Body beaded with spray, Brian leaned back against his shower wall and imagined Justin stepping through the misty steam. The rush from looking into enigmatic innocent, wicked eyes. Watching hair so blond even wet-open anxious lips going down, down.

Head back, mouth open, eyes closed, Brian wrapped a hand around his swollen cock and jerked off with his memories.

Head raised, mouth open, eyes closed, Justin leaned back against the mildewed tile of the small shower stall, convulsed and gasped loudly as he came, mind lost in hazel eyes.

Three raps on the door urged Justin to a hasty rinse. “What?”

Ethan’s voice was muffled from outside. “Jus? You okay in there? The door’s locked.”

Justin shut off the water, whipped a towel over his body and opened the door.

“Sorry. Must’ve hit the button by accident,” he bypassed Ethan’s attempted kiss without even looking.

Standing naked and confused, Ethan watched Justin dress like the building was on fire.

“Okay, love of my life. You’re obviously not up for breakfast. What’d I do now?”

Justin stalled in the middle of donning a shoe. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“We’ll talk about it now,” Ethan moved closer.

“I’m already late for class,” Justin stood, roamed the room and collected sketchbooks.

“Tonight, then,” Ethan squeezed Justin’s arm, stopping him mid-dash. “Oh. Don’t forget, I’ll probably run a little late. But I’ll be here.”

“Yeah. I know the routine,” Justin twisted away and hurried to the door.

Ethan blew a hard breath as he watched the door shut. Maybe tonight was not a good night to hang out with the Orchestra Club.

Cynthia entered Brian’s office and was surprised to see him in jeans, turtleneck and leather jacket as he slid sample posters into his portfolio.

“I rescheduled your next meeting and cancelled the luncheon,” she confirmed, followed by a disapproving scan of his attire. “I thought you had a business meeting.”

“I do,” he zipped the portfolio shut. “Turner Construction. We’re meeting…” he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, sighed and shook his head, “…on site.”

“Oh my,” Cynthia chuckled. “Dirt, dust –“

“Let’s not forget all that heavy equipment,” Brian did a tongue-in-cheek, grabbed his portfolio and flew out the door.

Cynthia shook her head and grinned. Only Brian would be cocky enough to trust his gay-dar in a breeder jungle like a construction site.

Justin’s portfolio sat against the leg of a commercial swing set where he and Brian often took Gus. Too cold for any toddlers, the playground was deserted except for Justin sitting on a swing and rocking like some eighty-year-old hermit on a porch.

He wasn’t aware of any movement around him until creaking chains made him jump, spin his head and see Brian’s tall form compacted on the neighboring seat.

“Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’ll have to brush up on my playground-pervert skills. Why aren’t you in class?”

“Why aren’t you at work?”

Brian jet a steamy breath, uncoiled to a stand and turned to walk away. “I was driving by and thought I recognized somebody I knew.” He didn’t plan a fight.

“Wait.” Justin palmed his temple and looked up. “I missed my stop and ended up here.” He wasn’t sure why. His hand dropped and he glanced at both hands, cold in his lap.

“Well, being here will get you two things for sure. First, you’ll freeze your ass off. Then you’ll hate yourself for missing class and having all that make-up work. Don’t say you won’t. I’ve been that route with you.”

“You were an asshole then and you’re still one now,” Justin struck mildly.

“Come on. I’ll drive you back.”

Brian shoved his hands into his pockets and loped to the Jeep. Justin snatched his portfolio and double-timed to catch up.

In the warmth and closeness of the car, Brian risked throwing deep.

“If you wanna talk about it, I promise no kicks or cuts.”

Justin closed his eyes and leaned his head back, cleared his throat in a loud grunt. “Between the three jobs and school, I guess I’m on the edge a lot, that’s all. The Rage sketches are due and it’s been hard…” he trailed to silence.

“Working with Mikey,” Brian finished, drawing Justin’s stare.

“He’s your friend. I know you don’t like to go there.”

“Whatever happened to those two happy little clams who shared the same brain?”

“He doesn’t come to me with things that involve me. He goes around me. I can’t work with that.”

“I’d say first you have to ask yourself, is it the man? Or was it the situation?” After giving Justin a couple moments to ruminate, “As one of the main authorities on Michael Novotny, I can tell you without a doubt, a man could trust his life with him.”

“I’m not you.”

“No, you’re not. But that doesn’t change him.”

Brian stopped the Jeep at PIFA, turned to Justin without realizing he’d swung his arm across the seatback and nearly onto Justin’s shoulders.

“Work it out. Then the next thing. Before you know it, everything will start falling into place.”

