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

In some ways, Brian would never remember the events of those critical moments with any clarity.  In other ways, he would never be able to forget them.

He would not remember, for example, that he had hesitated just long enough to shout for help before breaking into an all-out sprint to try to prevent disaster – but he would remember the panic that flashed through his body like an electric charge.  He would not remember the flying leap that almost allowed him to grab one of the assailants as they raced away – but he would remember the towering black rage that made him want to smash their faces with his fists.  He would not remember the words that one of them shouted at him as he tried to get to them, but he would remember the snarl of hatred that twisted the shouter’s face.

 On the other hand, Michael, who’d been first to hear Brian’s shout for help and first to respond, with Ben at his heels, would never forget a single moment of it, mostly because he had never been more scared in his life and also because it was one of those ultra-rare moments when Brian Kinney lost the ability to maintain the façade that he customarily wore like a second skin.  One did not forget such rare moments.

He had seen Brian angry on a number of occasions, and it was a small source of pride to him that he was one of the few who would even have noticed, for Brian, above all else, was perpetually in control of his emotions.  In anger, he did not rage or roar or get physical; instead, he used the razor-sharp wit and agile tongue that could cut an adversary to ribbons without drawing a single drop of blood.  That was Brian, and anyone who had ever been unlucky enough to incur his wrath had almost certainly emerged from the encounter feeling mangled and devastated but without a single bruise to show for it. In point of fact, most would probably have preferred physical wounds.

On the other hand, Michael had also been around on some of the exceedingly rare occasions when the Kinney gift for verbal slicing and dicing and reducing an opponent to a quivering mass of shame or impotence had given way before a fury too intense to swallow.  He had even, on one occasion, been the object of that towering wrath.  He still remembered vividly the sickening crunch of Brian’s fist impacting with his own face at Lindsey and Melanie’s anniversary party, after Justin had turned his back on Brian in order to play house with his fiddling twinkie.  Of course, he also remembered what he had said to earn that anger.

 To this day, he still didn’t know if he was more ashamed of having actually made those ugly, outrageous, vindictive remarks or of failing to stand up and admit his culpability when everyone who witnessed the incident did what they always did, what they all seemed to need to do on a regular basis: blame Brian.  Blaming Brian  - without bothering to learn the pertinent details of any given situation – seemed to be what they all did best.  Of course, they would usually learn later – or figure it out for themselves – that the blame was misplaced, one way or another, but such understanding was usually relegated to an offhand random thought, mostly unexplored and almost never verbalized. 

 It was a process not unlike the chain of events when a sensational  news story was discovered to be a total fabrication or a blatant mistake; the original headlines would have screamed in huge, bold-face type above the masthead on the front page; the retraction would be buried on page 41, below the obituaries.

 Nevertheless, Michael knew that Brian in a rage was not a man to be trifled with, and he held his breath as he watched his oldest friend sprinting down the alley, knowing that Brian was furious enough to take on all three of Emmett’s attackers if he could just get to them in time.  When Brian leapt forward, and one of the attackers paused to yell some filthy insult at him, Michael shouted out a warning, uncertain of whether he was more afraid for Brian or of Brian.

He was, after all, one of the few people in the world who knew what Brian was capable of, if pushed too far.  He remembered the bloody broken hand of a football jock who had believed that he could safely inflict humiliation and injury on a helpless faggot without fear of reprisal.  He remembered bloody noses and black eyes resulting from Brian’s willingness to defend those who were less able to defend themselves from the homophobes who delighted in terrorizing gay kids.

And he’d often reflected that Chris Hobbs – that piece-of-shit homophobic fuck who had attacked Justin with a baseball bat – was an incredibly lucky bastard.  If Justin had not required Brian’s total attention as he lay bleeding out his life on that garage floor, Michael was pretty sure that Dobbs would have died that night – and probably very painfully.

Brian Kinney didn’t start fights – but he frequently finished them.

Luckily, on this occasion the opportunity for a confrontation did not develop.  The three had enough of a head start so that they were able to make it into their vehicle and speed away before Brian was close enough to stop them.

