Tank watched Slash hike between the large trucks in the lot, waited for him to climb onto the dock then grabbed his arm.  “I fucking WARNED you-”

“I wasn’t drinking,” Slash jerked his arm free, “And I won’t take any shit while you cater to that fag,” Slash waved an angry arm at Brian coming with a load on the forklift.  “The guy’s a fucking Linda.”  He watched Tank twist a look back and return a stern eye.  “How long you know me?” Slash moved into his face.  “I tell you, I saw him in the lot suck-facin’ that blond kid who came for him.  And I’ll tell you one MORE thing,” Slash pointed a finger an inch off Tank’s chest, “Don’t team me with him ‘cause I won’t work with any goddamn fag.”  He spat on the floor and thundered toward the rest of the crew.

Brian stopped the fork at Tank’s raised Hold-it hand, cocked a brow.

Tank’s eyes iced.  “We gotta get something cleared up before it gets outta hand.  You like your blondes with two legs…or three?”

Brian’s jaw tensed before he grim-smiled, “That question wasn’t on the application.”

“What if it was?” Tank’s eyes narrowed.

“I’d answer…that’s MY business.”

Tank’s face heated, eyes burned and he walked away raking a hand over his neck.

Brian exhaled a heavy breath, eyes tracking Tank down the dock to where Slash was ranting.  And the others stared with a denial/animosity mix he could feel across the warehouse.  Fucking breeders.  No.  Just fucking ignorant men.  Brian raised his hand, smiled and waved.  This is MY workplace, too.

He worked alone the rest of the night, Tank grunting minimal directions, the others radar-glancing him to avoid his space like quicksand.  Brian sorted and stacked lumber, tossed a casual smile when he caught somebody’s stare.  But his neck hair pressed against his collar on threat alert.  And he thought about Justin at St. James, living that every day.

By morning, Brian awoke to the eerie sensation of movement nearby behind him.  He twisted back quickly and startled Justin, dressed and disarming the alarm clock.

“It’s your day off,” Justin explained.  “I thought you might want to sleep in.”

Brian refocused on Justin’s motive.  “You’re not getting out of it.”

“I’m going,” Justin grumbled.  “I thought I’d take the bus and go by myself.  It’s hard enough without knowing you’ll be climbing walls in the waiting room.”

“I’ll survive outside in the car,” Brian flipped back the sheets and rolled to a stand, heard Justin clear his throat in tension mode.

Presby Hospital Main Entrance.  Always busy as a bus station.  Brian sat tapping his fingers on the Vette steering wheel.  Seeing Justin’s grim face approaching, he leaned over and quickly opened the passenger door.

“You sat out here three fucking hours?” Justin seared.

“Two.  One in administration.”

“I hate this fucking place,” Justin dropped like lead into the seat, slammed the door hard, smacked a hand on the dash.

“And it’s all my car’s fault,” Brian pulled into traffic.

Justin cracked a smile, slapped Brian’s thigh and leaned his head back.  “The scan was okay, so they sent me for this nerve test.  Poked a probe into the nerves up my arm to check for any disruption.  It didn’t hurt much until they got up to my neck.  Now I’ve got this fucking headache.”

“Did they find anything?”

“They ruled out carpal…think I stretched the nerve that runs over my right elbow.  I’m supposed to keep the arm straight for a couple weeks.  How the fuck can I work without bending my arm,” Justin perched his right elbow on the window ledge and rubbed his temple.  “I HATE that fucking place.”

Brian reached over, took Justin’s forearm and eased it down.  “Aside from paying off their student loans, some of them might actually be right.”

Brian relaxed.  Nothing serious.  Though not in Justin’s perspective.

In the Loft bedroom, Brian stood beside the bed to check on Justin, finally asleep on his right side, right arm stretched out, knees drawn up in a position that made him look tense and fragile.  Brian edged the sheet over his exposed left shoulder and rested his hand on it a moment.  Sorry.  But we had to be sure.

Brian went to his office, booted up his computer then sat and rested his elbows on the desk, dropped his head into raised hands.  Raked them over his face.  Through his hair.  He was tired.  Frustrated.  Working every second, for what.  Now he had to cope with the inevitable backlash at Turner.  Barely going through motions, he opened the WaveLight file then subfile Lightwave.  Scrolled the work.  The color graphic he’d created looked impressive; the copy crisp; details of past campaigns clear.  Typo.  Who the fuck misspells “the”.  He corrected it, took the WaveLight rewriteable disc from his tower and opened the disc tray in prep to save the new version.

A disc was in the tray.  Brian set WaveLight aside, lifted out and read Project 3.  One of Justin’s.  Curious, he replaced the disc and opened the drive.  Error.  Application Not Found.  He ejected the disc, checked it.  Lots of info there.  He walked it to Justin’s system and fired it up.  In the wastebasket, several used discs.  On the desk, scrap paper error notes on an open manual, a yellow highlighted tech support number with the long distance area code violently circled several times in pen.

Brian tried the disc in Justin’s computer.  No luck.  He smiled at the sheet-covered body.  We’ll make it work.  Brian lifted the manual, frowned.  Too intense.  Might as well start from square one.  He sifted through a disorganized pile, shook his head - how the fuck does anybody WORK like this – finally located the Program Installation disc.

It took a minute to uninstall; longer to reinstall.  Brian went to the bar, poured a Beam to kill the wait and stood sipping, watching the screen.  Done.  He found a new disc - fucking sadist who designed the wrapper – placed it in the tray, selected Program 3 and burned a new copy - Let’s try this fucker now – opened the drive; select; enter.

His eyes widened when WaveLight’s boring site appeared onscreen.  Soft but upbeat music began as WaveLight morphed into the font he’d created for Lightwave.  He quick-glanced Justin, downed the volume and watched WaveLight separate into two words that ghosted and floated to align as Lightwave in slowly intensifying blue on a dark sky background until it flashed bright white that melted into a pale blue screen of his logo and copy.  Images appeared as a man’s voice – sounded like Scott - introduced the concept.

Brian downed his drink in a gulp, watched and listened to the treatment of his work.  The visual poetry of EyeConic images dissolving into each other…the stark, hard one-over-the-other stacking of his planned Brown Athletics Man-For-All-Seasons campaign…the clinical dissection of BioGen.

A digital video in light and movement without gimmick feel.  Not to sell an idea.  Or achievement.  To sell Brian Kinney.

Brian took long breaths to ease the pressure near his eyes.

He quietly moved to the bed, saw Justin’s right arm bent up, hand against his chin in mindless slumber.  Brian took Justin’s wrist, straightened the arm with easy motion and lingered a soft kiss on his temple.

Then he carefully shut all the doors except the one near the bathroom.  He stood in that doorway, eyed the pieces of neglected stretcher material, went down the stairs and walked with renewed world-by-the-balls swagger back to his office. 

Unable to sleep any longer, Justin dragged out of bed and leaned on the doorframe.  Brian immediately appeared and gripped his arm.

“I’m okay,” Justin rubbed the remains of his headache, “Just laid in bed too long. And I have to finish a project,” he kissed Brian’s lips and thudded down the steps.

“At four AM?” Brian followed, watched Justin case his work area. “You should stop keeping my hours and live like a normal person.”

Justin was preoccupied with his papers. “What happened here.  I had this all in order.”

ORDER?  “I confess,” Brian closed from behind, cupped his hands on Justin’s shoulders, “I reinstalled your program.  Project 3’s working now.”

“Now WHY didn’t they tell me that in the FIRST...” until the words sank in, and he turned to face Brian “You saw it?” with bit-lip trepidation.

