Chapter 36


"In the real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day." -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

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The walk from Brian Kinney's executive suite to the smaller but still elegant office space allotted to his chief accountant was short, requiring no more than a couple of minutes to complete, but it would, under ordinary circumstances, have allowed sufficient time for Ted Schmidt to regain his composure and gird his loins - so to speak - for the face-off that awaited him. He had, after all, done nothing wrong. Okay, so he had, perhaps, overstepped the boundaries of his station just a bit, in challenging Cynthia's actions, but only because he was concerned about protecting Brian's interests. He could explain every step he'd taken along the way in preparing his presentation to his group of supporters. He had documentation for everything, and justification for his concerns.

And, of course, he also had the piece de resistance of his campaign to prove his value to the living force that was Brian Kinney - the secret trump card that would prove, beyond any possible doubt, that Brian owed him a huge, virtually unfathomable, debt of gratitude. But that he wasn't quite ready to speak of, since the ultimate pay-off was not yet within his grasp. It was, almost certainly, only a matter of days away, but he would resist any temptation to mention it until it was a fait accompli - when no one would be able to dispute the genius of his actions in pursuit of a financial bonanza on Brian's behalf.

The man would owe him - forever - a debt that could never be fully repaid.

He would, of course, be gracious in victory and in accepting his due, at the hands of people who had never granted him the honor and respect that should have been accorded to him long ago. Even Brian Kinney would have to recognize his value and treat him accordingly.

Thus, he should have been calm and composed by the time he reached his office; only, it was really difficult to achieve any level of serenity when Brian's chief of security was walking behind him, breathing down his neck much like a prison guard herding an inmate to his cell.

Nevertheless, he knew he needed to achieve some level of emotional command, because . . . well, because one did not, under any circumstances, go into a confrontation with a peeved, disgruntled Brian Kinney without aplomb and self-confidence fully engaged and ready for battle. So, as he reached his office door, he tried to pause, to take a deep breath and find his emotional center. Only, Lance Mathis was apparently not in the mood to allow even the slightest hesitation.

Thus, when Ted tried to come to a halt, the security chief denied him the opportunity in the simplest, most direct way possible. He simply . . . pushed, using superior strength, agility, and muscle to propel the accountant through the doorway and toward his chair, while Mathis leaned over the desk and depressed the speaker/phone button.

"Ready, Boss." Those were the only words he spoke, and Ted allowed himself a fleeting glimmer of hope that the man would turn around and march out the door, leaving him to speak to his employer privately. But the hope was very fleeting, as Mathis took up his customary stance near the doorway, arms crossed and eyes fixed firmly on the target - namely, one increasingly nervous accountant.

Ted sank into his chair, grateful that he did not have to stand to face whatever music might be at hand.

"Theodore."

The accountant swallowed around the lump in his throat before trying to answer, but did manage, finally, to respond without squeaking like a frightened mouse. "Brian. How are you?"

Brian took his time in formulating a reply. "I think the phrase 'as well as can be expected' would be appropriate, under the circumstances. Don't you agree?"

"Well," Ted said quickly, taking some comfort in the fact that Brian did not sound quite as angry as he might have expected, "that's something I wouldn't have any way of knowing, would I? Since you haven't been in contact with any of us since you left."

Another brief silence, and a faint huff of breath drawn. "On the contrary, Theodore. I've spoken to Cynthia every day since I got here - and to Michael and Lindsey . . . and Emmett. As much and as often as I needed. So I can only assume that your whining - which, by the way, is extremely annoying and not the least bit attractive - is due solely to the fact that I haven't contacted you."

"Well, I . . ."

"Did it occur to you that there might be a logical reason for that?"

"No, but I'm . . ."

"I didn't contact you, because I didn't need to talk to you. I think that's simple enough for anyone to understand, don't you? Was there something I needed to know from you, something that Cynthia couldn't be trusted to tell me?"

"Well, I wouldn't know that, would I, since I wasn't allowed direct access. And I am your accountant. You know - the man who handles your money. Don't you think . . ."

"Yes." There was a new note in Brian's voice - something darker, sadder somehow. "The man who handles my money. I trusted you to do that, Theodore, and I assumed that you could do it perfectly well without needing me to ride herd or keep an eye on how you were doing it."

"Well, of course you did. And you were right to do so. But, with everything that was happening here, I just felt compelled to step in . . ."

"Yeah." And this time, there was no mistaking the weariness in that expressive voice. "I heard your explanation of your compulsion. And now, I want you to hear something. And after you do, I want you to give me your opinion about how I should respond. Okay?"

Ted sat up straighter in his chair, thinking that this was more like it. He had come to enjoy his status as Brian's go-to guy for advice and encouragement, and perhaps he had been wrong to assume that his position might be usurped by the blonde who fancied herself so much more than the glorified secretary she actually was.

"Okay," he replied firmly, and glanced up at Lance Mathis who was still staring at him as if he were some kind of bug under a microscope. When this whole debacle was history, always assuming that it ever really was history and Brian was ever sufficiently recovered to try to resume anything remotely resembling the lifestyle he'd enjoyed before, perhaps he'd be able to convince Kinnetik's owner to take another look at his security chief, who seemed to be in need of a lesson in how to treat his superiors. "What do you . . ."

"Just shut up . . . and listen."

The first thing he heard was the ringing of a phone; the next thing he heard was his own voice answering the electronic summons. And then he listened to the rest, his eyes bulging as he realized what he was hearing.

The recording concluded, and there was only silence for a few seconds.

Then he leapt to his feet. "You tapped my phone line?" It was not - quite - a scream of outrage, but it was close. "You tapped . . . my fucking phone!"

"Yes." Brian's voice was perfectly serene. "And you can save your queen-out routine, since - in point of fact - it's actually my phone line, isn't it?"

"How could you do that to me? How could you . . ."

He was still in tirade-mode, snarling more loudly with each syllable, and yet - somehow - he heard every word when Brian responded, even though the man continued to speak in a very soft monotone. "Do you know the primary advantage we had, Theodore, in making sure that my son was protected from the vicious fucks who tried to kill me? Do you know what guaranteed his safety - in a way nothing else could?"

"What?" It was still a snarl, but, perhaps, not quite so filled with self-righteous fury. Though he was deeply outraged, he was also desperately trying to remember whether or not there had been any conversations on his office line about his dealings with Marshall Hargrave. Not, of course, that there was anything to hide about those discussions, but he didn't want anything to ruin his big surprise, so he was moderately relieved to conclude that all his conversations concerning the funds transfer had taken place on his cell phone. Thus, he still felt justified in venting some of his irritation about the audacity of anyone listening in on his phone calls. "I assume it would have something to do with the FBI, who obviously have no respect for privacy. Or maybe those individuals who seem to think themselves the best private security people in the world, who apparently spend their time spying on trusted employees instead of trying to figure out who did this to you. I mean, you're Brian Fucking Kinney, aren't you, with access to the very best protection that money can buy, aren't you?"

The voice grew even softer. "Funny. It didn't work so well for me, did it?"

Ted almost gasped when he realized what he'd said, but he remained quiet, straining now to hear every word as Brian continued to speak. "Gus's best protection - the thing that guaranteed his safety better than anything else could - was the fact that most of the world didn't know he existed. Outside the most intimate circle of friends and family, nobody knew that he was my son, that I even had a son. Not even my own mother."

He grew quiet then, and waited, and suddenly, Ted felt the silence that enveloped the room, the building - the whole fucking world - like a cold, unbelievably heavy blanket of betrayal falling all around him, thick with the specter of tragedy looming.

"Oh, my God!" It was nothing but a whisper, but it cut through the stillness like a shout in the wilderness. "Brian, I . . ."

"Until today." Brian spoke as if he hadn't heard what Ted said, and maybe he hadn't. Or maybe - as seemed more likely - he had deemed it unworthy of notice. "Today, someone I trusted, someone I believed I could depend on to be smart enough, wise enough . . . loyal enough to understand that protecting my son was more important than anything else in my life; today, that person - for some reason I don't think I'll ever begin to comprehend - opened his big mouth and told the world that Brian Kinney has a son."

"But, but . . . Brian, I only mentioned Gus to Mr. Wylie, and he's . . . he wouldn't say anything. He's a prospective client, and a fine, upstanding . . ."

"Are you really that fucking stupid?" The soft, weary tone was gone, and Brian's voice was as sharp and harsh as the crack of a whip. "Do you have any idea what you - you and that fucking bitch who dares to call herself a mother of my child - have done?"

"Bri . . ."

"If anything happens to Gus . . ." Brian paused, almost too filled with anger and a bottomless sense of betrayal to continue, and Ted felt ice clinch around his heart. "If anything happens to my son because of what you said, I swear to you that you will spend the rest of your life wishing you'd never been born."

"Brian, what can I do?"