Emmett was curled up on his side, with his arms wrapped tight around his head, when Brian dropped to his knees beside him, face frozen in a grimace of fear as he felt a huge solid block of ice form in his gut.  Calvin arrived just a second later, from the opposite direction.

“Where the fuck were you?” Brian demanded, as he laid shaking hands on Emmett’s back, desperate to feel the murmur of breath or the pulse of a heartbeat and terrified that he would find neither.  His own breath came harshly, and he had to pause for a moment and shake his head – to pull himself back out of the grip of black memory and into the present.

This was now – not five years ago.

This was Emmett – not Justin.

“I went to get the car,” Calvin answered, the pitch of his voice suggesting that he was only a heartbeat away from panic.  “Is he . . .”

Brian’s fingers probed beneath Emmett’s jawline and found . . .

“He’s alive,” he muttered.  Then he felt the warm wetness coating his fingers.  “But he’s bleeding.  Here, help me lift . . .”

But it turned out that no help would be needed.  For the second time in a matter of minutes, Brian was shunted aside and replaced by a burly body with a single, unyielding purpose – to get to Emmett, to protect Emmett.

Brian, never fond of being manhandled, even under the best of circumstances, swallowed his annoyance and turned to deflect the human tide that was rushing forward, forming a clot of bodies that blocked access to the path that needed to be clear.

 “Get the fuck out of the way,” he snarled, pushing Michael and Ben and Ted aside as Drew Boyd lifted Emmett and cradled him against his chest.

It was a testimony to the fear that drove them all that the crowd fell back immediately, in complete silence, as Brian raced toward the corner with Drew, carrying Emmett as carefully as if he were a helpless infant, at his side, and Calvin bringing up the rear.

Behind them, Lance Mathis – who knew more than a little about police procedures – did his best to preserve the crime scene, but the central figures in the developing drama had no room for thoughts beyond the immediacy of their need to get help.  There was no mention of calling for an ambulance or dialing 911; they all knew it would be faster to take advantage of the silver Audi SUV still idling at the curb than to wait for help to arrive.

Brian was there first and behind the wheel without a single thought of who the rightful owner of the car might be or who should be driving, while Calvin hurried to help Drew slide into the back seat with Emmett still clasped tight against him, before leaping into the front seat as Brian peeled away from the curb.

The hospital was a fifteen-minute drive, even in light traffic.

They made it in nine flat.

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

When the silver Audi pulled up in front of the Novotny/Horvath residence, it was almost two in the morning, but the house was as brightly lit as a shopping mall at Christmas time.  Brian sighed, wondering briefly if this interminable day was ever going to end, before shoving the gearshift into park, eliciting a sub-vocal throat-clearing from Calvin who was now seated in the back seat, arms wrapped firmly around tonight’s hapless victim.

In the passenger seat, Drew Boyd tried to swallow a smile, but without much success.  He was so relieved – so overjoyed actually – that Emmett had suffered only minor injuries – that he would have smiled at almost anything.  Nevertheless, if asked, he would have admitted that Calvin’s irritation over Brian’s less than reverent treatment of his trophy-Audi would have brought a smile to his face under any circumstances.

Brian turned to look into the back seat as Emmett stirred himself and sat up and shifted toward the door.

“You okay, Emmy Lou?” Brian asked softly.

Emmett kept his gaze averted, strangely touched by the gentleness he heard in a voice that was more commonly laced with sardonic wit.  “Except for having flashbacks – to my Hazelhurst days of infamy, you know – I’m fine as frog’s hair, Bri.”

Brian glanced toward the house and saw the front door open and a thick knot of bodies emerge.

“Ready to face the inquisition?”

Emmett sighed.  “I don’t suppose it would do any good if I employed my very best Garbo impression and announced that ‘I just vant to be alone’.”

Brian grinned.  “I count two Novotnys and one Schmidt in that crowd, so . . .”

“Yeah.  That’s what I thought.”  Emmett paused for a moment, before reaching for the door handle, tugging his jacket – Brian’s very expensive jacket - closer around him and noticing for the first time that the leather had been torn and shredded during the attack.  He knew that he should have been horrified, should offer abject apologies – but he couldn’t, and the look in Brian’s eyes assured him that he needn’t worry about it any further.

