cool and bright in the area of Pittsburgh Brian referred to as Stepford-ville, and Michael watched it come with weary, reddened eyes. He had tried to relax and get some rest during the night, knowing this day would be filled with a mixed bag of events: long periods of anxious waiting - in the airport, on the plane - interspersed with periods of frantic excitement - racing to the address of Melanie's parents, and - finally and most important of all - seeing his daughter again and racing back to Pittsburgh.

J.R. would see it as a great adventure, and respond with the liquid, lyrical laughter that was the sweetest music to her father's ears.

He would bring her home where she belonged, where she could be spoiled properly by her two dads and her 'Mommie' and her grandmother Debbie and even - although with much greater restraint and much less emotional excess - her Uncle Brian.

But his attempts had been mostly unsuccessful. Thus, when bright rays of sunlight streamed through the kitchen window and settled a bit too sharply on surfaces that could have used a good dusting and floors that might benefit from a hands-and-knees scrubbing, he was wide awake to notice.

And now it was time to awaken Ben and Hunter and make an early start on the routines of the morning so they could make a timely departure to get to the airport in plenty of time to get through security and make their flight - Liberty Air # 1631 - departing at 10:26 and arriving in Miami at 1:15. All arranged courtesy of Brian Kinney - Liberty's miracle worker; the man who could do no wrong and for whom no favor was too much to ask.

The return flight would board at 6:18 this evening and arrive back in Pittsburgh at 9:10.

It would be a long day, but worth every minute of any problem that might arise. It had been too long since he'd seen his baby girl, and now . . . Michael sighed. Now it was time to deal with an elementary, unavoidable truth. If not for Brian Kinney and his determination and his willingness to help - and the power of his money - it might have been a whole lot longer. In fact, depending on the degree of Melanie's bitterness and spite, it might even have been forever, or - at the very least - throughout the duration of her childhood, which would provide her biological mother with ample time to poison her mind against her father and his relations.

He inhaled deeply, savoring the first waft of coffee aroma, and poured himself a brimming cup, adding a heaping spoonful of sugar just as his cell phone rang. He didn't need to look to know who was calling.

"Hey, Ma. Yeah, I'm up. Yeah, we're all packed. No, you can't come with us. Brian had to threaten someone's life just to get seats for us. The flight was all booked up. Guess everybody wants to go have fun in the sun on the beach, but . . .

"Yeah, I'll call you from the plane. Yeah, I'll let her call you as soon as we pick her up. No, I won't be rude to Melanie's mother; it's not her fault she's got a flaming bitch for a daughter. No, I won't say that in front of J.R. Yeah, Ma. Gotta go, Ma. Someone's at the door."

He was pretty sure his mother did not believe him when he made his excuse to hang up, but, as it happened, he was telling the truth. There was a soft but persistent knock at the front door just as Ben came stumbling down the stairs, still wiping sleep from his eyes, with Hunter at his heels.

When Michael opened the door just enough to peek through and identify the new arrival, his first thought was that nobody should look so fucking luscious at the crack of dawn. But then again, he was pretty sure Liam Quinn would have looked just as luscious - given the perfection of both face and form - in a muu muu and flip-flops at high noon in Death Valley in the summer. That was, of course, a wild stretch of imagination, because the slender, young attorney was currently dressed in a lovely casual version of his normal garb, a pale blue designer cashmere sweater and charcoal slacks replacing the classical style of the Ralph Lauren suits he usually sported.

Micheal blinked, and told himself he wasn't really blinded by the brilliance of the young attorney's smile, but, in his heart, he wasn't entirely sure of that. Quinn stepped inside to be greeted by Ben and Hunter, and seemed grateful for the offer of a cup of coffee.

"I somehow didn't expect you to be an early riser," said Ben, settling himself at the table and struggling to avoid staring at the swirl of brilliant copper-colored hair that contrasted so beautifully with sea-change eyes; Liam Quinn was a visual temptation almost impossible to resist. It was, in fact, almost impossible to reconcile this lovely image with that of the ruthless, implacable legal predator he was rumored to be.

"Ordinarily, I'm not," Quinn replied with a rueful smile, "except when in the employ of one Brian Kinney, who seems to have no appreciation for the concept of 'personal time'."

Michael snorted with laughter, choking on his first sip of coffee. "That's an understatement if I ever heard one. So why are you here?"

Quinn lifted a slim, elegant briefcase - alligator-skin if appearances were accurate - to the table and extracted a thick, manila file. "I come bearing gifts," he said with a smile. "The kind of gifts that make you aware of what you can do, what you should do, what you must do, and - above all else - what you must never, ever do. In here is the court order which guarantees your access to your daughter, and sets out the terms of your presence in her life - for the moment. Later, there may be changes. In fact, there almost certainly will be changes, but, for now, everything you need to know is included here. There are also copies of the documents which have been served to Melanie Marcus and her parents, which advise them of their rights, vis a vis J.R., and their roles in her life. I strongly suggest you read over everything carefully, but - if you haven't time for all of it - concentrate on the terms of the court order. Granted there's a certain amount of legal jargon - unavoidable, I'm afraid - and some of it may seem as incomprehensible as a Latin version of Trivial Pursuit, but just ignore the legalese and concentrate on the common sense aspects. And use your own common sense. The document does not, for example, specifically state that you can't refer to Ms. Marcus as 'the dyke-bitch egg-donor', but it would be wise to avoid doing so. In fact, unless your daughter poses a specific question - which she probably will - it's probably best to avoid discussion of her mother at all. The conflict between parents can be very painful for children, and - at her age - J.R. is unlikely to understand the nuances."

