Chapter 32


There might, she thought, be a more beautiful sweet young thing than Nicholas Avolar in Pittsburgh . . . but she doubted it. Not, at least, any more.

Brian Kinney, during his days of glory on the soccer field - and in his equally glorious early ventures into the flaming bright world of Liberty Avenue - would have qualified, but he was no longer eligible to be classified as either particularly sweet or particularly young. Not any more. Especially in light of recent events.

She took a deep, satisfying drag of cigarette smoke and wondered if he would ever feel young - or sweet - again.

Sharon Briggs had not been a regular smoker since her college days when she'd picked up the habit from the self-same 'sweet, young thing' she was now lamenting the loss of. But she still used the activity as a smoke-screen - pun intended - to provide her with common ground for establishing a rapport with co-workers and acquaintances in the process of fleshing out her undercover identities.

Like this one.

But back to her not exactly unpleasant observations about young Avolar.

Justin Taylor had been almost as beautiful - from Sharon's perspective. Except that she wasn't all that fond of blondes, although she had been reconsidering that preference of late, in light of her re-acquaintance with . . . but that was not germane to this particular moment. Nicholas was a rare combination of two worlds: black mother - a woman who had been in the employ of The Club since well before she was legally old enough to hold a job and who was, herself, quite lovely; and Hispanic father - a descendant, although on the wrong side of the blanket, of Spanish aristocracy who had inherited none of the wealth but all of the patrician good looks of his noble ancestors. Hector Avolar had not lived long enough to welcome his son into the world, falling to his death from the 28th floor of a skyscraper he was helping to construct in his job as a commercial welder, just two weeks prior to his child's birth, but his life had a major impact on the boy's future. The manner of his passing had closed certain doors to young Nicholas, and served to guide his path firmly away from the harsher environments of industrial labor.

Nicholas' mother - Millie - had made it her primary purpose in life to assure that Nicholas would never venture into the world his father had inhabited; he would not explore opportunities to develop potential skills in welding, or construction, or carpentry, or any of the other manual professions for which he might have been well suited.

Instead, Nicholas would learn about the service industry, which provided Millie's livelihood - such as it was.

Barring the unforeseen - or the unbelievable - he would never be rich; she knew and accepted that. He would struggle - financially - throughout his life. But at least, he would not die as the result of a random industrial accident or a gust of wind pushing him in the wrong direction at the wrong time, or a careless misstep in overreaching for a tool.

It never occurred to the woman that there were other means in which a young man could lose his way - or his life - and, unless Sharon was grossly mistaken, the boy was currently trying to figure out how to navigate safe passage through some shark-infested waters right at this very moment.

Nicholas Avolar had several problems. Some, she thought she might be able to help him with, but others . . . for those he needed assistance that she probably could not provide. For those, he needed someone he could relate to more directly.

She concealed a smile behind her hand.

He needed his own version of Brian Kinney. Or so she thought. But she couldn't really be sure. The simple fact that he showed virtually no interest in her - had never so much as followed her with his eyes or noticed when her skirt was hiked up to reveal a shapely leg - might mean nothing more than an under-active libido or excessive shyness. She couldn't be 100% certain, of course, since she didn't have eyes in the back of her head, but a woman tended to know these things - instinctively. Still, it was debatable. While her gay-dar worked perfectly well - on other lesbians - it left something to be desired in identifying the male members of the gay culture.

Brian would know; no doubt about that. But meanwhile . . . she thought she might ask for a judgment call by her current partner in crime who, according to the back story concocted for her newest persona, was a homeless veteran currently living on the streets of Pittsburgh - and her brother. The cover story was a little awkward; it did not flow as easily as other cover stories devised for her over the years, but the connection had been necessary, to gain entrée for her into the rarefied atmosphere of The Club.

It had been Jared Hilliard who had first connected with the Charles family in general, and Rachel Charles, cook extraordinaire in particular. Despite the degree of her talent - which was almost immeasurable - Miss Rachel, as she was always addressed in the ultra-formal environment of The Club, refused to identify herself as a chef, but she was instrumental in providing the opportunity for Sharon - currently masquerading as Shirley Harper - to apply for and land a position as the establishment's new assistant chef.

Sharon/Shirley sat now on the small concrete terrace designated as a smoking area for the staff, and watched as a 747 banked south for a landing at Pittsburgh International Airport. Off to the West, the sun was an arc of molten copper, a bulbous extrusion above the horizon, the framework of a new skyscraper painting stark vertical bars and ladders across its face. The building represented a real sore spot for the members of The Club since it interfered with the pristine nature of their view. They had mounted a concerted effort to block the construction, but, in this instance, their attempts had been thwarted. It wasn't often that they came up against someone with more money, more willingness to spend it, and more political clout than their own, but it still happened on occasion.

The members of the board - all of whom performed their duties in complete privacy since the identity of the board members was known only to Club members - had not been pleased with the City Planning Commission in this circumstances, but, ultimately, they had been forced to accept what they could not change. It would, however, grant them some future advantages; the next time they required a favor from the commission, their cooperation in this little venue would be remembered - and repaid.

It was politics as usual.

And all of The Club's employees were well aware of how the arrangement worked. Few places in the world were more grounded in the old, familiar principle: rank did, indeed, have its privileges.

The Club's membership would have been astonished to learn how much Sharon Briggs knew - firsthand - about such elitest privileges, as there was absolutely nothing in her demeanor or her superficial attitude to indicate even the slightest familiarity with the advantages of class and wealth. She had actually had some training in gourmet cooking - as in desultory French culinary classes for the idle rich - which accounted for her familiarity with professional terminology, and thus she was able to excel in her new profession, thanks in part to her own affinity for cooking and, in no small part, to the natural skills and ingenuity of one Emmett Honeycutt - not to mention his willingness to share his expertise, for a good cause. Emmett had quickly agreed to provide tips for the undercover cop, finding it very amusing that he was instrumental in assisting in the scamming of such an establishment, in the certainty that any attempt on his part to set foot inside the hallowed walls of The Club would have undoubtedly set off proximity alarms. Or, as he termed them, "fag alerts".

On this particular night, for example, Sharon/Shirley had prepared a classic herb-crusted rack of lamb with rosemary potatoes, and Vietnamese caramel shrimp with coconut jasmine rice - both recipes newly developed by the flamboyant, mega-talented Auntie Em. The Club staff had been raving about the aromas wafting through the kitchen all afternoon and stealing little nibbles whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Now, her primary tasks were done, allowing her to take a breather while Rachel was putting the finishing touches on a variety of fruit parfaits for dessert. Time, perhaps, to exercise her other skills, the ones that made her uniquely qualified for her particular brand of police work.

"Come here, Nicholas," she said quietly, as she stubbed out her cigarette. "You've got a bit of a stain on your jacket." Her smile was slightly sardonic. "Wouldn't want to offend the Masters, now would we?"

"Christ! I hate that term," answered the young man, his frown reflecting more of whatever it was he was thinking than anything she might have said. But he came forward, nonetheless, knowing that she was right, whether he liked the terminology or not.

She took a dish towel from her apron and began dabbing at the tiny spot that marred the starched pristine whiteness of his sleeve. "Why? It doesn't really matter what they call themselves, does it? Especially when you know it's just more of their pretentious crap."

He had a nice laugh, she thought, as he chuckled softly. "Care to go upstairs and say that out loud?" he asked.

She favored him with a look of mock horror. "What? And get burned at the stake for spouting heresy? No, thanks, since we all know that paying homage to the idyllic little fantasy they've got going here is just part of the job description."

He looked up then, spotting a flicker of lightning in clouds off to the North. "Fantasy, huh? You make it sound like some kind of innocent little game. Like they're just pretending to live in a world that doesn't exist any more."

She nodded. "Isn't that about the size of it? I mean, no matter how much insulation from reality their money can buy, there's still a world out there beyond the gates of this place. It might never get close enough to touch them, but they have to know it's there, even if they don't want to recognize it. Bottom line is that they can't stop the march of time - not even with all their money and power."

His eyes were suddenly very dark. "Can't they? They do a pretty fair job of stopping it - here, in their own little corner of the world. And sometimes, it feels more real than what's outside, like we're all caught up in it. Like we wouldn't exist without it, you know? Sometimes . . ."

She waited a bit, before prompting him, hoping he'd continue on his own. But he didn't, suddenly looking as if he'd frightened himself with his careless words. "Sometimes?" she repeated.

His voice went very soft, barely rising above a whisper. "Sometimes - it's like they forget I'm a real person at all. Like I'm just some kind of cardboard cut-out or something. Just an object, who can't hear what they're saying and wouldn't care if it did."

She cocked her head, as if pondering his words. "I don't know how you keep your cool. To have to stand there and anticipate their every need, and pretend not to hear the kind of holier-than-thou, fundamentalist, pseudo-Christian crap that they use to justify themselves and their view of the world. I bet you hear some major bullshit, don't you?"

Abruptly, he pulled away from her. "That's good enough," he said sharply. "I'm just 'young Nicholas', you know. They probably wouldn't notice if I served them wearing nothing but a wifebeater and a jock strap."

