Brian stood at his desk and watched Cynthia silently read his memo.

“We’ll need copies for all departments so we can get these changes started right away. I already talked to Gardner and we’re making this top priority.

“Brian…thanks for helping Chad. He was getting discouraged and ready to drop out. But now he’s excited about finishing his project.”

“HE should be thanking YOU. So should I. Gardner hasn’t had any last-minute bail-outs, but he thinks we caught the leak early.”

“I hope so,” Cynthia turned to leave, paused and glanced back. “You ARE coming to the Staff Awards tonight, aren’t you?”

“I may have better things to do.”

“Six sharp. Hilton. Cocktail formal,” she smirked and left.

Hardly what he had in mind after gunning all day with creative, production and ad hounds. He lifted his planner off the desk, paged to Monday and checked his schedule – couple sales calls, a notation: Hilton 6P; Justin/Deb’s 8P.

The Coffee Shop clock read 4 PM. An hour during which only a few students sat sipping tea or lattes while browsing books, discussing theories, tapping on laptops.

Justin and Chad sat in a booth across from each other. Chad leaned forward on the table; Justin slouched back and fanned through a thirty-page report.

“Ten…that’s an awful lot of copies,” Justin shook his head. “If I get caught, I might get fired.”

“I’ve got a case of paper, so it’s not like we’re stealing anything,” he watched Justin reconsider with a raised brow and head tilt. “It’s the maps that are the main problem,” Chad set two cased CD’s on the table in front of Justin. “I need them at two-hundred percent, top resolution to be readable. Can you sharpen them up?”

“Yeah, sure,” Justin set the CD’s on top of the papers, slid them into a manila envelope. “How soon do you want them?”

“This Wednesday.”

Justin tensed, cleared his throat. “I’m working at the shop tomorrow night…yeah. I can do it.”

“About the pay…I ran into some expenses I didn’t plan-” he watched Justin exhale, lean back and stare through half-closed eyes, quickly added, “-but would you take this instead?” Chad worked a laptop from his case, set it on the table. “I just upgraded and I really don’t need it.”

Justin leaned forward, eyes wide. “Are you nuts? This must be worth at least five or six hundred dollars.”

“This project is worth more to me. If it’s not on my prof’s desk by Friday, I’ll fail the internship and lose the credit. So what do you say, hunh? Will you do it?”

“Sure,” Justin nodded, cleared his throat again. “But I feel like I’m ripping you off.”

Chad was preoccupied with digging through his case. “I can get you up and online right now if you got a minute.”

Justin checked his watch. “Not too long. I hafta be someplace.”

Chad stopped, thought. “It must be in the car. Wait here a minute, hunh?”

“Chad-” Justin called, but Chad was up and out the door too quickly. Justin opened the laptop, looked at his watch, at the entry door. Christ. He was already late.

Brian, in Armani, read the “Presidential Room” sign above two carved oak doors, pushed and made grand entrance into…

The Office Party. Typical pomp event for success-flaunters, boss-brownies and – given enough good drink – the revelation of company secrets even the company didn’t know.

In a large room with an atmosphere like Titanic’s First Class dining hall, Brian panned the sixty or so Vanguarders. Many smiled greetings, a couple oozed back-room vibes. He hardly recognized Cynthia, regal and dangerous in black with pearls and a martini.

“I thought you had other plans,” she joined him, smiled low.

“And miss all these Academy Award performances?” Brian scanned again, stopped on Gardner Vance seated across from three guests by the fireplace, the back of a lithe blonde woman almost in his lap. “Besides, I don’t believe I’ve ever met Mrs. Vance.”

“That’s not Mrs. Vance,” Cynthia whispered. “That’s his new assistant. Lana.”

“So the old breeder has a bone after all,” Brian smirked respect, watched Gardner’s hand on the low-cut back of her dress.

Cynthia made a face. “One day and she thinks she’s in charge. Wouldn’t let Chad in, even after I okay’d it. And Vance backs her up,” Cynthia sipped her drink. “I’d like to cut off her balls with a blunt scissors.”

“Why Cynthia,” Brian grinned in surprise, “I do believe we’re spending too much time together.” He glanced out again and saw Lana’s back. She was standing and clinging on the arm of Paul Bright, a slick-looking up-and-comer. “I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s already mapping new ground.”

“Yeah. My date.”

Cynthia lifted Brian’s hand, thrust her glass into it, turned with high heels loudly clicking toward Paul.

“Rrrrr-oww,” Brian discreetly cat-snarled, watched her grab Paul’s other arm and tactfully guide him away. Lana turned, meeting Brian’s eyes for the first time.

