Nightmare for some, dawn of a new era for others…

LA International Airport.

Day One.

In the bowl of bustle outside the Liberty Air Baggage Claim office, duffel at his feet, jetlagged mind a mill of excitement and anxiety, Justin read the instruction sheet in his hand then scanned loitering faces for his ride.

“Justin Taylor?”

Justin’s eyes flicked to a striking young Hispanic man his age, slight build, little taller in jeans and trendy shirt.  A man who moved with fast-paced self-assurance. “Marco Sanchez?”

“That’s me,” he smiled, reached out with a hot-potato handshake.  “C’mon.  I’m in a No Park zone.”  And he hustled Justin through the exit doors.

In hazy outdoor sun, Marco pointed, “Blue Corvette.  I’ll pop the trunk.”

Justin stopped with a pang at the sight of a car like Brian’s.  Then snapped to attention when the trunk lid rose and a squat man in a Skycap uniform got out of the driver’ seat.  Justin rushed his bag into the trunk, slammed the lid, watched Marco pass the Cap a bill and swung into the shotgun seat as Marco settled beside him.  “You gave him twenty dollars just to watch the car?”  Mental note on tipping…jesus!

“Drive it around if he had to,” Marco answered over thudding doors, donned Top Gun shades.  “It’s more than he’d make walking some old lady to the gates, and less than a traffic ticket or paying off the cop.”  Marco pulled out, watched his mirrors.  “So what’s your gig at the studio?”

“My job?” Justin guessed.  “We haven’t exactly discussed it yet.”

“You must be pretty important for Brett to fly you all the way from Pittsburgh.”

Justin shook his head. “I really doubt that.  I’m probably the lowest guy on the pole.”

“Collaborative writer for a TV series?”

“No,” Justin quirked a face.  “I’m pretty sure it’s in the Art Department.”

“Artist?  Hey. Me, too.  We might even be working together.  I WONDERED why Brett sent me to get you.  Bachelor’s Fine Arts, University of Illinois Champaign, and two years at the Chicago Art Institute,” he chirped proudly.  “How about YOU?”

Justin bit his lip.  Shit.  I didn’t even graduate.  “PIFA,” he calmly smiled, “Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts.”  I didn’t see your degree…you don’t need to see mine.  “So what do you do?”

Marco shrugged, “A little of everything,” then switched gears.  “We’ll swing by the guest house so you can get settled, grab lunch at the IHOP on La Cienega then tour a little before dinner.  If you’re up to it.”

“Lunch?  Oh,” Justin chuckled, adjusted his watch, paused in thought.  “Marco, if you’ve got things to do…”

“YOU’RE my thing to do,” Marco cheered.  “Orders from the High Command.  Along with Brett’s titanium card and the whole day to use it.  So relax.  For today, we’re both on vacation.  And tonight, we can check out the hot babes.”

Great.  Straight guy.  Phobe maybe?  “I really didn’t plan on much clubbing out here.”

“Get serious,” Marco chortled.  “You make your best contacts AFTER work, not during it.”  Then a thought.  “Got a girl back home, hunh?”

Justin turned a decisive eye on Marco.  “No.  A boyfriend.”  There.  I’m proud of me AND Brian, and I’ll take a cab if you want.

Marco casually shrugged, “That’s cool.  Brett and a lotta the studio regulars are gay.  But it’s not my thing, so I’ll run you past the WeHo hot spots, but I’m not stopping.  Fine by you?”

“As long as I don’t hafta check out hot babes later,” Justin warmed.

Marco nodded and grinned, “Since we’ll never be each other’s competition, I guess we’ll get along just fine.”

Justin leaned back, watched the scenery more intently than the first time, when there wasn’t much reason to memorize it.  He listened to Marco’s rambling, noted the overpasses and the steel girder skeleton of a building in progress.

In a Pittsburgh medical office …

A skeleton of another kind.  Brian’s x-ray on a flat-screen monitor.

