A Kinnetik Monday - in the Loft.

Brian sat at his desk, head propped on a raised left palm, right hand tapping a pencil on a time card.  Fuck THIS shit.  He clacked the pencil down.  Then his business line rang.  Mid-reach, he pulled back and let the machine get it.

“Brian.  Leo Brown.  Just calling to check if there’s been any progress on the Drew Boyd situation.  Call me when you get in.”  Click.

“It’s advertising,” Brian railed at the dead phone, “You want fast action play-by-play?  Watch a fucking hockey game.”

The doorbell buzzed.  Brian debated whether to answer, heard the second buzz and sauntered to the com.  “If it’s business, state your purpose.  If it’s pleasure, state your size.”

Outside, Ted guessed, “Business?” heard the entry buzzer engage and pushed in.

“Hold that door!” Michael shouted and jogged his covered casserole to the doorway.  “You just get back?”

“Two hours, twenty minutes ago,” Ted followed Michael up the stairs.  “I called Kinnetik but they said he was here.  What’s he working on?”

“An ulcer, I think.  He didn’t show up for lunch so Mom insisted on sending this,” Michael lifted the dish.  “She says it’s his favorite, but since he won’t say what his favorite really IS…”

In the open Loft doorway, Brian heard the chatter.  “Ted, Mikey and Tuna Casserole.  Does this mean the only way is up?”

“Your Back Room motto,” Michael deadpanned, headed for the kitchen counter.

“Theodore.  Tell me our money was well-spent on your excursion.”

“I think I found just what we need.” Ted gleamed, waltzed to Brian’s desk and emptied his small bag.  A pile of business cards.

Michael joined them.  “What’re all THOSE?”

“Contacts,” Ted grinned, noticed a stack of time cards on the desk, lifted one and looked at Brian.  “You’re doing the payroll?”

“My office manager was at a convention and we needed incentive for everybody to show up next week.”  Brian snatched the card he’d been working on, shoved it toward Ted.  “What the fuck is THIS?”

Ted eyed it, calmly tipped his head.  “It’s either a preschool art project, or Harry Morgan’s time card.  Hm.”  Ted’s brows knit, eyes scanned.  “Um-hm.  Yeah.  Forty hours. Why don’t you take a look at THOSE,” he nodded at the business cards then leaned over the desk, gathered the time cards, “And let me finish THESE.  It’s no big thing.  I can whip through them in about an hour.”

“Thank you, Rain Man.”  I spent an hour wondering if the fucker even worked here.

“See you at Woody’s about eight?  You can brief me on our follow-up plan.”  Too enthused to catch the lackluster in Brian’s nod, Ted rolled on, “Michael.  You’re joining us, too, right?”

“Yeah.  See ya later.”

After Ted left, Michael frowned at Brian picking at business cards like they were laced with anthrax.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You mean, other than the usual?” Brian grinned.

“You called off on Monday, no-showed lunch, Ted just gave you a shitload of contacts and you hardly looked at them.”

“The workday’s over,” Brian answered low before moving to the kitchen with a lighter, “So how’s Ben, and the wayward hustler…” as he un-lidded the casserole, made a face.

Darker thoughts churning, Michael stepped behind the counter to face him.  “Is it…something the Doctor said?  Is it…” he swallowed hard.

“It’s not cancer,” Brian coolly answered, leaned close to confirm.  “No.  It’s not.”

“Then what?”

Brian exhaled a long breath, ran a hand through his hair, sat on a stool and dropped his chin onto crossed arms on the countertop.  “I thought this would be it.  Running my own business.  Now I’m starting to think it’s running ME.”

Michael settled on his own arms for better eye-to-eye.  “I’ve had days like that.  Usually around the comic deadline.  You’ve had a lotta shit happen in the past few days.  Give yourself a chance to recover.”

“Recover?” Brian reared up.  “Jumping through hoops for the same fucking clients day after day…that’s not being brilliant.  It’s fucking Chinese water torture.  I’m burned out,” Brian swiveled off the stool and walked away.  “Fucking burned out.  And the WORST of it is…nothing,” he jerked a hand, gazed around the Loft, “Not a fucking thing I’d rather do instead.”  He took a deep breath - Snap out of it.  Snap the fuck out of it - looked back with a half smile. “Maybe ONE thing.” 