Michael nodded. "So no plots to poison the bitch's Mogen David - right?"

Quinn sighed. "Right. And no slurs - however mild or indirect - toward her ethnic or religious background. Which would mean no slightly smug comments about the star of David she often wears . . . or her taste in wine." He smiled, but there was no mistaking the hard glitter in those exquisite eyes. Liam Quinn had no patience with bigotry, no matter what its form or target.

"Right," replied Michael, with a slight blush. He hadn't meant it as a racial or ethnic slur, but it had come out that way anyway. "So what about Lindsey? Does she have any rights in all this, or . . ."

"From a strictly legal standpoint, no, she doesn't," said Quinn, a shadow washing those incredible eyes in a soft, melancholy gray. "I'm afraid the law - not to mention the majority of the citizens of our great nation - hasn't yet caught up with social developments. In some ways, the justice system still exists with Neanderthal overtones. However, while J.R. is in your care, you set the standards. And while I wouldn't advise taking her down to Babylon for an evening of social revelation, you are perfectly free to allow her to interact with Ms. Peterson, as much as you like. For now, at least."

"What does that mean?" asked Ben. "Why 'for now'?"

Quinn frowned. "Because Ms. Marcus has demonstrated - on more than one occasion - a tendency toward rage and a determination to exact revenge. And while it goes without saying that Mr. Kinney is going to be her primary target - the person she holds most responsible for everything she's lost - she's not going to forget or forgive the part that other people played in what she considers her betrayal. Especially, I think, in the case of Lindsey Peterson. For a professed feminist and free-thinker, Melanie has some remarkably Victorian notions about spousal duties."

Ben's smile was weary. "Meaning that Lindsey was supposed to play the obedient little wife, no matter how distasteful she found Melanie's behavior."

"Distasteful?" Quinn's eyes grew colder, icier, even though his smile never wavered. "I think that's putting it mildly. Don't you?"

"Perhaps." Ben did not appear to be convinced, and Quinn studied the professor's face for a moment before speaking again.

"Has it ever occurred to you," he asked softly, looking from face to face around the table, "that Brian Kinney allows himself to be cast in the role of the villain - repeatedly - because it makes it easier for all of you. It's much less 'distasteful' for you if you can ascribe everything that happens to him as nothing more than Brian getting his just desserts."

He paused for a quick breath, and, in that moment, the devastating memories of the mutilation Brian had suffered erupted in all of their minds.

Then Quinn spoke again, the softness of his voice somehow intensifying the horror of those images. "His just desserts."

He got to his feet quickly, and they all realized that there was truly nothing left to be said. He handed the file to Michael and turned away, but he looked back at them just as he reached the door.

"There are still things you don't know about what happened to him, and it's not my place to tell you. And I have my doubts that he'll ever decide to tell you, but you should know this. No one deserves to be treated as he was treated. Not your worst enemy." Then he looked straight at Michael, and there was no trace of warmth in his eyes. "And certainly not your best friend."

"Now wait a minute." That was Ben again, stepping forward - as always - to defend his partner.

"No." Everyone in the room went rigid at the note of anger in Michael's voice. "You wait. I don't need to be coddled or sheltered from judgment for my own failures. He's right. We have always found it easier to blame Brian than to look deep enough to discover the truth of why he acts the way he does."

He moved forward and stood almost toe-to-toe with the attorney. "Thank you, Mr. Quinn. You've known him what? A month? And you already see him more clearly than most of us ever have, in spite of knowing him for a lifetime. We've been willfully blind."

Quinn was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, and the warmth of it touched Michael and lifted the feeling of cold guilt that had gripped him. "Blind perhaps," agreed Quinn, "But capable of regaining your insight, should you decide to do so. That's promising.

"Thinking and rethinking is good, but, in the meantime, just make sure you're at the airport at least an hour early. For most people, it would have to be two hours in order to negotiate security, but Brian Kinney's name is like a magic carpet when it comes to Liberty Air. Oh, and Chris McClaren will meet you there."

"McClaren! Why?" For the first time, Michael looked slightly perturbed. "Why would we need a federal agent to come along for the ride?"

Quinn's smile grew slightly condescending. "Have you met Brian Kinney? Do you know him at all?"

"Yeah, but he can't very well boss around the FBI, can he?" That was Ben, equally perturbed.

Quinn laughed. "Actually, I wouldn't be too sure of that, even in ordinary circumstances. But this case is hardly ordinary. At this point, the bottom line is that he's been invaluable to them in this investigation, and they're grateful enough to accede to most of his demands. Especially, since he's still the key to putting away a lot of very bad people, and, if he decides not to co-operate, they're screwed. So if Brian wants an FBI agent to accompany his best friend on a journey to retrieve his daughter from the camp of the enemy, then that's exactly what he's going to get. Although, I should point out that Melanie's parents have also been victimized by their daughter in this mess. They've done nothing except try to provide shelter for their granddaughter. You should keep that in mind, Michael. McClaren's presence is to assure that everything goes smoothly, but the fact that you have an FBI agent with you might intimidate the Marcuses. So just walk softly, and don't make a big issue of him being there, unless it becomes necessary."

