Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

Growing darker and, I hope, more complex.

Chapter 9

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"Hey, Boss."

Brian was little more than a dark silhouette against the cone of light beside him. "What's up?" he asked softly.

Alonzo Velez stood framed in the doorway, uncertain if Brian was having one of his intensely private moments. Lately, he seemed to be having them rather frequently. "Can I get you anything?"

Brian looked up at his club manager with a single lifted eyebrow. "Such as?"

Alonzo shrugged and offered up a tentative smile. "Whatever."

The second eyebrow lifted, to join the first. "Since when do I not ask, when I want something?" He sounded more curious than annoyed, for which Alonzo was grateful. Brian was a good boss - even-handed and appreciative and generous to a fault - but he did not suffer fools gladly, or at all, if he could help it.

Alonzo stepped further into the office and closed the door behind him. "Sorry," he said as the tentative smile widened. "The truth is that some of the regulars are asking about you. You know how they are. They just like to know you're around."

"Really?" Brian was obviously skeptical. "How do they even know I'm here? And why does it matter to them anyway?"

"I don't know how they know," Alonzo admitted. "They just do. Maybe they check for your car when they come in or something. As for why it matters, your guess is as good as mine. But it does. So . . . are you planning to spend the whole night up here by yourself?"

"Now you're sounding way too much like a Jewish mother," answered Brian, becoming slightly impatient with the entire conversation. "I'll be down later. Now, unless there's something else . . ."

"As a matter of fact, there is. Emmett is waiting to see you."

Brian sat back in his chair, and an arc of golden light touched his face, exposing a trace of confusion in his eyes. "And?"

"Just wanted to give you a heads up."

Abruptly, Brian stood and came around the desk until he was face to face with his employee. "OK, that's it. What the fuck is going on?"

"Nothing. I just thought you'd like to know."

"Since when," Brian said slowly, eyes never leaving Alonzo's face, "is it your job to screen my visitors? You've never done it before, and . . ."

"Actually," Alonzo interrupted firmly, "I have. I just never thought it was necessary to tell you how many times we intercepted visitors who were . . . um . . . well . . ."

"Who were what?"

The Latino from Trenton fidgeted for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and figured it was time to come clean. "Who were determined to get into your pants - by whatever means they could. We always figured that you preferred to choose your tricks yourself, instead of being chosen. Not," he said quickly as he saw a flicker of anger surge in hazel eyes, "that you couldn't have handled them yourself. We just took it upon ourselves to make sure you didn't have to."

Brian stood unmoving for a moment, obviously deciding how he felt about his employee's admission. Then he smiled, and Alonzo was swept by an intense feeling of relief, only to reflect, moments later, that it shouldn't matter so much. It was just a job, and Brian was just a boss. Although . . . it wasn't, he admitted reluctantly. And he wasn't.

"But," Brian said suddenly, "even though you may have been intercepting my more . . . enthusiastic visitors, you've never before found it necessary to check with me before admitting friends or acquaintances or business appointments. Not even last night. So . . . why now?"

"Well," Alonzo replied slowly, "it's just . . ."

Brian barely managed to swallow a huff of resentment. "Where is he?"

"Ummm . . ."

"Come on," the club owner snapped, patience worn completely through. "Where's Mathis?"

Finally, Alonzo grinned. "Planted at the top of the stairs, like your own personal commando. And you can trust me when I tell you that nobody is getting past him, without your explicit permission."

"Cerberus at the gate? That's not what I hired him for," Brian almost growled. "He's supposed to be protecting my customers. Not me."

"He is protecting your customers," Alonzo replied calmly. "From his vantage point, he's got a view of the entire interior of the club . . . and his staff is covering the few areas that he can't see from where he is."

Brian frowned. He wasn't quite sure exactly how Mathis, newly hired, had become his chief of security. It had just seemed to be the natural thing to do, especially considering that he had previously had no one in that position. Up to this point, each contracted guard had patrolled his own specific area of the club, without oversight. It was, he guessed, a sign of the times that he had felt compelled to reorganize and upgrade the service.