Brian held Justin’s shoulders and drew close. “It was...as Daphne would say...awesome.”

“Really?”

“It always amazes me.  How good you are.  At everything.”

“I have a good influence,” Justin whispered.

They kissed briefly then Brian said low, “If you’re available, I could use some help on Brown.”

Justin lit like noon sun.  First time Brian had ever asked for his help on a proposal.

Brian opened his eyes, saw 3 PM on his digital clock, then Justin rustling on the far side of the bed.  A ritual separation to avoid waking each other during daylight sleep.

Before Brian could shift against Justin’s back, Justin rolled to face him, arm sliding around Brian’s waist under the sheet.  “Hey,” he smiled, “We’re both off today.  And I don’t wanna see you NEAR your computer.”

“Don’t worry,” Brian kissed him, “I’ve got the whole day planned.  You know what’s first.  Second, we get the routine shit out of the way-”

*****At Debbie’s, Brian surfed the net while Debbie helped Justin with their laundry.  “Bri-an,” Justin huffed.  “It’s not MY computer,” Brian grinned.  Debbie sniped, “Leave him there.  He can’t separate anyway,” until Justin’s “You FELL for that?” opened her eyes two ways.

“-then dinner, definitely NOT at the Diner-”

*****At Michael and Ben’s, while all grazed through a course of wine, weeds and seeds, Brian and Ben talked abs, pecs and protein; Michael and Justin had Rage against a horde of immortal homo-cidal cops.

“- visit a few friends -”

*****At Babylon, Brian hauled Justin onto a dance platform to demonstrate a hot kiss in motion for the patrons.  Few really paid attention or cared.  They’d seen it before.  In the Back Room, Brian’s “See anything you like?” got Justin’s sultry, “Yeaaah.”  And they traded blowjobs before closing time.  

“- then there’s some unfinished business.”

*****Scott’s sleek male Trick d’Soir awoke to a car engine, hustled out of bed, looked through the balcony railing out the large window then quickly returned and shook Scott’s shoulder.  “Scott.” “Hunh?” “Somebody’s stealing your truck.”  “I loaned it to a friend,” Scott resettled to sleep.  “At three o’clock in the MORNING?” Trick checked outside again, “Never mind.  He left a Corvette.”

Truck parked in a field near Scott’s house, futon mattress in the bed, Brian and Justin stayed dressed against the night cool. 

Justin on his right side, twisted a look at the stars.  “Just couldn’t give up the fuck-in-a-truck idea, could you?”

Brian, reclining at Justin’s back, worked his own jeans down to free his stiff cock.  “They must’ve called this a bed for a reason.  And any later in the year we’d have to douse in mosquito repellant.”  Brian stripped a condom packet, sheathed himself, saw Justin bend his arm to undo his pants.  “Keep it straight,” Brian pushed Justin’s right arm out.

Justin smiled at the sky, felt Brian tug down his waistband.  “I could get used to this.”

“Having me drop your pants?” Brian marveled at how starlight fluoresced Justin’s skin.

“No,” Justin lightly slapped his hand.  “The nights when you’re off and we’re up…and nobody ELSE is…it’s like we’re the only two people on earth.”

Busy as he’d been, Brian hardly noticed that all his recent sex dynamics involved only Justin.  But he couldn’t recall missing anything.  Except for the double, when they touched only through a note on the fridge.  Brian’s cock stretched solid at the thought of that day’s denial.  He lubed its length, wiped his fingers on a hand towel and placed the towel near Justin’s erect cock, copped a stroke as he kissed Justin’s neck.  “Right now, we ARE the only two people on earth.”  He aimed his cock, probed Justin’s crack until his cockhead found a little well.   A light prod to film the lube, then Brian eased in.  Rolled his eyes shut.  Exhaled a heated breath.  Fuck, this mellow slide felt so good.

Justin’s moan faded to a long breath as he felt Brian’s body mold like a warm blanket on his chilled skin, shaft hard and easing deep, locking them together.  No intense fury tonight.  He felt Brian’s head loom over his shoulder, reached up to touch his cheek but had to kiss.  Had to. 

Then they settled down motionless…stretching the calm before urgency kicked in.  Justin glanced at the stars, thought of a time when he only dreamed they’d be like this.  Lips in Justin’s hair, Brian sifted his fingers through the locks and tried to pinpoint when never-enough became attached to a face.

Two fast days led back to Turner.  Brian anticipated a few tests and wasn’t denied.

He found a pink tee shirt hand-markered: Official White-Collar Fag Uniform in his lunch bag, left it on the table with a note.  Later, Dog read aloud, “Thanks, but I have to decline.  It clashes with my eye color,” and laughed with Creet until they were hushed by looks from Mom and Torch.

Brian checked Tank’s assignment roster: the teammate line beside his name was x-d out.

Tank pointed to a Mt. Everest woodpile, “We need this broke down before lunch.”  Brian held a remark and silently worked until he was sweat-drenched and ready to kill.  Creet passed with a low, “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”  Brian smiled, “Should it make that much difference?”  And Creet moved on before anyone saw them.

Brian assessed his situation.  Consider them enemies and play THEIR game – or consider them a challenge, and let them play HIS.

Three days passed.  No sleep THIS morning.  Justin slipped on a clean shirt and jeans, stood in the bedroom doorway to admire the real Brian Kinney - dressed in Armani, seated at his computer with an open magazine and checking another company website.  Justin quietly approached Brian’s desk, leaned down on crossed arms.  “What time’s the interview?”

“I have to be in Cleveland at ten o’clock.  Don’t bend your arm,” Brian powered his set off, rolled the magazine, came around the desk and headed toward the table.

“You know what your passion is?”

“A hot night with a great ass,” he swat Justin’s rump.

“Taking chaos, finding order in it,” Justin followed Brian to the table spread with folders, “…and making it work.” 

“Are you reading psych books in your spare time?” Brian packed his briefcase.

“Just you,” Justin pressed to Brian’s back, circled arms around his waist and hugged.

Brian felt Justin’s stiff cock, shut his briefcase. “Now you KNOW I don’t let anybody fuck me before an interview,” Brian’s smile faded, “That usually comes afterwards.”

“They won’t resist you,” Justin ran his hands up and down Brian’s arms.  “Mm. You’re really getting hard.”

“We’ll take care of that when I get back.”

“Your arms.”

“A little side benefit…” Brian drifted, “…of carrying an extra load every night.”  Then he saw Justin’s arms circle his waist again, “And keep that arm down or I’ll tie it to your dick,” he unwound Justin’s right arm then lifted his case and turned to face Justin.

Justin noticed a folder on the table, snatched it up.  “You forgot one.”

“I’m leaving my planned proposals here.  Neville likes to steal ideas, and if they want MINE, they’ll have to take ME first,” he planted a quick kiss on Justin’s lips.  “Now get some sleep.”

Justin watched Brian leave.  His smile left as well.  Neville Agency.  Big, high turnover, often unethical, and far away. 

Late afternoon, Justin and Daphne stood at a bookstore magazine rack – Daphne reading a glamour rag, Justin clutching six mags in his left arm and still hunting.

“Heavy reading.  Is that why you look so beat?” she fished while fingering the bindings of Fortune, Pittsburgh, New Yorker, GQ, Sport, Selling Power.

“Brian’s building a new client list.  He looks at all the ads and if he sees one that really sucks, he researches the company and works up a proposal.  I save him some time by screening them first and marking the pages,” Justin smiled back proudly.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Daphne’s face twisted.