Justin stared into that smile, those eyes, almost pressed against Brian’s arm. “Okay,” he nodded, remembering what he loved most about the man.

Brian almost leaned in to kiss him. Almost. But he pulled his arm back and grabbed the steering wheel. His cramped dick twitched against his will.

Justin snapped back, opened the door and rolled out. He yanked his portfolio from behind the seat, blurted, “Thanks for the ride,” slammed the door and jogged toward PIFA.

Brian let out a sharp breath, right hand twisting on the steering wheel until finally locating the shift lever. He could remember every second past their first words. Before that, all he could recall was driving, thinking he saw Justin. . . then sitting on the swing.

Justin hiked the stairs with renewed energy. He had a resolution for one problem. But a new complication for another.

Brian focused his camera lens on the impressive sight of Scott in a hard hat, sheepskin denim jacket half-open as he pointed to a massive dump truck with tires big enough to cover a wall of the loft.

“That baby’ll haul three hundred tons in one load,” Scott looked back at Brian. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“Saving the cost of hiring a model, and personalizing your new campaign.” Brian snapped one more before packing the camera away. “So what’s management doing on the firing line?”

“You can’t manage effectively if you don’t know what the hell your people do,” Scott perched a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “So let’s see what you brought.”

Scott and Brian walked back to the mobile home office where their vehicles sat side-by-side.

Inside beyond the front office, in a comfortably furnished living room, Brian lined five mounted pieces along the dark leather couch. Scott flicked on lights and shut the blinds so passing gawkers wouldn’t see the display, raise question and reveal the secret weapon.

“We hit the commercial market with these,” Brian pointed to the three bold, stylized prints of well-known Turner high-rises captioned: Solid, Straight-Forward, Driving Hard to Build Your Future – Turner Construction in lettering designed to look like concrete framed in steel.

“And these are more for mainstream housing.” Two had child-like crayon drawings of homes graduating to impressive, multi-buck Turner mansions captioned: You Dreamed It, You Earned it, You Deserve It – Turner Construction

Scott was especially interested in the fifth mock-up, which he lifted and studied. “It’s our proposed parking garage.” Same caption as the commercial adds.

“In scale and in exactly the right location. For the local campaign,” Brian grinned, handed Scott a one-sheet detail. “Here’s where and when we run. Turner is in black and, of course, Conrad is in red.” Brian laid a contract in Scott’s reach. “All I need is your signature. The areas are flagged.”

“Nice work. I’ll have my lawyers – “

“Your source got you late word about Conrad’s campaign, your internal staff couldn’t handle it because there wasn’t enough lead time, and you came to me despite my bonus clause because I have the connections and balls to make this work. So fuck the lawyers and sign here. I didn’t earn my reputation by fucking clients over. In a figurative sense. And as a show of respect for YOU, I left my notary at home.” Brian smiled and presented his pen.

“God, you’re beautiful when you’re a bitch,” Scott snatched the pen and signed. “I think it warrants a celebration tonight,” Scott handed back the paperwork, stepped behind a small bar, set up two rocks glasses and a fancy unmarked bottle.

Brian gathered his prints together. “I wouldn’t call Morell’s much of a celebration.”

“Forget Morell’s. Laker shut down after somebody threatened to torch the place.” Scott stooped for ice in the under-counter freezer.

“That’s a shame. He was decent. For a straight fucker with no class,” Brian zipped his work into his portfolio.

Scott returned with two drinks, handed one to Brian. “Only proves that if you really wanna fuck somebody’s mind, go after the safety and security of his home.”

“Do you peddle panic with your homes?” Brian side-eyed with a grin.

“Sells a lot of security systems. Here’s to blood.”

Scott and Brian clinked glasses and drank.

On a hilltop access road above the worksite, a burley Foreman nodded at Chris through the driver’s side window of the parked BMW. After the man passed, Chris retrieved the field glasses hidden at his feet and tossed them onto the passenger side floor. He leaned back, chest heaving, eyes staring at some distant point past the car roof. Brian. Again.

Justin’s eyes watched those of the geriatric Instructor scrutinizing a photo and matching oil painting of a forest.

“Hmmm.” The man never smiled. “Brush hairs. I suggest you buy better sables.”

Justin winced. “Cat hair.”

“Cat hair brushes? I never heard of – “

“No. I mean…I’m doing a little experimenting. With texture.”

“Hmm. I suggest that you follow the lesson plan. Experimenting is for seniors who are sure they know it all.”

“Yes sir.”

“And remember. When you mount?”

“Sir?” Justin tensed.

“Rubber cement is man’s best friend.” With that, the Instructor finally smiled, nodded, handed back the photo and painting and walked away.