Kinnetik's owner actually managed to summon up a bitter little chuckle. "Do? You want me to tell you what to do? Trust me. You don't want to hear what I'd like to tell you to do. But, professionally speaking, this is what you can do - and it's all you can do. You let Cynthia run Kinnetik, per my instructions. You stay in your office and you tend to the accounting end of things. You don't recruit new clients, or speak to old ones, you don't make executive decisions, you don't commit me or my company to anything, beyond making payroll and meeting obligations that are already in place. And you never, never, refer to my son again. To anybody."

Ted took a deep breath, trying to ignore the huge, painful pressure in his chest. "Brian, I swear I . . ."

But then he heard the clicking on the line, and realized that his groveling and eagerness to atone - no matter how sincere - would have to wait for a better opportunity. Brian - being Brian - would forgive him in time, of course; he couldn't contemplate any other possibility, but, for now . . .

Brian was already gone, and Lance Mathis had made his exit as well, after sparing one final frigid glance for Kinnetik's CFO. Ted shivered, realizing that he had never before been the object of so much contempt, so much anger, and, as much as he'd have liked to believe otherwise, he was pretty sure he deserved it all.

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"Mathis, you still there?"

"Right here, Brian. Thought you might have some questions - or comments. Or maybe just some orders."

"Yeah. You could say that. Is the kangaroo court still in progress?"

"It is. You want to listen in?"

"Not necessary. Cynthia is perfectly capable of telling them all where to shove it - and how high."

Mathis grinned. "Yeah. I noticed."

In the cozy little office of the beach cottage, Justin noticed the shift in the expression on Brian's face and wondered what had inspired the warm glint of speculation that formed in those beautiful eyes, as Brian favored him with a lovely smile.

"Give her time to deal with them, and then - I've got a couple of chores for you."

Mathis moved into his own office, pausing to check the bank of monitors that were the nerve center for the brand new upgraded security system. "Whatever you want, Boss Man, but tell me; am I going to enjoy this?"

Brian chuckled. "You could say that."

"And Schmidt? What do you . . ."

"Nothing yet. I'm assuming you've reviewed the information that the FBI provided about Theodore's excellent adventure."

"Yeah. With friends like that . . ."

"Right. So, for the moment, just let him stew a little more. If the feds are right, it's only a matter of days - maybe even hours - before the whole thing comes tumbling down around his ears. Do you think it's petty of me to want him to experience the full effect - with no opportunity to get ready to weather the storm?"

It was Mathis's turn to laugh. "Yeah, I think it's petty - and fucking brilliant."

"Remind me to give you a raise."

"Oh, don't worry. When this is all over, and you're safe and sound and still Brian Kinney, you will."

"Agreed, only . . . I'm not the only one that has to come through safe and sound."

"Yeah. I know. We're working on it."

"Okay. Here's what I want you to do."

The orders were brief, explicit, and to the point, and Mathis realized immediately that Brian had spoken truly; he really was going to enjoy this.

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In the spare elegance of Brian's office, the silence following Ted's departure was extraordinary - almost palpable - as no one seemed to have any idea of what to do next.

No one, that is, except Cynthia Whitney, who knew exactly what to do and what to say, but took a moment to savor a rather sweet sensation of victory before proceeding.

When she decided that she'd waited long enough, that Brian's message had been well and truly absorbed, she sat forward and clasped her hands on his desk and chose to fix her attention directly on Justin's mother.

"What," she said softly, "are you doing here, Ms. Taylor? I understand why everyone else decided that they needed to be a part of this debacle; most of them have spent their whole lives trying to control Brian Kinney, or at least pretend that they have some right to interfere in his life. But you . . . do you have any idea how your son might feel about your participation in this lynch mob?"

Jennifer had the grace to blush. "I'm sorry, Ms. Whitney. I didn't mean to . . ."

Cynthia silenced her with an upraised hand, understanding that Jennifer was going to face a horribly difficult task when next she spoke to her son. It was pretty obvious to Brian's assistant, judging from his tone and demeanor during his dramatic little announcement, that Justin had not yet been told about Craig Taylor's role in the attack on Brian. She was fairly certain that, if full disclosure had been made, Brian would have been too preoccupied with trying to talk his young lover down from a major drama-queen episode to bother with intervening in this little 'dog and pony show', as he'd termed it. Knowing that he really did have confidence in her ability to handle what was happening here, she was certain that he had only stepped in because it was something he wanted to do - not because there was any real need. Nevertheless, if learning that his father was a part of the cabal who had been responsible for the attack on Brian was going to be difficult for Justin, how hard was it going to be on his mother to realize that she'd spent so many years as the wife of a man capable of such a despicable act?

"It's all right," Cynthia interrupted. "I know you've had a lot on your mind, and . . ." She allowed her gaze to drift toward Debbie Novotny, and the glint in her eyes was icy. "You were probably pressured to come here. However, I think you'll be happy to hear that Justin has survived his campaign to gain re-entry to Castle Kinney and has reclaimed his position as the king's favorite." Her smile was gentle. "I think it's safe to say that the reunion was a huge success, and I'm sure he'll be contacting you soon." She deliberately did not venture a guess concerning the subject of that phone call. That was something that would remain between mother and son, and she was relatively happy that she would not have to be involved.

"As for the rest of you," she continued, "I'm not going to discuss Kinnetik issues with you, since none of you have any standing in matters concerning Brian's professional decisions. I think he made himself perfectly clear on that subject - but I will expand a bit on the more personal aspects of your little list of grievances."

She smiled then, but there was no comfort to be found in it, and both Debbie Novotny and Melanie Marcus felt a stirring of genuine alarm, while Michael and Lindsey exchanged speculative glances.

This, they thought, might get very interesting.

There was a brief pause then as Cynthia's cell phone vibrated on the desk, and she took a moment to answer it, listening for a few seconds before replying with a soft-spoken, "Yes, I know, but thanks for the reminder."

She then disconnected and took another moment to gather her thoughts. Finally, taking a deep breath, she rose and walked to the small storage area behind the desk to retrieve a framed painting from the niche where it had been tucked away since the day that Justin Taylor had departed for New York City to make a name for himself in the art world.

It had been a gift - artist to model - and it was already so valuable that it would command at least five figures should it go up for auction, which, of course, it never would.

A Justin Taylor original oil - a perfect, beautiful rendering of Brian Kinney, casually dressed in jeans and t-shirt, cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, leaning against a brick wall supporting a tumble of lush foliage that reflected the deep amber radiance of day's end. Brian's profile was illuminated by the fiery rays of a summer sun riding low on the horizon. It was an exquisite example of the artist's work, and would have been so even if one had no idea of the identity of the model.

Cynthia moved back to the desk and sat down, carefully propping the portrait so that everyone in the room had a perfect view of that perfect face.

"Mrs. Kinney," she said suddenly, "what do you see?"

Joan Kinney's eyes widened and shifted toward her daughter, but it was immediately obvious that she would get no help from that quarter, as Claire was busy examining the chipped polish on a thumbnail. "I'm sorry," said the elderly woman. "What do you . . ."

"It's not a trick question," said Cynthia dryly. "When you look at this painting - at this man - what do you see?"

Joan took a deep breath and raised her head so that she could look down her nose at this upstart girl who seemed determined to make her look foolish in front of these people who were a large part of her only son's life, and no part - thank God - of her own. "I see my son," she replied coldly.

Cynthia's eyes were suddenly filled with ice. "Do you really? Okay then. Let's expand on that, shall we? Would that be the son who was your deliverance - who was the means by which you and your precious daughter escaped the brutal attentions of your vicious, sadistic husband because Brian was always there to take the beatings for you? Or perhaps, the son who learned to fend for himself when he was little more than a baby because he had no choice? Or maybe the son who went out to work way before he was old enough because you and the old man had better things to do than support your kid - like boozing or bitching or crusading for a spurious sainthood, or maybe just generally forgetting that he was alive? Or how about this - maybe you see the son whom you both blamed for every miserable thing in your lives, never once realizing that God - you know, that divine being that you claim such intimate acquaintance with - had given you a blessing of your very own, only you were too fucking stupid to see it."

She rose then and walked around the desk to look directly down into Joan Kinney's face. "Or maybe, what you see is the ultimate abomination - the queer - the faggot who's going to burn in hell because he dares to be true to himself, because he fucks guys and defies you and your notions about God's narrow, homophobic mind."

"You can't talk to me that way. I'm his . . ."

"I'm not sure what you are, Mrs. Kinney, but if you dare to say that word, I can't promise not to slap you. You're not his mother; he never had a mother. You just provided the uterus where he took shelter for a little while, and it was the only thing you ever gave him. So let's be clear on this, shall we? You're here - you and your little clone - because Brian, through his own efforts, has become a very rich man, and, despite the fact that he's been extremely generous to you - and to his rat-bastard father before he died - you're thinking that he's vulnerable right now, and that this might be a golden opportunity for you to get your hot little hands on more of his money."