Justin stopped picking, turned with a sallow tone, “Yeah.  Like he’s got two full-time jobs, only one doesn’t pay anything, and the other one is wearing him down.”  Justin dropped his eyes, shook his head.  “I’m not getting paid while I’m off…I don’t wanna be a third job.”

“Oh that is so stupid,” Daphne rolled her eyes, “As your best friend, I’m allowed to say that.  So what’s he gonna do when he needs to talk or…you know.  Dial up Mikey?”

Justin barely held back a laugh.

“Good.  We agree,” Daphne smugly smiled.  “Now that THAT’S solved…” Daphne opened to a page in the glamour mag and held it beside her face.  “I’m thinking of dying my hair.  Honest opinion.”

Justin looked at Flaming Red and laughed loud enough to attract attention before raising a hand to his face, “Daph, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she smiled, “If you’d said it looked great, I’d’ve REALLY been worried.”

When Justin entered the Loft and stopped at Brian’s desk, he saw Brian’s open briefcase.  Past the bedroom doorway, a still form in bed under the sheet.  Justin grit his teeth as the bag crackled despite his care in removing newspapers and periodicals.  To clear a spot, he moved a sheet of paper that got his interest.  A formal letter of resignation to Turner, not yet dated.  In the briefcase, a Neville Agency folder.  He opened it.  A newhire info packet.  Brian nailed it, Justin smiled.  Until he realized that Brian hadn’t waited up to share the news.

Justin crept into the bedroom, sat on the floor, folded his arms so he could lean on the ledge and watch Brian sleep.  On sudden thought, he relaxed his right arm down.  Fuck it, he decided, angled his forearm along Brian’s to touch without waking.  The most fanfare he could muster...to celebrate a victory equal to defeat.

Brian shut off his jarring alarm, swung out of bed, saw Justin gasp, shot “Fuck!” and recoiled his legs inches from mashing Justin.  More concerned than crass, “What the FUCK are you doing on the floor?  Are you all right?”

“I must’ve dozed off,” Justin rubbed an eye, “Just a little stiff.”

Brian stepped over Justin’s prone body and gripped an arm to help him onto the bed.  “Next time get a head start and make it to the mattress.  That WASN’T on my favorite-ways-to-top list.  Lie back.”  Brian pivoted Justin’s legs up.  “What were you doing?”

“Thinking,” Justin stared with gravity, “Don’t sign with Neville.  They’re everything you said you don’t want.  They’ll pick your accounts, and have you on the road so much, it wouldn’t even pay to relocate.”

Brian exhaled at the floor, sat against Justin’s hip and rubbed Justin’s hand.  “I have five days to decide.  It wouldn’t be as mundane as Turner…with more money.”

Justin twined his fingers around Brian’s.  “Does that mean you’re giving up?  On WaveLight?”

“Once the pieces are in place, I’ll give them my best shot.  But I like to have another option.”  Brian kissed him, “I’ll use it only if I need it. Now I have to get ready for work.  Don’t.  Worry.”

Justin smiled to lighten the mood, “Why should I?  You’re finally working in a place where nobody’ll hit on you.”  Something about Brian’s distant eyes, no flip comeback.  “Don’t tell me you found somebody in the closet.”

Brian eyed steady, “Nobody on my shift…is in the closet.”

“Brian?” Justin’s eyes questioned.

“The question came up,” he smiled, “I never denied it, never will.”

“Oh god,” Justin ran his hand up Brian’s arm.

“These aren’t high school kids.  They’re men who understand consequences.  But I’ve gotten to know them a little better,” Brian looked off.

“They’re breeders, and they hate us,” Justin touched Brian’s face to get him back.

“They’re men.  And so are we.  Once they realize I won’t run away or whine, the kid games will wear thin.  Turner won’t be my life.  But how I deal with it may make a big difference for the next man…who thinks he has to hide who he is, to live the life he wants.”  Brian kissed Justin, glanced at his clock.  “Fuck.  I have to fucking leave soon,” he muttered to his rising dick.

Justin swiveled to a seat and pushed Brian back on the bed.  “This’ll only take a few minutes.  I already made your lunch.”

Brian reeled in the pleasure of Justin’s warm throat pulling him inside. “I’ll pass on the shower.  Take your time.”  He swam his fingers through Justin’s messy hair, over his shirted shoulder, sight-checked his right arm relaxed at his side.  Even left-handed, Justin was incredible.

That night at Turner, Mt. Everest sat outside in the rain. 

Tank directed Brian, “Get that inside before it soaks.”

“Why’s it out there?”

“Somebody got the directions wrong,” Tank shuffled away.

Brian’s jaw tensed.  But if he cut loose and walked out, more would be lost than gained.

Justin sat at his desk and turned a magazine page.  Shook his head, “This color looks like dogshit.” He scribbled on a packet of post-notes, ripped off and tacked it at the top of the page.  He leaned back for a break, exhaled loudly and ran his hands over his face.  Looked at 2 AM on the digital clock, a note on his computer: 3^rd S. 11P-730A Lunch 3A.

He returned to the magazine, flipped a page hard but looked past it in thought while loosely tapping his pen like a drumstick on the open page.  In his mind…the day Hobbs shoved him against a wall.  And Daphne was there for him.  The day four students hassled him at the front gate.  And Brian, there to pick him up, shut them down.

Justin tossed the pen on the desk and grabbed his cell phone.

At Daphne’s Justin stood in the hall at the door.  A teddy-bear pajama’d arm reached through the crack and wordlessly dangled keys.

“Thank you!” Justin snatched them.

By the time her hand completed to two listless good-bye waves and withdrew, Justin was already down the stairs.

Creet and Chinc teamed with Torch on a build-up, watched Brian dripping wet, hauling armloads to a growing pile of studs inside.

“He’s been at it steady for over three hours,” Chinc said low.

“He shouldda kept his mouth shut,” Creet breathed out, wanting to help but not wanting to be the first one.

Out front, Justin cased the open overhead door, climbed the outside ladder onto the dock, stopped at the No Drivers Beyond This Point sign and searched for Brian.  He saw Chinc’s and Torch’s eyes flick toward him then away.  They looked too busy stacking studs to bother with him, so he crossed the white safety line and walked toward them.

Out back with light from the open garage door barely touching the pile, Brian pulled eight-foot studs.  The rain had stopped, but the wood was wet and stubborn to handle.

Scott called low from the shadows beside the open door, “Kinney.”

Brian paced over.  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Heard a rumor and came to check it out.”

“That we have a new gay work area?” Brian smarted, waved widespread arms at the woodpile.  “I can handle it.”

“Stop at the ranch after work.”

Inside, Tank charged at Justin with a gruff, “HEY!  Can’t you READ?  Get off the dock NOW!”

“I was just looking for Brian Kinney,” Justin smiled, figured a name would help.

Slash stood away from the lumber pile.  “What’s the matter, Sweetheart?  You don’t trust him with the BOYS?”

A chorus of “Oooooooo”s echoed, and Justin’s mouth opened as he stared speechless at the team massing near the lumber pile – some for humor, some for spite.

Tank stopped in front of him. “You and your fag buddies have no business here.”

Hearing the loud chorus, Scott and Brian moved to the open rear doorway, “What the hell…,” saw Justin facing a wolf pack, “They’ll beat the shit out of him,” Scott started in, but Brian held him back.

“Wait.  Let him go.”  Brian stepped closer, eyes radiating support.

Justin swallowed.  Stay calm.  Just the facts. “Brian pulls his weight around here as good as you ALL do.  He probably never asked for your help, but I’m sure he never turned down anybody who needed his.” He saw Creet and Chinc’s eyes drop, eyed Tank,  “What’s there to gain or prove with threats and insults?” then panned the group.  “I didn’t come here to cause trouble, or stop you from doing your jobs.  I came here…to have lunch…with someone who works here,” he took a breath, “Now…can anyone please tell me where Brian is?”