“I could guess what THAT is,” Michael grumbled.  No response?   Michael cocked his head when he saw Brian return to his desk and revive the computer.  Familiar with Brian’s knack for quick turnaround, Michael wandered to the desk and sat on the edge.  “So much for burnout.  What great idea are you working on now?”

“Replacing my car.”

Michael craned a short look at Brian’s screen, watched Brian type 71 Corvette into the search engine box.  “You’re buying another Vette?”

“Hitch-hiking is too hazardous.  Although driving your own car isn’t much fucking better.

Brian hit enter and a list filled his screen.

Michael watched Brian pick a link then read the display, eyes wide and scanning.  “Find something good?”

“That’s my car,” Brian said to himself.

“You’re not gonna shop around?”

“That’s my fucking car!”  Brian grabbed his phone with one hand, flipped through a day planner with the other.

Michael sprang off the desk for a closer look at the website logo and green Vette – “On EBAY?  Are you sure?”

“As sure as that scratch you put on the rear quarter panel, and that useless GPS.”  Brian sped through touch-tones, grumbled,  “WHATEVER they’re asking, it’s probably not enough.”

“How’d you get a phone number for Ebay?”

Brian side-eyed Michael through half-closed eyes and waived the snark when his callee answered.  “Detective Horvath.  Brian Kinney.  Business.”

On the other half of the continent…

Afternoon Beverly Glen Social.  Spacious designer mansion, loud music, clusters of drink-toting primes and post-primes acting young.  Fun, schmoozing, left-handed compliments and face-to-face backstabbing – a convoluted code of respect for those striving to get ahead or stay ahead and party hard while they still had names.  And a way to communicate preferable to voice-mail phone-tag.

Wise from Brett’s first party, Justin walked in with an I’m-Somebody air that drew momentary but non-threatening glances.  He looked back at Marco, a step behind.  “Whose place is this again?”

“Steve Grable.”  Marco pointed to an older guy with thin dyed-black hair, gut pouching a designer shirt over the one-size-too-small waistband of his lean-jeans, three Cover Girls flirting.

Justin squinted.  “Never heard of him.”

“Art Director for Time Bomb?  And Skinned?  Come ON.”

“Doesn’t sound like my kind of movies.”

“SHOULD be.  He’s a glut for special effects and fights to get his artists a line in the credits.  You know how hard it is to get a credit?  Let’s tell him we’re here.”

Justin lightly resisted Marco’s arm grip and scanned the room.  “You see Brett anywhere?  I wanna ask how Rage is doing.”

“He might be up there.”  Marco pointed to a lavish spiral staircase with guest traffic going both directions.

Justin moved toward the stairs, noticed Marco lagging.  “Aren’t you coming?”

“Don’t you wanna meet Grable first?”

“Go ahead.  I’ll catch up to you later.”

“Suit yourself,” Marco smiled.

Justin watched Marco wander close, edge into the Girls’ circle, spew some flattery and shake Grable’s hand.  I can do that.  But not right now.  Justin climbed the stairway, maneuvered past glitzy and casual guests, brushed against a couple laughing on their descent.  He’d seen enough at Babylon to recognize a mellow high, and done enough to smile at the thought of their euphoria.  If somebody offers, I could use a little hit.  Who’d pass bad shit to a crowd like THIS.

Beyond the top step, a wide art-gallery hall led to a balcony where Justin had to turn left or right.  Left, a large open den with lots of faces but no Brett.  He stood at the railing and panned the crowd, looked right and saw three doors.  One opened and a stoned trio wandered out.  More rooms were on the opposite balcony connected by a bridge-like walkway spanning the main floor.  People on the bridge seemed to be either scouting the lower level or posing for notice.

Justin continued his search past the three doors, across the bridge and along the other balcony.  He checked faces, heard shop talk and gossip while listening for Brett’s voice.  Until he passed a partially open door and a woman’s, “No, stop it.  I don’t want to.”  Triggered by a memory flash, he pushed the door open to see a posh bedroom and well-kept forty-ish man pulling down the shoulder strap of a slinky teal gown on…Punk Girl?  Glammed to the nines, she looked ten years older.  “Moon?”

Forty growled, “This room’s taken.”

Justin focused on the girl.  “Moon, you’ve got a phone call downstairs.”