The Doctor turned an approving eye to Brian in work casual and leaning against the exam table.  “You’re a fast healer.”  He snatched the sling off the table and held it out.  “But let’s go another week just to be safe.”

Brian pseudo-sighed, “And I was so hoping to use it for that slingshot competition tonight.”

“You still can.  Just keep it on between shots.  And see me in another week.”

“Are you buying a new car by any chance?”

“Fool around with that shoulder, and I’ll strongly consider it.”

“I don’t pay you to steal the punch lines.”

“Who’s joking?”  Straight-faced and serious.

Point taken, Brian attached his sling, patted the chest band, gave the Doc a thumbs-up and left the office.  I’ll be good.  I’ll be good.

The fuck I will.

In the privacy of his Vette, Brian detached the sling, shoved it into his pocket and rubbed his shoulder.  Still a little sore.  But the x-ray said solid, and what better way to strengthen a bone than to exercise it.  Which reminded him of Justin.  He opened his briefcase, took out a small box with a Time-Matters store logo, removed a dual-face travel clock and set each face – one at 4 PM, the other at 1 PM.  Justin should be there by now.

His cell phone rang.  He pulled it out quickly but let it ring two more times because Brian Kinney didn’t overreact despite that part of his brain.  Or so he convinced himself.  He didn’t even check the ID, just answered with a business, “Brian Kinney.” And felt a strange chemical letdown.  “Mikey.”

At Red Cape, Michael leaned on his counter and stared with concern.  “It’s been three hours and I didn’t hear from you so I thought I’d call.  How’d it go?”

“I have the bones of a twenty-year old, and the only sling I intend to be around will have a hot ass in it.”

“Justin called?”

Brian tongued his cheek.  When did people start assuming his innuendo always referred to Justin.  “No, but he’s a big boy.  He can take care of himself without my consent.”

“Don’t you want to know he made it okay?  Maybe I’ll give him a call.”

“Mikey -”

“Or maybe YOU should call him.  I’ll get off so I don’t tie up your line.”

“Good.  Tie up Ben instead.  Bye-bye.”

Brian disconnected, pursed his lips and scrolled until an 818 area phone number displayed.  Stared at it.  Shut the phone.  No.  We’re not starting that fucking shit.  If it’s important, we’ll talk.  Brian slid the cell into his pocket, geared into reverse and backed out of his parking space.  Got a business to run.  A life to live.  And so does he.

Hours later at Brett’s guest house…

Justin shot into the living room, checked his watch again.  6 PM.

Shit.  The fucking time change!

I hafta call Brian.  REALLY hafta call Brian. “Hey Marco?  Grab a seat.  I hafta make a phone call.”

Marco stopped in the open doorway.  “Brett and the welcome party are waiting.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”  Justin pulled his cell, plopped on one end of a black leather couch.  

Marco smiled and nodded, saw Justin dialing then rolled his eyes.  You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.  He slouched cross-armed in the doorway, toes against the opposite frame, looked across the garden and smiled at Brett’s mansion.

“Shit,” Justin grumbled.  Busy.  He hit redial.  Busy.  Scrolled to Kinnetik, waited through four rings and got the answering machine.  “Hey.  It’s me, and everything’s okay.  I’ll catch you later.”  Then he dialed the Loft.

At the Loft…

Brian in barefoot home-wear, paced across the living room, cell phone to his ear, Palm Pilot in the other hand.

“Ike…may I call you Ike?  Ike, if you go with Vangard, you’ll be pissing one point three mill down the tubes.  Paying for his executive bathroom and a top-heavy administrative staff.”  Brian heard his home line ring, pressed the Palm to his ear and hiked away from the recording message.  “Kinnetik is streamlined, creative AND experienced.  My Turner Construction campaign won two awards.”  Brian leaned his head back, serenely smiled.  “Tomorrow at ten?”  He pressed a Palm button and a blank screen popped up.  “I just happen to have that slot open.  No, don’t worry about directions.  I’ll be there.  See you then.” 