She allowed a glint of predatory interest to flare in her eyes. "Oh, I doubt that, Honey. You're young and beautiful - and they may be old as sin, but they're not dead."

In spite of himself, he huffed a small laugh. "Now that's the kind of remark that could really get you burned at the stake. Ain't no sissy-boys in these hallowed halls."

Her smile was slightly arch. "Really?"

The tell-tale flash in his beautiful eyes was barely there, but it was enough.


Bingo!

He started to walk away, but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. "Hey," she said softly, "I know it must be really hard to put up with everything you deal with in there, but if you ever need to vent, well . . . I'm a really good listener. You know, I'm staying with Rachel, for now. Until I can find a place of my own, and she has a little open-house thing every Sunday afternoon. For anybody who wants to hang out, or sample some of her new dishes. Or whatever. Why don't you drop by? I know she'd . . ."

But he was shaking his head, preparing to raise the objections she'd expected. She had already plumbed Rachel's observations about Nicholas, and anticipated that this problem would come up. "Her son and I . . . we don't get along too well."

Remembering Hilliard's remarks about the younger Charles and his parroted comments about Brian Kinney and his "kind", she was pretty sure she understood why Nicholas and Buddy would not be friendly, but she knew that getting this young man into a more casual, less confined setting could be the key to unlocking the store of information she needed.

Information that he had. Of that she was all but certain, in that her instincts were insisting that he was the source she'd been seeking. There were others - including Rachel herself - who had provided interesting tidbits and small clues. But this young man . . . he was the answer to her prayers. Now all she had to do was convince him to talk.

Easier said than done.

Her smile grew warmer. "In case you haven't noticed, Rachel is not all that enamored with the little bastard herself these days. In fact, if it hadn't been for my brother and his - well, let's call it a timely intervention - young Buddy would probably be sitting in a jail cell these days. So . . . look, I know Rachel likes you. She's always talking about how hard it must be for you to endure all the crap you have to take. So why not drop by? I hear she's experimenting with new cheesecake recipes this week. So how the hell can you resist that?"

He grinned abruptly, and her breath almost caught in her throat as she realized how young he really was, and she felt a twinge of remorse that she'd been forced to manufacture a lie in order to draw him in. Rachel, in fact, had never expressed much sympathy for the boy - not because she disliked him, but simply because it never occurred to her to feel sorry for his circumstances. All of the employees of The Club inhabited the same, semi-twisted world, in which tolerating the condescension and arrogance of the patrons of the establishment was necessary to survival. It all came under the heading of accepting the status quo - and living with it - in order to hold on to a job that offered security, semi-decent benefits, and a living wage. It was almost a feudal culture - a reality only found in narrow little sub-sections of a society that depended on the preservation of a long-standing arrangement between the 'haves' and the 'have-nots', and it only survived if all concerned parties profited from its survival.

A grim parody, in a way, of government that existed only by the consent of the governed.

Sharon noted again how innocent the boy was - almost childlike - and that brought on another tiny pang of guilt, but she dismissed it quickly. Undercover cops couldn't afford the luxury of regrets.

"I do love cheesecake," he admitted finally.

She deliberately swallowed her misgivings and flashed him a brilliant smile. "The newest great American pastime - loving cheesecake. So you'll come?"

"You sure I'd be . . . welcome?" he asked. "I mean, I always liked Miss Rachel, but . . ."

"I'm sure," she replied, ignoring a nagging memory of Buddy doing a mocking imitation of Nicholas offering up a serving of 'coffee, tea . . . or me'. If necessary, she would handle young Charles; doing so might even provide the perfect opportunity for her to vent some of the frustration inherent in practicing the patience necessary for doing her job. And she'd caution Rachel as well, who, although having nothing against Nicholas, had mentioned on occasion that his mother, Millie, was a 'flighty bit of fluff'.

It was time to encourage the building of alliances, which might, in the long run, prove beneficial to all parties involved. Even if the original purpose for the encouragement would be deemed nefarious - provided the parties ever found out about that purpose.

Nicholas was still hesitant, but finally, with a winsome smile, he nodded his agreement before straightening his once more immaculate jacket and heading inside to attend to the 'Masters' who were always assigned to his table. She watched him go, wondering if he really had no idea why he was so perpetually in demand. The quality of service he provided was excellent, of course, but no more so than any of the rest of the servers who catered to the needs of the exclusive members. He was attentive and conscientious and unfailingly polite and amiable - but so were the others.

There was really only one substantial difference between Nicholas and the five others who saw to the needs of the dinner crowd on a regular night. Nicholas was prettier; she knew that sounded slightly patronizing, even slightly sexist - in a backhanded kind of way. But it was also true, and it surprised her that the members seemed to be completely unaware that they were responding to boy's lovely physical qualities without ever once realizing the slightly effeminate nature of his charms.

She thought it would have been hilarious, if it weren't so tragic. One day they would notice, when Nicholas was no longer such a sweet, young thing, and when they did, it would be the boy who paid the price for sins he didn't even know he was committing.

Sharon/Shirley glanced at her Timex - deliberately squelching an urge to lament the absence of her customary elegant watch - and noted that she really should be getting back to work. The 'Masters' would undoubtedly be calling for her soon, to comment on the quality of her latest offerings. They were always incredibly polite, even if their manner was infuriatingly condescending. Of course, they would have ulterior motives too, in wanting to wheedle the recipes out of her, to present to their private chefs at home, in order to please their various trophy wives. She should go in soon - and she would . . . soon. Just as soon, she thought as she fished another cigarette out of her pack, as she paid another little homage to the man who was responsible for so many things in her life, including her presence here. The first drag was, as always, the most satisfying, and she gave a small nod to the image that occupied her thoughts so frequently these days.

Here's to you, Mr. Kinney - wherever you are.

It would have been easy, of course, for her to learn exactly where he was, but she'd chosen not to find out, in the theory that the fewer people who knew, the better. For Brian, safety now depended on anonymity, and it pleased her to remember that she could not divulge - accidentally or otherwise - what she did not know.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lindsey relaxed into the exquisite softness of the leather sofa in Brian's office, and allowed herself a little sigh of relief.

It had been a long day, and she had Cynthia to thank for organizing everything and taking care of the details so that Lindsey had nothing to do but go along for the ride. But she was still tired; everything seemed to make her tired these days, and she almost slipped into a mindset which would allow her to wonder why. Almost - but not quite; she caught herself just in time in order to avoid issues she was not yet ready to face.

Cynthia, who was perched on a chair at the conference table, reading over a new contract agreement with Brown Athletics, before affixing her signature to approve the terms, should - logically - have been sitting at Brian's stylish desk; she was, after all, acting on his behalf. But she had never even moved toward it when she'd led Lindsey into the room so she could get a look at Justin's latest work-in-progress. Instead, she had maintained a deliberate distance as if - someone was already sitting there. Brian's desk was . . . Brian's, and she almost never allowed herself to sit there.

Lindsey was pretty sure it was because Brian's assistant had some kind of superstitious misgivings about standing too long in his space, usurping his position.

It was silly, of course, but Lindsey understood it perfectly. She understood because she felt the same way and knew what she would do to assure that Brian could eventually come back to them and resume his life, and if it involved silly little rituals and superstitions, then so be it. She would do anything. Almost, including . . .

But she wasn't in the mood to delve too deeply into those possibilities either. Not yet anyway.

She sighed and closed her eyes. She'd been in Pittsburgh too long, as her partner kept telling her, and she should go home. To Toronto. Only . . .

"Shit!"

She opened her eyes to see that Justin was massaging the fingers of what he always referred to as his 'gimp' hand, as he stood before the canvas he'd been working on for the last few days.

The painting was almost finished now, and it was . . . Lindsey sighed, thinking that she didn't even have the words to describe it. She loved Justin; she really did. But she was also intensely jealous of his prodigious talent, an ability she recognized as immeasurably beyond her own puny skills.

"You okay, Honey?" she asked, swallowing her tiny little surge of resentment. She would have given anything - almost - to be able to capture an image like that. To be able to capture Brian like that. The portrait was a masterpiece, truly worthy of its subject, and every stroke, every shade, every line of it shouted out the love of the artist for his model.

Brian needed to come home, to see this - to allow himself to understand it.

Lindsey took a deep breath, knowing that she had finally come full circle; that she had finally reached a point at which she could understand that her conflicted, complex motives in trying to persuade Justin to immigrate to the artistic mecca of New York City had been instrumental in generating something that might very well have destroyed the man she would always love, even though she had never wanted to love him. And the young artist, as well.

The bottom line was hard for her to accept, but it was unavoidable. Justin's talent, his genius, his ability - none of that mattered . . . if he didn't have Brian.

It had taken much time and more effort for her to accept it. Even harder was the realization that the reverse was also true. No one else would ever be to Brian what Justin was. No one would ever mean as much, and no one would ever replace Justin in Brian's heart, no matter how stridently Brian might claim otherwise.

"Fucking Chris Hobbs," Justin was muttering, motioning for his bodyguard to remain where he was, sprawled in an easy chair and paging through the latest edition of GQ. There was nothing that Boyle could do to remedy this particular problem.