"Yeah, but . . ." he started, still not pleased with the unexpected ramifications of the arrangement.

"Boss," the club manager said gently, "let him do his job. He knows what he's doing."

"But I don't need a babysitter or a bodyguard."

Alonzo just stared at him for a moment, saying nothing but letting the look in his eyes say it all. Then he decided to speak, but only with an oblique reference to what they'd been discussing. "We live in hateful times, Mr. Kinney. Strange when you consider that so many of the haters identify themselves as Christians, and I was always taught that God is love, but it is what it is."

Brian returned to his desk and sat down, leaning back and propping his feet on the corner of his desk. "No arguing with that," he conceded, "but it still doesn't explain why I need a bodyguard."

"Maybe you don't," Alonzo admitted. "But what if you do? It can't hurt anything if your security chief keeps an eye on you, now can it?"

Brian grinned. "Could cramp my style."

Alonzo laughed outright. "Jesus Christ Himself could be standing over your shoulder watching every move you make, and every trick you fuck, and it wouldn't 'cramp your style' one bit. And you know it."

"Yeah, okay," Brian retorted, reluctantly accepting that this was an argument he was not going to win. "However, I still want to talk to him. But let Emmett in first."

In the semi-darkness, Coltrane's horn launched into How Deep Is the Ocean, and Brian pulled a handful of files out of a desk drawer, grateful for something to do, something to focus on, something to get lost in - besides the music.


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

By the time Emmett arrived at the door of the executive office, Brian was in full professional mode, examining a contract proposal with a local distillery for establishing a new line of credit for the club. He waved Emmett to a chair as he called up the company's background information on his computer and spent several minutes comparing data between the new vendor and one he'd done business with in the past.

Emmett was content to sit and wait, losing himself in the soft jazz renderings rising from the owner's private music system. The slow, elegant measures of Naima seemed to ride the current of the smoke from Brian's cigarette.

When his examination of the vendor's files was complete, Brian was finally ready to talk, but Emmett, by that time, had lapsed into a state of semi-euphoria, drifting within the eddies and currents of the music.

After calling his friend's name twice, Brian chose to simply sit and wait until Emmett settled back into himself. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to be or anything to do that demanded his immediate attention. He had, after all, spent the entire night deliberately not thinking about where he might have been, had circumstances been different.

Thus, when Emmett finally shook himself and opened his eyes, it was to focus on an image of a beautiful face - a truth that even the most ardent Brian-hater could not dispute - wrapped in the gentle melancholy of Coltrane's sax and draped in a carefully woven web of forgetfulness.

Emmett sighed and felt a deep abiding sadness stir within him - a sadness that he knew to be little more than a pale reflection of the great gulf that existed in the heart of his companion.

"Brian?"

"Hmmmm?"

A beat of silence before Emmett continued very softly. "Do you need a minute?"

Brian sat up quickly. "Why the fuck would I need a minute?" he snapped.

But Emmett refused to engage. "Because you're having a bad day. Because it has to be eating you alive, even if you refuse to admit it or think about it."

Brian sat back in his chair and compressed his lips, as he always did when he was biting back words he didn't want to say. "You're pathetic," he said finally, not quite smiling. "How's your booboo?"

Emmett flexed one shoulder with a grimace. "Mending," he admitted, "but manageable, proving, of course, that you can't keep a good queen down."

"You're an inspiration to us all, Little Mary Queen of Scots," Brian laughed. "So . . . you wanted to see me?" He lifted one sardonic eyebrow. "You're not suing me, are you?"

"Hmmm. I hadn't thought of that." Emmett rolled his eyes. "Let's see now. Could I get used to a life filled with Armani and Versace and Gucci? A Rolex on my wrist, as I sip Dom Perignon and drive around in my Lexus?"

Brian simply waited, certain that Emmett would get to the point, once he'd worked it out for himself.

"I suppose I could, but . . ."

"But?" Brian prompted when Emmett fell silent and looked for a moment as if he were unsure how to proceed.

"But . . . there's something that I want more. Something I think I . . . need."