"Shit!" muttered Michael.

"Is there a problem?" Quinn asked, obviously confused.

"Not really," Michael answered, biting his lip. "I just don't think Brian's McFed likes me very much."

Once more, Quinn's expression became inscrutable. "Really? Can't imagine why."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Michael to ponder his parting words and realize abruptly that the attorney knew perfectly well why the FBI agent did not care for Brian's friends. Was it then so obvious, and, if it was, why couldn't those so-called 'friends' see it for themselves?

He only spared a moment to worry about it, before deciding he was too pressed for time to indulge in idle speculation.

As usual.

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

Brian Kinney had never been a morning person. For years, in fact, he had avoided any suggestion of watching the sun rise - unless, of course, it was to mark the end of a night of blazing passion. But that was yesterday; today was different. In the past, such moments had been about relishing a sense of triumph and lust satisfied, without any thought of appreciation of the glory of a new day.

It was amazing to realize how much things had changed.

For it was not yet dawn - not quite - and young Mr. Kinney was fully awake, even after a night which he thought just might classify as 'one for the recordbooks'. After all, when one couldn't recall exactly how many orgasms had been achieved, it had to have been mind-blowing and spectacular.

His mind might have failed to encompass the wild quality of their mating, but his body had not. It had only happened a few times in his life when he had wakened to the realization that the wild, frenzied, unbelievable sex he'd enjoyed during the night had resulted in an unexpected sensation. His dick was sore and throbbing and probably beyond any possibility of an erection. Very un-Kinney.

But oh, God, it had been so worth it.

His alertness now had nothing to do with any magical concept of sunrise or the fresh-faced dewiness of a new day. It was, instead, focused entirely on one thing: the vision of his young lover bathed in the first glow of pure morning light.

He was certain he had never seen anything more beautiful.

He was equally certain that he never would.

Most of all, he wondered - his mind filled with a growing darkness - if, having finally found the vision of ultimate beauty he had spent a lifetime searching for, he would ultimately lose it, never to see it again.

In all his years of grappling and stroking and manhandling beautiful, young, male bodies, he'd never come across one that could even come close to matching this one, even though some part of his mind - the part that refused to be consumed by his feelings for Justin - realized that he was being ridiculously sentimental.

He thought about the various men in his life, some of whom - Hell! Many of whom, maybe even most of whom - could be correctly described as gorgeous. All the way back to the first man who'd ever seduced him - the perfect, muscular, beautiful young coach who had taken him in hand and taught him the joys of man/boy love. He knew his parents would have prosecuted his first lover for statutory rape - Brian had been only sixteen at the time. The senior Kinneys would have been outraged and hungry for revenge and would have hounded the man and pursued him to the gates of Hell itself if they'd ever learned the truth. Their fury, of course, would have had nothing to do with any love or concern for their son; it would have been a product of their embarrassment at having their name dragged through the mud. But it had never happened, because Brian had never told them the truth. He had never believed - and still did not believe today - that what Coach Grant - his beautiful, golden-skinned, green-eyed young mentor - had taught him was a crime. It was simply the beginning of the life he was meant to live.

Even today - after all these years - he could still recall the sensation of the coach's mouth exploring his hardness, so much better and sweeter than any pleasure he'd ever achieved with his own hand; could still remember the gentleness of big hands that moved him and positioned him and prepared him, still feel his breath catch in his throat in sympathy with the pain of the first time he'd been fucked - and how eagerly he'd gone back for more.

Stephen Grant had not forced Brian into the life of a gay man; he had simply opened the door to a whole new world, giving the younger man access to the courage and the conviction he would need to navigate the lifestyle he chose to inhabit, in the epiphany of realizing he had always been gay - and always would be.

Some of his beautiful lovers were still a part of his life, albeit they no longer occupied his bed. He thought about Chris McClaren with eyes so blue they were almost like a raging flame; about Liam Quinn, only recently arrived in his life - and never bedded - but beautiful enough to rate among the top ten in terms of physical perfection; about Matt Keller, friend of long standing but still lovely enough to touch the heart (and the heat) of any gay man - and any straight woman; about Jared Hilliard, tough as nails, strong as steel, but beautiful enough to elicit a throbbing hard-on with just a dark smile and a twitch of a perfect ass.

Even Lance Mathis qualified as beautiful, having a winsome smile and one of the most perfect slender bodies Brian had ever seen. Of course, Mathis wasn't gay - but nobody was perfect, right?

Well, almost nobody, he amended, as he watched a beam of sunshine spark diamond brilliance in Justin's hair.

Justin Taylor - a vision guaranteed to tempt the gods.

Brian took a deep breath, realizing that his vision was blurring, and hastened to wipe unshed tears from his eyes.

He had memorized every line of that perfect face and body.

Just in case.