Lindsey rose then and went to stand before the portrait, her face expressing equal parts envy and appreciation, taking in every exquisite detail.

"It's brilliant, Justin," she said finally. Then she turned to look directly into eyes so intensely blue that her own felt faded and washed out by comparison. "You're brilliant, but you're only at your best when . . . you're with him."

Justin's smile was slightly lopsided. "So you've finally seen the light," he observed.

She nodded. "And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He sighed. "Don't apologize. You might have suggested it, but nobody twisted my arm to make me listen. Except . . ."

"Brian," she provided the name, without any nuance of doubt.

"Brian," he confirmed.

She folded her arms, and looked up to meet the gaze of the beautiful hazel eyes in the portrait. "Then we just have to be prepared to do a little arm-twisting of our own."

His laugh was filled with skepticism. "Twist Brian Kinney's arm? You're joking - right?"

But she knew what had to be done. "No."

"But . . ."

His rebuttal was interrupted by the rhythmic buzzing of the phone on Brian's deskt.

Cynthia took a quick glance at the caller ID, which revealed the identity of the person on the other end of the line, and she raised her hand to signal everyone to be silent. She didn't give herself time to consider whether or not this was the right thing to do; she was just acting on instinct as she pressed the button to put the call on speaker.

"Mr. Kinney's office," she answered.

"Cynthia!" The name was a staccato bark expressing intense aggravation.

She smiled at Justin before responding. "You bellowed, Master?"

"What the fuck is going on?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific, Boss. I can't - quite - read your mind."

"You, Lindsey, Theodore, Honeycutt - none of you are answering your cell phones, and nobody's answering at the safe house where Gus is, and all I get is Mathis' voice mail. Where the fuck are you, and, most important of all, where the hell is my son?"

Cynthia closed her eyes, lifting one hand to touch fingertips to temple to ease an incipient headache. "Brian, I'm so sorry. Haven't you looked at your email? Everything is . . ."

"My laptop is . . . out of reach at the moment," he explained, leaving everyone to wonder what he might mean by that - and imagine the worst. If he'd simply explained that he was sunning on the deck while his Apple was upstairs in the bedroom, they'd all have been relieved.

"I'm right here, Brian," called Lindsey.

"Got you on speaker, Boss," said Cynthia, not wanting him to feel ambushed by unexpected listeners. Only . . . she looked at Justin, and her concerns were plain in the frown lines on her forehead. On the other hand, the glow in Justin's eyes spoke volumes about how contented he was just to hear that voice.

"What are you doing there, Lindsey?" Brian demanded.

"Cynthia was kind enough to have some of your security people drive us to the airport, to put Gus and my father on a plane to Orlando. They'll be arriving at Disney World in a couple of hours, where they'll spend a few days and . . ."

"Are you sure that's a good idea," Brian broke in. "What if . . ."

"It's all arranged, Brian," said Lance Mathis, who was just walking in after a private discussion with Carl Horvath. "All reservations made under assumed names, the plane was a private charter - no names necessary - and a two-man security team is watching out for them every step of the way. Trust me, they'll be . . . "

"When it comes to my son's safety, I don't trust anybody."

"Brian," said Lindsey firmly, "it's all right. Everyone put their heads together and decided that he's better off down there, hobnobbing with Mickey and Minnie, than up here. Plus he was getting a little antzy. He . . ."

"What? He what?"

She took a deep breath. "He's his father's son, I'm afraid. Too smart by half, so he's figured out that things are not as they should be. And . . . he misses you. We needed to distract him. The Magic Kingdom seemed the best way to do that."

"Shit?" It barely registered as a whisper.

"What?" asked Cynthia quickly.

"Nothing. It's just that I wanted to be the one to . . . " He paused for a moment. "It doesn't matter. Just so he's okay."

"He's better than okay," said Cynthia. "He seems to be developing a lovely friendship with his grandfather, and . . . after a visit to Mickey, he's coming to see his dad."

"He's what? Wait a minute now. I didn't agree to . . ."

"It's okay, Brian," said Mathis. "The FBI will be in charge, every step of the way. He'll be perfectly safe."

Brian paused, obviously thinking hard. Obviously wanting to believe, but still afraid. "Are you sure enough . . . to bet your life on it?" he asked finally.

Mathis blinked - once. "I am."

"You better be." He didn't actually voice the threat his words implied, but then again, he didn't have to.

"Brian?" That was Lindsey, doing a little blinking of her own. "How . . . how are you?"

The pause this time was brief. "Right as rain, Wendy. How are you?"

Justin could not - quite - contain a snicker, and there was another pause, longer - and more loaded.

"Asshole," muttered Lindsey, hoping to cover the awkward moment, but then, with his next words, she realized she should have known better.

"Since when," he asked, "has my office become a social center . . . for misfits?"

"Hey, Brian." Justin was still smiling.

Slighter pause, but just as pregnant. "What are you doing there?"

"Actually, I'm painting."

"My walls don't need a fresh coat."

"Very funny."

If he'd been hoping to embarrass Justin, it was obvious that it wasn't working. Another pause, followed by an audible deep breath. "What - exactly - are you painting?"

"You."

"Me? Why would you . . ."

"You should hurry home, Brian," said Cynthia. "To see it. It's incredible."

Another pause, punctuated by a faint roar that might have been waves breaking on a shore. "Funny. I thought you had to be in New York to do that."

Justin's smile went wistful. "Yeah. How stupid is that, huh?"

But Brian was not even close to backing down or backing off. "Makes perfect sense to me. Now, where's Theodore?"

Cynthia looked at Mathis for an answer, but he could only shrug. "I don't exactly know," she admitted. "He's been . . . really busy."

"Yeah. I'll bet." Lindsey and Justin exchanged puzzled looks when they picked up on a strange note in Brian's voice.

"Brian?" Justin's tone was soft, almost wistful.

A brief hesitation. "Yes?"

"Are you really . . . all right?"

"More than all right. I'm fabulous. You didn't really expect anything less, did you? I'm Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. Remember? So you don't have to feel obligated to hang around, waiting to do your duty because of some ridiculous ideas about 'commitments'. You're free to move along. To get on with your life, you know?"

Cynthia and Lindsey both winced slightly, glancing toward the young artist while trying not to be too obvious about it. But, to the surprise of both of them, Justin did not appear to be particularly perturbed by Brian's blunt assumptions. "Yeah," he said, still speaking softly. "I know."

"Cynthia," said Brian, his voice gone very self-assured - almost purring - and very dangerous. "You and I need to have a little talk - privately."

She bit her lip and squared her shoulders. "Whatever you say, Fearless Leader." Her voice was steady, resolved, without a trace of a tremor, and everybody in the room wondered how she managed it when it was obvious that Brian was very, very angry.

"Brian," said Justin, having figured out that his presence was the flashpoint for the man's resentment, "don't . . ."

"Don't," Brian interrupted, "tell me what to do. You don't have that right - any more."

"I don't?" Justin replied, his voice almost without inflection. "Okay then. What right do I have? The right to care about you - to want you safe." He paused then, and his voice fell to a near whisper. "The right . . . to need you to come home?"

There was a sudden thumping, as if Brian had dropped his phone, and a pause before he started speaking again. "Cynthia, pick up the phone."

"Brian . . ." Justin tried again.

"Now." There was no arguing with the sharp, direct clarity of the command.

Cynthia took the time to favor Justin with a sympathetic smile before following her orders, retrieving the mobile handset from its cradle.

"Hold on," she said crisply, "while I put on my armor."

"Why?"

She'd expected his manner and his voice to be hard and harsh and strident. Instead, it was very soft. Too soft.

She deliberately turned and walked out into the lobby and into her own office, where she could speak privately. "You want the truth," she answered, "or a comfortable lie?"

"You even have to ask?"

She felt her cheeks flush crimson, realizing that she had crossed a line. Whatever else he might have asked her to do for him over the years - and there was plenty that he couldn't very well brag about - he had never once asked her to lie to him, or protect him from truth, no matter how unpleasant it might be.

She took a deep breath. "All right then. Here's the truth, as I see it, and you don't have to tell me that you don't like what I'm going to say. I already know that. But it needs saying, Brian, and you need to hear it, from someone who won't lie to you. You know that about me, if you don't know anything else. I'll probably do plenty of things in my life that I won't be proud of - but I will never, never, lie to you, because . . . Well, you know why. So here it is: you're wrong, Brian - wrong to turn your back on him. Wrong to try to push him away. Wrong to think that he's better off without you. You can't see this particular truth, because you're too busy believing that he's going to get hurt because of you.

"But here's the thing. There is nothing - nothing - that's ever going to hurt him as much as losing you." She paused then, drawing another deep breath. "You're his life, Brian. Just like he's yours. And if you refuse to accept that - refuse to recognize that you're nothing without each other - you might as well just kill yourself now - and him with you."

"You finished?" he asked finally, after a long, breathless pause.

"Depends," she answered, "on whether or not you listened. Did you?"