“Hold on there,” said Drew, hurrying to climb out of the car to race around to the other side to take Emmett’s arm.  “Let me . . .”

“No need,” said Calvin abruptly, moving to do the same.  “I can handle it.”

Brian smiled into Emmett’s eyes as the two scurried for position. “Don’t you just love triangles?” he asked with a smirk.  “It’s my favorite geometric shape.”

"Shut the fuck up,” Emmett replied, but a smile was tugging at his lips, even though he was still very pale - almost as white as the bandage that obscured his jawline on the left side of his face, and the smaller one that was stretched above his right eye.

“Enjoy it, Baby Boy,” Brian whispered, leaning close.  “You sure as hell earned it tonight.”

Emmett tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow as he studied Brian’s face.  “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Brian was genuinely curious.

“You don’t call anybody by pet names.  Except Michael, and Justin, of course.  But lately, you call me anything but Emmett.”

Brian’s smile was winsome.  “Lately, I think of you as anything but Emmett.”

Emmett frowned slightly, not quite sure how to take that answer.  So he reverted to the original subject.  “So . . . getting bashed qualifies me for membership in some kind of elite club?”

“No,” Brian replied, eyes going dark with shades of memory as he looked away.  ”But surviving does.”

Emmett did not bother to offer up a verbal answer, but the gentleness in his eyes spoke volumes.  He knew full well what Brian was thinking . . . and who he was thinking of.

“What are you doing standing out here in the fucking cold?”  The voice was shrill and piercing – and unmistakable.  “Get him into the house before he freezes solid.  I’ve got hot cocoa,” said Debbie, marching up and latching on to Emmett’s arm as he climbed out of the car.  Then her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “With angel’s balls, Honey.  Just for you.”

Few indeed were the individuals who would be brash enough or brave enough to risk the outrage of Debbie Novotny when she was in her smothering mother persona – but she realized quickly that she’d met her match – twice – when Drew Boyd stepped up to take Emmett’s arm on one side – and Brian Kinney – the very same Brian Kinney that she’d been attempting to intimidate for twenty years – stepped up on the other.

Neither Debbie nor Calvin Culpepper stood the smallest chance of deflecting either of those two irresistible forces in full protective mode.

Emmett hung between his two primary protectors like a rag doll, propelled along by the sheer force of their momentum, as some small part of him enjoyed being the focus of so much concern, not to mention reveling in the mastery of two decidedly alpha males.

There were a few moments of confusion inside the house as Drew and Brian helped Emmett out of his coat and got him settled on the sofa, as Calvin hovered for a bit before squeezing himself into the cushioned corner at Emmett’s side, while Michael, Ted, Blake, and Ben took seats in a semi-circle facing the object of their concern, as Debbie served up hot chocolate for the crowd and the vanilla pudding laced with maple syrup for Emmett that was his favorite comfort food.

Then she turned and spent a wordless moment (a genuine rarity for Debbie) studying the expression in Brian’s eyes, before moving into the kitchen and pouring out two hefty servings of whiskey which she handed to Brian and Drew.  Both thanked her with a silent toast, before retreating to separate corners of the room, glad to relinquish the spotlight but still painfully alert.  Drew’s eyes never left Emmett’s face, but Brian pointedly shifted his gaze to stare out the window, seeking solace in the darkness.  Still, he said nothing, watched nothing, contributed nothing – but he listened carefully as Emmett tried to answer Ted’s typically-phrased no-nonsense question.

“What the fuck happened, Em?”

Emmett paused to take a sip of steaming cocoa before attempting an answer.  “I don’t really know,” he said finally.  “To tell you the truth . . .” he hesitated, glancing toward Brian before completing his response, “I don’t remember much of it.  Except for the crowbar.  That made a lasting impression, let me tell you.”

“Jesus, Em!” said Michael, eyes going wide and lightless.  “That’s what they hit you with?”

He nodded.  “Think so.  That, and a few well-placed kicks.  Did it ever occur to anyone that steel-toed boots should be registered as lethal weapons? But their aim was off – with the crowbar, I mean - so it was just a glancing blow.”  He took another sip of chocolate.  “Think it would have been a lot worse . . . if Brian hadn’t come out when he did.  They were distracted, so . . .”