When Justin opened his eyes, it was to find himself drawn into the currents of emotion which filled extraordinary hazel eyes - emotion which he couldn't identify - emotion which was gone almost before it could register. In its place, a classical Brian Kinney smirk which spoke of the incredible sexual exploration they'd practiced all through the night.

"How do I fuck thee?" the blond murmured. "Let me count the ways."

Brian threw his head back and laughed. "I'm thinking we're not exactly what the poet had in mind."

"Screw the poet," Justin replied. "And everybody else. Just as long as you continue to screw me."

Brian confined his response to a brief, intense exploration of the exquisite softness of Justin's throat.

"We're so fucking lucky," Justin murmured, lifting his lips to brush against the corner of Brian's mouth. "Do you have any idea how many people would throw themselves into the fires of hell just to be allowed to experience what we have together? Just to live our lives for one hour - although, on second thought, maybe not, because how would they ever manage to go back and live their drab little lives after getting a taste of heaven?"

"You are so full of shit," said Brian, his customary morning smirk morphing into a full-fledged grin. "According to most of those people, what we are doing is earning our place in the fires of eternal damnation."

Justin turned to nestle into the warmth beneath Brian's jaw. "If I have to burn for all eternity, it's worth it. I want you to fuck me - every day, every hour - for the rest of my life. Starting now."

Brian laughed. "You're kidding, right? Judging from the way my dick feels, your ass must be torn and bloody and sore as hell."

Justin grinned. "Yeah. It's pretty raw, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Yours ought to be perfect - soft and wet and slick."

"Slick?"

Blue eyes sparked with mischief. "Well . . . not quite yet. But give me a minute."

It didn't happen often, of course. Every day - almost - their roles were fixed: Brian was the infamous top - renowned throughout gay society; it was a given. With everyone, including Justin Taylor, who was, himself, a pretty impressive top, with everyone except Brian Kinney.

But sometimes - mostly spur of the moment - the roles shifted and reversed, but it was almost always Brian's call. His decision to make, since it went without saying that any effort at coercion would be useless against him.

Brian's choice. Thus, when he smiled at his young lover, dropped a kiss at the corner of that beloved mouth - and turned over, resting his face against crossed arms, leaving Justin to appreciate the feast spread out before him, the young blond felt a knot form in his throat, as he recognized the degree of trust being granted to him. Brian Kinney - nude and perfect . . . and willing.

Justin's first impulse was to act quickly, to leap forward to take advantage of the moment, and - in truth - to deny Brian any opportunity of changing him mind. But that, he knew immediately, was unfair to Brian. His lover, his partner, his best friend, would not do that to him; Brian, averse to commitment in so many ways, never committed to anything unless he meant to see it through.

Thus, instead, Justin paused, took a deep breath, and made a conscious decision to take advantage of the moment and make it last.

"Not so fast," he whispered as Brian moved to give his lover perfect access to the perfect curve of his ass. "We have some preliminaries to enjoy before we get to the main event."

"What kind of . . ."

Brian gasped as he felt the warm sensation of Justin's tongue exploring the sensitive skin around his anus. He tensed for a moment, before forcing himself to relax and get ready to enjoy the ride.

Justin was nothing if not thorough, and as he thrust his tongue into that sweet opening, Brian felt a familiar stirring in his groin - a stirring he had not believed to be possible just moments earlier. He smiled as he realized that he had been a fool to underestimate Justin's ability to arouse him; the kid could inspire a granite statue to full attention. He felt his breath catch in his throat as Justin shifted, pausing to reach for a container of lube on the bedside table before rearranging Brian to gain access to the growing erection, as Justin used that beautiful mouth to drive his lover to the edge of orgasm while he dipped his fingers in the slick gel and used them to begin preparations in earnest.

Brian fought to remain still, but knew that - even if his body appeared absolutely motionless on the surface - Justin was certainly feeling the tremor of his passage as fingers pushed in and pulled out, only to push in deeper, all to the rhythm and the powerful suction of Justin's mouth on his cock.

Oh, God! He was close; he was so close, and Justin's mouth was so talented. So very close . . .

And then he felt himself shifting, turning, as loving fingers stroked him softly while a huge, hot pressure found its way to his well-lubed opening.

Brian took a deep breath, willing himself to relax, to welcome this beloved intruder to a place that very few had ever been.

The pressure was intense, and the pain hard and fast and brilliant.

"Oh, my God!" Justin cried out, as he pushed into that exquisite darkness, and felt himself engulfed in the silky passage. "Gives a whole new meaning . . . to 'where no man . . . has gone before'. It's like virgin territory - every time."

Brian managed a soft laugh, relieved to note that the pain was going as quickly as it had come. "Now that's a word that no one has ever applied to me."

Justin lowered his head and dropped kisses across Brian's shoulders, without slowing his rhythmic in and out, and he continued to stroke his lover's engorged cock with skillful fingers. Brian could barely distinguish between the heat of his skin under the friction of that talented hand, and the furnace building within his core. He was mildly surprised that the two sensations seemed to intensify each other, and he couldn't resist a smile, recalling how many times he'd expressed disdain for any inkling of SMBD.

Perhaps there were still tricks to be learned, only . . . he smiled again, more gently this time, knowing that if deliberate pain was going to become an element of their sexual encounters, he would not be the one inflicting it.