"Oh, I listened. I heard you loud and clear - but now you need to hear me. What difference does it make that he needs his soul-mate in order to live life to its fullest . . . if he's dead? That's what none of you seem to understand. The people who did this to me - you think they're just going to be content to crawl away to hide under a rock and lick their wounds and accept the fact that they didn't get what they wanted?" He paused again, and she heard the hoarse intake of a breath drawn through a throat tight with fear. "You weren't there, Cynthia. None of you were there - to feel what was in that room that night. There's no way for you to understand that kind of hatred; you have to experience it to know what it's like. I don't know how to explain it. They wanted to kill me, but . . . but it was so much more than that. I was ready to die, if that was the way it had to be, but when they told me that . . . he would be next . . ." Silence once more, heavy with words unspoken.

"I - will - not - risk - that. Better he lives a long, dull life - never realizing his dream of a glorious romance - than be slaughtered by those monsters, without ever even getting a chance to spread his wings. Do you understand me?"

"And you?" she retorted. "What happens to you?"

She heard his sigh clearly. "Nothing. Nothing happens to me."

But she understood it then, as clearly as if he'd explained it to her. Nothing would happen to him, because there was nothing left that mattered. "Because you're already dead," she whispered. "That's it, isn't it? Without him, you're . . ."

"Late," he interrupted. "That's what I am. Late for an appointment with my Panzer-division physical therapist. So . . . One more thing, Tink. Keep an eye on Theodore."

"You think he's got something else up his sleeve?" she asked, reluctant to allow the change of subject but knowing that Brian had already closed and locked the door on something he did not want to explore further.

"Not sure," he answered, "but you know how it is: getting screwed once tends to encourage faggots like me to engage the rear guard. I am not gonna get fucked again."

"That sounds an awful lot like a thirst for revenge," she pointed out, without bothering to add that he wasn't usually so bloodthirsty. "A nasty thing to hang your hopes on."

The little laugh he offered was more bitter than sweet. "Maybe, but it'll do - when it's what you've got left."

When she walked back into Brian's office, everyone was waiting for her, waiting to hear what she would tell them - Justin most of all.

"You appear to be all in one piece," he observed, the smile on his lips not reflected in the shadows of his eyes.

"Battered," she replied, "but unbroken."

Justin nodded, and applied one more stroke of dark paint to a lock of hair just skimming Brian's temple in the portrait. Then he laid the brush aside and moved to the sofa where he collapsed into a boneless heap and covered his eyes with paint-stained hands.

"I've lost him," he said slowly. "Haven't I? He's never going to let me get close to him again."

"Justin, he . . ."

But he was shaking his head. "You don't have to explain it. I know what he's doing - and why he's doing it. It's not like it's the first time, although I guess it is the first time I ever recognized it for what it is - before making a complete ass of myself. But it won't make any difference, will it? Whether he's doing it because he's a hard-hearted shit who doesn't care about anybody but himself . . . " He paused then, and had to fight to regain his crumbling composure before he could continue. "Like he's always done his best to make us believe, or because he can't stand to take the chance that I might get hurt - because of him. Either way, the result is the same. He'll never let me get close. Will he?"

Cynthia was standing staring out the window, listening to what Justin was saying and then to the soothing words that Lindsey offered in an attempt to comfort him, but she was also listening to something else. To her own voices, her own memories - her own conscience.

"You're right," she said suddenly. "He won't. Unless somebody refuses to take 'no' for an answer."

Lindsey frowned. "So, what . . . you're planning to back Brian Kinney into a corner? With what - a whip and a chair?"

"With whatever it takes," Cynthia replied, walking toward the boss's desk, her movements brisk and decisive. "But it's something that only Justin can do. The rest of us can offer moral support, but . . ." She turned to him with a winsome smile, "in the end, it's going to be up to you."

But he was shaking his head. "And how - exactly - do I do that?"

Her smile grew wider as she picked up the phone. "One on one, and face to face, Baby boy. Face to face. This is something you can't handle by long distance, and something no one else can do for you. Now . . . gather all your stuff together, Picasso, and get out of here."

"What?" His eyes were suddenly huge and filled with confusion. "Why? You're kicking me out? But . . ."

Cynthia gave an exaggerated eye-roll. "Jesus! You're an even bigger drama queen than he always claimed. I am not throwing you out. I'm sending you home to pack."

"But . . ."

The eye-roll became a gentle smile. "You have a plane to catch."

His smile was bigger, brighter, more dazzling than hers as he secured his masterpiece and went racing out the door, with his bodyguard running at full speed, trying - vainly - to keep up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If anyone walked into the house, she knew she'd be busted. There was no one in her extended family who didn't know that she only dusted the tchotchkes when she was upset - or worried - or trying to make up her mind about something.

Like now.

She put down her dust cloth and moved to a low cabinet from which she removed an old bulging scrapbook. She set it carefully on the kitchen table and lowered herself into a chair, noting as she did so that the catch in her back was acting up badly today. Usually, she could ignore it, or just pretend it wasn't there, but it always seemed to get worse when she had something heavy on her mind.

Like now.

She opened the cracked cover and allowed the book to fall open where it would, and realized, that she had known instinctively what it would show her.

Michael and Brian. Fifteen years old, laughing together, mischief glowing in dark eyes, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders. Best friends, boys on the verge of becoming young men - happy together. At that moment.

But it had been fleeting happiness for one of them. She knew that. She'd always known that.

And that was part of what was troubling her now.

She had watched Brian endure the torment of his life with Jack and Joan Kinney, and, although she'd tried not to know too much, see too much, in the end, she'd known more than she wanted to. While she and her brother had worked together, day and night when necessary, to care for Michael, to make him feel loved and cherished and adored and to give him every advantage that they could, they had also tried to extend the warmth and joy of their household to provide a home for Brian as well, to give him what his parents could not, or would not. But they had never quite reached their goal. How, after all, did one compensate for parents who seemed to have no love in their hearts for their own son?

Brian had found a way, somehow, to accept that ugly truth at an early age, but Debbie had never quite managed to do so.

A child should be loved by his mother. More than that - a child had to be loved by his mother, and if Joan Kinney had not been able to demonstrate that love or assure Brian of its existence, then there had to be some terrible reason for her silence, something that held her back, kept her from speaking out - something like the brutal bastard she'd been married to. Debbie didn't know much about fathers, since her own had died when she herself was just a child and Michael's, of course, had never been a real part of their lives. But she remembered Jack Kinney, or - more accurately - she remembered the damage he had done to his son - the bruises and the blood and the broken bones and the look in those gorgeous hazel eyes when the young man would appear at her door in the middle of the night looking for help and refuge - and someone to stop the bleeding.

If Joan Kinney had never shown Brian that he was loved, it had to have been because she was too afraid of her abusive husband, and, by the time the old monster was dead and buried, too much damage had been done for her to be able to figure out how to fix things.

Yes, that had to be the way of it, because a child had to be loved by his mother. Debbie believed it still, and something inside her just could not give up hope that a way could be found to make it right. It was that very same belief that had driven such a wedge between her and Michael during the entire J.R. custody debacle - a nasty little period in their family history that she would have preferred to forget - if she could. That had all worked out in the end, thanks to . . . Well, never mind the how and why. It had worked out, and nothing about it had disproved her original conviction.

A child still belonged with his mother - even if that child was no longer a child. And especially if that child had been beaten and traumatized and targeted for destruction.

Debbie sighed. Who would ever have believed it? Who would ever have identified Brian Kinney as a victim? And finally, who could have foreseen that he would ultimately remove himself from the family that had been there for him all these years and push away the only people who had ever really loved him - even if they didn't always show it?

There had to be a way to make things right between mother and son, and among the extended family as well, and maybe - with a little luck and a bit of divine intervention - just maybe she could be the one to achieve it, to fix what should never have been broken in the first place.

But first, if some of the concerns which had recently been brought to her attention proved to be accurate, it seemed that a way had to be found to get around people who were determined to block any path to reconnection - people who might be honest enough in their desire to help and protect him, but who were not, ultimately, family, and thus, were undeserving of the kind of trust Brian had granted them.

Debbie didn't know Cynthia Whitney at all well; she only knew that Brian trusted her implicitly, and that he was usually a very good judge of character - when he wasn't thinking with his dick instead of his head, anyway. But this had been a strange period of transition for Brian, a time when he might have been too confused or disillusioned or vulnerable to manipulation to be as careful as he should have been. And Debbie had not cared for the things that Cynthia had said to her little extended family while Brian was still lying comatose in his hospital bed. The woman had skated very close to some old, thin-ice issues - speaking of private things that she had no right to bring up at all, and Debbie was not inclined to forgive or overlook what she considered to be a kind of emotional trespassing, in areas that should have been private and not subject to exploration by outsiders.

And that was the bottom line, wasn't it? Cynthia, though she might mean well enough, was still an outsider. Not entitled to claim membership in the extended family, no matter that Brian might disagree.