Once more, Brian leaned back, slouching comfortably. "Such as?"

Uncharacteristically, Emmett refused to meet Brian's eyes, choosing instead to stare off toward the darkened security monitors, as he took his time formulating an answer. "I need," he said finally, "to understand."

"Understand what?" And there was a sudden, definitive coldness in Brian's voice.

Emmett took a deep breath. "Understand . . . why you're here, and, more to the point, why you're not somewhere else, somewhere you really should be."

Brian sat up straight and squared his shoulders. "Does the phrase 'none of your fucking business' mean anything at all to you?"

Emmett nodded. "Yeah. It means what it's always meant. It means you're going into camouflage maintenance mode, in order to stay concealed beneath the layers of distortion you always use to distract anyone who might get a glimpse of who you really are, but . . ."

"I don't have time for this," Brian said abruptly, getting to his feet.

"Yes. You do." For once, there was not even a tiny nuance of uncertainty in Emmett's voice as he raised his eyes to stare directly into that perfect face. "And if you don't, you need to make time. Because I'm not the only one that needs this, Brian. You need it too."

"Now why would you think that I . . ."

"Because nobody should have to walk alone, all the time."

Brian went very still, almost forgetting to breathe. "What the fuck are you talking about, Emmett? I'm never alone, unless I choose to be."

"Sorry, mon ami," Emmett replied softly, "but the truth is that you're always alone - because you always choose to be. And we - the people who are supposed to be your friends - we've allowed it, because it was convenient. Because it gave us what we needed, and it cost us nothing. Because it left us free to take advantage of the situation, without giving anything back."

Brian sat back down, but there was no disguising the anger in his voice when he answered. "In case you didn't hear me the first time, what the fuck are you talking about? I don't . . ."

"Don't what? Don't need anybody? Yeah, we all understand that. You've trained us so well, that we wouldn't dare question your ability to stand alone. And the shame of it is that we let you get away with it. We all bought into your act."

"Look, Emmett, I don't . . ."

"A few years ago," Emmett went on, ignoring Brian's attempt at deflection, "Michael and I were sitting and talking one night, and we both realized how easy it is to assume that we know each other, as friends, until we realize how little we really know. How often we cover ourselves up, and refuse to share who we really are, and how often we don't tell each other the important stuff. That happens to all of us, but it happens even more when one of us is so determined to stay hidden inside the façade that he presents to the world that he blocks everyone who attempts to get close enough to see the truth. We all just assume that we know each other, and it comes as a real shock when we find out that we don't. Not really. Which is why you - especially you - take us all by surprise sometimes. Because we only know the person that you allow us to see - the callous, heartless shit that you profess to be. Because we're never allowed inside, to see who you really are."

Brian 's face was a mask of disinterest as he stared into the eyes of a friend who had suddenly transformed himself into a potential menace. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an open book."

Emmett grinned. "Yeah. Fuckin' Finnegan's Wake."

"Jimmy and I go back a long way," Brian laughed, slightly surprised by the aptness of Emmett's literary reference. "It's the Irish in me."

"It's the bullshit in you."

Brian's eyes went wide. He was totally unaccustomed to being challenged by Emmett Honeycutt, and he had to remind himself that Emmett was a lot sharper than most people could imagine.

"Jesus, Brian! You had cancer, for fuck's sake, and none of us even noticed, until the radiation hit you so hard that you couldn't hide it any more. Don't you think there's something totally fucked about that?"

Brian chose not to respond, still uncomfortable with even the most casual reference to his physical trauma.

"Anyway, here's the thing," Emmett continued. "If I expect you to open up to me - to let down those walls that you've built around yourself - then I have to be willing to do the same, don't I? So here goes.

"Ever since I came to Pittsburgh - lo, those many years ago - I've portrayed myself as an out-and-proud gay man. Reveling in my flame, so to speak."

"Except for your little side-trip into pseudo-heterosexuality," Brian pointed out with a slightly venal smile.