Justin had been hurt too much in his young life, much of his pain coming at the hands of the man who was supposed to love him above all things, and soon . . . He deliberately pushed the thought away from him and concentrated on the incredible rush of ecstasy racing through his body.

He pushed up to meet Justin's thrusts as his young lover - finally unable to maintain any vestige of control as he was gripped by mind-bending passion - lost his rhythm and began to plunge into the sweet grip of Brian's body, as fast and as hard as possible, plunging both of them into a fugue state of semi-madness

Breathing became gasping became a long-drawn expulsion of air as they exploded together, on cue, and then collapsed into each other's arms.

"Holy shit!" Justin managed to gasp, after several long minutes of recovery.

"Amen!"

"Best . . . ever."

Brian did not argue.

When they had recovered enough to enjoy that sweet, boneless somnolence that always seemed to follow really good sex, Justin turned to study his lover's face, enjoying the view immensely. Morning light was always good to Brian Kinney.

He almost snorted then, stifling a spurt of laughter, as he realized that any kind of light was always good to Brian Kinney.

How long, he wondered, would the passage of time spare his beautiful lover? How would he age, and how would he react to it?

Probably not well, but Justin would make certain it did not become a major problem. He would take care of it; he would take care of Brian. He wondered sometimes if Brian realized that he was already being cared for.

Probably not. He would not react well to being coddled, so it was up to Justin to walk a very fine line, and walk it carefully.

"Hey," he said softly, "you free this afternoon?"

Brian sighed. "Not really. I have a proposal to review. I need to do some research before I meet with the principals tomorrow."

Justin looked pensive. Then he nuzzled for a moment at the soft darkness under Brian's jaw before jumping out of bed and making his way to the kitchen, leaving Brian to luxuriate in the comfort of their bed and the wonderful smell of sexual gratification. But in less than three minutes Justin was back, with steaming mugs of coffee and a bowl of fat, juicy strawberries, topped with a cloud of whipped cream.

With a brilliant smile - the one that had earned him his nickname - he settled on the bed with his tray, allowing Brian to retrieve his cup of French-roast blend. Then Justin began to eat and to feed his lover in alternative bites.

"This morning then?" Justin asked, dropping a dollop of whipped cream on Brian's chest and licking it off slowly.

"Are you asking me out on a date? Aren't we a little past that? I mean, you don't even have to buy me a drink. You've got me."

"Such a romantic," Justin observed. "But it's not that. I want you to see something, and I know a great little place where we could have a wonderful brunch."

"A brunch?" Brian laughed. "Is that an approved social event for cocksuckers like us?"

With a quick eye-roll, Justin leaned forward and nipped at Brian's ear - just a bit too hard for comfort.

"Hey! What the . . ."

"This is important, Brian. To me anyway. I just want . . ."

Brian lifted up on one elbow and pulled Justin to him, ignoring the strawberries and cream that spilled over both of them. "You don't have to explain, and you don't need to try to think up things to tempt me. If you want it, that's good enough for me. So, where are we really going?"

"Home, I think." Justin looked slightly confused. "I hope. I've found the perfect place, but it's only perfect if it's perfect for you too. So . . ."

Brian's smile was achingly gentle. "Don't you understand that I'll abide by . . ."

"No, that's not good enopugh. I don't want you to want it just because I want it. I want it to mean as much to you as it does to me. And it can't, unless you look at it, and understand what we could build there."

Brian grinned. "In that case," he drawled, "maybe we need to get out of bed and work our way to the shower, because - in case you hadn't noticed - we're pretty much covered with strawberries and cream." His voice dropped to a whisper as he continued. "And I want to lick every bite off that luscious body."

Justin laughed as he allowed himself to be drawn from the bed and guided into the bathroom.

Insatiable was - apparently - a word that might have been coined to typify their lust for each other. For them, there was simply no such thing as too much.

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

Justin stood at the mirror, studying his reflection and rather liking the way the cardinal red of his shirt intensified the blue of his eyes and wondering if he should put on a tie. It wasn't, by any means, a formal occasion, but it was important. He didn't even try to fool himself on that score. Decisions made - or not made - today would have a huge impact on the life he hoped to build with Brian Kinney.

Yet he found himself unable to focus entirely. He was too busy remembering a scene from the previous evening.

Chris McClaren was not happy to be included in the little venture he'd privately titled, "Baby Daddy Melodrama". If there'd been any reason to foresee the kind of trouble that would require a legal presence, he might have felt differently, but there wasn't. He was, therefore, extremely disgruntled.

Of course, there was the little sidebar which explained Alex Corey's easy acquiescence to Brian's request for an agent to accompany the Novotny family circus to Miami. Undercover operatives - working in tandem with agents of the Miami-Dade police force - had provided reports of sightings of a man going by the name of Tommy Bradford who'd recently been hired by one of the city's pre-eminent families as a private nurse for the family patriarch, currently suffering from severe emphysema.

The family - LaSalle, by name - was comprised of multi-generational charter members of the rabidly conservative Heritage movement, and included very old links to Pittsburgh's Club through the current patriarch's great grandfather - a political and financial power in 19th century Pittsburgh who had married into old Miami money and found it to his advantage to pull up stakes and relocate. But the ties to the city and especially to The Club remained, based on certain fundamental beliefs that appeared nowhere in the charter documents of the organization, but were well understood and completely supported by the upper echelon.