Slash moved forward, “Go back to the Burgh.  You’re on the wrong side of-”

“Hey!  Who made YOU Foreman?” Tank shut him down with a look.

Brian patted Scott’s back, whispered, “He’s still alive,” and strode inside.

“Justin!” Brian called.  Eyes focused on him and Justin smiled relief when Brian stood beside him.  “I see you all met Justin,” Brian grinned.  “The one who did the painting?”  He watched confused exchanges.  “The painting in Dave’s office.”

Justin said low, “WHAT painting?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Brian whispered.

Creet soul-eyed, “YOU did that?  It’s beautiful, man.  I took a picture.”

And Tank bellowed,  “It ain’t lunch time, so anybody who doesn’t want docked, get back to work,” he turned on Brian, “That goes for you, too,” then to Justin, “And no visitors past the white line.  Got it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Justin gulped, watched Tank tromp to the main build-up area.

“I’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes,” Brian called over a shoulder, watched Justin nod and leave.

Slash blocked Brian.  “If you think your fucking little show-”

“Why don’t you decide who you want to hate – yourself, me or her,” Brian snapped, left him mute and marched out the back door past men in slow motion digesting the scene.

Outside, Brian looked for Scott but didn’t see him.  So he stacked three studs, lifted the front end to drag them inside, halted when Chinc passed him and lifted the back end.

“You all still look alike to me,” Chinc nodded a move-it toward the door.

While they carried their load in, Creet went out to help.

Inside, Tank watched Chinc and Brian drop their stack and head outside.  He stopped Brian with “Hey.  Slick,” walked over and stood with a dead expression and low tone.  “Don’t get the idea that things’ll change much.”

“Justin almost died from a hate-bashing. Do you know how much it took for him to stand in front of all of you…just to get an answer to a simple question?  You’re the leader, and I don’t expect anything to change until YOU do,” Brian moved on.

Tank raked his neck with a hand.  He didn’t want the name Fag-lover.  Was it worth selling out fairness?  The work was behind, the men were pissed…and a Tinkerbell showed more guts in three minutes than the Foreman had shown in three days.  Tank lumbered center-dock and shouted, “Boys, stop what you’re doing and get that timber inside,” watched them silently file out, except for Torch.

“It’s against my religion,” Torch drawled.

“I didn’t ask you to PRAY with him,” Tank snarled with renewed authority and pulled his shoulders back for the first time in days.  I ain’t a fag-lover.  But I AM in goddamned charge.

As Brian drove the Vette along the dark access road, Justin stared ahead.

“I had no idea it was this bad.”

“Yeah, you did,” Brian smiled low.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.  I only-”

“Justin,” Brian pulled the car over and stopped, “They would have come around eventually.  You just gave me a little extra firepower.  Fucking best Drama Queen moment you ever had, too,” Brian wrapped an arm around Justin and kissed his cheek.  “There’s only one open place around here…and it’s worse than the Diner.”

“I didn’t really come for lunch.  I just didn’t want you to be alone.”

Brian gathered him into a gloom-lifting kiss then hug.

Justin added a tack-on kiss. “What painting were you talking about?”

Idling up the road, Chinc’s wife slowed her car when her high-beams caught the Vette and she recognized Brian.  She stopped alongside and rolled down her window; he did the same.

“Meestah Sleek, you got problem?” she looked worried.

“No,” Brian smiled, “He’ll be okay in a couple minutes.”  He glanced at Justin, scrunched down in his seat, hands over his eyes, laughing to nearly breathless.

Scott’s front porch overlooked a view of dawn trees in the new green of late spring.  Both in light jackets against the morning chill, Scott faced-off Brian at the railing.

“Why the fuck did you out at the dock?  That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I never said I’d be a fake breeder.”

“I said low profile.”

“What difference does it make?” Brian pulled an envelope from his jacket.  “I kept my end.”

Scott cooled, took and opened the envelope, sped through two pages of print while Brian clarified.

“It’s in the log.  From what I saw, your hardwood costs are up because you’ve got an Independent skimming.  Half the time, the manifests are hand-corrected when the load doesn’t fit so unless you’re doing loading AND billing, you won’t catch it.  They’re smart, though.  They steal only one pallet at a time…and sell it right back to you.”

“It’s a wonder the men missed it.”

“You know the Dock Rules.  Don’t admit to nothin’…don’t volunteer for nothin’…and nobody follows the last one.”

Scott stared hard, “Any of our men involved?”

“I’ll guess just one.  And I don’t think he even knows it.” Brian leaned on the railing.  “Maybe Dave should go down and work the dock once in awhile instead of just signing off what crosses his desk.  If he had their respect, somebody might’ve caught it.  Now what have you got for ME?”

Scott folded the log, shoved it in his jacket pocket, “I met with WaveLight’s CEO.  They’re keeping his replacement hushed until the new man has a chance to give notice to HIS boss.  But I used my usual charm.”

“Of course,” Brian grinned, watched Scott pull his wallet.

Scott fished a business card, handed it over.  “Klaus Rheinholdt.  I had lunch with the cheapskate.  Told him I’m looking to switch agencies, but not unless he can promise me better than ho-hum coverage.  He’s forty, no-shit and hungry.  Every new guy has to make his space.”

“Thaaaat’s what I’m counting on,” Brian smiled at the card.

“Side point…don’t expect him at the Baths,” Scott leaned back on the railing beside Brian, “So.  If you end up staying on awhile, you think you can hold up against the Ladies Of The Evening?”

“I WONDERED where that came from. They call themselves The Boys now,” Brian silent-chuckled, went serious, “Some attitudes defy change, but most of them are all right.  Good men have a lot in common as far as respect and tolerance – if a man stands up for himself without attacking THEM.” He motioned, “How’s the arm?”

“Aside from marring my flawless image…” he ignored Brian’s eye-roll, “…better.”

“The cops have no leads on the shooter,” Brian met Scott’s don’t-go-there stare, “Let me put it this way.  If that kid dies, it becomes a murder investigation.  With drugs involved, it could escalate to a whole new ball game, and SOMEbody will break down.  Do you wait until they find YOU?  Or do you call the shots NOW?”

“I should’ve let you stand, Kinney,” Scott smiled wicked but nice.

“You always told me you had a good team. I’m already one up on you with mine,” Brian responded.  He watched Scott think, stood up.  “You COULD offer me some coffee.”

“We could cook up a lot more than that,” Scott flashed his all-a-head-full smile.

“Thanks for the offer, but I have breakfast waiting at home,” Brian left the rail.

“That’ll long be one of my regrets.”

“That I passed on a fuck?”

“That he met you first.”

Brian studied Scott’s eyes, nodded, skipped down the steps and left Scott with more serious thoughts.

Justin lay on his right side, watched the bathroom doorway and drummed his fingers on the mattress until Brian emerged in jeans, shirtless and barefoot.

“Brian, what’re you doing up?  You’re gonna be tired as shit later.”

“And you’re probably sore as shit,” Brian snatched a tube off his nightstand, climbed across the bed

“It was my idea to rough it, and it was worth it,” Justin winked, started to roll back until Brian’s hand trapped his hip.

“Hold still.  This should work,” Brian squeezed a dab on a finger, tossed the tube in front of Justin, pulled the sheet down past Justin’s thighs and lifted a cheek.

Justin took and studied the tube, grumped “For diaper rash?” then flinched when Brian fingered his tender hole.