A shrill chiming sounded from the oven timer, and Debbie rose quickly to remove her pineapple upside-down cake from the oven, before her token 'bread-for-breaking' could become a burnt offering. The aroma that filled the kitchen - rich with brown sugar and cinnamon - stirred memories of Sunday afternoons during Michael's adolescence, memories that led to other memories - specific memories, some of which she needed to suppress in order to get through the next few hours.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, and sank back down into her chair, her eyes once more drawn to the lines and angles of that exquisite face looking up at her, drawing her in, forcing her to remember things that she ordinarily refused to acknowledge.

The face that should have been that of her son's lover and partner.

And that, of course, was the one truth that she had never allowed herself to explore too deeply, the manifestation of the one sin she had never been completely able to forgive.

Brian had always loved Michael; no one could argue with that; loved him so much, so completely, that he had protected him, sheltered him, fought for him, defended him; been there for him whenever he was needed. Always. Only - for all the love and devotion, there was also one simple, unavoidable truth; as much as Brian had loved Michael, he had never once been in love with him. Sadly, tragically, the reverse had not been true, for Michael, though he'd never once admitted it, had always been in love with Brian. He'd just been smart enough to figure out that admitting that, or acting on it, would have been the one sure way to force Brian out of his life. Not, of course, that Brian didn't know it. Debbie was pretty sure that he'd always known it. But he'd still loved Michael enough - like the brother neither of them had ever had - to allow Michael to work out a way to deal with it. And deal with it, he had, in the only way he could. By swallowing that feeling, and accepting the only love that Brian was able to give him.

Michael had managed to live with it, and Debbie occasionally contemplated the strange fact that she had been the one who couldn't - quite - accept it. For all her brusque manner, for all her acrid observations about Brian and his narcissism and his vanity - which he never bothered to dispute or deny - the truth that she had never admitted to anyone was that her only real resentment of beautiful Brian was that he had never even considered assuming the role she thought he should have played - the one which would have identified him as Michael's partner and her son-in-law, and if there was some tiny little element of entitlement in her attitude, of feeling like he owed a debt to the family that could only be repaid by accepting the role for which they'd primed him - well, that was nobody's business but hers.

Bright, beautiful, intellectually gifted, successful - what mother would not have wanted him as a mate for her child? Especially when that child - deep in his heart - would never find a way to love anyone quite as much as he loved Brian Kinney.

She'd tried very hard never to let anyone see the anger within her - the natural resentment of a mother who only wanted her son to be happy . . . and also wanted - just a little - to have the right to brag about a rich, beautiful, successful son-in-law.

She loved Ben, and she was grateful that Michael seemed to be very happy with his choices. She had been ready to love David, too; had enjoyed fantasizing about being able to introduce him as "My son-in-law, the doctor" - even though she had eventually come to see him as the smug, shallow, self-absorbed snob he'd proven to be. But, at odd moments like this when she allowed herself to explore her true feelings, she knew that no one else would ever quite fill the shoes of the person she had always visualized as the perfect mate for her son.

It was, of course, never going to happen now - had, in fact, never been a possibility in the first place, although accepting that truth had been a really bitter pill to swallow.

She loved Brian; she really did. But she had also resented him, for not being the person her son had needed him to be. Resented him so much that, when a young, blonde twink had come along and managed to work his way inside the armored shell that Brian had worn for so long, in spite of his best efforts to push the kid away, she had felt some small thrill of satisfaction, and done everything she could to help the kid find his way through. And when the boy had managed, against all odds, to hurt the mighty, invincible Kinney, by running off with his pretentious little fiddler, she had been unable to resist a feeling of vindication, even of triumph, in realizing that Brian was as vulnerable, in the end, as any of the rest of them, even though a small, guilty voice deep in her mind insisted that she, of all people, should have known that all along, since she had been there from the start, to watch him grow into the man he'd been forced to become in order to survive.

Later, after everything that happened to the two of them, and all the hurt they both endured, she would feel ashamed of that pettiness, but there was no denying that some small part of her would forever resent the powerful passion that drew Brian and Justin together, forever lament that it was not her beloved Michael who was able to inspire that passion in Brian's heart.

It had taken her a very long time to relinquish that dream. And now, there was only the reality of the moment to deal with. But there were still things to preserve - worthy things, valuable things, things that would serve to build a bridge from the comforts of the past to the unknown landscape of the future. Only somebody had to make sure that everything that mattered, everything that had created those valuable things, did not get broken and discarded in the rush toward tomorrow.

Brian was gone, but he would not be gone forever. Would he?

She took a deep breath, as she realized that this was the question that had to be asked - and answered; that it was the reason she was sitting here on her day off, awaiting the arrival of a group of individuals that would certainly qualify as 'strange bedfellows', all of them connected only by a single thread - Brian Kinney. And all of them waiting, in one way or another, for him to reach decisions that would impact their lives.

A glance at the clock over the stove revealed that she had been sitting here brooding for too long. Time to get ready to greet her guests.

She moved quickly to check her face in the mirror, to tuck a coppery curl behind her ear and make sure her lipstick was still red enough and her mascara still where it belonged instead of smeared under her eyes. One tug at her t-shirt, which bore the saying, "Let's Get One Thing Straight - Bush Knows Dick", scrawled under a cartoonish sketch of the president wearing a shit-eating grin. It was her current favorite, and she had donned it in the certainty that it would not please some of her guests, but they would just have to deal with it. She was who she was, and she would not pretend otherwise - not for anyone.

The buzz of the doorbell came exactly on time, and she hurried to answer it, taking a deep breath when she realized who were the first to arrive of her expected guests. It wasn't quite a miracle, she guessed, but it was close. Who would have dreamed that Joan Kinney and her daughter would ever have come calling on Liberty Avenue?


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Michael alternated between staring into his coffee cup and glancing up at the faces of the people around him, and he didn't bother to try to conceal a small degree of incredulity - something that he saw reflected in his husband's eyes when they exchanged glances. This was one of those moments which proved the old adage that truth could be stranger than fiction.

The group assembled around the Novotny kitchen table was a motley assortment of individuals, most having virtually nothing in common, with only one tie binding them together.

Brian Kinney.

Best friend of Michael, pseudo-foster son of Debbie, friend (sometimes) of Ben, employer of Ted and Emmett, acquaintance and one-time agent of Drew Boyd, son of Joan Kinney and brother of Claire DeFatta, perpetual rival of Melanie Marcus, and co-parent/adolescent semi-sweetheart of Lindsey Peterson, who was the only person present who looked even more confused than Michael and Ben.

Debbie had served her cake and poured coffee for everyone before they'd all settled into their places - and waited for what would come next.

Since it was her home and - in some small way - her idea to call this meeting, although hindsight would later convince her that she had been neatly manipulated into it, Debbie felt it was right for her to speak first, although she couldn't quite settle the squeamishness in the pit of her stomach, as she realized something. Neither Michael nor Lindsey was going to like this, and - if Michael and Lindsey didn't like it, chances were that Brian - should he ever find out about it - was going to like it even less. But if she didn't do something, if someone didn't take action to make sure that all was not lost, then . . .

"I guess there's not much need to mince words here," she said firmly, clasping her hands tightly on the table in front of her and noting that she had a broken nail that needed attention. "We're here about Brian. Obviously. Now it's pretty clear that a lot of what has happened is out of our control. Not that we don't care, but there's nothing we can do that's going to make any difference. But. . ."

"But what?" Michael asked abruptly, not at all happy with the tone of his mother's voice. "What is it that you're getting at, Ma? Why did you call us here?"

Debbie took a deep breath. "This should be a family matter, and it's just not right for outsiders to assume that they have the right to interfere in family matters. Joan called me yesterday . . ." She pretended not to see the bright glint of anger in Michael's eyes. "I think you all know how I feel about mothers and children." This time, she turned deliberately to single Michael out to offer him a semi-apologetic smile. "And it hasn't always made things easy for any of us. I know that. But . . . a mother shouldn't be cut out of her son's life - especially when that son is in danger. Joan is going out of her mind with worry, and any mother would understand that." She looked up then to meet Lindsey's eyes. "Wouldn't she?"

Lindsey looked away, feeling the weight of Joan Kinney's gaze as she did so. Lindsey knew things about Joan, things that Debbie, apparently, did not know. And yet . . . she thought about Gus, and how much like his father he was turning out to be. And then she thought about how she would feel, if she were in Joan's shoes now. The woman had made terrible mistakes, had rejected Brian and everything he believed in, had caused him terrible anguish and pain during the early years of his life, before he developed that emotional armor that finally allowed him to survive her cruelty, and even more of the same when she'd found out who he really was. And yet . . .

She turned then and looked directly into Brian's mother's eyes. Could it be that this tragedy might turn out to have at least one positive consequence? Might it have taught this woman what a treasure her son had turned out to be, in spite of his parents' horrible mistakes?

At Lindsey's side, Melanie was very careful to keep her eyes down, her attention focused on the hands that were clasped tight in her lap. The last thing she wanted to do was give any indication of what she was really thinking, of her realization of what an opportunity this whole thing might prove to be for anyone sharp enough to bide her time and wait for the right moment.

"And then," continued Debbie, "I spoke to Teddie, and . . . well, he's concerned about how things are going at Brian's company. About how his wishes are being ignored or twisted around to allow . . . certain people to take advantage of his absence."