Brian shut his phone, exhaled a long breath.  Wandered to his desk, lifted a file, slapped it down then leaned on a stiffened right arm.  “Fuck this,” he drooped and shook his head,  “Fuck this.”  He eyed the phone in his left hand and tossed it on the desk.  Paced with restless gesture to the living room window and halted at the blinking light on his answering machine.

Okay, Mikey.  What is it.  He hit Playback, shut his eyes when he heard Justin’s excited, “Hey, it’s just me.  Marco – one of the artists - took me on a tour of the Strip and Rodeo Drive, and past a really cool gay club.  It’s called Rage.  Would you believe that?  I hafta go.  I’ll call you later.”

Fuck Cellular Innovations and Ike What’s-His-Face.  I missed Justin.  Miss?  I can’t need him.  Fucking refuse to need him.

Brian thudded up the stairs to the bedroom, headed for the closet.  He shuffled through hangars, stopped on his black sleeveless, paused to reconsider then finally whipped it out.  Need relief.  Need some fucking relief.     

At Brett’s guest house, Marco checked his watch.  “Ready?”

“Just one more call.  I’ll make it short.”  He redisplayed Brian’s cell number.

Marco sighed a good-natured, “One more.  Don’t let Brett think I’m not doing my job.”

Justin resigned,  “It can wait till later,” shut and pocketed his phone.

At Babylon’s Back Room…

Sure that he wouldn’t find what he wanted, Brian didn’t prowl.  Instead, he staked a claim on a high-traffic section of wall, leaned back and mustered a cool, gorgeous aura as he opened his jeans, coaxed his cock.  The right blowjob…a little imagination…it could do the trick.

“Hey, Brian.  Long time no see.”

But not a familiar trick.  “How’s it going, Todd.” 

“Fiiine. Want me to suck you off?”

“I’m meeting someone.  Preferably a stranger.”

“Oh.  Okay,” Todd grinned and forayed on.

Brian felt a presence beside him, heard a throaty, “I’m a stranger.”

“Tag.  You’re it,” Brian smiled.  In the low light, he could make out a big guy with short hair that might be blond.  Close enough.

As Stranger dropped to his knees, Brian tilted his head back and shut his eyes.  Felt the warmth and suction on his cock.  Hands gripping his thighs.  His mind wandered back to a time in the alley.  Stockwell plastered on the building walls, courtesy of Justin Taylor.  Made him smile.  Until his silent trick suddenly went vocal.

“Mmmm.  Mm.  Mm.  Mmmm,” Stranger moaned and slurped.

Annoying as all shit.  Brian looked down.  If only your technique was half as good as your enthusiasm.  “It’s COCK, not fucking Campbell’s Soup.”

After a couple of onlookers snickered, Brian felt Stranger go tense and mechanical.   Too distracted to recover his prior illusion, Brian went for the physical release.  “Just relax and keep going.”

The Emerald Room.  Active, genial, half the fever of Babylon but twice the power.   An atmosphere Justin began to absorb and enjoy as he stood sipping a drink beside Brett and a guy who looked like an FBI agent in designer casual.

Brett assured Guy, “We’re still under budget, even with the editors pulling all-nighters.  Now save it for tomorrow and don’t rain on the party tonight.”

“It’s never a party till the final cut,” he smiled sharp, turned to Justin.  “So you’re the heart of Brett’s edgy new concept.  A gay super-hero?”

“Rage,” Justin beamed.

“I understand Fenderman’s quite fascinated.”

Brett cut in, “It’s still in development.”

“So I’ve heard,” Guy blinked with private-joke amusement then leaned closer to Justin.  “See that he treats you better than he does my budget,” he winked and moved on.

Brett smiled wide.  “Maynard Green.  Business Affairs.  He’s a bastard, but he’s great with loaves and fishes, and knows how to pick a winner.”

