Justin had the small apartment carpeted in drawings, the ultimate catwalk.

“No. Out. Come on, get off,” Justin huffed, sat back on his legs. Wolfram plopped down just out of reach.

Ethan laughed low. “Wolfram,” he called. The cat sped to his side. “It’s my authoritative tone – “

“And tuna on a cracker, jerk. I can smell it from here,” Justin smiled and watched Ethan treat the beast.

“Now there’s a real smile,” Ethan watched Justin. “This is the most relaxed I’ve seen you all week. Feeling more settled?”

Justin kept his eyes on sorting drawings. “Uh, yeah.”

Ethan skirted between pages to get to Justin, knelt behind him, circled his arms around Justin’s waist and whispered in his ear,“It’s Sunday, it’s sunny, and we’re going to a free concert at the Carnegie Library parking lot.”

“Can’t. I have to work on Rage,” Justin threw up his arms as if Ethan wasn’t there. “I can’t believe they’re missing. You didn’t see another box of my stuff around here anywhere, did you?” Justin craned around.

Ethan’s expression flattened. “Everything you brought is spread all over the place.” He stood up and picked his way back to the kitchen, opened the fridge.

“Ethan, I don’t complain about how long you play.”

Ethan grabbed a bottle of wine, slammed the fridge, sauntered back toward Justin. “I thought you liked my playing.”

“I DO. It’s just…dammit.” Justin ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll bet they’re still at the loft.”

“What about the loft?”

“My Rage sketches. I had ‘em on the bed. Fuck.” Justin stood up with hands on hips as he scanned his drawings.

Ethan’s eyes blazed. “You’re not going over there. Have Michael find them and leave them at the Diner.” He popped the cork on the wine and took a drink.

“I’m not asking Michael for any favors. The cleaning lady knows me. I’ll just meet up with her tomorrow.”

“You really need to go back there, hunh?” Ethan smacked the bottle down on the counter.

“I’m not going inside. What is WITH you?” Justin glared.

“I should be asking YOU that.”

“This is my work. Part of what I do for money. You know, the stuff that helps pay for rent and tuition and books, movies, cat food…” Justin jammed his hands into his pockets. This conversation seemed so familiar.

“Don’t forget cigarettes.”

“I cut back a lot. I told you I’m working on quitting.”

Ethan snatched up his violin and headed for the door. Justin stared.

“Where are you going?”

“Carnegie Library. Stop by if you can tear yourself away from Rage.”

Ethan dashed out and yanked the door shut before Justin could think of something to say.

Mel peeked past the door curtain, let the curtain fall back, rolled her eyes and swiveled her head toward Lindsay.

“It’s the Prodigal Father.”

“Don’t call him that,” Lindsay quickly folded a blanket, tossed it on the couch arm and hustled to the door. “He’s been beat on enough already.”

“Get what you give. Pulling that shit on Justin. And getting us involved in it,” Mel stepped aside and put on a classic fake smile as Lindsay opened the door.

“Brian!” Lindsay glowed.

“Hi, Mom…and Mom,” Brian strolled in, eyes searching. “Where’s my Sonny Boy?”

“Finally asleep,” Mel folded her arms over her chest.

Lindsay answered Brian’s silent question. “He had a cold, but he’s getting over it.”

“We took turns watching his temp every hour. You picked a good week to disappear.”

“Mel,” Lindsay shot before returning to Brian. “Where have you been? We were worried about you.”

“You don’t have to answer in mixed company if you don’t want,” Mel moved away and into the kitchen.

Lindsay defended in low tones. “She’s just a little tired. She really missed you, too.”

“Bad aim, I’m sure,” Brian sat on the couch. “He’ll be okay, though? Did you take him to the doctor?”

Lindsay thought a moment before answering. “Why don’t you go up and see him?” she smiled.

Brian slow-blinked a thank you, got up and made for the steps.

Gus’s eyes were open and active. Brian leaned into the crib, gathered him up and huggedhim to his chest.

“You’re the one sure thing in my life,” he whispered against the sleepy, wispy-haired head.

“There was another one,” Lindsay softly added from the doorway.

Still hugging Gus close, Brian turned to Lindsay. “He was too young. I should’ve stopped it a long time ago. Let him be a kid.” Brian nuzzled his son’s head. Gus stayed quietly cooperative in safe, strong arms.