The light surveillance of the LaSalle family had been initiated due to some questionable financial practices which had been discovered during an investigation of money laundering; the sighting of Bradford had been completely incidental.

A stroke of luck. It wasn't the kind of thing that the FBI ordinarily counted on, but, when it did happen, one could hardly fail to appreciate whatever opportunity it provided.

It wasn't a dead certainty, by any means, but it was the first clue they'd discovered concerning the possible fate of Thomas Bradford Jackson, and the possibility of finding the murderous therapist and hauling him to the nearest lock-up - preferably kicking and screaming and more than a little bloody - was almost enough to assuage the agent's concerns.

Almost

Nevertheless, it was nothing more than a sidebar, incidental to his primary purpose.

McClaren had accepted the assignment with scarcely concealed impatience and displeasure, treating Brian Kinney to a stern glare. "This is not my job," he'd protested.

"If part of your job is keeping me happy," replied the ad man with a smug grin, "then you'll go."

"My job," McClaren retorted, "is to keep you safe. Frankly, I don't give a shit if you're happy or not."

Brian's smile was soft, as bright in his eyes as on his lips. "Yes, you do."

"Sometimes I really hate you," replied McClaren. Then they both laughed.

"Do me one favor," said Brian stepping forward just enough to touch the FBI agent's chin with one finger. "If you find Jackson, give him a little love tap - for me."

"Hell," said a hard voice from the young man standing framed in the doorway. "Give him an even bigger one for me."

The words were friendly enough, but the look in Justin's eyes as he moved forward and deliberately inserted his perfect body into the space between his partner and the fed was icy and determined.

McClaren's smile had become a smirk, as he backed away, wondering if he'd ever tire of playing with this particular fire and its two component parts: Brian Kinney - temptation personified - and his little bull terrier - just as succulent and just as prickly.

Before turning away, he winked, and neither of his observers could figure out to whom it had been directed.

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

Justin continued to stare into the mirror, studying his face, running a hand through his hair, leaning close to examine his lips, and wondering why Brian - when in a particularly good, affectionate mood - would sometimes describe his mouth as 'irresistible'. From his point of view, it was just a mouth - like any other - but he loved it when Brian waxed poetic - about anything. It didn't happen often. Brian Kinney would probably have loved Lord Byron - man to man - but they would never have spoken the same language.

He was trying to concentrate on this day, on how Brian would react to his ideas, but he couldn't quite stop remembering that brief encounter with McClaren, and wondering why it bothered him so much.

He trusted Brian, didn't he? Of course, there was no denying that the FBI agent was smoking hot, and that he and Brian had shared a bed for a while - but that was not enough to make Justin doubt the reality of the love he and Brian shared. Hell, if that was enough, neither one of them would ever be able to trust the other. Fucking around had been a way of life - for both of them.

But that wasn't really what had him worried, and he couldn't quite figure out what it was that had put him so on edge.

He'd often laughed and taunted McClaren with accusations of paranoia, even though a tiny, obstinate little voice in the back of his mind frequently responded with that tired old codicil: It's not paranoia if someone's really out to get you.

It could be said, without a shadow of exaggeration, that there were plenty of people still out to get Brian, but the FBI, the Pittsburgh police, and Brian's private security force had erected a wall around him that should prove to be more than sufficient to guarantee his safety.

Should. Why had he said 'should'? Why couldn't he say 'would'?

McClaren would be gone less than 24 hours, and there were plenty of capable individuals to step in during his absence.

So why did he still feel a faint trace of ice touching his spine?

Because he was being paranoid. And because any possibility of losing Brian - for whatever reason - was more than he could bear.

He closed his eyes and lost himself in the memory of that perfect body, entwined with his own, pushing, straining, bruising, growing stronger and more powerful with every thrust until - in a blinding burst of sensation - two suddenly became one.

He could not survive without that. He knew it; now all he had to do was convince Brian, because Justin Taylor, though occasionally oblivious to simple instances of cause and effect, was no fool. He knew Brian had spent his entire life being blamed for every rotten thing that ever happened to someone around him; thus, when the King of Liberty Avenue loved someone - really loved someone - he would move heaven and earth to protect them and keep them safe. Even from himself. Perhaps even most especially from himself.

He had done it before: wrapped himself in a layer of impregnable ice and pushed away from those he loved. And Justin knew he would do it again; he would endure any degree of pain or loneliness in order to spare his loved ones from suffering caused by his presence in their lives.

It was bullshit, of course. There was no amount of pain or suffering that would be worse than losing Brian. Any other loss - and he did mean any - would seem insignificant by comparison. A quick thought suggested he should probably feel guilty for feeling that way, but . . . there it was. Brian was the one person he could not bear to lose.

Justin knew that; unfortunately, Brian did not. Thus, he would require some serious convincing.

Yes, a tie was the very thing, an Armani with gold fleurs-de-lis on a field of burgundy. A hint of formality and a nod toward the importance of the day, and a very subtle nudge in the right direction toward the effort to make Brian believe.