Done, Brian reached for a tissue to clean off, pulled the sheet up again.  “We use it for scrapes and chafing on the dock,” Brian reclaimed the tube, “And if that’s not good enough for you, tough guy…” he leaned near Justin’s ear, “…there’s always iodine,” he smiled, kissed Justin’s sullen lips and left the room.

Justin sighed, got out of bed and into sweat pants, trudged down the steps and intercepted Brian walking a coffee to his desk.  Justin took the cup from Brian’s hand, sipped.  “What are you working on?” he viewed the monitor, handed back the cup.

“An agency called West Ohio Images,” Brian sipped, set the cup on the desk, “And a little better good morning,” he turned Justin to face him and they kissed while the phone rang.  Once.  Twice.

Justin broke off with “You better get that.  It might be a job offer” through a third ring.

Brian was too late to beat the answering machine’s staticy pickup: “Fuck you, Kinney.  AND your blond sidekick.”  Click.

Justin’s skin prickled, “That’s a threat.”  He latched onto Brian’s arm and pleaded, “Don’t go in tonight.  Call off.  Could you tell who it was?” 

His brow wrinkled at Brian’s broad smile.

In a Pittsburgh high-rise lobby, Scott closed and pocketed his cell phone and read an Attorney Law Offices placard of names posted on the wall beside the elevators.

Back at the Loft, Brian was side-by-side with Justin on the bed.

“So that’s the whole Turner deal,” Brian finished.

Justin wasn’t happy.  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

Brian briefly touched an index finger to Justin’s lips,  “I agreed not to share it with anyone who might accidentally say something at the Diner, or on the dock.”

“Nice,” Justin deflated.  “So Scott was checking up on me to see how much I’d spill.”

“You say what’s on your mind.  Though I would strongly recommend you throw a minute between what you think and what you say sometimes…Debbie?  And the laundry?” Brian watched Justin smile, hands over his face.  “As for Scott tracking you…” Brian waited for Justin’s eyes to meet his, “That was for real.”

“I’m not interested,” Justin rubbed Brian’s arm.  “Is that why he left that weird message?”

Scott’s version of thank-you when he had to admit anyone was right before he realized it first.  “I think he was hinting there’d be a delay on our track lights,” Brian smiled to himself, ninety-percent sure of Scott’s decision.  “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize his voice right away.  That IS him on Project Three, isn’t it?”

Justin smiled,  “I needed somebody who sounded like you. Mikey was too shrill…Ben and Vic too flat…I sound too much like me…”

“I wonder why THAT is.”

Justin smacked Brian’s thigh.  “You know what I mean.”

“At least you left out Emmett and the rest of the girls.”

“Actually, Mel was too busy with her case,” Justin relished Brian’s glare, “So I made a deal with Scott.”

Brian’s jaw twitched.  “Care to share?” 

After Justin left to complete his deal, Brian displayed WaveLight’s site on his monitor

His eyes widened.  He pulled his chair closer.  Read the banner again.  After the blah-blah CEO farewell message, the line he had waited for:

Klaus E. Rheinholdt will officially resume responsibilities…

Monday.  In three days.  Two weeks ahead of schedule.

Brian set the Brown Athletics folder on his desk, picked up his phone and speed-dialed.

“Leo Brown, please.  Brian Kinney,” he turned to a statistics page, tapped his fingers on it, leaned back.  “Leo.  We need to update your campaign.  I see there’s a sales slump on off-season products and I think we can offset with increased sales on the in-season lines.  When can we meet to discuss the new proposal?”  He smiled, grabbed a pen and jotted notes.  “Tuesday would be fine.  By the way, I’ve left Vangard.  Not a problem.  It’s in your contract.  I’ll look forward to it.  I’ll see you then,” he smiled, touched his disconnect button and speed dialed another number.

I’ll be with a new Agency by then, Brian resolved.  Let’s hope it’s not Neville.

He dialed a familiar number.

Cynthia paged through a campaign proposal, snatched her ringing phone.  “Vangard.  Cynthia speaking.”  Her eyes widened. She quickly panned the passers-by outside Brian’s former office windows, lowered her voice and faced a wall.  “Anything.”  Her face drained.  “Tell them WHAT?  I can’t...okay.  Okay,” she grabbed a pen, notepad, wrote.  “Three.  Wednesday,” her frown became a smile, “No, YOU’RE the best.  Bye.”  She hung up still smiling, hand resting on the receiver to hold that last bit of connection.  

Clad in a short silk jacket, Scott stood alone on his Loft balcony and gazed at his estate. At the setting sun.

“Scott?” a svelte blonde woman in his oversized silk robe stepped out and joined him, “Don’t let me hold you up if he needs your help,” she snaked an arm around his.

“He knows what he’s doing, and he knew I’d have a guest,” he smiled at her and she hugged his arm,  “Part of the deal.”

They both watched Justin, easel on the lawn beside the pond as he sat before his landscape canvas and dabbed paint dots wherever a copper glow touched the trees.

That night, Justin sat like a taut ball of apprehension on Brian’s desk chair, watching him don his work jacket, grab his lunch.

“Daph’s away for the weekend.  If you won’t let me drive you in, I’ll RENT a car and come up,” Justin threatened.

Brian walked over until Justin’s head tilted way back to keep eye contact.  “If you’re busy running the back streets at three in the morning, when will you have time to package Lightwave?”

“What?” Justin’s eyes widened.

Brian took a business envelope off his desk, stuffed it into his jacket pocket.  Then a large envelope that he set on Justin’s lap.  “All the specs are inside.  I need it by Wednesday.  Think you can do it?”

“Yeah,” Justin nodded excitedly.

“You haven’t even looked at it.”

“Yeah,” Justin repeated more firmly.

Brian had to lean low to kiss him.  Then he was gone with his jacket, his lunch, and a letter of resignation.

Tuesday evening, Justin sat across from Brian with steak-salad-at-home.

“Brian,” Justin stopped picking through his plate, “You’ve already got enough client proposals to start your own agency.  Why don’t you?”

Brian watched Justin’s eyes flicker between him and his salad.  “It takes a lot of money to start up.  And big-buck clients don’t throw thousands of dollars into an agency that’s not established.”

“I still have some tuition money left.  Your half,” Justin focused on twiddling his fork in his plate.  Preparing for the education speech.  Silence.  He looked up at Brian, leaning back in his chair, sporting that perturbing amusement smile.  “What?  You wanted another option.  I’m just suggesting one.”

“You would give it all up. On a gamble that I’m that good.”

“You already gave it all up,” Justin said to his plate, “Over an idea from some asshole…who had nothing to lose.”

Brian left his chair, walked over to Justin, took the fork from his hand.  “You’re not supposed to bend that arm anyway.”

“Oh FUCK about the arm already,” Justin snapped as Brian pulled him to a stand, “It hasn’t bothered me all week.”

“Hey,” Brian lifted Justin’s chin to meet eyes, “It was MY call.  MY decision, and it’ll work out,” Brian hugged Justin, kissed his hair and lightly stroked his neck.  “Now let’s finish dinner or we’ll be late for dessert at Ben and Mikey’s.  I think it’s tofu pie or green tea jello or some shit like that.”  Brian smiled at the shiver from Justin’s chuckle.

Justin backed off with the bonding gaze of emotion his vocabulary held, but not Brian’s.  So he said nothing.  And Brian looked down with the same gaze for which no word had yet been invented.

Wednesday.  Cynthia nervously glanced at 3:00 on her watch, back to Gardner finger-skimming an open folder on her desk.  “I understand,” she smiled, closed the folder.  “I’ve got...an important call to make.”