Emmett clasped his hands. "Yes, and leave it to you to remind me of that little episode. But, nevertheless, the reality . . . my foundation, if you will . . . came from a separate place. You see, I never had the option that you have - or Michael or Teddy or Justin or millions of other queer boys. There was never a closet deep enough to hide what I always was. Even if I'd had a closet - which I didn't mostly. But if I'd had one . . ." He looked up and deliberately allowed Brian to see the misery in his eyes. "If I'd had one, I'd have used it. Out and proud didn't come easy to me, Brian. I had to learn it. When I was growing up, I was the laughing stock of Hazelhurst, Mississippi, and the terrible burden that my family had to bear. My mother loved me, I guess, but she was never able to face the truth about what I was. Not even on her deathbed. I was there when she died, and so were all my brothers and sisters, and she called each one of them by name as they took her hand to say their good-byes. Except me. She looked right through me, and said nothing, and I understood why. She couldn't stand to look at me - to see what I was. Because she considered me to be her failure. Truth is that only my grandmother and my Aunt Lula were ever able to accept me and love me. For the rest, I was the ugly, shameful secret that couldn't be kept. The pervert. The abomination. And I . . . God, I wanted to be straight, Brian. I wanted to be cured - to make them proud of me. Every night, I'd get on my knees and beg God to 'fix me'. And every morning, I'd curse Him for not answering my prayer."

Brian closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the dreadful truth he read in the lines of Emmett's body, in the tightness of his mouth, and the clinching of his fists. But he was still Brian Kinney, he of the hard heart and the sharp tongue. "And you're telling me this because?"


Emmett sighed. "Because I need to know who you are, and I can't expect to do that unless I let you know me as I am. Because I never let you know before. I never let anyone know. But I was wrong to keep it hidden, because it's a part of what made me who I am today. I can never go back to Hazelhurst. I didn't even go back for my father's funeral. Because I wasn't invited - didn't find out about it until he'd been dead and gone for over a year - but I wouldn't have gone even if I'd known. Because I can't be that person any more. But there's a small part of me that's still afraid, that still worries that I could go back to being that silent, terrified child, mortified over who I was. It's still in here, still a part of me."

"You won't," Brian said abruptly. "And none of that was your fault, Emmett. Surely you know that."

Emmett looked up then, not even trying to hide the tears in his eyes. "I do. But do you?"

"Me? Who said anything about me?"

"Maybe that's the problem," Emmett said softly. "It's been far too long since anybody said anything about you."

"Listen to me, Emmett," Brian said sharply. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening." Gently spoken, accompanied by a tender smile.

"I know . . . I can see that it was hard for you to talk about this. But you didn't have to put yourself through all that. I figured it out a long time ago. Most of it anyway. It doesn't exactly take a rocket scientist. Southern boy, born and bred, and raised in the heart of the Bible Belt, in Baptist Capitol, USA. Who couldn't figure it out? And if you still blame yourself - for any of it - then you're a stupid fucker who needs to get his head out of his ass. So why would you . . ."

"Because I know pain when I see it, Brian. And for too long, I didn't let myself see it. Didn't want to see it, because if I did, if I allowed myself to understand what was standing right in front of me, then I'd have had to admit that you've been walking beside us through all these years - right here, right beside us - and none of us ever bothered to find out who you really are. We say we know you; we think we always know what you'll do next and why you'll do it, when the simple truth is . . . we don't have a fucking clue. And while it's certainly true that this is the way you've wanted it to be, it says more about us than about you. It says we were too complacent, too self-satisfied, to even make a tiny effort to find you amid all the camouflage. And it says something else, too. It says we're stupid and callous and lazy. And I, for one, am sick and tired of not knowing you. I want to know you. I want to understand you. I want . . . to help you."

"I don't need your fucking help." Clipped - bitter - almost a snarl.

"Yes, you do. Maybe not me, specifically . . . but somebody, Brian. Somebody needs to be here. To listen. To let you do . . . whatever it is you need to do, so that you can move forward. Take the next step to . . . wherever it is you need to go. So just . . . let it out. Just . . . say it."

"Say what?"