She paused then and leaned forward. "So hear this, and know it for the truth it is, so you don't waste time and money in hiring yourself a lawyer and fighting a losing battle. What you already have is all you're ever going to get. Whatever you may think of him, he's smarter than you can even imagine, and certainly smart enough to make sure that his money goes where he wants it to go, no matter what happens to him. So . . . are we clear on that?"

Joan Kinney pushed herself to her feet, as Claire, slightly flustered and moving clumsily, did the same, and the older woman once more lifted her head, in a vain attempt to intimidate her son's chosen representative. "We'll just see about that, shall we? When I talk to Brian, I'm sure he'll be very interested to hear how you spoke to me. He won't stand for it . . . and neither will I, so, if you'll excuse me . . ."

Cynthia smiled, and looked up then, meeting the eyes - very beautiful, dark eyes she noticed - of the man standing in the doorway.

"Mrs. Kinney, Ms. DeFatta," said Lance Mathis, "come with me, please. Mr. Kinney has instructed that you be escorted from the premises and advised that you are not to return here again. If you do, his attorney will procure a restraining order to prevent any further visits, and he will also take immediate action to curtail the monthly stipend that he provides to cover your living expenses. He wanted me to make sure that you understand that he is deadly serious about this, and that you acknowledge the terms under which he will continue to provide support for you. Do you understand?"

Joan's eyes were suddenly huge, while Clair's narrowed to slits as she began to speak. "You can't talk to my mother like . . ."

"I can," Mathis replied calmly, "and I did. And my question stands. Do you understand these terms as explained to you?"

Joan Kinney nodded.

"Out loud, please," Mathis insisted. "Just so we're totally clear."

"I understand," she said, her voice trembling and uncertain.

"Let's go, Mom," said Claire DeFatta. Then she turned and glared at Cynthia Whitney. "But don't make the mistake of thinking this is over. Because . . ."

Cynthia grinned. "Let me guess. Because you are going to take on your brother? Yeah. That ought to be worth a footnote in his daybook."

Mathis then escorted the two women out of the room; he was excruciatingly polite, but he did not allow either of them to dawdle.

When they were gone, Cynthia scanned the remaining faces, waiting to see if any of them would speak up, but no one did.

"Now," she said finally, "let's talk about the rest of you and your interest in Brian - and why you have the strange idea that you have the right to interfere in his life - as you've been doing for so many years. That's the real issue, isn't it? Everything has always been about you, and your rights and how you see things. You, Ms. Novotny, are still convinced that a mother is always right - even though you saw what Hunter's mother was like, and what she did to her son. Even though you must have known what Joan Kinney was, because you had a front row seat for the damage she did to Brian. And even though you witnessed the kind of harm that could have been done to your own granddaughter by her mother's selfishness."

"Hold it!" snapped Melanie Marcus, in her most intimidating, prosecutorial voice. "What exactly do you . . ."

But Cynthia remained completely unintimidated. "A few years ago, you, Ms. Marcus, fucked around on your significant other, resulting in a separation that almost put an end to your relationship. I was never quite enlightened enough to figure out how what you did with your fellow dyke was any different from what she did with the stud muffin artist, which you found so unforgivable, but, hey, I'm not gay, so maybe I just don't get it. I figure that fucking around is fucking around, no matter the gender of the fellow fucker. Nevertheless, at that time, Lindsey apparently lost her mind, and was on the verge of marrying her live-in French fry, and it was up to Brian to save the day. Which he did, by doing the one thing he didn't really want to do - the one thing that he was convinced was the best thing for his son. So, despite the fact that he had fallen in love with the kid - as he never expected to - he volunteered to give up his parental rights in order to force you two fucking idiots to see the truth and get back together in order to give Gus a good life. That's what Brian did for his son.

"And yet, all we've ever heard - from any of you - is what a shitty father he was. So how is it that, when J.R. came along, the three of you, who set yourselves up as such superior parents, along with Zen Master Ben, who was the cheerleader in dear Michael's corner, had only one concern - who got Tuesday and who got Thursday, and whose parental rights were most important. Not a fucking one of you stopped for a moment to consider what was best for your daughter.

"So, can you explain to me how any one of you can claim to be a better parent . . . than Brian? What - exactly - did any of you sacrifice for your child?"

"Now wait a minute," said Debbie. "It's just not that simple."

"No?" Cynthia's smile was bittersweet. "I think it's exactly that simple. It was always that simple. Why don't we consider things that have happened over the years, such as - you guys remember when Brian was turning thirty, and he was trying to relocate to New York? New city, new job, new opportunities - hitting the big time. Remember that? And how did all his wonderful friends react? All any of you could do was insist that he was making a big mistake, that he wouldn't find anything in New York that would make him happy, that what he had here should be enough for him. Remember? And yet, at the same time, everybody was so eager to congratulate Michael on his dreams of wedded bliss with the pompous ass in Seattle. And later on, when Mel and Lindsey went scampering off like scared mice after the Babylon bombing, everybody offered support and best wishes, and never mind that it took Gus completely out of his father's life. And what about Justin - and how eager you all were to ship him off to New York, to pursue his dreams? Did it ever occur to you - to any of you - that maybe Brian had a dream of his own? But in the end, when that New York job didn't come through as he'd hoped, you all just sighed with relief, assured him that it was for the best - that he'd get over it. Because he always got over it, didn't he? Because who really cared what he might dream of? He was Brian Fucking Kinney, so what difference did it make?"

She paused to gaze once more at the face in the portrait, at the eyes that were looking off toward the horizon, looking, perhaps, for something he could not see. "What difference did it ever make to any of you?"

"He's been your scapegoat for everything in life that didn't suit you. It was always Brian's fault. When he couldn't love Michael the way you wanted, Debbie, it had to be because he was a heartless shit, since it couldn't possibly be that the love he did feel for his best friend was so beautiful, so special that it should have been enough for anyone. When your brother passed away, and Brian, in a thoughtless moment, did what Brian usually does - and voiced an uncomfortable truth - it was much easier for you to strike out at him, rage at him for what he said, than owning up to the things you said to your brother, wasn't it? When Michael had trouble hanging on to that pathetic poseur of a chiropractor, it was Brian's fault and his place to fix it - even though he was right all along in thinking that the good doctor was a pretentious, self-righteous prig. When Justin's father - that paragon of virtue - attacked Brian, it was Brian's fault that Justin was traumatized. And speaking of Justin, when he came along, you all did everything you could to push them together, to help Justin get under Brian's skin, because . . . I sometimes wonder if you ever even understood why you did it . . . because you wanted someone to be able to hurt him. Because, of course, he deserved to be hurt, since it just wasn't fair for anyone to be immune to heartbreak. If the rest of you could be hurt, then so must he, and, of course, he didn't know a thing about what it was like to be hurt, did he? By the way, did it ever occur to any of you how lucky Justin was that it was Brian who found him on Liberty Avenue that night? Do you know what could have happened to him if he hadn't been so lucky? At any rate, when it happened, you pushed them together, doing everything you could to exploit what you saw as Brian's weakness, congratulating yourselves on finally finding his Achilles heel, so that you were ready to leap with joy when Justin found himself a twink fiddler and left Brian behind. Are you still proud of that - of how you laughed over his pain and bent over backwards to welcome Justin's new squeeze into the fold? Did it hurt Brian?"

She paused then, and her voice was very soft. "Oh, yeah. It did. You should all be very proud of yourselves."

She looked around then, noting that none of them seemed eager to meet her eyes. "How many times did he save your asses? And how did you pay him back? With scorn and ridicule and laughing when you thought you'd put one over on him. Did you really think he didn't know?"

She paused again, and focused this time on Michael, whose eyes were dark with remembered moments, with thoughts of anger . . . and betrayal. "He always knew. And he just let you believe what you wished - because it was easier for you and because he was strong enough to stand it. And I - Jesus! I can't tell you how many times I stood there and watched and wondered if any of you were ever going to wake up and see the truth, or if you were just going to go on twisting things around in your minds - tweaking your memories - so that you could go on believing what was comfortable for you.

"Remember the night of the benefit at Babylon, Michael? Justin told me about that night, about how your dear, oh-so-morally upright neighbors, upon hearing that Brian was on his way to Australia, laughed and observed that it was because he'd already slept with everybody on this continent. And you - you just stood there and said nothing, despite the fact that, by donating Babylon as the venue for your little shindig, he was effectively donating $10,000.00 to your cause. I doubt that your cunty friends coughed up anything like that, did they, but hey - they were the people you cared about impressing, weren't they? They mattered more . . . than the man who spent his whole fucking life defending your pathetic little ass. Right?"