“Is he on the project, too?”

“Enough about him,” Brett diverted, swung an arm around Justin’s shoulders.  “So what other amazing characters have you conjured up lately?”

“I haven’t really thought about any other ones,” Justin mused.

“That’s hard to believe.  You’re too creative,” Brett gripped his arm.  “Once you’re in the right place, I’ll wager there’ll be no stopping you.  Just remember who gets first option.  Let me introduce you to some of the crew.”

Justin, high on Brett’s confidence, walked with him toward a group of young folks already high on other shit.  And all talking film.  Like a brotherhood joined by passion for the craft.  Justin was all ears, ready to soak up the industry.  Being part of it…invited to contribute…god.  This is great. 

At Babylon’s bar, Brian knocked back another Beam, snorted a short bump and without a look back growled,  “I’m not interested,” to whoever tapped his shoulder.

Emmett had to shout above the din, “Uh…frankly, neither am I?  But I thought walking past you without a hello would be rude.”

Brian turned and leaned back against the bar, eyes a little glazed and dilated but sharp enough to see Emmett and Darren.  “And what are you two Girl Scouts selling tonight?”

Darren smiled, “Actually, we’re on a recruiting mission.”

Brian snorted, “Let me guess.  Navy.”

Darren squinted; Emmett dead-eyed, “Performers.  For a very special party?”

“Ah.  Tailhook.  I’ve heard of it.”

Emmett answered with a catty, “Well don’t interrupt your pissy mood on OUR account,” grabbed Darren’s arm and pointed to the dance floor.  “Come on.  I think I see Bruno.”

Brian watched the two worm through the crowd, looked off with another snort.  He left the bar, climbed the stairs to the Men’s room, checked out the eyes checking HIM out and kept moving.  Why the FUCK is nothing interesting tonight.

He was just about to push the door open when he felt his cell vibrating in his pants pocket.  So he moved aside and took the call.  “Brian Kinney,” felt a mild rush and slouched back against the wall.  “How’s the party?”

In an off-cove beside the upper level Restrooms, Justin pressed a hand to his free ear.  “It’s all so amazing!  I met some Studio Execs, some of the crew, and Brett’s letting me use his guest house.”  Then he realized that half the music he was hearing came from the phone.  “That’s the same song playing HERE!  Where are YOU?”

“Out getting my nails done.”

“Sounds like…Babylon?”  Justin twisted a frown, a little disconcerted that Brian was out this late with a bad shoulder.  And nailing.  “Are you okay?”

Brian pursed his lips, livened, “Do I sound like I’m not?” just as Stranger intruded with a husky…

“You up for round two?”

Justin heard Brian’s, “I don’t do encores,” felt like the intruder himself.  Then Brett’s, “Justin.  You’re wanted front and center,” made him finish to Brian, “I’ll call you back later.”

Brian overheard, gripped the phone and lightly answered, “What for?  You’re fine…I’m fine…fuck the phone company and save it for next week.”

“Brian…I…” Shit.

“I know.”  I do, but let’s not go there.  “Now hang up and schmooze while you’ve got their attention,” Brian closed his eyes.  “It’s your shot.  Make it good.”

“Later,” Justin swallowed, heard the music on his cell click dead, shoved the phone into a pocket and leaned back.  You’re right.  I’m a professional out on a job, not some whiney homesick kid.  Still…I don’t know…why I expected you’d be home.  Justin palmed back his hair.  Long trip…time change…sensory overload…must be it.

At Babylon, Brian stood in place, pictured the first big account he ever landed.  And the cocktail party welcome, with Ryder touting a shitload of praise.  Until the image became Justin glowing in a circle of his own.  Which was as it SHOULD be.  Despite the hollow twinge.  

Back to back on distant walls, Justin and Brian face the possibility that, in one day, their lives are already beginning to separate.

Song:  “Don’t Break My Heart (Outstanding Mix) by DJ Cor Fijneman ft. Romy

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