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


From the outside, it was just a rustic little diner, nestled against a copse of mountain ash and elderberry trees. On a narrow blacktop road just a mile down from a major highway exchange, it would not, at first glance, appear to hold much appeal for casual travelers. And it didn't; not until those travelers actually stopped there to sample the menu.

Once hooked, however, very few were able to resist the urge to go back.

It was called Collier's Lodge. It was homey, attractive with comfy furnishings and lots of rich wood surfaces, without coming anywhere near haute decor, and bustling from early morning until closing time around ten PM, almost all of its clientele composed of familiar, return customers.

Thus Brian and Justin were new enough to draw interested glances, although it was a  given that either of them - alone - would have been a treat for the eyes - all kinds of eyes - but together, they were a vision almost no one could resist examining in a second look, followed by a third and a fourth.

"New in town?" asked the waitress, as she directed them toward a table in the front corner of the dining room - a table which took full advantage of the diner's most perfect physical asset: a view of the valley across the way with a stair-step waterfall making its way down the side of a cliff, amid thriving clusters of wild flowers in a riot of colors and thick groups of mountain laurel, spilling drifts of rose-tinted ivory down the hillside. Far below, the gleam of a small river flashed in the sunlight, breeding tiny scraps of rainbow along its path.

"Brand new," answered Justin, with a smile for the buxom waitress. "And hungry."

Brian laughed, eyeing the nametag the middle-aged server. "He's always hungry, Marge. So what do you suggest for the bottomless pit here?"

"Brunch or lunch?" she asked, glancing at the clock while deciding she could really get used to that spectacular smile - and the blond's was equally bright.

"A bit of both?" Justin answered. "My breakfast was interrupted."

And just like that, gauging the smirk on the face of the man with the hazel eyes, Marge knew the truth - and didn't care in the least.

Her smile was speculative. "Okay. Maybe some blueberry orange French toast. Or - wait, I know. I think I've got just the thing for you. How about some banana ebelskivers, along with the best sugar-cured bacon east of the Mississippi. With home-made butter pecan syrup. And from there - your choice. Dessert maybe? We make a peanut butter/chocolate cheesecake that will knock your socks off."

"Ebel . . . what?" asked Justin. "I don't know what that . . ."

"Sort of a cross between a pancake and a popover - a Danish creation that'll blow your mind."

"Sounds great, for starters," Justin answered, still perusing the hand-written menu. "Except for the cheesecake." He looked up and favored his partner with a smile of such sweet tenderness that Marge felt obliged to look away, feeling as if she was trespassing on an intimate moment. "Allergies, you know."

"Okay. How about a strawberry trifle then? Or an upside down caramel latte crunch?"

Justin's eyes were suddenly huge, and Brian couldn't quite stifle a burst of laughter. "You're going to become his best friend in the whole world, Marge, and I'm going to watch that bubble butt double in size."

Justin grinned. "Not me, Old Man. I've still got the metabolism of a teen-ager."

"Famous last words," Brian retorted, but the look in his eyes was so tender it was impossible for Justin to take offense.

"And for you, Sir?" Marge, who had been happily absorbed in the prettiness of Justin's face, now turned her full attention to Brian, and felt her breath catch slightly in her throat as she was forced to acknowledge a tiny nuance of jealousy.

What would it be like to be part of a union that included two such beautiful individuals? A tiny part of her mourned that she would never know, although she thought - hoped - that her husband, Art, saw some form of beauty when he looked at her. But nothing like this, she knew. This was the stuff of legend.

"Coffee," Brian replied, favoring her with a smile that set her insides aflutter, "and wheat toast."

"Is that all?" she demanded. "It's almost sacriligious to come here and nibble on toast. How about some lovely eggs benedict? They're exquisite, and you could stand to put on a few pounds, you know."

"Coffee and toast," he repeated, but his smile did not waver, and she found it so disarming - even with its small nuance of mockery - that she elected not to argue.

The two sat in silence for a while, enjoying the warmth of the diner's ambiance and the beauty of the view, but Brian could tell that Justin's quiet was not easy and relaxed - that he was biding his time.

He did not speak of what was on his mind until after Marge served their coffee and disappeared back toward the kitchen.

"You haven't said anything," he commented finally, spooning sugar into his cup. "Not really. And don't try to deny it. A single 'pretty place' does not an observation make." He deliberately stared into his cup, avoiding lifting his eyes to meet Brian's gaze. "You didn't like it. You don't see it the way I do. I should have known . . ."'

Although, his mind insisted, there had been that one moment - a frozen, quick, but somehow unforgettable instant when Brian had stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, and been touched by . . . something. He had almost managed to convince himself that he had not really felt his big, strong, overly-protective lover tremble in that moment, but . . .

"There are lots of things you should have known, Justin," Brian interrupted, a strange glint of something in his eyes. "There have always been a lot of things you should have been able to figure out. Such as . . ." He paused then and waited until Justin finally, reluctantly, looked up and met his eyes and was stricken almost speechless by what he saw there. "Such as that I prefer action to words."

"Meaning what exactly?" It was almost a gasp, barely audible.

Justin was sitting facing the window and so focused on Brian's expression that he did not notice a group of new arrivals, not even when they walked across the diner and stopped just behind him.