Justin exhaled slowly. He checked his work, frowned, picked a hair off with a fingernail and wondered how he’d missed that one.

Picturing Brian on a swing kept Justin level through an exasperating day. He was still smiling when he unlocked the apartment door and walked into an unexpected one-arm embrace.

“Ethan. I thought you’d be late.”

“I took care of dinner. Aaaaand. . .” Ethan held a single red rose a couple feet in front of Justin’s face. “I know you’re allergic to flowers, but one little one can’t hurt.”

Justin took the rose, stared with a private wish. He glanced at Ethan’s questioning eyes and could barely make out Brian on the swing. “Thank you,” he smiled and gave in to a more meaningful kiss.

“Wolfram’s in the bathroom so we can be alone,” Ethan slouched down to a fruit-cheese-wine-and-candle floor table, watched Justin drop cross-legged beside him. “You always look beautiful in candlelight.”

“Is this some kind of anniversary?” Justin set the rose beside the cheese tray, poured wine into both glasses, lifted his and sipped.

“Every day with you is worth celebrating.” Ethan spoke warmly, downed his wine. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

Justin’s eyes hit the rose, jumped back to Ethan. His smile thinned.

Ethan’s confident smile waned as well. He switched his focus to refilling their drinks. “Maybe it’s not that important.”

“Ethan, when I gave you my drawing, and you used it on your CD, I thought you were proud of my work.”

“Of course I am,” Ethan’s dark eyes narrowed. “Why do you think I used it?”

“Because I tried to make you perfect.”

“One of the reasons I love you so much.”

“Then why isn’t my name on the credits?” Justin hurriedly drank half his wine to hold back stronger words.

“What?” Ethan sat straight up. “Why those fucking printers! You think they could follow simple directions.” Ethan stood and paced with convincing ire. He dropped to his knees against Justin’s back. “I’ll get it straightened out first thing tomorrow.” He massaged Justin’s shoulders, kissed his neck.

Justin was persuaded enough to touch Ethan’s hand, but still uneasy about his sincerity. “Wasn’t that CD supposed to be dedicated to me?”

Ethan shrugged. “I always personalize my CD’s.”

“I have to work on Rage,” Justin set down his glass, pulled away from Ethan, rose and turned on the lamp.

Ethan sat back on his legs, stared at the untouched meal. “I have to work on Opus 17, too. The food will keep for awhile, if you get hungry.” He stood, found his violin and prepped the bed for his stage.

“Yeah. Sure,” Justin didn’t look back.

As disjointed violin music filled the room, Justin took Michael’s outline and the Rage-Pride sketchbook to a corner of the room, sat on a pillow with his back to the wall. He set down the outline, opened the sketchbook on his lap, glanced at the top drawing. After a thoughtful moment, he closed and tossed the sketchbook aside and picked up the outline.

Michael’s dark brows tensed in thought as he stared at his computer screen and tapped keys. He hardly moved even after Ben crept up behind him, stooped and parked his chin on Michael’s shoulder.

“Trouble writing dialogue for Rage and JT?” Ben kept low near Michael’s ear.

“Working on that story I gave Justin. It’s something I really wanted to do.”

“What’s it about?” Ben squinted and tried reading.

“It’s about a non-super hero. Just a regular guy. With AIDS.”

“Whoa. Heavy,” Ben raised his brows, straightened. “Do you think the world is ready for a hero with no super powers?”

“I think it needs one. He’ll be doing all these heroic things, just because he cares about people. I’m gonna make him Zephyr’s lover, and he’s gonna keep Zephyr connected to the things Rage and JT take for granted.”

“You’re brilliant, and I love you,” Ben slid his arms around Michael’s neck.

Michael faced Ben for a brief kiss, returned to the keyboard, scrolled to the bottom of the page and silently read the last entry.

“Long after the hype, and AIDS and whatever else comes along …”

Justin finished reading, “…people will read about their dreams and how much they meant to each other.” He flipped to the last page. It was a computer printout of Ben’s picture with only one word. Hero. Justin blinked away a starting haze. Was it so long ago that this was Rage and JT’s storyline?

Justin grabbed a pencil and began a sketch of Hero beside Ben’s picture. His pencil point broke the moment Ethan hit a sour note, hollered “Shit!” and forced his bow across the strings in anger. The horrendous screech made Justin grope for his headphones. He reached across the Rage-Pride pad without noticing the visible blue edge of one page.

Michael types his story, Justin sketches Hero, the Rage-Pride pad hints one blue drawing.

Song: “The Never-ending Story (Almighty Mix)” by Obsession

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