And that was as far as some of the individuals sitting at the table were prepared to go.

"You're talking about Cynthia," said Lindsey coldly, "and that, frankly, is none of our business. We have no right to interfere with the arrangements that Brian made. Including leaving her in charge."

Melanie reached out to grasp her partner's arm, suddenly realizing that she'd assumed too much, counted her chickens too quickly. "Linz, wait," she urged. "You haven't heard it all yet. I know you want to trust her, to believe that Brian knew best, but what if you're wrong? There's a lot at stake here, and . . ."

Lindsey regarded her partner with a level stare. "Like what, Mel? What exactly do you - and Teddie - think is at stake? Money? Is that what . . ."

"No," said Ted sharply. "It's not about money. Or not only about money anyway. It's about following Brian's lead, and protecting his back."

"Look," said Melanie quickly, jumping in to reinforce Teddie's contentions and to deflect any attempt to make this a discussion about attacking or defending Brian's choices. "I know you all want to believe that Brian thought this through carefully - and maybe he did - but how can we be sure of that? It wasn't like he had a whole lot of time to prepare for all this, and how are you going to feel if you just assume that everything is all right, and then find out that you were wrong? Lindsey," she turned to her partner to offer a plea for understanding, "I'm not about to try to pretend that Brian and I have managed to work out all our problems. We haven't and probably never will. But even I can't deny that the man has worked his ass off to make a success of his business. And, despite our differences, I also have to admit that he loves his son, and what happens now could have a direct impact on Gus's future. If you take all of that into account, don't we have an obligation to make sure that Brian's interests are protected?"

She leaned forward then to take Lindsey's hand and press it to her lips, while Lindsey made a concerted effort to ignore a niggling suspicion that the whole speech had been carefully planned and rehearsed for maximum effect. Then Melanie offered up an enigmatic little smile, before turning to Ted who nodded to signal his gratitude for her support.

The accountant took a deep breath, and chose his words carefully, knowing that he was venturing onto treacherous ground. "Look - I know this is difficult. That's why I hesitated to bring it up at all. But I feel like it's part of my job - not to mention my duty as a friend - to try to make sure that his trust is not misplaced. That no one takes advantage of the situation, and that he doesn't get hurt any more. Isn't that what friends are supposed to do?"

But Michael was still unconvinced, his eyes filled with apprehension as he and Lindsey exchanged speculative glances. "What are you talking about, Ted? What makes you think Cynthia is ignoring his wishes?"

Ted squared his shoulders and took another deep breath, buying time to gather his thoughts. "Do you know where Justin is, right this minute, hmm? Do you know what she did, where she sent . . . "

"As a matter of fact," said Lindsey, as Emmett rose and moved to stand behind her, "I do know. So does Emmett - and Michael. Not the specific location, of course. The FBI has been pretty insistent about keeping that secret. But we know where he's going, and who sent him."

"Well, I don't," said Debbie, obviously irritated with the hidden currents that were racing around under the surface of the discussion. "And it's really rude to talk in circles like this and keep the rest of us out of the loop. So what exactly . . ."

"Justin is on a plane, Ma," said Michael. "He's on his way to the place where Brian is staying."

"Which is . . . where?" Debbie replied.

"Which is classified as need to know only," Lindsey said, "and none of us qualify."

"Well," said Ted, "not quite none of us. But . . ."

"You know, don't you?" drawled Emmett, staring at Ted with speculative eyes. "Not because they told you, but because . . . you figured it out. What was it? Did you follow the money? Is that how you know?"

Ted frowned, helping himself to a big bite of cake and wondering why it was suddenly so difficult to swallow. "It doesn't matter how I know. It wasn't all that hard to solve their big mystery. In point of fact, I actually know more than Cynthia does, but she's the only one who's authorized to contact him. How is that logical - or fair?"

Emmett shrugged. "Maybe it's not, but then again, it's not really true either. She's not the only one who can call him. I can - if I need to."

"What?" Ted's eyes were suddenly huge. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that he called and gave me a number. In case of emergency. I can reach him, if . . . ."

"You?" Ted's face had gone very still - and very red. "Why would he give you a way to reach him?"

Emmett responded with a very characteristic eye-roll. "He didn't bother to explain, but I assumed it was because he left me in charge of running Babylon for him. But you know Brian. He's not big on explanations."

Ted turned then to stare at Lindsey. "And I suppose he called you too?"

She nodded. "I am the mother of his only child."

Ted didn't look as if he found that explanation particularly relevant.

"Who - exactly - is this . . .Justin?" asked Brian's sister suddenly, obviously growing weary of the endless bickering. "My brother's what? Boyfriend? Lover? Or - what's the term that you guys are so fond of - his trick?" There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice. "Did Brian want to see him?"

"No," answered Ted. "He didn't. And that's my point. This was not according to Brian's wishes. His precise instructions were exactly the opposite of what Cynthia has done - and not just in this particular case. In so many other things as well. She's betrayed him, by doing what he specifically forbade her to do. She's . . ."

"What are you doing, Teddie?" Michael's voice was soft, but surprisingly cold. "How can you accuse her like this, when you have to know that she's risking everything, in order to try to keep him from making the biggest mistake of his life? How can you . . ."

"But it's not her decision to make. He should never have trusted her," Ted observed, his dark eyes glinting with anger. "Why would he trust her like this? What's she ever done to earn it?"

Not quite able to resist temptation, Melanie sat back from the table, releasing her partner's hand as she did so, and responded with a cold little snicker, barely above a whisper. "You mean besides kissing his ass?"

The room was suddenly very still, as Michael and Emmett exchanged knowing glances, both struggling to ignore the nasty little remark as if the woman had never spoken at all. "I don't know, Teddie," said Michael finally, sounding unutterably weary. "What have you?"

Ted spun to express his outrage at Michael's presumption, but found that he was not only facing the young man who had been his secret love for so many years; in addition, Emmett and Ben and Drew Boyd were all gathered around Michael, obviously ready to support and defend him, and none of them looked like they were in a mood to tolerate Ted's denunciation or the queen-out he was contemplating as his next course of action.

"Please," said Joan Kinney suddenly, looking up from the plate which held her piece of cake - untouched, "I don't know what any of this has to do with what's happened to my son. I just want to know . . . that he's all right. And that someone is looking out for his interests so that he doesn't come back to find that he's lost everything that he cares about. His business - his success - has always been what he treasures most, so . . ."

Michael turned to stare at her then, and there was no mistaking the blaze of bitter resentment in his dark eyes. "That you could say something like that," he said coldly, "just proves one thing. You've never known him at all."

"Michael!" Debbie barked, folding her arms and fixing him with an angry stare. "She's still his mother. She's entitled . . ."

"No," Michael replied, pushing back from the table and closing his eyes briefly, experiencing a rush of warmth as Ben wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "She's entitled to nothing. You might have forgotten, Ma - because it's easier not to remember everything they did to him, everything he went through. But I'm not ever going to forget it. Or forgive it."

"Look," said Debbie, giving up on any hope she might have had for conducting a friendly little chat over cake and coffee, "I'm not trying to make excuses for anybody. But can we really be sure that this Cynthia isn't taking advantage of the situation? You heard the things she said to us in that hospital room. Things she had no right to say, so how do we know . . ."

But Lindsey - like Michael and Emmett - had heard enough, and raised her eyes from her untouched cake to regard her companions with barely controlled disbelief. "Because everything she said that day was absolutely true. We've all spent years taking advantage of Brian - using him, abusing him, depending on him to pick up the pieces - and the tab whenever we needed him. As of right now, Cynthia is the only one who's consistently stood up for him, calling us out to answer for all the bullshit we've used to defend ourselves - to excuse our own behavior."

"You can't be serious," snapped Melanie, dark eyes suddenly aflame, as she surged to her feet, fists knotted, realizing that she could no longer swallow the outrage rising within her. "How delusional can you be? What is this - some kind of sick movement to nominate that narcissistic little shit for sainthood? He's spent his whole life using people and taking advantage of everybody around him and being a heartless bastard, and you're all so fucking besotted with him that you're willing to believe anything to keep from having to face the truth. Jesus, is he ever going to have to pay for the damage he's caused and the harm he's done?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," said Emmett into the deep, shocked silence that followed her outburst, "but isn't that pretty much what the homophobic motherfuckers said after they almost succeeded in killing him?"

He took a moment to look around and meet the eyes of everyone in the room, before turning and walking to the door, with his brawny lover at his side. For his part, Boyd looked as if he could not quite believe what he'd heard - and as if he'd be only too happy to never hear it again.

"I have no idea what you're planning to do," said Emmett softly, pausing in the doorway and looking back over his shoulder. "And, in truth, I don't care. You can do your damnedest to interfere, to force Brian to do what you want, or to make Cynthia answer to you. Whatever. But I'm pretty sure that I'm right about this: you're wasting your fucking time, because she's a hell of a lot smarter and tougher than you think she is, and, when all is said and done, Brian is going to know who his real friends are. Just like he always does. But as for me, I refuse to have any part of it."