All eyes turned to regard Brian, who, of course, ignored them all.

“Everything’s a little fuzzy,” Emmett continued.  “When we were walking to the car, I was still feeling a bit shaky.  From the sight of blood, you know.  So Calvin told me to just stay there and lean against the wall while he went to fetch the car.  I closed my eyes and waited.  Then I heard the shriek of breaks, and . . . after that, it’s only bits and pieces.  I think they were shouting at me . . . but I don’t remember what.  It’s just a . . . blur.”

“But the doctor said you’re okay, right?” asked Debbie, coming up behind the sofa and laying her hands atop his shoulders.  “All set for the Big Apple tomorrow.  Right?”

Emmett was slow to answer, his eyes once more seeking Brian’s only to find that Brian was still gazing out into the night.  “Ahhhh, I don’t think so, Deb,” he said finally.  “There’s no permanent damage,” he hastened to add, looking up to see the concern on her face.  “The worst of it is a couple of cracked ribs, but I’m going to look like one of my Aunt Lula’s crazy quilts for a while – all in black and blue - and I’ve got a mild sprain in my right ankle, so it’s probably not a good idea for me to be doing a lot of walking.  Plus my ugly purple bruises would only clash with Justin’s beautiful primary colors artwork.”

Brian was not quite able to suppress a grin.  “We can’t have that, now can we?” he muttered, but Drew Boyd was the only one who heard him. The brawny football player did not – quite – wink at him.

Debbie was nodding, trying to hide an upsurge of disappointment. It was not often that she got a chance to visit New York for any reason, much less to rub elbows with the city’s artistic elite. “Of course, you can’t go traipsing around like that.  And we’re going to stay right here with you, to make sure you’re okay and . . .”

"You most certainly will not,” Emmett snapped.  “Justin is counting on you, especially since some . . .” He hesitated, once again glancing toward Brian.  “Since he’ll be needing support from family and friends. – and you’re going.”

“But we were all going together,” Michael pointed out.  “With you and Calvin.”

“And you still are,” Emmett repeated, “with just one tiny change.”

“But, Honey,” Calvin said suddenly, “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Brian leaned forward and cleared his throat.  “So what am I?  Chopped liver?  He won’t be alone.”

Then he looked around and met Drew Boyd’s eyes and immediately recognized the flash of gratitude he read there – just before Boyd looked away, deliberately resuming his inscrutable expression.

“You?” laughed Michael.  “You’re going to look after Emmett?  You couldn’t take care of a goldfish.”

Brian smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.  “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “You’re still around . . . aren’t you?”

For a moment, no one spoke, as they tried to ignore the elephant in the corner, for they all knew the truth of it, one way or another.  Especially Michael and Debbie – who had lived it.  Brian Kinney had protected and defended Michael from all comers – bullies and bashers, sadists and sociopaths - since the day they’d first met, when they were only fourteen years old.  Because of more recent events, it wasn’t a memory they particularly enjoyed recalling – especially Michael, who still wondered, sometimes, how he could possibly have allowed himself to forget so much and toss it away, as if it hadn’t mattered at all.

Except that it had mattered- would always matter – no matter how hard he tried to deny it.

"I’ll be just fine,” said Emmett, overriding the awkwardness.  “And you,” he added, dropping a kiss on Calvin’s cheek, “absolutely must go along.  Unless, of course, you want to try to stuff Debbie into Ted’s fuck-me-mobile.”

“Hey,” said Theodore, “how come when Brian buys a vintage ‘Vette, nobody says a word?  But when I buy a Miata . . .”

Eight pairs of eyes regarded him in complete silence.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled.  “I see your point.”

“Look,” said Debbie firmly.  “It’s not that big a deal.  I’m sure Justin will be just fine, and . . .”

Everybody was a bit surprised when it was Brian who spoke up.  “You should go, Deb.  You should all . . . go.”