She paused then, and something dark and terrible seemed to rise in her eyes - so dark and terrible that she couldn't bring herself to look at any of them as she spoke again. "Did any of you ever wonder why he never told you that he had cancer? Do you have any idea how close you came to losing him then; how close he came to just turning his back and walking away? Because he almost did, you know. And I've often wondered how it would have played out if he had."

"What do you mean?" asked Michael, suddenly sure that he didn't want to know what she meant, but that it was something they needed to hear if they were to ever have any hope of understanding the enigma that Brian had become.

She took a deep breath. "Originally, he wasn't going to have the surgery. You probably remember, Ms. Taylor - even if no one else does. What he said right after Vic's funeral?"

Jennifer Taylor looked puzzled for a moment; then memory dawned, and she merely looked stricken. "That the 'tasteful' thing to do - instead of getting old and sick and lingering on - was to buy a one-way ticket to Ibiza, party til you dropped, and then discreetly disappear."

Cynthia nodded. "Exactly. And he almost did. The plane ticket was already bought, and the hotel reservations made. He only changed them at the very last minute - on the day he left. And if he hadn't, he would have gotten on that plane, and no one would ever have known what happened to him."

"Well, that's just ridiculous," said Melanie impatiently. "He couldn't just disappear - and he wouldn't have anyway. He wouldn't miss an opportunity to make everyone dance to his favorite tune. 'Who's Next to Get Fucked by Brian Kinney?' If you think . . ."

"And you, of course, know him so well," Cynthia interrupted, with a caustic smile. "If you think he couldn't have pulled it off and just vanished . . . think again. And if he had, it's not too difficult to visualize what would have happened. A couple of weeks after his departure, one of you - probably Michael - would have gotten perturbed and called around trying to find him. And then you'd have all gone into panic mode when no one could tell you where he was, but, sooner or later, you'd have concluded that he was just out there somewhere, fucking the latest hot trick and being the self-absorbed bastard you all believe him to be, because that would have been the easiest thing to believe, and the one that would suit your pre-conceived notions about him. And then - very discreetly and according to the arrangements he would have made in advance - Brian's attorney would have made sure that his estate was settled according to his wishes, and nobody would ever know what really happened to him - all nice and neat and without putting anybody through any unnecessary suffering. Brian Kinney - gone like Hendrix, or Cobain, or Dean - forever young and beautiful.

"He almost did it, you know. He almost walked away."

"And what stopped him?" whispered Michael. "If he was so determined, why didn't he?"

Cynthia looked at Lindsey then, and smiled. "I don't know for sure, but I think it was because of Gus. It wasn't Justin, because Brian always believed - probably still does deep down in his heart - that Justin would be better off without him, and if any of you don't know that, then you're even stupider than I always thought you were. No, I think it was Gus - that the one thing he couldn't endure was thinking that his son would grow up believing that his father had abandoned him. I think that's why he changed his mind."

"Jesus!" said Melanie suddenly, almost jumping to her feet. "This is all just . . . a load of bullshit. You're making him sound like some kind of white knight, when we all know what he really is - a self-serving, narcissistic prick who doesn't care about anything but himself. Besides, how do you even know all this crap - or remember it? Most of the time, you weren't even around so . . ."

Cynthia gave a half shrug and a small laugh. "It always amazes me that you guys think that anything in your lives can possibly remain secret when you all announce every intimate detail to the whole world, with every breath you take. What happens in your bedrooms at night is front-page news on Liberty Avenue the next day. So when Ben gets his knickers in a twist because Michael's comic book is being made into a movie while no one will publish his novel, and takes his frustrations out by considering a little slap and tickle with a grad student, half of gay PA is watching avidly the next morning to see if he follows through. Or when Justin queens out because Brian is diagnosed with syphilis - conveniently ignoring the fact that it could just as easily have been him - or any of you - it's the main topic of conversation at the diner an hour later. I hear things. I'm a very good listener so people tell me things. And Brian tells me things - although it sometimes takes him a while to work things through so he can talk about them. Everybody needs someone they know they can trust, and, for Brian, that's me. And whatever I'm told, I remember. In fact, I have an almost eidetic memory, about certain things - for faces and for the spoken word. If you tell me something, it's likely that I'll remember it exactly. Almost verbatim. Brian calls it a gift; I think of it more as a curse, since there are things I would really rather forget. But I confess, I'd rather be doomed to remember every miserable or angry word ever spoken to me, than to be the kind of person who can manipulate memories, so that I could choose what to remember and what to forget. Like you all do."

She rose then and leaned forward, once more examining each face in the group. "As for making him sound like a 'white knight' . . . you'll have to forgive me if that's how I see him - because that's what he's been for me. And no, that doesn't mean that he's a paragon of virtue. He'd be the first to laugh at such a silly notion. Nevertheless, it's up to each of you to decide what he's been . . . for you. And now, I think that just about covers it, don't you? So, unless you want to raise a few more issues, or find some new things to blame him for, I think we should adjourn this little kangaroo court so I can get on with the business of running Brian's business."

Several of the individuals gathered around the conference table looked as if they wanted to speak up, but no one did. Cynthia, however, had one more announcement to make. "Lindsey, Melanie," she said as the group rose to move toward the door, "could you wait a moment, please. Brian needs to speak to you."

"Let me guess," said Melanie, eyes bright with resentment, "he's been eavesdropping again."

"No," replied Cynthia with a venal grin. "He trusted me to take out the trash. But he does have something to tell you."

Michael, just approaching the doorway, turned then to look back at Cynthia, and she knew that he was haunted by some of the things she'd said - some of the things that he probably would have preferred not to know. But there had been too much of that already, too much refusal to explore painful truths, and it needed to end, if there were to be any possibility of salvaging the relationship between Brian and his extended, semi-dysfunctional family.

"Can I . . . talk to him?" he finally asked, his voice barely rising above a whisper, as Ben paused at his side, offering wordless but heartfelt support.

"I'll relay the message," she answered gently. "He'll call you."

"He will?"

She regarded his face for a moment, obviously considering how to respond, before coming around the desk and moving to stand before him. Then she placed her hands on his shoulders, and stared directly into his eyes. "You're concentrating on the wrong things, Michael," she said gently. "Remember it all - absolutely - because it should be remembered. But most of all, remember what I said about how much he loves you. That never changed. You never fucked that up - and you never will. He will always love you."

He closed his eyes and could only repeat what he'd said before. "He will?"

Cynthia resisted an urge to roll her eyes, while sending a mental message to her boss, to assure him that he would owe her a debt of eternal gratitude for dealing with his drama-queen/Lost-Boy companion. "He will."

And Michael sighed - once - before breaking into a huge, beatific grin, completely reassured and ready to face the world once more, secure in his place in Brian's heart. It was simplistic and silly to be so validated by the opinion of a single individual - but it was implicitly Michael Novotny, and Cynthia couldn't quite suppress a happy smile of her own, though she did wonder, briefly, how Ben managed to reconcile his adoration for his young husband with that individual's almost pathological need for Brian's affection. He was, she thought, a big man to be able to handle it all.

Melanie, meanwhile, wasn't deigning to suppress her own eye-roll or the almost audible, "Oh, for God's sake!" she was muttering under her breath.

Lance Mathis slipped back into the office at that moment, paused to speak briefly to Carl Horvath, to arrange for a conference in his private office once the business at hand was concluded, and then stepped inside, closing the door behind him, as Cynthia returned to the desk.

"He's on line three," said the security chief, taking a seat near the door.

"Boss," said Cynthia, depressing the appropriate key, "are you there?"

Brian, having spent his time productively while waiting for the meeting to come to an end, reluctantly pulled away from his exploration of his lover's hot, quivering body, and answered slowly, settling Justin more comfortably in his arms before speaking.

"Where else would I be? Are the munchers present and accounted for?"

"Hi, Brian." That was Lindsey, almost as happy to hear his voice as Michael had been.

"Linz," he replied, his voice oddly gentle. "Is your fellow dyke there with you?"

"Yeah, Asshole," snapped Melanie. "What do you . . ."

"I'll cut to the chase, shall I? If you're a little fuzzy on the details, I'm sure Theodore can fill you in." Any gentleness that he had directed toward Lindsey was absent now, as his tone had gone harsh and frigid. "Gus - and his grandfather - are on the way here as we speak. Due to Theodore's indiscretions - aided and abetted by you, Melanie - Gus's relationship to me has been leaked to the public, and the only way we can be sure that he's protected is for him to be brought to the compound here and kept under FBI protection."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" snarled Melanie, pushing forward to lean on the desk. "You have no right . . ."