But something in Emmett's face made it clear that there was not going to be a way to avoid his questions, that there would be no room for dodging the issue, unless Brian was prepared to call in his security people and have them throw Emmett out into the streets, and it was obvious that Emmett knew that it would never come to that.

"You love Justin," Emmett said softly. "You can laugh about it, scoff at the idea, claim that you don't believe in love - only in fucking, pontificate about the futility and silliness of commitment, deny it until hell freezes over. But that changes nothing. You love him . . . and you just stood there and let him walk away. More than that, you practically tossed him out on his ass. On top of that, you have to know that he loves you too. Jesus, how many times does he have to come back to you before you admit it? Before you understand that he chose you, above all things. So why . . ."

"Because he didn't." Cold, flat, unyielding words, emphasized by eyes gone dark with anger or despair, and only Brian knew which.

"Didn't . . . what?"

Brian rose then, and moved over to the blank bank of security monitors that allowed him to survey his domain when he chose to do so. But he didn't touch anything, electing instead to watch the vague, almost formless outline of his own reflection in the darkened glass. "Didn't choose me." His tone was flat, completely without emotion, except for a tiny, barely noticeable break in the first word.

"What do you mean?" stammered Emmett. "Of course, he did. He . . ."

"Think it through, Emmett. Think it through."

But Emmett found that he could not wrap his mind around whatever it was that Brian was getting at. "You're wrong. He always . . ."

"Came back to me?" Brian turned and looked directly into Emmett's eyes, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, didn't bother to erect the barriers that always kept people from seeing him as he really was, and Emmett felt as if he were standing at the edge of a precipice, staring out into a cold, dark chasm of forever. "Justin was meant to fly, Emmett. To spread his wings and reach for the sky. And he does. Always has. And he only comes back to me when somebody or something clips his wings. He never came back because he wanted to; he came back because he had no place else to go."

"Brian, he loves you." Emmett couldn't understand why Brian could not see how his young lover felt.

"I know he loves me," Brian said softly, returning to the desk and resuming his seat. "But loving me isn't going to give him what he wants. Think about it - clearly, without all the rose-colored romantic trimmings. The first time he left - when he found his twink fiddler - he only came back because the twinkie was an idiot. If Ian - or whatever the fuck his name was - had just been smart enough not to lie to him, Justin would never have left him. They would have flown - together. Then, when he went to Hollywood, and started living every gay man's dream, he only came back when the project was shot down. If the movie had taken off and he'd found his own little niche in sunny California, he'd still be there. Still flying. Then, after the bombing . . . that time it was my fault. Because I was so scared by what almost happened that I let him see how much I cared about him, and he felt obligated, because he has this ridiculous idea that he owes me something. But I can't be . . . what he needs me to be. Can't give him what he wants, what he's always wanted. I just don't have it in me. He can't fly with me. In the end, the only thing I've ever managed to do was to keep him dirtbound - to weigh him down. So, while it's undeniably true that I've done plenty of things in my life that I'm not proud of - I will not do that. Not any more."

When he fell silent, Emmett felt as if the air in the room had suddenly thickened, that it was harder to draw breath. "You don't really believe that. You can't. You're Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake."

Brian's smile was brittle. "Yeah. I'm Brian Kinney. I look in the mirror every day to make sure that I'm still young, still beautiful. But that's all I am, Emmett. All I've ever been, and it's all on the surface. Inside . . . inside I'm just . . . empty. All the things that Justin wants and needs - I just don't have them to give."

And Emmett, abruptly, found that he couldn't stand to be in this place, hearing these words, and understanding this man - not for another minute. He had demanded to be allowed to know Brian Kinney, and he almost laughed as he realized how bitterly true certain old adages could be. One really should be careful what one wished for.

When he stood and hurried from the room, he was acutely conscious of the heavy silence behind him, broken only by the haunting strains of Ev'ry Time We Say Good-bye.

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It didn't take long to pack his things. When he'd come to New York, he hadn't brought a lot with him, assuming that he'd soon be back in Pittsburgh. That, of course, had proved to be a misconception, but he'd had very little use for the kind of clothing he'd once worn every day - when he'd been intent on enticing and holding the attention of a man with a sense of style that would have put a GQ editor to shame.