“Well, so should . . .” But something in his eyes caused Debbie to fall silent – something that reminded her of why Justin had gone to New York in the first place, and why she sometimes felt the stirring of a vague sense of guilt when she considered how Brian’s life had turned out.

They had all believed that convincing Justin to pursue his big dreams in New York would ultimately be in his best interest, would save him from throwing his life away on the Brian Kinney they all professed to know so well – the one who would never be able to commit to anything on a personal level.

None of them, apparently, had spared a single thought of what it would do to Brian, because . . . well . . . because Brian could take it – had always taken it, no matter what life decided to dish out to him. And because he could, no one ever spent a lot of time worrying about how he would manage it.  He just would, and that was all that mattered.  But sometimes, once in a great while, she wondered; sometimes she felt a moment of doubt and uncertainty.  But not often, and not for long.

Still . . .

How, she wondered, would the rest of them cope if they were forced to endure . . .

But she didn’t want to think about that.  Instead, she wanted to concentrate on all the good things in her life – all the things that had worked out exactly as she’d wanted – all the parts of her idyllic existence. Her son and his partner and their cozy home, her grandchildren, her man, her extended family.

She carefully avoided looking toward Brian Kinney. 

Debbie wasn’t much given to introspection or to reflection on causes and effects or old mistakes, but she did know that some mistakes could never be corrected – and just didn’t bear thinking about.

Instead, she managed to swallow the empty feeling that was rising within her, and felt a huge rush of relief when Carl Horvath came through the door.  The pundits had it all wrong, she thought; it was distraction that was truly the better part of valor.

Carl had not had a good day and wasn’t really in the mood for socializing.  Nevertheless, since he’d become a part of Debbie’s life, he’d been forced to adapt himself to her lifestyle and her schedule.  He knew that she was a good woman, with a big heart and a kind soul, but he also knew that she was prone to see things the way she chose to see them rather than as they really were, and that there were certain things that she would prefer not to know.

Therefore, he knew he had to be careful in choosing his words; he simply wasn’t up to dealing with escalating hysteria at the end of such a day.

When he walked into the house, the first person he saw was Brian Kinney – in familiar circumstances.  Brian – with the group, but not really of the group, and painfully aware of the distinction.  Carl often wondered why none of the rest of them seemed to notice it.

One look into shadowed hazel eyes told him that he need not have worried about any confrontation with Kinney; if such a confrontation were to happen, it would not be tonight, and it would be at the time and place of Kinney’s choosing.

The detective often thought that it was amazing how far young Kinney was willing to go to protect the people who orbited around his life – not to mention how unaware of the depth of his protection those same people remained.

But Debbie was an entirely different matter.  He sometimes felt like he had developed the skill of walking on egg shells to a new artform.

When everyone turned to look at him, he knew there was no way out of giving them some kind of information.  Eggshells, indeed.

He took a moment to hang up his coat before turning to face the questions in their eyes.  “I don’t have much to tell you,” he said quickly, before looking over at Brian.  “Except that your new security man would have made a hell of a cop.  If you’re smart, you’ll put him in charge and let him run the whole operation as he sees fit.”

Brian nodded, but offered no comment.

“But there wasn’t much to be done.  We got a broad description of the vehicle – a big, black or dark blue expensive SUV – might be a Caddy or a Lexus but no one was sure - with some kind of logo on a rear glass.  Three men who attacked Emmett, all wearing dark clothes and caps, and one or two more waiting in the car.  Most of the witnesses thought they were white, but not everyone was sure.”

“That’s all?” Debbie’s voice was almost at screech pitch. 

Carl once more glanced toward Brian, and saw what he was looking for in dark eyes.

“So far,” he replied to Debbie, before looking down at Emmett.  “You okay, Kid?”

Emmett, who was almost as fond of Carl as he was of Debbie, simply smiled and nodded.

“Good.  Think you’ll be up to coming down to the station tomorrow, and giving us a statement?”

Emmett looked as if he’d rather take a root canal, but he nodded anyway.

Then Carl turned back to look at Brian.  “You want to make sure he gets there?”

Brian’s smile was diffident, as he reflected that Horvath was skilled at getting what he wanted without divulging more than he had to.  It was probable that no one else would comprehend that Emmett wasn’t the only one who would face questioning.