“She’s busy.  Take a message.”

“It’s important.  Really urgent.”

Seeing Moon’s face droop, Forty resigned to pouring a drink at the bar.  “Go on.”

Justin grabbed her hand and towed her as fast as her tight gown and stiletto sandals would allow.  “Follow me.”

“You’re that new artist.  Justin.” Then a worried,  “Who called?  What happened?”

Justin led her across the bridge and into the hall toward the stairs.  “There isn’t any call.  I said that to get you out of there,” he looked back.

“What?” she snarled, stopped and jerked her hand away.  “What the hell is WRONG with you?”  Height equal, she laser-stared his eyes and ignored passers-by who left wide berth around them.  “Are you trying to hit on me?”

“No.  Gay guys don’t hit on girls.”

“Well you didn’t have to single ME out for your war on women.”

Justin hardened, “Wait a minute.  I’m gay because I like sex with…a man.  Not because I hate women,” added an apologetic, “I thought he was bothering you.”

Her ice melted at his sincerity.  “That’s nice, but you thought wrong.  That’s Gutterz.”  She watched Justin’s brows knit.  “Michael Gutterz?  The casting director!”  Gay or not, boy is THIS guy clueless.  Moon turned quietly serious.  “Word is he’s looking to fill a special part.  I knew he’d be here, he likes Chivas, teal and hard-to-get.  Get it now?”

Justin shrank, “Maybe you could tell him…your cousin died?”

Moon jetted a frustrated breath, flipped a hand to shag her hair, “I’ll see you at work,” and headed for the bridge.

Justin watched her hips in full sway, crunched his eyes shut.  Shit.  I need a bump.  Need a drink.  Need a crash course in Who’s Who.  But I’ll settle for somebody I know.

“Justin!”

Justin spun with a trademark smile.  “Con!”

As Con kissed Justin’s cheek, the mature beauty on Con’s arm looked unfazed, even remarked, “So THIS is where they’re hiding the cute ones.”

“And a hot artist, too,” Con beamed at Justin’s blush and finished introductions.  “This is Justin Taylor…Monica Gildenstern, Associate Producer.”

“Just call me Moni,” she smiled with Joan Crawford eyes, noticed another passing couple.  “There’s Allen.  I really DO need to talk to him.  Do you mind?”

“Of course, but I’ll forgive you and hunt you up later.”

“You do that, my dear,” she winked at Con, smiled, “Enjoy the party,” at Justin then sauntered after her quarry.

Justin eyed her.  “Is she your girlfriend?”

“One of them,” Con flashed a grin.  “You’re just full of surprises.”

“What?” Justin edged a smile.  Where did THAT come from.

“I saw you a minute ago.  Planning on going to the Moon tonight?”

Justin chuckled, shook his head.  “She was just filling me in on Gutterz.”

“He’s here?” Con sparked.  “I have to talk to him.  Where at?”

“I wouldn’t go there right now,” Justin wrinkled his nose.  “I’m pretty sure he’s occupied.”  But that’s not important.  “Have you seen Brett around?”

“He’s working on a script, which means he may not show up till two AM.”

“The Rage script?”

“Maybe.  He usually keeps a few irons in the fire.”

“Have you seen any of it yet?”

“It’s still in development, but Gutterz put out a call for Rage’s lover.  He might call me for a read when he gets a few good prospects.”  Con glanced down the hall and saw Moni’s classy walk toward the den.  “I’ve gotta go, but if I think of anything else and you’re around later,” he lowered his voice, “I’d be glad to fill you in.”

Justin twisted a smile to one side.  Another night with a dildo in a motel or… “Sounds good,” he nodded, blinked.

Con split a wide smile, touched Justin’s cheek and moved on.

Justin headed for the stairs.  It’s not like I’m cheating.  Just getting my needs met.

At Woody’s…

Brian and Michael sat at the bar, somber as two market-crash victims.  Brian chugged the last of his beer, watched Michael set the rubber-banded stack of business cards on the bar.  “I thought by now you could afford your own.”

“Ha ha,” Michael deadpanned.  “Ted really went through a lotta trouble to get all these.  The least you can do is recognize it.”  Then he turned happy-faced and waved at Ted and Emmett trooping through the door.  “Over here!”