“This will only take a few more minutes,” Gardner opened the folder, paged, “Now where was I.”

Exasperated, Cynthia bit her lip, “Gardner...I REALLY have to go to the ladies room.”

“Oh?” he glanced up, then got it, “Oh.  I’ll wait,” he attended to paging and missed her DAMN-it wince before she hurried out the door.

She idled past his assistant Lana on the phone, dashed down the hall to Gardner’s office, looked around for an all clear then went inside and shut the door.

WaveLight.  Small building, major day.  Hearing a “Yes?” response to her knocking, senior Ms. Ultimate Secretary opened Rheinholdt’s office door and leaned in.  “There’s a Brian Kinney here to see about the job?” her face contracted and she shook her head.

“I wasn’t aware we had an opening,” he looked up from his computer.  An imposing small man in Ralph Lauren, dark featured and intense like a mini Steve Jobs. 

“That’s what I told him, but he said he made a three-thirty appointment.  I just got a strange call about him from Vangard Agency, too, so they knew he was coming.  Someone probably forgot to write it down.”

In the front office, Brian left his seat, feigned a closer look at an Employee Of The Month picture near the hall and heard Rheinholdt’s firm but low-toned “Fax me his application.  Don’t bother with a resume, I don’t have time for fiction.  I’ll call you if I decide to see him. And I’d like more details of any future meetings.  I DON’T like surprises.”

Brian took his seat again, watched Secretary go through her motions.  Waited several minutes.  Until she answered her phone, looked his way and said, “Mr. Kinney, Mr. Rheinholdt will see you now.”

Brian knocked on the door, got the standard “Come in” and walked to the desk.

“Mr. Rheinholdt.  Brian Kinney.”

Rheinholdt motioned to a chair near his desk.  “Just tell me why you’re here and what you have to offer.”

Right to business.  Good.  Brian sat, unzipped his portfolio on his lap.  “WaveLight has a solid reputation with its clients.  Most of your employees and agents have been together for fifteen years and they’re operating at a comfort level...but it’s not growing the business.  Very much like West Ohio Images.”

Rheinholdt sat upright, smiled with suspicion, “You seem to know a little about me.”

Brian pulled the Brown binder, set it on the portfolio in his lap, “I know you’re not a complacent man, and I doubt WaveLight went outside for a successor as much as you came to them-” Brian glimpsed the Stock Market Report on Rheinholdt’s computer screen, “- because you know a growth opportunity when you see one. And so do I.  WaveLight accounts are mostly small businesses with repeat renewal.  My experience and connections include high-end accounts with larger budgets.”

“I don’t plan to disrupt the status quo this soon.”

“With profit opportunities available now?” Brian handed the binder to Rheinholdt.  “I can deliver Brown as soon as you sign me on.  They’re large, financially solid and ready for a change.”

Rheinholdt flipped through the binder, “Impressive,” looked more skeptical than enthused, “But I’m curious about this,” Rheinholdt set aside the binder, lifted and reread the application then eyed Brian.  “With all your...experience...you’re a dock worker?”

That curiosity got me through the door, Brian coolly eyed back.  “I’m not a complacent man either.  I needed a job until the right one came available…and there’s no job I can’t do and do well.  Turner Construction’s one-year contract with Vangard is almost up, and I know Scott Turner.  You can let Vangard persuade him to extend with them, or offer a deal with an agent he trusts, who knows his company.

“I met Mr. Turner,” Rheinholdt volunteered, still skeptical.  “But I would like to know- ” Rheinholdt leaned forward, “- why you left Vangard.”

Brian kept a poker face, straight eye.  Rheinholdt could find out the truth anytime, maybe already knew.  “I’d rather represent companies with products to sell – stable, long-term gains.  Vangard showed preference to political agendas – high profile, but risky and unpredictable.  You could say…our philosophies weren’t an ideal match.”

Rheinholdt pierced a long look.  Brian never flinched.  Rheinholdt eased off and lifted the binder.  “I’ll review this and call you if I think we should meet further.”

Brian rose at the cue, removed a folder and set it on the desk before zipping his portfolio shut.  “My business card and former client list are inside. I can see you’re busy,” Brian clutched his portfolio under his arm, tapped it with his free hand.   “I also have a proposal for attracting new clients without disrupting the status quo, but I’ll hold that for now.  Thank you for your time,” Brian courtesy nodded and walked out the door.

While his Secretary watched, Rheinholdt sat at his desk, scribbled a phone number from one page in Brian’s folder then removed the page.  “You’re sure the call came from Vangard?”

“It’s still on my caller ID.  They certainly went out of their way to say he was no longer employed there, but his work was satisfactory.”

“And what do YOU make of that?”

She shrugged, “They’re really out to get him?”

“Or they don’t want him working for a rival in their area.  He had an idea of interest, but I want to know more about him,” Rheinholdt handed her the page.  “I need a quick reference check.  Don’t bother with Vangard, Turner or Brown.”

She nodded and left; he lifted his phone receiver and touch-toned the phone number for Leo Brown.

Woody’s bar slowly populated as downtown quitting hour ticked on.  Brian in a suit, Justin in a pullover and jeans, sat together at the bar.

“You gave it your best shot,” Justin stroked Brian’s back.  “Maybe you should leave Turner off your next application.”

“I took a risk.  It got his attention and opened a salary gap that I thought might interest him.  Not to mention a potential account,” Brian smiled at Justin.  “I didn’t just throw it on for laughs. Speaking of laughs,” Brian lifted his shot glass, “Here’s to my last glorious evening at Turner.”

Justin clicked his glass to Brian’s, they downed drinks in unison then Brian stood up and tossed a ten on the counter.  “Tomorrow we toast to fucking Neville.”

A cell phone rang.  Several men dove for their pockets.

Brian pulled his cell, checked the display.  “Fuck.  Come on,” he grabbed Justin’s arm and towed him outside.

Brian dashed down the stairs, hunted up a vacant doorway, pressed into a corner and answered, “Brian Kinney.”

Justin stood guard on the sidewalk so passers strolled clear of the area.  He clenched his hands, kept glancing at Brian hunched in private.  This was worse than fucking Tech Support.  Then he saw Brian pocket his cell and return expressionless.

“What happened?” Justin took his arm.  Something happened.  To someone.

Brian slowly smiled, “I’ve just been offered the job that didn’t exist.”

“You asshole,” Justin punched his arm.  “That’s for scaring me.”  Then he flung his arms around Brian’s neck and open-mouthed a kiss.

Brian broke off, rolled his forehead against Justin’s.  “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Woody’s?”

Brian backed off, slowly shook his head no.

“Babylon?”

Another no.

“The Diner.”

Scott, lying half-dressed on his basement playroom bed, had a willing Tall Stud doing a striptease for him when they heard a car pull up outside.  Stud peered through the small, high window.  “Scott?  Somebody’s stealing your truck.”

“Don’t worry about it.  He leaves a Corvette…fucking waste when you think of the truck he could’ve had for that money.”

Tree lined field.  Low sun.  Armani and Levi mingled together on the truck seat.

In the bed on a futon mattress, wrapped in a blanket left from a tailgate party, Brian sat with his long legs dangling off the open gate and cushioned by mattress overhang, chin shouldered on Justin seated between his legs.

“This is so amazing,” Justin took a breath.

“Yeah,” Brian gazed at Justin, “It is.”  He eased his hand from Justin’s waist to his cock and lazily teased.  Kissed and licked his neck.  Slid the blanket from Justin’s shoulder and layered kisses there until Justin’s head twisted up for one.  Brian braced on his hands, brought his feet up and backed into the bed, cock rising.