“I think that’s my cue,” said Brian in lieu of a direct answer.  “It’s late, I’m fucking beat, and I’ve got meetings in the morning, so . . .”

“But you don’t have your car,” said Michael.  “How will you . . .”

Brian held up a hand to forestall his old friend’s protest.  “I’ve been walking Liberty Avenue since I was fourteen, Mikey.  I think I can find my way without too much trouble.”

Then he proceeded to retrieve his worse-for-the-wear jacket from the coat rack, shot Emmett a quick, slightly venal grin, and headed for the door.

“Hold on a minute,” said Horvath, before turning to speak privately to Drew Boyd for a few seconds.  The football player listened intently, before nodding and stepping into the kitchen where he took a cell phone from his pocket and made a quick call. Then both he and Horvath crossed the room to join Brian at the entry, where Boyd paused for a moment to look once more toward Emmett, his face softening slightly as he nodded good night. 

No words were exchanged between the two, but then again, none were needed.

Calvin Culpepper was sitting very still, eyes fastened on his hands which were folded tight in his lap, and Brian felt a quick pang of sympathy for the southerner, who was truly a very nice guy.  Only everyone knew that, sometimes, nice guys really did finish last.  It wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought – but it was very true.

On the porch, Brian zipped his jacket before turning to face Carl Horvath, only slightly surprised to note that Drew Boyd was still waiting there beside them.

Horvath got right to the point.  “We don’t know much about what happened tonight, Brian, but we know enough to be alarmed.  There’s some ugly crap going on right now, and Liberty Avenue is suddenly at the center of the shitstorm.  So I want you to be careful.  Until we know more, it’s best not to take chances.”

“What chances?” Brian replied impatiently.  “I’m just . . .”

“Just walking down Liberty Avenue,” Horvath interrupted.  “Like you’ve done since you were fourteen.  Yeah, I know.  But it’s a different world today – and not necessarily a better one.  Every kid that runs the street now is a potential target.”

The grin flashed again.  “Well, thanks for the compliment, Detective, but I’m not – quite – a kid any more.”

“No.  You’re a very successful businessman, and someone who’s never made any secret of being gay.  That could put a big fat bull’s eye on your back.”

Brian shook his head, still unwilling to concede any concern.  But then he looked up and saw something shift in the detective’s eyes – something dark and filled with foreboding. “OK,” he said softly.  “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Horvath drew a deep breath.  “So far, there’s nothing to tell, except to point out that it’s stupid to take unnecessary risks.”  Then he grinned.  “And Brian Kinney might be many things – but stupid ain’t one of them.”

“So what is it that you want . . .”

He was interrupted by a squeal of brakes as a dark green Range Rover came to a stop at the end of the driveway.

“I want you to get in that car and go home.  No going back to Babylon; no stops at Woody’s or anywhere else.  And . . .”

Brian didn’t bother to suppress a sigh.  “And?”

“No tricks.”

The sigh became a chuckle.  “You can’t possibly think that a trick could be responsible for this.”

But Horvath was not amused.  “And you can’t possibly know what I’m thinking.  So just humor me.  OK?”

“For how long?  I’ve got a reputation to maintain, you know.”

Horvath nodded toward the car idling at the curb. “Yeah, well, one night without fucking  ain’t gonna cost you your title, Champ.  As for tomorrow – we’ll see.  Bur for now, just be a good boy, and let your new chief of security see you home.” 

“Fuck!” snapped Brian, irritated for no good reason.

“Is that an invitation?” called Drew with a smile, from his place at the bottom of the front steps.

“Fuck you!” Brian retorted, without missing a beat.

Carl then patted him on the shoulder, and made brief eye contact with Boyd, who was still smiling. “Don’t worry,” said the quarterback.  “I’ll see that he does as he’s told.”

“What are you?” Brian snarled.  “My daddy?”

But he didn’t wait for an answer, choosing instead to stalk down the driveway toward the waiting Rover.