"Emmett, wait," said Ted, striving for calm. "Where are you going? Don't you see that we're just trying to protect him?"

"What I see," Emmett replied sadly, "is a pathetic little game that's all about some kind of stupid pecking order - and who gets to be first in line to demand Brian's gratitude."

"How can you even think something like that? Haven't we always been there for him? Why shouldn't we have the right . . ."

"Right." Emmett's voice was barely audible now. "That's really what it's all about, isn't it? Rights. Your right to expect things from him. Your right to demand your 'rightful' place in his life. Your right to judge whether or not he deserves your loyalty, while you never seem to stop to ask yourselves whether or not you deserve his." He paused then, and looked once more around the room, his eyes coming to rest finally on Debbie, and there was no mistaking the deep, abiding sadness that touched his face as he stared at her.

"Shame on you," he said very softly. "Shame on you all."

Then he was gone, and Drew Boyd lingered in the doorway just long enough for his face to express what he couldn't say - a deep, profound and bottomless disappointment he dared not voice, for fear that it might expand and sweep him up into an irrepressible rage.

On the porch, Emmett was waiting for him, his green eyes filled with shadows, but he managed to dredge up a winsome little smile for the man who was proving to be the greatest - and, hopefully, the final - love of his life. "I'm reminded of something Brian once said," he offered as he snuggled into the arm that Drew wrapped around him, "although in a completely different context."

"Yeah? And what would that be?"

The smile grew slightly warmer. "That fags and dykes can fuck up their lives too, just like straight people. I might be wrong, of course, but I think that some of the people in that room are just about to find out how true that is."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sound of footsteps faded quickly as Emmett and Drew hurried away from the house, and it seemed, for a while, that nobody could figure out exactly how to break the silence. Until Joan Kinney got to her feet, and regarded her hostess expectantly.

"If everyone here feels that way, then I suppose this was a waste of time," she said coldly. "I probably should have known better than to expect understanding or help from . . ." But she could not quite bring herself to finish the sentence, leading Lindsey to wonder, once again, whether or not the woman might have actually learned some kind of lesson.

"A complete waste of time," muttered Claire, picking up her purse and shrugging into a faded denim jacket.

"Now wait a minute," said Debbie sharply. "Emmett . . . he's just very emotional lately. He was there, you see. When Brian got hurt. He saw it all, and he's been . . ."

"Having a hard time with it," said Lindsey, her eyes daring anyone to dispute the truth of it. "Like anyone would." She and Michael exchanged understanding glances. "I think he's grown a lot closer to Brian since it happened - that they're a lot closer to each other now. And I don't really think he's wrong to question what happens next. So . . . what does happen next? Teddie? Debbie? Mrs. Kinney? What exactly are you planning to do?"

"Somebody has to stand up for Brian," Ted replied. "To make sure that Cynthia sticks to his plan, does what he wants, instead of running things to suit herself - and running his business into the ground. She may enjoy pretending that she's as capable and as smart as Brian Kinney - but she's not. You have no idea what kind of damage she could do to him, and it's up to us - his friends and his family - to watch his back and protect his interests."

"How?" said Michael. "You can talk plainer than that, Teddie. What are you planning?"

"We need to go in and talk to her face to face," Ted answered firmly. "Present a united front so she knows that we're all together on this, that we're only concerned with making sure Brian's orders are followed."

Michael and Lindsey looked at each other, and then Michael turned to study the look on Ben's face. To everyone's surprise, it was the professor who spoke up then, resolving the issue swiftly and solemnly.

"I see no harm in us going, as a group, to speak to Cynthia, in order to express any concerns about how she's operating the business according to Brian's plans and policies. Although it does seem a little weird to me that we should feel competent to face off against this young woman, when most of us don't know a thing about the advertising business. Also, we'd probably do well to remember that any attempt to come on too strong could look like ganging up on her, which might not sit too well with Brian, if he were to find out. But there's a bottom line here, a basic truth that everyone needs to understand very clearly." His eyes were suddenly hard and unflinching. "This is about Brian . . . and what he wants. And it doesn't matter in the least if any of us like or approve of his choices."

He looked directly at Melanie then, daring her to dispute his contention, and it was obvious that she wanted to do so. But she didn't quite dare, choosing instead to bide her time and rein in her blatant resentment of the man who was the biological father of her son - a fact that she would never quite be able to forget - or forgive.

Melanie had become a master at picking her battles.

"Because, in the end," Ben concluded, "it's really none of our fucking business."

Ted swallowed hard, wanting to argue, but managing, by virtue of a valiant effort, to keep his mouth shut, as Lindsey nodded and regarded the professor with an approving smile. As for Michael, his face morphed into a wide grin, and he demonstrated his delight with Ben's little speech by leaning over to give his husband a deep, passionate kiss, involving heavy tongue-action, leaving Joan Kinney and her daughter to figure out where to look to avoid having to witness such a disgustingly public display of affection.

Debbie looked around her kitchen, at empty coffee cups, and slabs of pineapple cake - mostly untouched - and tried to swallow her own misgivings around a huge knot in her throat.

She had allowed herself to be convinced that they were doing the right thing - something that needed to be done, and she held tight to that belief as she escorted the Kinney women to the door with a promise to advise both mother and daughter when the time for the proposed meeting was set.

But she kept seeing the look in Emmett's eyes, and hearing his voice as he'd walked away from them all, and she couldn't help but wonder. Were they really doing this for Brian, or were they just deluding themselves - and, if they were, were they about to incur the wrath of the mighty Kinney?

It was a thought she quickly pushed away, deciding that there were some things a person was better off not knowing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian sat at the bar in the sunlit kitchen of the beach cottage, and pushed his plate away, resisting an urge to grab his fork and scoop up the remaining bites of the scrumptious shrimp salad and the last piece of bruschetta that Trina Thomas had prepared for him.

Brian Kinney did not do clean plates, and Trina was looking at him as if she knew it perfectly well and was planning to make it her life's work to change that strange little personality quirk.

"Dessert?" she asked, managing somehow to wrap those two syllables in multiple layers of her lovely, semi-musical Jamaican accent - something he doubted anyone else could have accomplished.

He lifted one eyebrow in response, as he sucked on the straw of his pina colada. "I thought that's what I was drinking," he retorted.

Her smile was complacent, even slightly self-satisfied, to celebrate the victory it had taken almost two weeks to achieve. For each of the first twelve days after Brian's arrival in the house, Trina had prepared her unique, special version of her family's traditional pina colada recipe - an original creation that was almost patent-worthy - served it up in a crystal goblet, presented it with a proud flourish, and insisted that he taste it. And on each of those days, she had been forced to either pour the lovely, rich cocktail down the drain - or drink it herself, which was definitely not a hardship. On day thirteen, she had finally worn him down and he had capitulated and agreed to taste the tropical concoction, but only if she swore on the lives of her children that she would never talk about his leasbianic lapse to anyone.

On that occasion, he had refused to comment on the quality of the drink - but by the time he'd risen to walk away from the bar, his glass had been empty.

Since that day, he'd accepted one - and only one - of her signature cocktails each day at lunch, never offering a definitive response except on the one occasion when she had presented it to him enhanced with a bright pink umbrella, a dollop of whipped cream, and cherries on a toothpick. He had simply raised one eyebrow, folded his lips into his mouth - and waited.

Umbrella and cream and cherries had vanished, as if by magic.

"It's too late, you know," she said with a happy smile. "You're ruint, fer sure."

That trademark eyebrow climbed toward his hairline, and his lips curled into a quick smile. "Ruint?"

"Um, hmmm. Next thing you know, you'll be guzzling frozen daiquiris and sharing chocolate-covered strawberries with your sweetie."

In spite of himself, Brian burst out laughing.

"Now that's a nice sound," she observed. "One I haven't heard from you lately."

He shook his head. "If ever."

She heaved a deep breath, and Brian studied the way the sunlight glinted against the deep bronze skin of her face. Trina Thomas was middle-aged, obese, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair, deep-set eyes, broad, blunt features, and a terrible overbite; yet she was possessed of a strange, rare, natural beauty, which had more to do with the person inside than what was on the surface of the body. Brian was slightly surprised to find that he was able to discern that beauty. He was pretty sure that, at one time - not so long ago, he would have missed it entirely.

"You've got another session scheduled with Madame Fuehrer, right?"

Brian took another slurp of his drink, and wondered how he would manage to talk her out of her recipe for this little concoction when he was ready to go back to Pittsburgh - and how he'd manage to prepare and drink it without anybody knowing about his new addiction. Or maybe the best thing to do would be to just take her back with him.

"How'd you guess?"

"You got that look on your face, Sugar. Like the little voice in your head is screaming, 'How the shit did I git myself into this mess?'"

Brian slurped again, and smiled. Then he looked up and met her gaze directly. "You still disapprove of me, Trina?"

She moved a little farther away from him, concentrating on her task of wiping down the ceramic tile of the countertop. "It's not that - exactly."

But Brian's smile did not waver. "Really?"