"Funny you should mention that," he interrupted, and Lindsey's throat suddenly felt very dry as she realized that she'd never before heard such a deep and abiding fury in his voice. "As it turns out, I have every right. It seems that there are certain unexpected advantages to being the object of an FBI investigation, including discovering fundamental facts that never would have come to light otherwise. Such as the truth about the documents I signed all those years ago, giving up my parental rights to my son - documents that were never recorded, never notarized, never filed with the courts, and about which no official action was ever taken. You never followed through, Melanie, and never formally adopted him. I'm sure you figured that I'd never know that you didn't complete the process, and you were probably right. I wouldn't have, but the FBI doesn't do anything by half measures, so it was all part of their basic investigation - a simple matter of checking the court records, and what do you know? According to the laws of the great state of Pennsylvania - and the USA - he's still my son." His voice dropped then, to a deadly whisper. "And he never was yours. Furthermore, now - he never will be. You sat there - like a fucking idiot - and let Theodore tell that pompous ass that I had a son. How fucking stupid can you be? And if you think I haven't figured out that Theodore doesn't have the balls to have come up with this little sneak attack he launched today without some outside encouragement, you better think again."

He paused for a moment, obviously considering his next words carefully. "Lindsey," he said slowly, "I really do wish that you weren't going to get caught in the middle of this, but frankly, this . . . this is something I can't overlook or forgive. I stood by and let the two of you take him away, because I assumed you'd watch out for his interests, and that you'd make sure that your partner lived up to her obligation to be a good mother to him. Now . . . now I have to wonder if she ever really cared about him at all. And I'm not willing to take a chance of him having to endure . . . well, you get the idea."

"Now just a minute," said Melanie, voice hoarse with barely suppressed anger. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You can't just step in and decide what's right for Gus - especially since you've never given a shit about him before. Lindsey and I are his parents, and we'll decide what's best for him and where he can go. You need to get him back here - now. Unless you want to deal with one pissed-off dyke lawyer who . . ."

"No."

The silence in the room was as thick as clotted cream as Melanie turned slowly to stare at her partner. "No?" she echoed. "What do you mean, no?"

"I think it's pretty obvious. No - he does not need to send Gus back here. What he needs to do - what he's obviously trying to do - is protect our son."

"Our?" Melanie actually laughed, a nasty, barking sound. "Our - as in yours and mine? Or wait. Maybe, as in yours . . . and his? Is that what I'm hearing here, Lindsey? Are you actually taking his side, and telling me that he has the right . . ."

"Not the right, Mel," Lindsey replied quickly. "The responsibility. Don't you see that this is not about rights - or you versus Brian? This is about keeping Gus safe, and that's all that matters. The rest is just . . . bullshit."

Melanie's jaw was clinched tight as she regarded her partner coldly. "And what about our daughter? I suppose it's all right that she might be at risk. After all, she's not . . ."

"She's not mine," Brian said firmly, not willing to allow Melanie to twist the truth to suit the play she was trying to make. "Therefore, this doesn't concern her."

"Of course not," Melanie retorted, tone heavy with sarcasm. "Because nothing matters except Brian and what he wants. And Gus, because he's Brian's kid - right? How could you . . ."

"Why," said Lindsey softly, ignoring the murderous rage in Melanie's eyes, "did you never follow through with the adoption? I signed all the papers, and you told me it was all done, nice and tidy . . . and legal. But you didn't . . ."

"Oh, don't go making this about me." Melanie was beyond rational thought by this time. "This is about Brian - just like always. It's always been about Brian."

"Well," said the subject of her rage, "let's take that thought to its natural conclusion, shall we? Let's actually make it . . . about Brian. You are currently standing in my office, in my building, trying to coerce and manipulate the mother of my son, while you issue orders about what I can or can't do to protect him - all of this after you stood by and even participated in Theodore's little disclosure, which is what put Gus at risk in the first place."

"No," she shouted. "What put him at risk is that he's the spawn of a swaggering, narcissistic, heartless motherfucker who flaunts himself in the face of decent people and dares anybody to step up and give him the beating he deserves."

Cynthia, Lindsey, and Lance Mathis all turned to stare at the lawyer, whose face, by this time, had gone stark white as she clinched her fists with rage.

Even Brian seemed to be momentarily stricken speechless, closing his eyes as he felt Justin snuggle closer and wrap him in a loving, incredibly tender caress. It was left to Lindsey, finally, to find the right words. "Funny, isn't it, how the truth comes at you like a runaway train when you least expect it? Spawn? Spawn, Mel? How could you? You let Ted put my baby in danger, and now . . . all you care about is gloating over why Brian deserved what happened to him? Is that what I'm hearing?"

Melanie's eyes grew huge, as she realized what she'd said. "Linz, I didn't mean . . ."

"Mathis," said Brian firmly, eternally grateful for the warm body that surged against him and managed to dispel the cold draught that seemed to be hovering over him, waiting to strike, "escort the . . . lady out of the building, and make sure she never shows her face there again."

"No," said Melanie, speaking softly now. "You can't . . . I didn't . . . Lindsey, please . . ."

"And just so we're absolutely clear on this," Brian continued, "you can expect to hear from my attorney shortly, Ms. Marcus, with an official notification of your non-status in any capacity regarding parental rights to my son. Also, I can pretty much guarantee you that he will not be returning to Toronto, no matter what Lindsey might decide. As for you and where you can go . . . you're probably just smart enough to figure that out for yourself."

Melanie seemed to freeze where she stood, her eyes filled with shadow as she stared at the woman who had been the center of her life for the last decade. "Lindsey," she finally managed, in a near whisper, "you can't let him do this. You can't . . ."

Lindsey turned then, to meet her partner's gaze, and Melanie almost flinched away from the despair she read in those huge blue eyes. "I'm reminded of an unforgettable line," said the blonde slowly, "from the neverending melodrama of our lives - a line which you once spoke to me. I think it went something like this: 'I don't know which betrayal to never forgive you for first.' If I were you, I wouldn't wait around to find out."

"Lindsey, no, I . . ."

"Ms. Marcus," said Lance Mathis - very polite but very firm, "please come . . . "

"Don't fucking touch me!" snarled the lawyer.

And Brian Kinney . . . laughed. "Dear, sweet Mellie," he chuckled, "do you really want to wind up on the front page of the Post-Gazette, being tossed out of the building on your ass?"

"You wouldn't dare!" she snapped.

"Cynthia," Brian said softly, "do you still have that paparazzo's number on speed dial?"

Cynthia got to her feet and came around the desk until she was nose-to-nose with the lawyer. "I do," she replied, "but that won't be necessary. Because Ms. Marcus is going to haul her ass out of here, and get herself to her hotel room - the one that Kinnetik is paying for, incidentally - where she'll clear her things out and scuttle off into the darkness like the cockroach she is. And if she doesn't, she's going to be arrested for trespassing. Luckily, we actually have a member of Pittsburgh's finest already on the scene." Then she smiled. "And if you think I wouldn't love every fucking minute of it, you might want to reconsider. At the same time, I'll be releasing a statement to the press about her little comment - concerning the vicious bashing of an upstanding young gay businessman. That ought to go over beautifully with her friends at the Gay and Lesbian Center and all the other philanthropic organizations she supposedly supports."

"Bitch!" Melanie spat, fists clinching tighter.

"You better believe it," replied Cynthia, "and more than ready to prove it. So if you want to make an issue of it, now's your chance."

Neither of the two women actually noticed when Lance Mathis leaned over and whispered into the speakerphone. "Remind me to never piss her off."

This time it was Justin who laughed, delighted in the fact that Brian had more than one bulldog ready to leap to his defense.

Melanie spent another moment gazing at her partner, her eyes pleading for a reprieve, for anything that might indicate a willingness to seek out a different resolution to the awkwardness of this moment. But, in the end, there was nothing, and Lindsey deliberately chose to stare out into the late afternoon sunlight, where a blustery wind was blowing bits of debris around the vacant lot next door.

The brunette finally allowed Mathis to escort her from the room, her posture slumped, defeated, broken.

"Lindsey," said Brian hesitantly, causing her to turn toward Cynthia with a tiny smile.

"If you apologize," she said firmly, "I'm going to ask Justin to smack you. This . . . this wasn't your fault, Brian. As hard as you might have tried - in the past - this time, it was all down to me and her, and the words we just couldn't seem to find for each other."

"And Gus?" Something in his tone warned her that a knee-jerk response was not going to suffice.

She sighed, and sank down on the leather sofa, noting as she did that Brian's impeccable taste was demonstrated in every tiny facet of his office. "Please don't assume that she never loved Gus. She did, Brian. When he was born, I don't think anyone could have loved him more than she did. You must remember that, too. Don't you?"

Brian was finding it hard to focus on what she was saying because Justin had decided to make a mini-meal out of his ear. "Not exactly."

She sighed again, more deeply. "No, I don't suppose you do. You know, in retrospect, I suppose . . . she was right. I never should have insisted that you be the father of my baby."