By the time he made it to the car, with Drew just a step behind him, Brian had progressed from mild annoyance to a simmering anger.  He had never liked being ordered around or treated like a child in need of protection – even when he was a child in need of protection – which he had almost never received anyway.  He had spent his entire life taking care of himself, many times under circumstances that put him in extreme peril, and come through unscathed.  Mostly.

And it didn’t assuage his ill humor at all when he climbed into the passenger seat to note that Lance Mathis was wearing a smile that clearly acknowledged that he knew that his new boss was on the verge of being royally pissed.

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

“I called him,” said Drew as he slid into the back seat.

“For what?”

“To see that we both get home – safe.”

Brian turned to glare at his newest employee.  “I told you.  I don’t need protection.”

Mathis smiled.  “Whatever you say.”

“And who made you my chief of security?  Did I miss something?”

The smile widened to a grin.  “You’ve been a little busy.”

“Fuck this!” Brian snapped, and twisted to reach for the door handle, only to find himself immobilized by arms like steel bands that wrapped around him from behind.  “What the fuck . . .”

“Brian.”  Drew Boyd’s voice was very soft, but there was a note of iron in it that got Brian’s undivided attention.  “We can stay here like this all night if you insist on acting like a shithead.  I spend my days taking on 300-pound linebackers, so do you really think you’re going to manage to get away from me?  And besides, it’s not like I’m not enjoying the view, if you catch my drift.” And he deliberately let one hand slide down inside the leather of his captive’s jacket, to caress a patch of bare skin.

“I – don’t – need – a – babysitter!”  Brian spat through clinched teeth, heaving himself sideways and around and managing to dislodge Drew’s wandering hand when he surged up and took the quarterback’s mouth in a violent kiss that was more a physical assault than an exercise in foreplay, so he reasoned that it was not – technically – a violation of his self-inflicted rule - mostly.

To his own surprise, Drew pulled back and burst out laughing. “You’re one tough little shit,” he admitted, “and I really, really would love to fuck you through the floor.”  But he paused then, and cupped a surprisingly gentle hand around Brian’s face.  “But I’m guessing that’s not going to happen.” His voice sank to a whisper.  “For more reasons than one.”  Then he nuzzled for a moment at Brian’s ear, dropped a small, chaste kiss on his brow, and loosened his grip.  “Now sit down and shut up, and let Lance do what he does best.”

 “Which is what?” Brian demanded, slightly breathless and not happy about it.

It was Mathis who provided an answer.  “Keep you alive – to fuck another day.”

Brian chewed a bit on his bottom lip before settling back against the leather headrest and closing his eyes – the closest he was prepared to come to an admission of defeat.  He still wasn’t pleased with how things were going, but he thought – maybe – he could learn to live with it.

For now.

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

The delegation from Pittsburgh, along with Melanie Marcus, stood in the middle of the art gallery, eyes wide as they tried to take in everything at once.  But it was almost too much to comprehend.

Not the space so much, as the gallery was actually not as large as the one where Lindsey had been employed before taking off to Toronto.  But what it lacked in size, it made up for in elegance – and in the stature of its clientele. They had barely entered the building before they’d spotted two internationally acclaimed movie stars and a world famous fashion model whose face had been on every major magazine in the world during the past year.  They all recognized those luminaries, of course, but it was left to Ben to identify two best-selling authors, a Grammy-winning composer, a couple of major political movers-and-shakers, and one Pulitzer-winning playwright.  On the other hand, it was Ted who attached famous names to a couple of stars of the Metropolitan opera and some members of the elite of New York society. There were also network news people, some familiar actors and actresses from major television programs, and one hugely successful talk show host.

“Wow!” Debbie’s normally raucous voice was barely audible.  “Sunshine’s really hit it out of the ballpark with his first swing, huh?”

“Absolutely,” replied Ted.  “It’s hard to believe he almost gave up everything to be  . . . well.  He should be grateful that he didn’t pass up the chance to be here.  That would have been a real tragedy.”

Calvin Culpepper, who still didn’t feel completely at home among these individuals who were Emmett’s family in all but blood, looked around with interest and noted that all the guests seemed to be mesmerized by the quality of the artwork.  But Calvin knew the story of Justin and Brian, had listened carefully to the details as Emmett told the tale, and couldn’t help but wonder. 