“Right now he could be a kid with an abused body and a warped outlook on life because he got picked up by the wrong guy.” Lindsay crossed her arms, countered Brian’s subtle guilt. “He would’ve buried his talent away because he had no desire to use it. And what lofty rule dictates you have to be a certain age before you can officially be capable of love?”

“It’s not about capability. It’s about choice. Seeing what’s out there before you decide. You had that opportunity…I certainly did.” So much for no regrets.

“Brian, you’re the only one I know who could find something and still keep looking for it.”

Brian froze, let that one whistle past him. He took a deep breath, leaned Gus out and matched the toddler’s smile. “Some fresh air might do us all some good.”

“I think we can take him for a little walk. But just a little one.”

Lindsay knew when to back off.

Late that evening, Brian idled the Jeep at a Northside intersection despite the lack of a traffic light or stop sign. He looked up at the darkened third floor window of a familiar building then drove on.

Brian zapped the “Monday Afternoon Special” Smiley post-it off a folder cover, tossed the sticker, opened the folder and read. He shook his head in disbelief, slapped the packet onto his desk and briefly pinched the bridge of his nose to ease some tension.

Cynthia leaned into Brian’s open office doorway. Brian could sense it with eyes closed.

“Thank you for the Smiley,” he dead-panned. “I should’ve kept it and trashed this proposal.”

“I know. I read it first. Brian, you have a walk-in. He says he’s a friend of yours. Scott Turner from Turner Construction?”

Brian brushed a hand over the hair on his neck. What was THIS about. “Send him in.”

Seconds after Cynthia disappeared, Scott entered, looking smoother in Hugo Boss than his usual CK’s.

“Brian,” Scott smiled and sat down like it was his own office. “Very you,” his eyes traveled around the modern, sleek lines and settled back on Brian.

Brian tented his fingers in thought. “Let’s see. I had all my clothes on when I left, two years haven’t gone by yet, so I take it you’re here for business?”

“Conrad Builders. Know them?”

“I can.”

“They’re going tri-State, right up against us.”

“I thought you had an internal marketing staff.”

“Not for a major campaign.”

Brian leaned forward. “Are you out for equal exposure or blood?”

Scott gave a sly smile. “What’s the going rate on blood?”

“Not cheap.”

“Even for a friend?”

“Am I a friend on your payroll?”

“Maybe. Why don’t you invite me to lunch on your dime, and we’ll talk.”

Brian smiled. Scott was savvy to the perks of being a potential client, and never too proud to expect them.

Justin stood on the step outside the door to Brian’s building and scanned faces while finishing a smoke.

In Brian’s bedroom, Debbie’s Jayne-Mansfield-Blond-wigged transvestite friend, Ida, felt around the crevice at the head of the mattress. He finally located a sketchpad marked Rage-Pride lodged between the mattress and dresser, fanned through pages of computer drawings.

“Better make sure,” he cased the room, opened Justin’s drawers and shook his head at the empty space.

Ida carefully shuffled through the papers on Brian’s desk. He noticed the drawing in the wastebasket, reached in and rescued it. Something beautifully haunting about it said this self-portrait must have been thrown out by mistake. He slid it between the pages of the Justin’s sketchpad.

When Ida stepped outside and handed over the sketchpad, Justin almost kissed him.

“That’s it!” Justin lifted the Rage-Pride cover, smiled at the top drawing, shut the pad and wedged it under his arm. “ Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“I should be so happy there’s less to clean,” Ida looked at him through somber eyes. “But the place is too empty without you.”

“Not for long,” Justin wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “With me gone, it’s probably the Grand Central of Pittsburgh.”

“You would think so, hunh, dearie? Well, unless Marathon Man is bare-backing, there hasn’t been more than one used condom in the trash all week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I get paid to clean up,” Ida winked and disappeared back inside.

Justin stared after him and took a moment to digest the comments before moving on.

Brian and Scott fit right into the Country Club atmosphere. Sitting across from each other at a secluded table, bourbons-on-the-rocks in hand, they drew stares from diamond-decked women already with other successful businessmen.

Scott laid a file envelope on the table, pushed it toward Brian.

“We’re bidding on the same downtown parking structure. We look good enough, even if we come in a little high we still have a decent shot. Everywhere people see Conrad, I want ‘em to see Turner bigger and better.”

“What time frame are we talking?” Brian stared unblinking.

“I’ve got a mole at Neville Agency in Ohio. She says – “

“She?”