"Meaning," Brian answered, almost tongue-in-cheek, "that we have guests."

Justin blinked, confused, until his mother stepped into his view and settled herself at the table, followed immediately by Liam Quinn, Lance Mathis, and an elegantly-clad older man whom Justin did not recognize.

Greetings were exchanged quickly, and Justin was his usual charming self, but the confusion was still in his eyes, especially when no introduction of the stranger in the group was forthcoming.

"Not that it's not good to see you all," he said finally, "but what are you doing here?"

"For me, just my job," replied Mathis, picking up a menu and appearing to enjoy the read.

"He's been following us?" Justin's expression was one part annoyance over being followed at all and one part chagrin at not having noticed.

Brian merely shrugged. "These days, someone's always following us, Sunshine."

Reluctantly, Justin nodded, accepting what he knew he could not change.

"And you, Mom? What are you and Mr. Quinn . . ."

Brian reached out and covered Justin's hand with his own, squeezing slightly in order to cut off the flow of confused words. "Justin," he said softly, speaking in a tone more commonly reserved for their pillow talk sessions, "this very distinguished gentleman . . ." He turned and nodded to the stranger. "Love the Armani, by the way." The radiance of his smile grew more intense as he turned back to Justin. "This is Laurence Kissinger. His firm is based in New York, so he's done us a very great favor by coming out here today."

"His . . . firm?"

Brian nodded, and Justin looked at the faces around him and saw that each of them was biting tongues and lips to avoid breaking into silly grins.

"What firm?"

Brian sat back and took a sip of coffee. "Ever heard of Andre Kikoski?"

"No, I don't . . ." Justin was growing more annoyed by the moment, but then - quite suddenly - something clicked in his mind. "Andre Kikoski? As in . . . the architect Kikoski?"

"The very same." At this point, Brian could not quite contain the tiny nuance of satisfaction in his voice.

"You bastard!" snapped Justin. "You mother-fucking bastard!" He was trying to be angry, to feel duped and used and . . . But all he could really feel was a rising euphoria. "You already bought it, didn't you?"

"No," Brian replied, hazel eyes bright with feelings he almost never verbalized. "But - providing you approve - I'm about to."

And it was at that moment that the entire staff and clientele of the diner was treated to a display of passion and sweet communication that rarely happened anywhere - especially in a country diner in rural Pennsylvania, as Justin threw himself into Brian's arms and attacked that beloved mouth with lips and teeth and tongue.

For a moment, there was dead silence, and then - with only one or two exceptions - there was applause from all the spectators.

When he came up for air, he was red-faced, realizing he had made something of a spectacle of their joy, but he had no time to worry or regret as Liam Quinn was already laying out papers for their signatures - both signatures, since the property would be jointly owned. Justin, as always, tried to argue, but the look in Brian's eyes told him he was wasting his time.

So they signed their names on multiple dotted lines, Justin and his mother shared a mutual exchange of hugs - punctuated by tears - and then Mr. Kissinger leaned forward to shake Justin's hand. "I am so looking forward to this," he said with a smile. "I saw the site yesterday, and we are going to design something that will take your breath away, Mr. Taylor." Then his smile grew wider, as a spark flared in gray eyes. "And may I just say that - as an old queer who remembers what life was like before it finally became semi-acceptable to be 'gay', back in the day when the sight of two gorgeous young men exchanging a kiss would have led to a brutal beating, not to mention jail time - building something for the two of you to share will give me tremendous personal satisfaction. In some small way, it makes me a part of your world. You are, you know, breathtakingly beautiful." Then he laughed at the tiny smirk that touched Brian's face. "But then, you already know that, don't you?"

The older man's eyes - a deep gray with glints of mossy green - were soft with the joy of sharing this moment, and Justin spared a thought to observe that, as a young man, the architect must have been a vision to behold. No Armani back then, probably, or Dolce & Gabanna, but Tommy Hilfiger maybe, or Polo. It was a pleasant thought. But, at the moment, it could not be his primary thought. That was reserved for another.

Brian rolled his lips as he affixed his final signature to the one remaining dotted line, and looked up to find himself the object of intense scrutiny from his beautiful young lover. Neither spoke; neither needed to.

"Marge!" There was no need for Brian to shout, as the waitress had been standing nearby since the happy melodrama had begun. "This is a special occasion. Think you can dig up a bottle of champagne - or two?"

It had been nothing more than a group of strangers or - in some cases - casual acquaintances who'd wound up in the same spot to share a late morning, lazy Sunday meal, but it evolved and became something more, a kind of a meet and greet party, as almost everyone in the diner got a chance to get close to the new arrivals in the neighborhood and share their perceptions of the house that should be built on the beautiful land overlooking the river.

Justin, of course, was in the thick of the discussion, laughing, loving the attention. Brian was quieter, sipping his champagne and slightly aloof - but not to those who knew him. For them, there was no mistaking the soft glow in his eyes as he watched Justin work the room, and Jennifer Taylor wondered, for just a moment, how she had ever doubted him.

He loved her son; he loved him so much he would die for him.

It should have been a comforting thought, but - somehow - it wasn't, and she couldn't quite figure out why the idea bothered her so much.


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