Thus his closet - such as it was - contained very little in the way of haute couture. No Armani or Ralph Lauren or Prada, but plenty of Levis, Nikes, and Tommy Hilfiger casuals - his one concession to fashion. But even the things he thought of as his 'good' clothes were frequently smeared or speckled with paint, as he rarely stopped to think about protecting his garments when artistic inspiration struck.

But there were two items in his closet - tucked carefully into a heavy-duty garment bag - that were as pristine and perfect as on the day they were first lifted out of layers of tissue, from boxes wrapped in bright gold and scarlet paper - while the person who had chosen them and purchased them and wrapped them and tucked them under a fabulously decorated Douglas fir sat back and watched.

Justin closed his eyes and let the memories of that day engulf him. He remembered waking that morning to find Brian leaning over him, to feel the gaze of passion-dark eyes and the silken caress of warm lips nuzzling at his skin. Remembered the amazing sensations as he was stroked and pleasured and finally taken, possessed completely by the man who owned his heart. Remembered the way the two of them had spent the morning playing with the toys they'd bought for Gus, along with the exceedingly private toys they'd bought for each other. Remembered Brian's face, eyes soft with love and joy, and the rich ring of his laughter as his son went wide-eyed, stunned and filled with wonder over the battery-powered bright red Jeep that he would subsequently ride all around the loft, plowing through drifts of bright paper and tissue and tinsel, and ending up crashing into the tree and generating chaos, to his father's delight. Remembered the happy faces of friends and family as they'd dropped in throughout the day, all of them basking - one way or another - in the reflected glow of the happiness that he and Brian had created together. For a while.

And remembered, finally, the tenderness in Brian's eyes as Justin had lifted the gorgeous Hugo Boss leather jacket from its nest of tissue, and the cashmere sweater from the second box - the wheat-colored sweater that Brian would later assure him was a perfect match for the color of his hair. Romantic moments had never really been Brian's thing, but he had surpassed himself that day, even though he would forever deny it. They had been alone in the loft by then, Brian having waited until their guests departed to present the last of his gifts for his young lover.

Justin would never forget that moment, for it had marked a very special first in their relationship. After he had voiced his protest, claiming that it was too much and too expensive, and received a patented Brian Kinney shut-the-fuck-up look for his trouble, he had laughed and confessed that he loved both gifts. Then he'd hurried to put them on and proceeded to model them for the gift-giver, who had stood watching him, saying nothing for a while, as he'd strutted around the loft, doing his best impression of a runway model. Then Brian had stepped forward, to adjust the way the jacket sat on his shoulders, before dropping a kiss at his temple.

"How do I look?" Justin had asked, thousand-watt smile firmly in place.

Brian had been slow to answer, taking his time before leaning forward to offer his response in a broken whisper. "You're . . . beautiful."

It had been the first time he'd ever said it, although Justin had sometimes glimpsed it in his eyes at certain unguarded moments. Nevertheless, he had never said it before, and Justin was immediately wrapped in a euphoric happiness that was unlike any he had ever known.

Brian Kinney thought he was beautiful. Thus, he was.

He stood at the door of his makeshift closet and reached for the dark-colored bag. He had worn them last on the night before he'd left for the city, when they'd gone to the Diner to make his farewell appearance, to say his good-byes. Then they'd come home, and he'd packed them away in silence, promising himself that he would wear them again - soon, when Brian came to New York so they could renew their commitment to each other.

Then they had spent the hours of darkness making love, each drinking in the other, each dining on their bottomless passion as if they'd never dine again.

Brian would come; he had flown up into the morning believing that.

But it had not happened. Brian had not come, and now, Justin was becoming convinced that he never would.

He unzipped the bag and wrapped his fingers in the downy softness of the beautiful, hand-woven sweater, before lifting it and rubbing it against his face.

He had only worn it for the man he loved - had promised himself that he would never wear it for anyone else.

But perhaps he'd been wrong.