“I always say, don’t limit the fuckables. Never can tell where your next ally may turn up. She says their campaign flies in three weeks.”

He’d always suspected Scott went both ways. With all those allies, the brazen shit should have been richer than Bill Gates by now. Brian eyed the envelope, drummed his fingers on it. “That doesn’t leave us much of a window. Let me wade through it tonight to see what hits.”

When Brian looked back at Scott, his eyes couldn’t help spotting an approaching young man, sunny blond – very much like Justin, beautiful face, heavier build but sharp in a Boss three-piece. Probably in his twenties.

Noticing Brian’s gaze, Scott twisted a look over his shoulder.

“Hi, Scott,” the blond smiled a real winner, practically leaned on Scott.

“Chris,” Scott didn’t smile. “I’m in a meeting.”

“I didn’t want to drive by without a hello,” Chris kept his smile, flicked a look at Brian.

“Brian Kinney,” Brian reached out a hand.

“Christian Harris, Turner Electrical,” Chris responded with a terse shake. His steely cool eyes certainly weren’t like Justin’s.

Scott aimed Chris a “Nice seeing you again,” with a stiff get-lost quality.

“Brian,” Chris nodded, laser-eyeing him while pressing a hand like a branding iron on Scott’s shoulder. Brian could feel the heat across the table. “See you around, Scott.”

Chris turned away and drifted to the exit.

“If looks could kill…” Brian noted.

“If looks could kill, you’d be stepping over dead bodies every time you walked into a room,” Scott toasted with his drink. “I admit, Chris is an eyeful. Helluva fuck, too. Want good advice? Stay away from him. He expects too much.”

Brian ran his tongue against his cheek. As much as he wanted to be flattered, he had seen what Scott didn’t, or did and ignored. At one time Brian would have considered Chris an intriguing challenge. But watching the back of Chris’s blond head brought back the pang of watching Justin walk away.

There were other challenges. Brian downed his drink in a gulp and snatched up the file folder.

Monday at noon in the PIFA Copy Office was alive with the hum and swish of paper running through the giant main copier.

Justin stood with a tall, skinny kid in a Talk Nerdy To Me tee shirt and watched him pull open a drawer sloppy with crammed papers.

“I need you to go through all these files and pull out the ones that haven’t been active in a year.”

“Are these like business files?”

“Nah. They’re for PIFA students who ask us to do work for them once in awhile…report covers, presentation boards…stuff like that. We keep master copies in case they need more done. But not forever. Take this dude.”

Nerdy pulled a file, opened it on the desk and fanned out about twenty sheets of artwork along with a log sheet. Nerdy handed the log sheet to Justin, who took and scrutinized it. “See the last date? Dude’s probably graduated and gone already.”

Nerdy took the log from Justin’s hand, gathered the rest of the file and tossed it into a large trash can, leaving the empty file folder on the counter.

“That’s what you do. Think you’ll be okay? ’

“Yeah,” Justin nodded.

“I’ll be over by Bertha if you need any help.” Nerdy walked back to the control center of the big copier with “Bertha” painted on the side.

Justin pulled the first folder, checked it, straightened its contents and replaced it. Midway down the drawer, one of his own drawings peeked from a messy folder. He ran a finger to the name tab and tipped it for a look. Ethan Gold.

Flattered and smiling, Justin pulled the folder, flipped through the contents. They were copies of CD covers. The top page was his drawing, and the back cover dedicated to him. The copy of his drawing which stuck out, had a back cover dedicated to Martin. Same songs.

Justin’s smile faded as he spread several sheets on the counter. One dedicated to Paul. Andrew. Tony. Darryl. Micah. The log showed five since his own.

Justin drew and exhaled a long breath. He straightened Ethan’s folder, shoved it back into its spot, leaned stiff-armed on the cabinet and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Justin. You okay over there?” Nerdy shouted.

Justin glanced back with, “Yeah. Fine,” before pulling another folder. It wasn’t like Ethan shouldn’t be proud of his music, Justin reasoned. But that didn’t make him feel any better about it. The fact that Ethan had used Justin’s drawing on someone else’s CD might have made up for it, if not for one thing.

Justin watches “Bertha” spit endless copies into a tray, imagines CD covers with his artwork, dedicated to different names.

Song: “The Bug” by Dire Straits

[1]-[2]-[3]-[4]-[5]-[6]-[7]-[8]-[9]-[10]