She sighed then and met his gaze squarely. He admired that in her, that she didn't try to hide from him, or shrug off his questions. "Just look at you," she said softly. "Sweet Jesus, young Brian, there ain't a woman anywhere in the world that wouldn't fall on her knees in gratitude for a chance to belong to you. You're just . . . everything any woman could want. You're bright and smart and funny - and rich, unless I miss my guess - and not too fucking hard on the eyes either. You could have a perfect family, beautiful wife, lovely children, and with all that, what do you choose to do? I just don't understand it, that's all."

His smile was surprisingly gentle. "And that's where you're making your mistake, Friend. It's not a choice. It's who I am. And, if you're right - according to my sainted mother - I'm going to burn in hell for it. Do you think I should?"

This time she was the one with the gentle smile. "Don't go there, Kiddo. Yes, I was raised as a southern Baptist - God help me. And yes again, you are deep in the heart of a part of the country that has more than a blush of redneck to it - but I don't presume to judge whether or not folks ought to burn in hell. I got enough trouble dealing with my own sins to worry about yours. Only . . ."

"Only what?"

She leaned forward quickly and cupped his face with her huge hand. "What a waste!"

He laughed again, and knew that her remarks shouldn't make him feel better. She was straight - completely, irrevocably - and not even remotely gay-friendly. Yet, she made him laugh, and he found that he was glad he could talk to her and listen to her comments without resenting her attitude. Straight and misguided, maybe - but not the least bit homophobic.

He could live with that, and he was slightly surprised to realize it. Shit! Could it be that he was really growing up - that he was leaving behind his Peter Pan fixation and moving on? Shit!

He looked up again and surprised a fond smile on the broad face of the woman who was enjoying the view of him sitting there in the sunshine, and that led him to think about the people in his life whom he had decided to trust. The group was very restricted - as always - but it had recently expanded a bit in some ways - and contracted a bit, in others - and some of the names on that list caused him to blink - and come to a reluctant conclusion.

He thought about Debbie Novotny and Carl Horvath, about Lance Mathis and Trina Thomas. And most of all, he thought about Cynthia . . . and Ted Schmidt, and was abruptly reminded of the lyrics of an old song: The order is Rapidly fadin', And the first one now Will later be last, For the times they are a-changin'. *

Shit!

He allowed himself a tiny, reluctant, almost embarrassed smile. It appeared that, in his own way, he was just as resistant to change as some of his less sophisticated friends.

And that was how Chris McClaren found him, sitting shirtless and shorts-clad in a pool of sunlight, finishing the last of his girlie-drink, and wearing a perfect, enigmatic smile. The agent paused momentarily in the doorway, and took a moment to admit - though only to himself - that he would almost certainly never see anything more beautiful in his life, even though Brian's injuries were still not completely healed. It didn't make much sense, but it appeared that the flaws only served to emphasize the fundamental perfection.

He looked up then to meet the eyes of their Jamaican-born cook, and flushed slightly when he saw that she had read his mind easily. He knew that Trina didn't - exactly - approve of Brian or of him - or of what they got up to together - but he refused to be embarrassed by her regard. With a quick grin, he moved forward and braced his hands against Brian's shoulders, thinking to ease any tension he might find in those beautifully sculpted muscles. But one touch reassured him. There was never any way of being sure he was gauging Brian's moods or thoughts correctly; the man was a walking enigma. But his demeanor and his posture and the easy strength of his body at this particular moment made it very clear that, whatever else he might be feeling, he wasn't tense.

Thus it was McClaren's turn to offer up a lopsided smile.

Alex Corey was waiting in the little room off the front entrance of the cottage that she had commandeered for her office, eager to continue her interview with the infamous Brian Kinney. Well, maybe "eager" was a bit of an exaggeration, since the previous two sessions hadn't gone exactly according to plan. In fact, McClaren was pretty sure that his boss - the world-famous profiler - had been taken completely unaware by the young man who had become the concerted focus of her interest since his head-first collision with destiny in that abandoned warehouse in Pittsburgh.

The simple truth was that Ms. Corey had dealt with virtually every variety of emotional condition during her years with the Bureau - everything from anger to fear, resentment to paranoia, defeatism to over-confidence, a desire to crawl into a hole and die as opposed to a bottomless thirst for vengeance - everything. But it seemed she had never before come up against anyone who was so keenly observant, so sardonically uninvolved, so effortlessly laid-back, and so capable of seeing the satirical humor in even the blackest circumstance that he had actually laughed at her. Well, not laughed exactly. More like smirked - but the result had been the same.

Alexander Corey was unaccustomed to being laughed at.

"You ready to face the music?" the FBI agent asked, leaning forward and sliding his hands down the silken expanse of bare chest while nuzzling against the side of Brian's throat, just missing a small scar that was gradually fading into oblivion.

Brian took a deep breath. "Zero hour approaching, huh?"

McClaren nodded. "It is, if you want to hear all the nasty little details that you've been demanding to know. I assume you've finally realized that she's not going to change her mind on this. In order to get the full story, you're going to have to allow her to attempt to hypnotize you. I know you think it's bullshit, but I happen to agree with her. If we let you in on all the details first, it might contaminate your legitimate memories."

Brian pushed himself up, ignoring the cane that was lodged against his bar stool. In typical Kinney fashion, he had begun to fight to wean himself of the need for any kind of crutch. "You're lecturing again," he retorted as he grinned and winked at Trina, who was busily trying not to ogle the irresistibly delectable sight of two beautiful young men sharing an intimate moment. "And we could, if you'd only loosen up a bit, put our time to much better use than letting your Gestapo drill sergeant ramble around in my head. If you, for example, were to cast off the chains of servitude and tell me what I need to know . . ." The smile he then turned on his prime babysitter was so explicit and so seductive that McClaren wondered if St. Peter himself would have been able to resist it.

"Fuck off, Brian," he snapped.

But the smile remained in place, along with irrepressible glow in those spellbinding eyes. "That's exactly what I had in mind, McFed."

"She's waiting," said McClaren with an eye-roll, having long since realized that the surest way to perpetuate the nickname he really hated was to protest its use.

"What? Superwoman doesn't need food to prepare herself to inflict torture? Oh, wait, let me guess. She gets her energy directly from our solar system's yellow sun."

Another eye-roll - this one accompanied by a reluctant smile. "She ate at her desk."

Brian sighed - loudly. "You could at least make some small attempt to get me drunk, before turning me over to get fucked."

It was said lightly, accompanied by a typically sardonic grin, but . . . was there some little nuance of unspoken dread in that scornful tone of voice - something that revealed that it was not quite the smart-ass non-sequitur he had intended it to appear.

He did not speak again, before turning to walk to the front of the house, as McClaren and Trina watched him go.

The FBI agent deliberately turned away, looking out through the big window over the sink, to note that another storm was brewing out to sea, moving swiftly toward the shore.

"Storm's comin'," he observed softly, taking the seat that Brian had vacated, and reaching for the plate that Trina had prepared for him.

Thus, he was marginally astonished when she jerked it away from him, and leaned forward against the counter until her face was only inches from his own. "Not nearly as big as the one that's going to happen in here if you don't get off your ass and go after him."

The man's lovely blue eyes were suddenly awash with shadows. "What? What the fuck are you . . ."

"You know something?" she interrupted, her tone harsh and unforgiving. "You FBI types are supposed to be so smart, so intuitive, so skilled at your 'profiling', but the simple truth is that you don't know jack-shit when it comes to what makes a man like Brian Kinney tick. He's so busy proving that he's big and bad and balls-to-the-wall brave - and all of you just buy into it, when the simple truth is that he's scared, and he's trying to find a way to face a truth he doesn't know how to handle."

She paused then, and her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, but it still carried the depth of her compassion and the degree of her sorrow. "He's trying to find a way to survive something that he thinks might destroy him."

He hunched forward, picking up Brian's glass and draining the last drops of his drink. "That's how he wants it, isn't it?"

"Humph!" She glared at him and there was no ignoring the contempt in her eyes. "And here you sit."

"And what should I do?" he demanded hotly, unable - for a fraction of a second - to completely suppress his own sense of helplessness and rage. "I can't fix this."

Her expression softened then, as if she'd found what she was looking for - as if he had confirmed what her intuition was telling her. "Just . . . hold his hand," she said finally, reaching out to wrap her own fingers around his. "Just . . . be there."

He looked into her eyes then, and saw that she totally believed what she was saying, but he wasn't so sure that she was right. He wasn't so sure that any effort he might make to offer support or sympathy might not make things worse. "I'm supposed to go relieve Toby at the gate," he said, sidestepping the issue neatly.

"Where's Sonny?" she asked with narrowed eyes. Any change in the routine of the security arrangements was cause for speculation.

"Alex sent him on an errand - and you know how Toby gets when he doesn't get his lunch on time."

She nodded. "You don't worry about that," turning away just to be sure that McClaren - who was a whole lot smarter than she usually admitted - would not notice the speculative gleam in her eye. "You see to Brian, and I'll go feed Toby" . . . and find out exactly what's going on. She smiled to herself as the FBI agent paused for a moment, obviously thinking it over, before nodding and following Brian out of the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

* The Times They Are A-Changin' - Bob Dylan


TBC