"Maybe," Brian conceded, "but then Gorgeous Gus wouldn't be Gorgeous Gus . . . would he?"

Cynthia and Lindsey exchanged fond smiles as they heard Justin and Brian share a soft laugh.

"You're incorrigible, you know," Lindsey pointed out. "In some ways, I guess it's a miracle she lasted as long as she did."

"Hey!" he retorted. "Didn't you just say that this wasn't my fault?"

She took a deep breath. "Yes, I did. Although even you have to admit that you didn't always make an effort to keep her happy."

"Not my job," he replied, "but that still doesn't explain her attitude toward Gus."

"It wasn't Gus, Brian. It was me . . . and you. As time went on, I think her resentment of you, and of my affection for you, got more and more out of control. And then, somehow, when J.R. came along, after the whole debacle with Sam, she got unbelievably defensive. She saw everything as a competition, and I . . . I never seemed to measure up in her expectations of how I should treat the baby. She didn't want me to treat them equally. She wanted . . . demanded that J.R. needed more attention, special treatment, and I'm pretty sure that it didn't make things easier that Gus is turning out to be a miniature version of you. Every time she looks at him, she sees his father. Then there's the fact that you always provided generous support for Gus - even though she pretended that she didn't know - I think that was part of it too, since Michael was never able to chip in much for J.R. Not that it made any real difference for the kids, since . . . I mean . . ." She flushed then, and suddenly couldn't find the right words to express what she wanted to say.

Brian, however, knew her too well not to sense what she was too embarrassed to admit. "It's all right, Lindsey. It wouldn't have been fair for Gus to live a privileged life while his sister was deprived. I always figured the money would . . . stretch to cover them both."

Lindsey closed her eyes, her lips forming a soft little smile that Melanie would have recognized instantly as the expression most often associated with her partner's attitude toward Brian Kinney. "You're a good man, Peter," she whispered. "I just wish . . ."

"She's never going to see it, Wendy," he said quickly. "And any hope of a truce between me and her just went south - if it ever existed at all - and I won't deny that's as much my fault as hers, but . . . Look, what you do about your relationship with your 'significant other' - God, I hate that phrase - that's up to you. It's none of my business. But Gus . . . Gus is my business, and I just can't ignore that. I know what it's like to grow up with a parent who doesn't . . ." He paused then, and she knew he was fighting to control the tremor in his voice, as she heard the murmur of Justin's words. She couldn't make out what the young man was saying, but she knew it was an effort to smooth Brian's decidedly ruffled feathers. "I don't want to fight with you over this," he finally continued, "but I will, if I have to. I've never wanted to hurt you; I think you know that. But Gus . . . I won't let him be hurt. If you two manage to work it out, then good for you, but . . . Sonny Boy stays with me. In Pittsburgh, I mean. I said it once before, and then I let myself be convinced that I was wrong. But you know what? I wasn't wrong, Linz. He belongs there. It's his home - and mine - and, if you want to be a part of his life, it should be yours too. And Melanie is going to have to live with that."

Lance Mathis returned at that moment, taking advantage of a temporary, awkward silence to check in with Brian. "Hey, Boss, I've got Horvath waiting in my office, and Sharon Briggs just walked in with some new information for us, so - unless you need me for something else . . ."

"No, you go take care of business, and tell Sharon hello for me, keeping in mind that you can look all you want - because the view is really spectacular - but don't make the mistake of trying to touch, because she'll break your arm for sure, but . . ." Brian paused, and Cynthia wondered why she had the impression that something had just occurred to him, setting wheels of speculation in motion. "Do me a favor. When you're done, give Lindsey a ride back to the hotel. If that's OK with you, Linz. You're not in a hurry, are you?"

"No, that's fine. Is it all right if I just wander around the art department for a while? Who knows? I might be looking for employment soon. Think the boss might give me a shot?"

Brian laughed. "Mi casa es tu casa, amiga."

Both Lindsey and Mathis departed then, leaving Cynthia with a speculative gleam in her eye. "What are you up to?" she asked, as soon as she was sure they were gone.

"Now why do you always think I'm up to something?" he asked.

"Because I know you so well," she retorted.

His laugh was gentle. "So . . . you okay, Tink? It wasn't too bad?"

"Brian," she said firmly, "I have worked for you for a long, long time, and if I couldn't deal with major meltdown-worthy melodrama, I'd have been toast the first month. And don't call me Tink. Everything was fine. Don't worry. To tell the truth, some of it was . . . "

"Fun?" He chuckled, and she heard Justin laughing with him. "Sometimes, you're so much like me, it's almost scary. And sweet K-K-K-Katy? Beautiful and happy as ever?"

She smiled. "The light of my life, as always."

"Hey," he said suddenly, his tone reflecting the inspiration that had just flashed in his mind, "why don't you bring her down next week-end? It's beautiful here, and she'd love the beach. And Gus will be here. I think they'd be great together."

"Are you running a fever?" she demanded. "You're actually volunteering to spend a week-end at the beach with two kids, Gus's grandfather, an FBI team, and me? Holy shit, the Apocalypse is surely at hand."

"Hey, Cynthia," called Justin, the laughter bright and unmistakable in his voice. "He's mellowing with age."

"Mellowing?" Brian echoed, and there was a quickly cut-off squawk as he obviously did something to challenge the younger man's definition of 'mellow'. "Gotta go, Cynthia. Somebody needs a lesson about the folly of speaking first and thinking later."

"Don't strain anything," she called, but the dial tone told her that she was too late by just a hair. Brian, obviously, had urgent matters to attend, and so, for that matter, did she.

Nevertheless, she allowed herself a moment to relax, to absorb the blessed silence, and to reflect on the remains of the day.

The whirlwind was over, thank God, but there would, no doubt, be many more just like it. She wondered, occasionally, if it was wise to spend one's life living on the fringes of such a storm - if it might not be safer, more prudent, to seek a peaceful harbor in which to build a calmer future. Then she tried to imagine a world in which she would be sheltered from the kaleidoscopic shifts, the excitement, the color and candor and cacophony of Brian Kinney's existence - and she smiled. Yes, life with Brian could be infuriating and frustrating and - occasionally - almost intolerable, but it would most certainly never be boring.

She thought she could live with that.

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

The "lesson" that young Justin had to learn at the hands of his "mellowing" older lover, was thorough and compelling but necessarily truncated by the scheduled arrival of a medical technician with a portable ultrasound machine, a competent but rather humorless young woman who dropped in twice a week to check on Brian's progress. When Cheryl Miro knocked on the door of the office, after trying to push her way in only to find the door locked, Justin was just barely beginning to recover from the blow job that, he would later admit, had to rank among the top five best of his life. If this was what was meant by 'mellowing', he'd conceded to a grinning Brian, then the un-mellowness of fresh-faced youth had been ridiculously over-rated.

Their lovemaking had been fierce and frantic, with only one slightly sobering moment occurring just as Brian had begun his torturous exploration of the blonde's notoriously nubile young body.

As Brian had nuzzled against the soft skin at the nape of Justin's neck, inhaling the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of the younger man's hair, Justin had pulled away and fixed his companion with a quizzical gaze. "You gave him a nickname," he'd said softly. "Why did you do that?"

Brian's eyes had gone wide. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Your FBI boytoy. You called him 'McFed'. You never use nicknames, unless . . ."

Something in Brian's eyes, something hard and sharp and just slightly predatory, had forced Justin to look away. "Unless what?"

"Unless it means something special. Unless the person . . . matters to you." Blue eyes had been suddenly huge and filled with shadow, as they shifted and lifted to meet the unflinching gaze of the man who was the undisputed center of Justin's world. "Did he . . . matter?"

Brian had not blinked. "What if he did? Does that change anything between us? Does that mean . . ."

"No, but . . . think about it, Brian. Michael, Lindsey, Cynthia - sometimes - and me. Nobody else. So if you actually gave him a nickname, then . . ."

"Justin." Brian's voice had been velvet soft and very gentle. "I've already told you what you mean to me, and that's not going to change. But that doesn't mean that there aren't going to be times when I need other people. Times like this. I don't know for sure, but I . . . I think he might have actually saved my life." He'd drawn a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a while, gathering his thoughts while trying, at the same time, to keep his beloved Justin from glimpsing the remembered horrors that he had not yet managed to shut out of his mind. "There were moments when I . . . I stood there at the edge of the ocean and wondered . . ." He had gone very still then, as his eyes had darkened, and it had been obvious that he was wondering if he should complete that thought, but, in the end, he'd pushed it away, hoping that Justin would not pursue it. "This was . . . tough, and it took somebody equally tough to get me through it. And you . . ."

Justin had sighed. "Weren't here. I understand."

"No. No, you don't." Brian had moved aside then, and turned to gaze out into the day, where clouds were moving in from the sea. "It wasn't just that you weren't here. It was . . . Justin, you couldn't have given me what I needed to help me through this. I know that's not something you want to hear, but it's the truth."