This was undoubtedly a triumph for the young artist, but was it enough, he wondered, to make up for what had been sacrificed to achieve it?

Then again, he reminded himself, he didn’t know Justin at all, and he knew Brian only slightly, so it certainly wasn’t up to him to draw conclusions.  And judging from the looks on the faces of his companions – these people who knew both parties extremely well – he was probably way off-base.  They looked as if they were certain that this occasion would be everything that Justin had ever wanted in his life.

Although he had seen something in Emmett’s eyes when they’d said their good-byes earlier in the day – something that seemed to suggest otherwise.

“And what about the new boyfriend?” asked Debbie.  “Jesus!  Jennifer must be over the moon.  This guy is every PFLAG mother’s dream.”

“You think?” asked Michael softly.  “Because she doesn’t exactly look overjoyed.”

They all turned then to study Jennifer Taylor as she stood talking to Lindsey and one of the critics who had the artistic clout to make or break a young artist.  From the look on his face, he was preparing to do just that, to Justin’s advantage.  There was no mistaking the look of pride in her eyes as she watched her son conversing with several members of the social elite, explaining a fine point in one of her favorite examples of his work: a self-portrait of the young blonde standing at a window looking down at a busy street, with a pair of firm, muscled arms wrapped around him from behind.  There was no face to identify who the arms belonged to – but then again, there was no need for one.  Anyone who knew Justin, knew him as he had been before he abandoned the wilds of Pittsburgh for the rarefied atmosphere of New York, would know immediately.

Jennifer had always loved that painting – had even planned to purchase it, if she could swing the price – but her hopes had been dashed when she saw the discreet but irrefutable tag that was affixed to the frame when the exhibition opened.  Sold.  She hadn’t realized that some of her son’s work had been subject to early sales, as a courtesy to other gallery owners. 

The show was proving to be a huge success, in part because of the gushing reaction of so many of the visitors to the gallery – and the fact that they were among the rich and famous who never had to worry about stretching the budget to cover a luxury purchase – and in part because of the pre-sales, which included the pieces that Jennifer quickly recognized as Justin’s genius at work in its most elemental, pristine form.

Including the focal points of the entire exhibition – the two paintings that resided in their special niche at the top of the stairs.

How could anybody look at those two magnificent works of art, she wondered, and fail to see the core truth of her son’s existence?  Brian Kinney might be physically absent from his life, but he lived still in Justin’s heart.  She thought it likely that he always would, even though Justin and all his Pittsburgh friends were busy denying it.

Steven was at Justin’s side, as he had been all evening, one hand constantly touching the young artist – at the nape of his neck, on his shoulder, stroking the small of his back.  Just touching, lightly, almost casually, but with great purpose.

Jennifer had the strangest notion that the hand was the equivalent of the discreet “sold” signs that were affixed to many of the works of art on display.

She was being irrational, and she knew it.  If she could have designed a man to partner her son – having finally conceded that there would never be a woman who would set him “straight” – Steven would have been close to perfect to fill the bill.  Handsome, sophisticated, intellectual, cultured, socially adept, generous, loving, and blessed with old money and the bluest of blood; what was not to love?  She watched as he basked in the glow of Justin’s success, as proud of his lover’s accomplishments as he would have been of his own, and she smiled when he glanced toward her, undoubtedly having sensed the weight of her regard.

What was not to love indeed?  Except . . . but there was no point in going there.  The past was dead; there was no going back, and she truly had no idea why she should even want to.  It wasn’t as if the one her son had left behind had been his perfect match.  She knew that; hell, they all knew it.  And she turned to exchange smiles with the crew from Pittsburgh to reassure herself.  It was there, in all their faces.  They knew, as well as she did, that this was where Justin belonged; this was what he was meant to do, and what he never would have done if . . .

She looked once more toward her son and caught him staring at the canvas before him, a strange, winsome little smile touching his perfect lips, as Steven laughed in response to some witty comment from the talk show host who was not known as a huge supporter of the arts.

Jennifer wasn’t sure, but she had a fleeting notion that Justin had not heard a word the man had said.

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

TBC