Justin came to his knees facing Brian, moved between Brian’s splayed legs until Brian rose on his knees, bent forward, gently pressed a hand to Justin’s chest to signal him down on his back.  Knees up, legs spread, Justin felt his shoulders on the tailgate, his head over the edge.  He reached out and gripped the outer edges of the gate while watching tree shadows hang down over a sky-lake of sunset.

Brian kissed and nuzzled the triangle of pale hair around Justin’s cock.  Lifted and caressed his balls with his tongue.  Blew on the underside and mouthed until Justin moaned and his cock seeped.  All the while floating his hands up and around Justin’s thighs.  Up his hips to his chest.

Justin raised his head to see Brian, sweat-reflected sun coating him in a deep shade of gold.  Strong arms wrapped around Justin’s thighs and slid him further into the bed.  Head supported, Justin watched Brian flow over him and kiss each nipple, circling with his tongue until the charge made his cock throb.  Justin plowed his hands through Brian’s hair.  Dug a hand into his shoulder.  Don’t make me cum.  Not yet.  Not yet.  “With you,” he whispered.

Brian settled back on his knees, saw Justin’s little pleased smile.  He took Justin’s arms and pulled him up until their bodies closed like a vice, lips, cocks together and arms enfolding.  An inner moment.  Before the power of sexual need fired too high.  For Brian, it was getting close.  He lifted Justin’s chin, kissed him and nudged him to turn around.  Watched him sink to his forearms, form aglow in pale gold from long hair to raised hips.  Condom.  Lube.  Position…into…fucking…goddamned…amazing.

Justin breathed out with a throaty tone.  Expanding.  Accepting…this pleasure…this union…this man.  He felt Brian’s heated body drape over his back.  Arms around his waist.  Pulling him up to sit back into Brian’s lap, his legs outside Brian’s and sharing support, his back snug to Brian’s chest, Brian’s head dipping into his neck and feasting there as they started their slow ride.

Two shades of gold, bound in the fever of men’s passion, in the eye of the setting sun.

That night, Justin stood at the door for the customary good-bye kiss.  Instead, Brian dangled his car keys in front of him.

“You’re driving, in case you want to join me for lunch.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“What’s okay for them is okay for us.”

Justin took the keys with a wide smile and opened the door.

Morning at Turner.  Day-shifters swarmed in; The Boys gathered their light jackets and lunch boxes and drifted out.  The only ceremony to Brian’s departure was Chinc’s casual “See ya,” hand-wave as he turned to the open overhead door and jumped off the dock.

Brian stood in that doorway and returned Justin’s wave from the Vette parked along the concrete median strip.  Brian took a last back-glance at Hell in time to see Tank stop hands-on-hips beside him.

“So long, Slick.  Maybe things’ll get back to normal around here -”

Brian raised a brow, Tank looked back, “- as soon as I find the mutherfucker who talked that idiot boss into helpin’ us out.”

Brian watched Tank stomp to Dave grilling Torch with “No, I think you’re doing it wrong” and Tank bellowing, “We ain’t doin’ it wrong…you’re just OBSERVIN’ it wrong.”

Brian quickly jumped from the dock and walked to the Vette, little smile growing wider with each step until his teeth gleamed in the rising sun.  He opened the driver’s door, slid in still smiling.

“What are YOU so thrilled about?” Justin matched the smile.

“Dock Rule Number Four…Don’t give nothin’ you wouldn’t want back,” Brian started the car and kicked the clutch when he heard taps on his window.  Creet.  He rolled the window open and Creet’s large hand reached in.

“Good luck to ya,” Creet shook Brian’s hand.  “When you’re schmoozin’ with the bigwigs?  Maybe you could remind ‘em where their three-hundred-thousand-dollar homes came from,” Creet nodded proudly then walked away, across the median, into the lot where he stopped beside a pickup and unlocked its door.

Brian paused in deeper thought.  “My Dad was a fucking asshole as a father...and I don't know if I'll ever forgive him for that,” Brian watched Creet take a moment to stand back and gaze at the sunrise.  “But maybe in some tiny part of a different world...he might've been a helluva man."

“I’m pretty sure that’s the part of him in you,” Justin touched his arm.

Brian smiled back, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” and geared into first.

In the Loft, Brian leaned against the door. “First order of ceremony,” he grunted through removing his boots, walked them to the kitchen trashcan and held them high for the loudest thunk when they hit bottom.  Followed by the worn and filthy gloves.

“Bravo, oh former Queen of the Night,” Justin clapped.  “And for MY act…I drop the Rage drawings at the Shop so Queen Novotny doesn’t throw a fit,” Justin ambled to his desk.

Brian raised his brows, amazed when Justin stooped over a haphazard tower of paper and went right to the file he needed.

Justin trooped back, “Later,” gave Brian a quick kiss, left and shut the door.

After another furrowed look at Justin’s mess, Brian sat at his own desk, opened the file drawer, set out the Turner and JT-BK Contract folders.  He tackled Turner first, reviewed then fed each sheet to his shredder.  The JT-BK folder.  He read the copy of the Declaration Of Partnership form he’d filled out for the insurance.  Served its purpose.  Into the shredder.  He held the Contract, smiled and removed the clip holding the pages together.

When Justin returned, he found the Loft empty and a note on the kitchen counter:  Low on lube – Be right back – It’s your turn to do the laundry.  B.

Justin filled the laundry duffle in the bathroom, dragged it to the bedroom and did a lone-sock check around the bed.   He smiled at the empty space where Brian’s boots and gloves normally sat, kicked the duffle down the steps and hiked to the kitchen for stray towels.  Another empty space - the brown-paper-bag corner.  He turned to the fridge door bare of notes.  Everything related to Turner Lumber, gone.

On afterthought, Justin trailed to Brian’s office desk and opened the file drawer.  A bolt hit when he saw a vacant space where their Contract sat.  His eyes skimmed the other unrelated folders.  Anxious, he checked the wastebasket.  Empty.  The shredder. Same.  Didn’t mean anything unless...

Justin hurried to the bathroom wastebasket, looked in and felt as empty as IT was.  Brian had dumped the trash.  Everything.

Justin shuffled to the doorway overlooking his work area, sat on the top step, locked his hands around his knees, breaths heavy.  He’d never had a car stolen.  Or a house burn down.  But somehow this feeling seemed a hundred times worse.  Just a piece of paper, he told himself, leaned his head against the doorframe, closed his eyes to hold any stupid tears.  A piece of paper for Turner.  And Turner was over. 

Doesn’t change anything, he managed a smile.  Doesn’t change anything at all.

When Brian got back, he saw Justin at his computer working on a Rage drawing.  He set his bag on the counter, circled around back and rested his chin on Justin’s head.  “Hey.”

“Hey,” Justin rubbed his head on Brian’s chin but kept eyes on his work.

“I need a shower and the sheets before I meet with Rheinholdt later. Care to join me?”

“In a little,” Justin kept drawing.  “Can you drop me at the Diner on your way?  I’m starting back today.  Just a half-day.  See how it goes.”

Brian dropped to a knee beside him, got a lackluster smile.  “A little early, if my calendar reads right.  Now would you mind filling me in on what happened between the time you left and the time I came back?”

Busted.  Never very good at Brianesque opaque.  Justin looked into his eyes and focused on the concern.  Smile warming, Justin brushed his hand against Brian’s cheek.  “No sleep and too much action.  I’ll meet you at our usual spot,” he winked, added a kiss.  Fuck the paper.  If you wanted it gone, then so do I. 