Recognition flashed so potent, for a second, despite their distance, Brian felt he was nose-to-nose with her. Scott Turner’s “mole” .

Lana’s eyes flashed in angry recognition. Seeing Brian approaching with an aggressive stare, she spun away to seek avoidance in another clique.

Brian wasn’t heading for her. He parked Cynthia’s drink on a passing waiter’s tray and stopped at Gardner. “Gardner,” he smiled.

“Brian.” Gardner rose, took Brian’s arm, addressed his group. “This is Brian Kinney. I’m sure you’re all familiar with his phenomenal work,” and to Brian, “I’d like to introduce-”

Brian cut in with an extended hand. “Doctor Sylvia Grimes…” he shook, next, “Director Al Torres…” and finally, “Doctor Mark Weigle. I’ve read your AMA article on genetic testing. Very enlightening.”

“Well.” Weigle shared smug looks with his colleagues. “It seems Vanguard certainly IS interested in representing BioGenTech.”

“He’s our best,” Gardner pat Brian’s arm.

“Mind if I steal your host?” Brian waited for approval nods. Then to Gardner, “I need to see you for a moment.” To the group, “Enjoy the party.” And he steered Gardner to a deserted wall far from the bar.

Gardner casually looked back at the Bio group. “I hope you don’t mind my inviting them to our awards. I wanted them to get the feel of our accomplishments.”

“Smart move,” Brian agreed. “But I have other concerns. I understand you just hired a new assistant.”

Gardner took in Brian’s reserve. “Brian, when you brought Cynthia with you, I didn’t demand a say in that. Please do not imply that I can’t enjoy the same courtesy.”

“Do you know she’s with Neville Agency?”

“Was. They offered her the option to leave after she lost Conrad Builders.”

“She’s a proven risk.”

“She told me everything, and you must know I checked it out carefully. Imagine this job without your Cynthia. Now take one very talented, knowledgeable young lady who needs a job, and one overworked partner who needs an assistant…and accept the result.” Gardner spied waiters seating guests. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe we’re ready for the awards.”

Gardner walked away; Paul Bright stepped in.

“My Lander Systems is up against Turner Construction for Staff honors,” Paul raised his drink to Brian. “May the best man win.”

“Does it matter? We’re all Vanguard,” Brian blinked into Paul’s shark-dark eyes, then moved off to take a seat beside Gardner.

Going for the same chair, Lana stopped short beside Brian.

“So you’re Brian Kinney,” she raised a defiant smile. “You got me fired.”

“No,” Brian coolly pulled out the chair, motioned for her to take it. “YOU did.”

Her face dropped as she slid onto the chair to avoid a scene and jerked it toward the table.

Vic happily bustled around his kitchen, immune to the mess of used pans piled on the counter. The mark of a true chef. He turned to a stovetop of full burners in action, lifted the lid on a large pot and dipped a spoon for a sample.

Justin trooped in. “Hey, Vic. Smells great. Sorry I’m late did I…miss anything?” He scanned the fright zone. Living with Ethan at least made him more tolerant.

“Only most of it. But you’re in time for the cake,” Vic smiled, tested the soup. “Wash your hands first.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And don’t get cute. This is serious business,” Vic jabbed air with the empty spoon, tossed it into the sink and opened a cabinet in search of more equipment.

Justin ran the faucet, wet his hands over a pile of utensils. “Want me to wash some of this?”

“I want you to separate some eggs,” Vic plopped down a strange cup. He snatched one of five eggs on a plate, cracked it on the cup edge and emptied it in.

“What’s that?” Justin dried his hands.

Vic handed him the cup. “Egg separator. Pour the whites into that measuring cup.” He grabbed a ladle, turned to stir soup and check pots.

Justin studied the cup. It was a man’s comical face with a long nose, two nostrils, handle on back of the head. Justin took the handle, tipped the cup over the measuring glass. A stream of mucousy whites dripped through the nostrils until the yokes blocked the flow.

“This is soooo gross.”

“A gift from Michael,” Vic grinned, opened a cabinet and reached for a glass on an upper shelf. “You can dump the yokes in this.”

A burner hissed and sizzled in a major boil-over. Justin flinched; Vic’s glass tumbled down and shattered on the counter.

“Get that,” Vic shot over his shoulder and reached for pieces as Justin dashed for the stove. “Shit!” Vic pulled up his hand, grabbed a dishcloth off the faucet.

“You okay, Vic?” Justin downed the flame, glanced back. He could see blood spots on the cloth.

“Yeah, yeah. Paper cut,” Vic grumbled, wrapped his hand and headed for the stairs.