And he'd been right, of course. Justin had not wanted to hear it. Nevertheless, he'd been pretty sure that it was something he needed to know. "Tell me what you mean."

Brian had been reluctant, but, after hesitating for a moment, he'd offered his explanation without apology. "You'd have given me tenderness and sweetness and your loving, gentle heart and the chance to lose myself in you - in the beauty of you. And I'd have been grateful for every perfect minute of it. But . . . it wouldn't have gotten me through, Justin. I needed someone to push me, someone who would call me on the bullshit and refuse to let me off the hook." He'd paused again then, before looking up, and Justin had almost cringed away from the look of dread in those dark eyes. "He gave me what I needed, and . . . if you can't accept that, I . . . I'll just have to deal with it. I guess it's the only way I can prove to you that I meant what I said. I truly want to spend the rest of my life with you, but I still can't and won't offer you any bullshit promises. It's what I want; it's all I want, but only as long as it's what you want too - more than anything else. The door will always stay open."

And Justin had thrown himself forward, retaking his place in the shelter of those beloved arms, and reclaiming that perfect mouth. The kiss had been deep and breathtaking, until Justin had pulled back just far enough to look up and find the love glowing in the eyes looking down at him. "It doesn't matter. Open . . . or closed, I'm never leaving you again. And . . . I understand what you're telling me. I'm even grateful that he was here for you, and able to give you what you needed." He'd leaned forward then, and initiated another heart-stopping kiss before pulling back once more, with a brilliant smile. "But if you ever fuck him again . . ."

Deep, rich laughter had erupted then, as Brian experienced a joy unlike any he'd ever known before in the realization that Justin - his Justin, of the incredible self-confidence and cockiness and braggadocio, the man whose arrogance almost equaled his own - was jealous. "What? If I ever fuck him again . . ."

Justin had grinned, and proceeded to wrap his fingers in a death grip around Brian's cock and squeeze - and then squeeze again. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

The brunette's answer had been little more than a breathless gasp. "No."

"I didn't think so. Now what was that about teaching me the true meaning of . . . 'mellowing'?"

Brian had tackled him at that point, and pinned his body to the floor as he'd devoured that smart, sassy mouth. Then he'd set out to make the little shit pay for his impertinence, ultimately experiencing the sweet taste of victory as the twat begged for the rapturous release he was being deliberately and repeatedly denied.

Cheryl Miro, relentlessly heterosexual and devoutly fundamentalist Christian, was treated to an extraordinary view once the office was unlocked and she was admitted into the small, secluded space. Although both men, by that time, were fully clothed - or at least as fully as Brian usually was - the looks on their faces and the rich, musky aroma in the air was more than ample evidence of what they'd been doing and how much they'd enjoyed it. She took a deep breath as she set up her equipment, knowing that she was going to have a hell of a time concentrating on doing her job - and getting the hell out of that din of iniquity as quickly as her professional conscience would allow.

Justin, just as skilled in recognizing the pinched, disapproving expression of a classic breeder as his lover, made his exit with a sardonic smirk, leaving Brian to her mercy, as he went in search of Chris McClaren. He had a few pithy comments to make to the FBI agent, and he preferred to make them while Brian was occupied elsewhere - like now, when he was busy finding new and better ways to annoy the woman who was tasked with evaluating his recovery.

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"That's good work, Pris," said Agent McClaren, cradling the sat-phone against his shoulder as he checked the fuel gauge of the four-wheeler on which he was sitting - the vehicle of choice that the security team used to parole the perimeter of the beach property at odd hours of the day or night. It was unusual for him to be the one assigned to that task, but now . . . his smile was slightly rueful as he conceded that he didn't really have anything better to do. Not any more. The task of standing watch over Brian Kinney was no longer his to perform; the torch had been passed. Always providing that there was no real material threat to the man who was the focus of this entire operation.

He waved to acknowledge the presence of the physical therapist, who had just arrived and would wait for Brian to finish up with the ultrasound exam to begin his afternoon session. At almost the same instant, the regular groundskeeper drove up in his battered old pick-up truck, grunting his customary wordless greeting, before staring on his weekly maintenance chores.

"Not good enough, I'm afraid," said the gifted undercover agent, her voice slightly off pitch due to a tiny ululation in the sat phone's wavelength. "If I'd been really good, I'd have managed to get a name. As it is, you're going to need eyes in the back of your head to keep an eye on everyone who comes anywhere near him."

"Well, that's already in place. This place is sewn up tight as a drum, and, if it weren't for you, we wouldn't have a clue about a new threat. And there's still time. "

"You hope," she retorted. "Although I have to admit, I'll be really glad when this one is history."

"Tired of breathing toxic waste, huh?" he asked gently.

"You said a mouthful, Friend," she replied. "You know, sometimes we get so insulated in our neat, liberal though admittedly hypocritical little world - in DC, and in our highbrow social circles - it's easy to forget that this kind of provincial, nasty, hate-driven bigotry still exists in this country, and getting slapped in the face with it is not something you want to memorialize in your scrapbook."

"I take it that Pinchon is a real piece of work."

"Oh, yeah. The kind who sits in the front pew at the neighborhood Baptist church with his wife and kids on Sunday and spends his lunch hour fucking his secretary the rest of the week. A fine upstanding Christian - in that the only thing required for him to claim that title is that he denounces abortion, homosexuals, and gun control."

"Has he hit on you yet?"

Her laugh was slightly shrill, and a little on the venal side. "Only every hour on the hour, until I broke down and confessed - with rather charming tears, I thought - that I'd contracted HIV from a blood transfusion. That did the trick."

"Nevertheless," he said softly, "you watch your back. If he were to find out that you're spying on him . . ."

"Not to worry," she assured him. "Right now, he's way too busy congratulating himself on his financial coup - and anticipating the fall-out that all the great unwashed are going to endure. Fucker!"

"So it's really coming down, huh?"

"Looks that way," she said with a sigh. "They really tried to control the damage, but it was just . . . too massive. And the motherfucker moved faster than they anticipated. So now . . . well, it's going to take a lot of luck and some masterful planning to even get to the bastard. And Pinchon, as usual, is Teflon-coated. He's going to emerge from the shitstorm smelling like a fucking rose. Until we manage to put it all together, and hoist the fucker on his own petard - so to speak."

"Still, you need to be extra careful. Even a craven coward can turn nasty if you back him into a corner and give him no way out."

"Hmph, I should be so lucky. If the bastard comes at me with wicked intentions, my neat and tidy little pistol is tucked away in a very private but immediately accessible place. Meanwhile, I'm still working on it, Chris, and I'll do my best to get you a name."

"Thanks, Hon. It would be good if we could tie this up in a neat little bow, so we could all get back to living our lives."

There was a beat of silence then, as the very perceptive young woman heard something in McClaren's voice - something that surprised her. "Chris," she said slowly, "is he . . . "

The agent huffed a small sigh. He and Young had gone through the FBI Academy together, and she knew him better than most. Maybe - under these circumstances - a little too well. "Is he what?"

She drew an audible deep breath. "There are lots of rumors about your Mr. Kinney," she replied.

"He's not 'my Mr. Kinney'." His voice was suddenly hoarse.

He could close his eyes and visualize her gentle smile. "So it is true. All that . . . and a bag of chips?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "I wouldn't phrase it exactly like that, but . . . yeah. He is."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

"Your voice just cracked."

"It did not."

Another pause - he was sure the smile had become indulgent - but she obviously decided not to press the issue. "Okay. Would I like him?"

This time, his laughter was warm and filled with easy candor. "Yeah. You'd fucking love him."

"Hot?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Hung?"

"This conversation is officially over."

"Does he know how lucky he is?"

McClaren spent a moment looking out toward the sea, picking out the striations in the water and watching jeweled teal shift into deep cobalt shift into aubergine. "Yeah," he said finally, "I think he does. But, in the end, it won't make any difference." He was only marginally surprised to realize that he really did believe what he was saying. "Get back to work, College Girl, before you get caught socializing on the job."

When the FBI agent disconnected the call, he turned around to retrieve a bottle of water from the deck behind him only to find himself the object of a speculative gaze from incredibly clear blue eyes, and then he felt a ridiculous urge to kick himself for noticing how the golden rays of late-afternoon sunlight, sharpened by the approaching storm, turned the young man's cap of thick hair into a golden nimbus.

Fucking Kinney and his fucking boytoy. With these two around, a man had to learn how to function with a semi-permanent erection.

"What was that about?" asked Justin, with a nod toward the phone.

"Nothing to worry about."

"Shouldn't Brian be allowed to decide that?"

The FBI agent pursed his lips, deliberately swallowing an urge to tell the kid to piss off. "Maybe - but you're not Brian - are you?"