Ted was first on scene, big grin, eyes on the cards then Brian.  “So what’s our plan?”

“Plan?” Brian shifted sideways, elbow on the bar, “Get drunk…fuck a few brains out…”

“Somebody put Brian’s car up on Ebay,” Michael uttered.

Emmett wide-eyed, “How long till the bid closes?” and got droll looks.  “Just asking.”

Ted winced, suddenly cognizant of Brian’s distance.  “Did you call -”

“Horvath’s checking into it.” Brian studied Ted’s concern, picked the cards off the bar and held them out, serious eyes and low voice, “I’ll let YOU handle this.”

“Me?  I…I…” Ted stuttered.  “ME?  But I don’t…how do I start?”

“Hold out your hand.”

Standing next to Michael, Emmett watched the exchange and whispered, “That does NOT look like the Brian Kinney I know and often despise.”

“He says he’s burned out,” Michael discreetly answered.  “Had it with his job.”

A Rage fan intruded, “Aren’t you Michael Novotny?” got Michael’s nod and gushed,  “I love your comic!”

…while Ted accepted the cards with a stiff smile and shaky, “My first big project.  I uh, don’t know what to say…except…double drinks are on me!” and he hiked off to process his shock and get the bartender’s attention.

Emmett stood in thought, watched Brian slump over his brew, Ted trying to maneuver eight beer bottles.  On his way to help, Emmett stopped behind Brian, low-toned, “Burned out?  You can fool them, you can fool yourself, but you can’t fool a no-brainer from Hazlehurst,” then leaned close and whispered, “You miss Justin,” before pacing on.

Brian sat rigid, eyes staring nowhere.  Fuck you, Emmett.  It’s not like he never left before.  Brian felt the burn of scrutiny, glanced up and saw Michael’s concerned stare.  “Did your adoring fan run off so soon?”  And why did that bite back.

Michael darted a look at Ted and Emmett engaged with another acquaintance further down the bar, kept low.  “If you won’t lighten up, I’ll do something you’ll regret.”

“Keep asking me until I go deaf?”

“Tell my Mom.”

Fuck.  Debbie on a salvation mission is like that barbed quill you can’t just yank out.  “Mikey, what makes you open that store everyday…do the same month-end shit…chase kids out of the racks…and still keep doing it?”

Michael thought a moment, shrugged, “It’s my dream.”

“Well I’m a realist.  I believe in achieving a goal.  Now that I’ve done it, what the fuck else IS there…besides branching out so I can do the same shit on a national scale.”  Brian lifted his bottle for a sip, realized it was empty and set it down.

“There’s more to it, at least for me.”  Michael took his own bottle and slid it in front of Brian.  “I like knowing I’m doing something for Ben…and Hunter, whether he appreciates it or not…and Jenny.  It’s something I started for myself, but it has a lot more meaning now.”

Brian considered it.  The thrill of landing that tough sell…the glow of Justin’s thrill over Brian’s every success.  Somehow, quietly and undetected, one had begun to outweigh the other on the satisfaction scale.  Now reaching a goal wasn’t enough…without someone intimate to share the celebration.  Or cheerlead through the bad times.  Fact: Justin’s off on his own, possibly starting a new life, possibly not coming back.  Fact: He always thought of you as his hero.  Because Brian Kinney can always make it work.

Fact: I can do this for me, and still do it for you…whether you’re here or not.

Brian grabbed the bottle, drank it down, tossed a couple bills beside the empties and stood up.  “Thanks for the beer.”

“Where you going?”

“To see what happened to our drinks.”  And he paced toward the Ted-Em-Acquaintance trio, Michael beside him.

Ted looked up at the approaching duo.  “Bri.  I was just about to -”

“I know.  Ask my opinion for a new campaign.”

“Now that you mention -”

“Go through those cards and weed out all the schmucks and losers.  You know, the ones you met that you wouldn’t want to fuck at gunpoint.  Have Cynthia help you do a quick search on their clientele then get the Art Department to modify our standard brochure to highlight the specific needs for the desirables.”

Ted breathed out, “That’s a relief.  I thought you’d say something like…have a whole campaign worked out and on my desk in two days.”

“I just did.”  Brian grabbed a beer, smiled, “Cheers,” and went out the door, leaving the group staring.