Brian nodded, stood up and strode to the bedroom.  He back-glanced Justin.  Something not right.  Then…fuck.  A lot went down today.  And a big hurdle later.  He trotted up the stairs, passed his open closet and smiled at the suits he’d be wearing again.  Fuck it felt good to be home.

Brian, in a suit, followed Justin to the Diner counter where they joined a variation on a football lineup. Debbie sat on the outside with Vic and Rodney on her right, Michael and Ben left. Five customers stood close behind Debbie.  And Emmett was behind the counter, adjusting the antenna on a clunky small TV.  More snow and static than sound.  The camera closed in on the door number 1600 before moving to other news, and the strangers moved back to their tables.

Brian uttered, “That’s Turner’s address,” then loud to the group, “What was THAT all about?”

Emmett turned off the set, leaned on the counter.  “Hard as it is to believe?  Somebody came forward on the Adonis case.”

Michael swiveled to face Brian.  “Yeah. They identified the gunman as a twenty-five-year old transient who tipped them off to a drug ring.”

Vic chipped in, “The cops staged an early morning raid.  Caught a gang of folks red-handed.”

Brian swallowed hard, Justin squeezed his hand and Brian asked, “Where?”

“Sixteen-hundred Talbot,” Emmett said low as he rubbed Debbie’s hand, “Rita Montgomery’s place.”

Michael was somber, “I guess she found a way to supplement her income while Hunter was out of commission.”

Debbie, who sat mutely staring at the blank set, spoke quietly, not facing anyone, “I was just going over there again today,” she shook her head.  “Anytime something like this happens…this thing at the Bathhouse…I worry about you boys getting hurt,” she bit her lip, “God only knows what I might have walked into…” she looked up, “…if it wasn’t for some angel…” and palmed the corner of an eye.

Michael rubbed her back, “It’s okay, Mom.”

Emmett clenched her hand, she sniffled back her dark moment, looked up at Em and smiled, “Get me a coffee.  Black.  While you’re there,” then turned to Vic, “Is my fucking mascara running?  And don’t lie to me.”

“You look beautiful, Sis,” he leaned toward her, put a hand on her shoulder and gripped.

Emmett set her coffee down.  “Here, Sweetie.”

Debbie took a sip, regrouped, looked around, “You all look like a fucking dog pound.  We should be celebrating…WHOEVER the fuck he is,” she slid off her seat, whipped out her checkbook and pen,  “Okay.  What’s everybody having?”  Her usual bluster was still tinted with shock but recovering.  While the others read menus, Debbie looked Brian over. “Is that for real?”

“It’s not for Halloween.”

Debbie smiled wide and yelled, “Hey, everybody.  We got a fucking executive in the family again!”

Followed by annoying rounds of “Congratulations!” “All right, BRIAN!” “Good to hear.” “You go, Baby!” and Vic’s “Does that mean you’re buying?” which got a poke from Debbie and Vic’s indignant, “Well I need to know before I order.”

“I’m not staying.  I was just on my way to the office,” Brian took Justin’s hand, “But I’ll leave Justin at the door,” and led him outside against a background of orders in progress.

On Liberty’s busy corner, Brian stood facing Justin at the curb.

“We have a dinner meeting afterwards, so I’ll probably be back late.”

Justin nodded his understanding.  “Brian?  Do you think it was Scott?”

“I’d bet my dick on it.”

“Wonder why they never gave his name.”

“Knowing Scott…I’m sure he cut SOME kind of deal,” Brian closed in and held Justin’s shoulders.  “Now wish us luck.”

Justin circled his arms around Brian’s neck and kissed him.  Car horn beeps broke it off.  “Later,” Justin whispered.

“Later,” Brian answered and strolled down the block to the car.

At a hotel restaurant, Brian opened his briefcase on the Table, saw Rheinholdt stab a look at the Neville folder.  Good.  They screwed you, too.

Rheinholdt started, “You mentioned a plan to expand WaveLight without disrupting the current system.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute.  On the matter of salary, I AM considering another offer,” Brian slid a sheet from the Neville folder.  “Can we meet somewhere between my former salary and this?” He handed the sheet to Rheinholdt, already going stone.

Rheinholdt took and read the paper.  “We’re not Neville,” he stared at Brian’s steady eyes then drew a pen from his suit pocket, crossed out the Neville number, wrote his offer and handed it back.  “That’s what I’m prepared to pay.”

Brian frowned at it, fingered his chin, shook his head.  “That’s quite a difference.  However…” he toned like he was about to do a big favor, “…we might be able to work out a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

Brian smiled, reached under the Neville folder and removed a dusk-sky folder with a simple blaze of white framing the logo Lightwave.

Late evening, Brian entered the dark Loft, moved in slowly.  “Justin?”

Light burst from the tree lit with a myriad of tiny bulbs.  On a futon cushion under it, Justin in jeans and a white tee shirt, sat back on his legs, bit his bottom lip and waited for a response.

“Beating the Christmas rush?” Brian paced toward him, eyes to the tree, back to Justin.

Justin leaned on an arm, gazed up.  “If you sit here and look up, it looks like a lot of stars.”

Brian tilted his head at the display.  Still looked like cheap lights in a tree.  “I guess it could.”

“You have to really look,” Justin quirked a smile, stood up low to clear a branch and slid his arms around Brian’s neck, felt Brian’s arms surround him.  “Well?  What’s the verdict?”

Brian dropped his grip to Justin’s thighs and lifted him so fast, Justin gasped and nearly strangled him.  Brian set him down as quickly, dove for his open mouth and tongue-fucked in every position, hands traveling Justin’s body as Justin’s hands pulled at his neck and hair.

They broke in tandem, foreheads touching.

Brian breathed, “Their health plan doesn’t include partners, but you’re covered.”

Justin backed off with a questioning look.

Brian raised a brow, “Do you think I’d even consider managing a new division without a head artist?”

Justin’s mouth gaped before his brows knit.  “Is that another sex pun?”

Brian froze in thought, “I missed that one.  Damn you’re getting good,” he chuckled then turned serious.  “It’s no gold mine, but the job is open, if you want it.”

“Only if I can have them both,” Justin slid his hand over Brian's cock.  “Mm. Definitely fits the description of a magnum load.”

“We’ll check it out after one last thing,” Brian held a key up to Justin’s nose.

“My very first office key,” Justin took and studied it.

“Actually…we’re IN our office,” Brian viewed his desk, Justin’s area, back to Justin.  “It’s a condition of the deal.  I have to cover extra expenses from Rheinholdt’s far less than lucrative offer.”  When Justin’s brows furrowed and he held up the key, Brian added, “It’s your key to the safety deposit box for our contract.  Don’t forget to sign the forms for the bank.”  Brian stared at Justin’s wide eyes.  “Well I had to put it SOME place…just in case another rat gets in here.”

Justin cleared his throat, recovered with a nod.  “That’s right.  Brian Kinney doesn’t DO sentimental,” he sly-grinned up, “Is that why you spent an hour looking for what you wore the first night we met?”

“Maybe that’s what YOU did,” Brian’s eyes shifted over each of Justin’s steady ones.  He exhaled a breath and surrendered, “Five minutes.  The other fifty-five was trying to convince myself what a ridiculous idea it was.”

“There’s hope for you yet.”

As they fused in a hug, Brian kissed Justin’s hair, leaned his cheek against Justin’s head and glimpsed the tree.

Fuck.  It DID look like a lot of stars.

Song: “Perception (New Vocal Mix) by Cass & Slide

(Hope you enjoyed this side-trip along the wait for the real Season Four.  London) 

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