“Need some help?” Justin started after him.

“Stay there. Stay there.”

Justin watched Vic thump up the steps, returned to the kitchen sink. “Deb’s gonna kill us,” he sighed at the view, reached for a glass chunk, saw the egg separator. Daphne might get a kick out of – “Ah!” He dropped the glass back on the counter, checked his bleeding fingertip, reached for the missing dishcloth and froze.

Oh god, oh god, oh god – he went white, eyes scouring the glass pieces. One had a red spot on its edge. Not that one. Or that one. Or the one by the eggs. None of the others. Only one. He leaned closer, looked again, heart thumping faster. For a second, his vision tunneled. He was shallow breathing and had to get a grip.

Justin brushed the glass piece into the sink. Turned on the hot water. Took the soap bar and sped through a wash, squeezing blood to run like pale ink. He could hear Vic thudding back down the stairs. He took a massive breath in…slowly pushed it out. Must look normal. Normal. Normal.

“Just leave those,” Vic gruffed,bumped Justin aside, opened the sink cabinet door for a latex glove. “Are you okay? You look a little white.”

Justin fisted his hand behind his thigh. “I hafta run upstairs.”

“Please don’t say it’s the food,” Vic quipped, gloved his bandaged hand. His brows briefly knit over Justin’s hasty exit but relaxed as he scanned the shambles. “Sis is gonna kill me. But not with Sunshine around.” And he hummed a sixties tune while hand-shoveling glass into the trash can.

Upstairs, Justin opened the bathroom medicine cabinet, found a bandage and stripped it open. His finger was barely oozing, but he bandaged it anyway. Then he saw Vic’s row of HIV meds, shut his eyes, stretched his arms against the sink and hunched forward as if gut-shot in agony. Vic’s great life.

He hung suspended, too scared to move, too numb to cry. What were the chances. What next. What if. No way did he ever want Vic to know. So whom could he tell?

No one.

Justin ran the cold water, splashed his face, dried off and hurried downstairs. He stopped in the kitchen doorway to see Vic in his specs, paging through a beat-up binder. “Vic?”

Vic turned, his smile flattening. “Are you sure you’re okay? You still look a little pale.”

“Is it…alright if we try this some other night?”

Vic nodded, as much concerned as disappointed. “You go get some rest. This was just a warm up. Next time, we’ll REALLY get into it,” he grinned.

Justin could almost feel his disappointment. “What’re you reading?”

“My life as a chef,” Vic closed the binder. “Never was a best-seller, but-”

“Think I could…like…borrow it?” When he noticed Vic’s hesitation, he added, “Just to get familiar with stuff. I’ll take good care of it.”

Vic eyed him a moment, “See that you do,” and handed it over, pleased with the interest.

“Thanks,” Justin stared a little too long.

“What?”

Justin broke it off. “Uh…shit,” he rubbed his temple. “Brian’s supposed to pick me up. Could you tell him I’ll call him later?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” Justin turned back to the living room, put the binder in his backpack, slung it over a shoulder and headed for the door. “Later, Vic.” The last semblance of cheer he could eek out.

“See ya, Sunshine,” Vic watched the door shut, smiled and turned back to the stove.

The wall phone rang. He snapped up the receiver. “Grassi’s Diner. Brian! Where you at, kid? I can barely hear you.”

Brian, on his cell phone, walked the Hilton lobby to the glass entry doors.

“I said I’ll be a little late. IsJustin…what? Why?” Brian noticed Cynthia motioning toward the party suite. He raised a one-minute index finger, saw her nod and walk away. “From where? He doesn’t have a phone yet.” Brian glanced up again. Gardner was advancing. “Vic…I have to go. Yeah. Thanks. Bye.”

“Our guests are waiting,” Gardner bit through a smile.

“They know we’re worth it,” Brian pocketed his cell and joined Gardner on the return.

PIFA Digital Resources, open late for the ambitious, had only one user. Justin. He focused on a computer screen, sped through commands that crisped the image of a Pittsburgh street map, brightened colored dots and darkened the print on labels he didn’t understand. Only the beginning of his night’s work. To stay busy. Hold together. Breathe again.

At the loft, Brian studied the Pittsburgh street atlas on his computer screen. He accessed the Find block, entered Taylor, Justin and PIFA’s zip code. His finger tapped the air over the enter key. If this didn’t work, there were numerous ways he could find out anytime. But Justin asked him to wait. He grabbed the mouse, cursor’d to Close…and clicked.

Justin times-out with work; Brian honors Justin’s request.

Song: “Carte Blanche (Original Mix)” by Veracocha

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