Eyes on the closing door, Emmett broke the silence.  “Teddy?  Do you like him better THIS way?  Or the way he was a few minutes ago?”

Ted crunched his brows in thought, settled with a side-nod.  “That’s a tough call, but I’d say more like his usual quietly inspirational self.”  Then he snatched and handed a beer to Michael.  “Whatever you said, it seemed to agree with him.”

“Threaten to sic my Mother on him?”

“Or just maaaaybe…” smiley Emmett helped himself to a bottle, “…he was impressed with Teddy’s little sales venture.”  And a small contribution from a nameless Queen.

Con’s bedroom.  Dark and masculine with subtle tactile luxury…soft lamplight on sheer curtains patterned by the lights of evening LA.

Two stiff drinks and a hit of E, Justin shed his clothes, watched Con do the same.  “Just to keep things clear, I’m not staying the night, okay?”

“We’re just two guys doing what guys do best, nothing more,” Con confirmed, languished back on the bed, eyes tracing Justin’s lines.  “So here we are again.  Nice to know you’re not the type to run around.”

“I’m not,” Justin smiled, moved closer, eyes noting cock tip pushing through its uncut foreskin ribbon.  “If I was, I’d be somewhere else right now.”

“I guess we’re still both negative then.”

“I know I am.”

When Justin reached the edge of the bed, Con bolted up, grabbed onto Justin’s arms, fell back and pulled Justin on top of him.

Justin caught himself on elbows either side of Con’s chest, felt their cocks meet, watched Con wet his lips and stare an invite.  Not one to avoid a kiss, Justin dropped low and brushed his closed mouth over Con’s.  Until Con pushed up to go deep, gripped the back of Justin’s neck and trapped him into an open mouth kiss.  Pleasant, but not special.  The star-effect had faded after the first time and now Justin just wanted the contact to help him get off.  He thrust back on stiff arms and called his preference by straddling Con’s hips.

Having his own ideas, Con rolled Justin to the side then settled on top of him, hot breath in Justin’s face,  “We did that LAST time.  How about a change?”

“Okay,” Justin agreed, blood pounding.  “I’ll fuck you first.”

Con shook a sly no.  “I know what you want.  And since you’re my guest…” Con slipped to the side, pulled on Justin’s shoulder to guide him over, “…let me do the honors.”

Satisfied that regardless of who went first, he’d get his much desired release, Justin eased onto his belly, face into a cool, satiny pillow.  Like being at the Loft, waiting for Brian to make his move.  Justin closed his eyes and imagined Brian’s body shifting on the bed…running hands over his back.  That’s as far as the illusion went.  Because Con didn’t exude any special passion.  But live dick was better than plastic.  Just the thought…the expectation…the

Plastic.  Justin’s eyes opened and his breath caught.  He could feel Con’s lubed finger probe, yet the arousing feel wouldn’t block one concern.  “Forget something?”

“Like what?”

“A condom.”

Con stopped, stretched beside Justin so their faces were close, eye-to-eye.  “I thought you’d like the change.  And I AM negative.”

“That’s not the point,” Justin went harsh.  “You never even asked me.”

“You’re not gonna be one of THOSE people, are you?”

“What.” Justin coolly replied, “People who care about themselves and their partners?”

“Oh come on.  Next, the panic-peddlers will have us all believing that sex is a threat to society.  Have you EVER barebacked before?”

“No.”

“Thought about it?”  Con softened, saw Justin’s lips thin and stay silent.  “Thought about how it would feel…pure cock…cum filling YOU, not some latex bag.  I’m willing to take a chance with you.  And I’m probably your best chance to fuck the way we were born to do it.”

Justin studied Con’s eyes.  Yeah, I want to do it.  And yeah…Brian probably never will.  So what choice does that leave me.  Think this over.  Really think it over.

“Don’t deny yourself what most guys already know…It’s the best it can ever get,” Con tempted. 

Justin stared unblinking.  A highly desirable, clean-cut STAR who was negative, careful and offering a new level of sex nagging to be experienced.  What could be more ideal.

In Con’s bedroom, Justin faces Con; In the Liberty Baths, Brian faces a young trick.  For a fractal second Justin and Brian visualize each other.

Song: “Runaway (Ford Radio Edit)” by Iio

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