It was immediately obvious that McClaren was not the only one fighting to avoid churlishness, as the young blonde spent a full minute biting at his lip, and considering how to proceed.

"Agent McClaren, can you spare a minute?" he asked finally, obviously opting for a conciliatory attitude. "I'd like . . . no, I need to talk to you."

McClaren's smile was slightly lopsided. "I doubt that you'd have any interest in anything I have to say to you."

"But you'd be wrong - if it concerns Brian."

"Mr. Taylor, I . . ."

Justin grinned, and the FBI agent remembered hearing him called 'Sunshine' and immediately understood why. "Under the circumstances," the blonde replied, "it's a little silly to stand on formalities. You should call me Justin."

"Whatever."

The smile disappeared, to be replaced by a dark brooding frown. Obviously, McClaren was not going to make this easy. "You probably have other things you'd prefer to call me, huh? The twat, the twink, the boytoy . . . the interfering little rat bastard, or . . ."

"I'm assuming," said the FBI agent, not quite suppressing an impatient sight, "that there's a point to this conversation . . . somewhere."

Justin looked out to the East, and spotted the squall that was lashing the sea to a froth of whitecaps. "He thinks you saved his life. Is he right?"

Now that - and the emotion behind it - came as a bit of a surprise, as McClaren was absolutely certain that the kid would rather have had his fingernails ripped out than have to concede such a possibility.

"He's . . . exaggerating," he finally replied, after a hesitation that was just a hair too long to be meaningless.

"He doesn't think so," Justin answered, turning once more to study the FBI agent's face and never mind that a little voice in his head was whispering that it was a face that was entirely too beautiful for his own comfort. "And Brian Kinney isn't much given to exaggerating."

"Yeah, well, he hasn't exactly been himself lately, has he?"

Something moved then in the depths of those amazing blue eyes - something dark and heavy . . . and unwelcome, and the young man moved to sit on the edge of the deck, in the manner of a man whose legs would no longer support him. "And you'd know that . . . how?" he asked finally, his voice suddenly unsteady.

McClaren almost responded with typical snark, which would have been perfectly reasonable, he thought, since the kid was really pissing him off. But, in the end, he didn't; in the end he realized that the question mattered, no matter how casually it had been posed.

"What's the matter, Kid? You think no one else could possibly know him as well as you do?"

Justin chose to look down at his hands, which were tightly clasped. Too tightly for such a supposedly casual conversation. "If you had any idea how long it took me to . . . breach the walls of Castle Kinney - to get to know the real man, inside the façade, you wouldn't say that. You'd understand . . ."

"Aha!" McClaren almost laughed. "And that means that nobody else has a clue. Right?"

"Well . . . maybe." The young man was definitely on the defensive now - and not happy about it. "Why do you think you have the right to . . ."

This time, there was no almost to it. McClaren laughed, long and hard and from the gut. "Is that what you think this is all about, Little Boy? Rights?"

"You obviously disagree." The blonde's voice sank low, and the anger he had previously managed to almost camouflage was now flowing freely, ready to erupt and scald anyone it might splash. "So why don't you . . ."

"Calm down, Kid!"

And Justin felt it for the first time - and was moderately astonished by it. This beautiful young man standing before him, gazing at him with jewel-toned eyes, out of a face that could easily belong to a cover model, atop a perfect, toned, sculpted body, was no lightweight fly-by-night trick who could be fucked today and forgotten tomorrow. This was a man to be reckoned with.

"What did you think, young Justin? That you were the only person who was ever going to solved the puzzle of Brian Kinney? And that by being the only one smart enough and perceptive enough to see the truth, that you were going to be able to keep him in reserve for yourself? That no one else was ever going to tumble to what the man behind the walls was really like, so - of course - no one was ever going to be willing to stay the course long enough to stake a claim on him?"

"Of course not," snapped Justin. "We've never believed in locking doors to keep each other in a cage."

McClaren's grin did not falter. "Bullshit! The only reason you never tried to lock him up was that you figured it wasn't necessary. He was Brian Fucking Kinney - the Stud of Liberty Avenue, and all anybody would ever want from him was a chance to get fucked by that legendary cock - or suck it off and earn a place among the pantheon of those who'd been had by the Master. Because that's all he'd ever be to them. Right? They'd never get close enough - he'd never let them get close enough - to figure out that he was anything more."

He stepped forward quickly, invading Justin's space and pushing his face close enough that his breath caressed the younger man's face. "That's the real reason you never tried to lock him away. Because you thought you'd never need to. That they would always see the same shallow fucker that they've always seen, and he'd always make sure to hold them at arm's length - to make sure to preserve the illusion. Only . . . it didn't exactly work out that way. Did it?"

Justin suddenly found that he couldn't quite swallow the huge lump in his throat. "Meaning?"

The FBI held his position for a moment, peering deep into those incredibly blue eyes, looking for . . . something, uncertain of whether he wanted to find what he was seeking - or not.

Finally, he turned away and moved back to sit astride the four-wheeler, and when he answered, he was careful to avoid meeting the younger man's gaze. "You're a lucky man, young Taylor. For whatever reason . . . he loves you. Against his will, against all reason . . . he loves you, and I'm pretty damned sure he's the kind of man who only loves once - from the heart. But . . . " He did look up then, and the glint in his eyes was cold, almost brittle. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that you're going to win the battle to keep him . . . by default. If you fuck it up again and throw it away, you better remember that there are others who have figured him out, and know that he's worth whatever it takes to win the war."

"Others . . . like you?"

McClaren's smile was beautiful, almost breathtaking, as he started the motor of the four-wheeler and rode off toward the beach where the squall was fast approaching.

Justin sat on the edge of the deck and watched him go and felt like a man who'd been granted a reprieve, although he could not have said from what - exactly.

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The blonde was prettier in person than the photograph had shown - and a little smaller. Not really delicate, but no real threat either, although, unless things went really, really badly, there would be no threats at all.

The plan was perfect, but it could only be put in place under ideal conditions, and so far, those conditions had not been met, but there was no real rush. Sooner or later, the eagle-eyed FBI sentinel would slip up, an opportunity would present itself, and Kinney would be . . . yesterday's news. Which was really something of a shame, since it could have been avoided so easily.

All the little fag had needed to do was just shut his mouth, and refuse to identify the individuals who had been present on the night of his attack. He had not, after all, suffered any irreparable damage. Not really, especially since this plastic surgeon who was working on him was apparently a miracle worker.

And it had never been the intention of his attackers to actually kill him; that would have been too easy, and he would never have learned the lesson the group set out to teach.

He would never have been forced to embrace his place in the natural order of things - in the back of the closet and out of the sight of decent, upstanding human beings. Of course, he would also have been infected with HIV, according to the original plan, but hey - that was no longer the death sentence it had once been. Not since the fucking federal government and all the bleeding heart liberals had funded research to come up with all the new protease inhibitors that allowed HIV positive individuals to live relatively normal lives.

Of course, one of the idiots in the gang of hired thugs had gone a little too far in threatening Kinney's blonde twink, in spite of the fact that the little boytoy was immune to the kind of beating that was administered to Kinney. While the kid's old man had been an avid participant in planning the original attack, he would never have stood by while the same was done to his offspring. In fact, he obviously still had hopes that he could turn the kid around and teach him the error of his ways,

Although it was pretty obvious, judging by the twink's behavior with Kinney, that the man's hopes were just pipedreams.

Just one look at the boy's eyes as he stared at his fag lover would convince anybody; Justin Taylor was not a victim or a switch-hitter or a bisexual. He was a queer of the first order.

Too bad, since it appeared that he was stuck on Kinney once and for all, and maybe that might work out for the best in the end. Getting rid of Kinney might turn out to be a twofer, since the kid might very well not want to live without his prime cock.

The squall was hitting the coast now, which might ordinarily have encouraged the occupants of the house to seek our some private time, but obviously, there would be no opportunity to get Kinney alone today - not for the time required anyway. The twink was already seeking shelter in the cottage, and from the looks of things, whatever encounter the fags had enjoyed earlier had only whetted their appetites for more, as the blonde had barely cleared the door before Kinney was there, intent on sticking his tongue down the kid's throat, and, although the blonde was offering some token resistance and trying to ask about a file they needed to see, Kinney was obviously focused on something entirely different.

Somewhere - on some cable show or something - there had been a comment about gay men thinking about sex every nine seconds, but apparently, for these two, that estimate was well short of the truth. Apparently, they rarely thought about anything else.

It was a shame, in a way, since - from a strictly aesthetic point of view - they were quite beautiful together.

Not, however, beautiful enough to compensate for the stench of perversion that lingered around them. Something obviously had to be done - but not until the moment was perfect - and, when that moment came, by the time they realized that something was seriously wrong, it would already be too late.

TBC

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