Perhaps . . . the time had come.

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


"It's possible that it wasn't just a . . . random attack." Lance Mathis didn't allow himself to flinch away from the anger he saw flaring in Brian Kinney's eyes - but it was a near thing, and he was forced to swallow a smile at the realization that this out-and-proud queer boy could step up and intimidate with the best of the macho men. He rather thought he wouldn't enjoy being the target of Kinney's rage.

For his part, Brian sat slouched behind his desk, careful to maintain his façade of rigid control. The flash of anger was quickly suppressed. "Yeah. I figured that out from the way Detective Horvath kept dancing around the issue and coming back to the same point over and over again . . . hammering away, asking Emmett what he remembered and what his attackers might have said, and if he recognized anybody. Then he asked me pretty much the same thing. I didn't want to upset Emmett so I just let it pass."

Then he sat forward and clasped his hands under his chin. "But you work for me . . . so no more dancing. What are you getting at?"

Mathis smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "The simple truth is that there were plenty of potential targets on the streets at that hour. So it's possible that it wasn't just a coincidence - that Emmett was singled out deliberately."

Brian's smile was cold. "And why would anybody want to hurt Emmett?"

"Aside from the fact that he's a flamer of the first order," answered Mathis, "that's the question, isn't it?"

Brian said nothing for a while, simply studying his security chief's face. Then his eyes shifted to take in the expression of the brawny individual seated beside Mathis, and he spent another few minutes analyzing the expression he saw on the face of Drew Boyd.

"Sooooo," he said finally, "if you really believe that, why are you both in here, instead of down at the bar watching Emmett's back?"

Drew Boyd flashed a smile that had set hearts aflutter all over the world - both gay and straight worlds - when he'd become the model for Brown Athletics' new line of underwear. "Come on, Brian. You're not that dumb."

With a sigh he couldn't quite swallow, Brian stood and walked to the bank of security monitors and switched the system on, immediately banishing the shadows that had consumed the room and painting everything in a rainbow kaleidoscope of radiance. It took only a moment to pick out Emmett as strobe lights struck glints of ruby and topaz from his brilliantly striped shirt.

"He was wearing my coat," he said softly.

"Yes. And a hat that obscured his hair and face. And given that the two of you are about the same height, and that he exited the building through a doorway usually reserved for employees or management . . ."

Brian's eyes swept the crowd, scanning for familiar faces, for friends old and new (although the former were in shockingly short supply on this evening), for hot bodies and faces, potential problems, potential tricks . . . "Why would anybody . . ."

"At the risk of being repetitive," said Mathis, "you're not that dumb. You've made more than your share of enemies along the way - some of them very powerful - and your determination to be upfront about who you are - what you are - would be more than enough to piss off every homophobe in the country. You repeatedly, consistently, flaunt your lifestyle, and get in the face of anybody who crosses you. Jesus, Brian! The true miracle is probably that nobody ever went after you before."

Brian was silent for a while, watching the crowd and considering what Mathis had said. "But you don't know for sure."

"No," Mathis admitted, "but chalking everything up to coincidence is just asking for trouble, don't you think?"

Brian's smile was brittle. "You're wrong, by the way."

"Wrong how? You can't just stick your head in the sand and hope this will go away."

But Brian was shaking his head and lifting one hand to forestall the impending lecture. "Not that. You're wrong to assume that nobody ever tried before."

Mathis and Boyd exchanged glances, neither quite sure how to respond.

And Brian's smile became a soft huff of laughter. "I'm a fag, Boys. In Pittsburgh. And I never did see much point in hiding it. I just learned my lessons early. Such as the one that taught me that the only way to survive was to be tougher, faster, angrier, and smarter than any motherfucker who tried to intimidate me or 'put me in my place', as they termed it. Conventional wisdom claims that fags don't use their fists." He flexed his hands as old memories assailed him, and he smiled again. "I trained myself to be the exception to that rule."

"So," said Mathis, drawing the word out as he considered what Brian had said, "you're thinking that you can take care of yourself? That you don't need anyone to look after you?"

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the first twinges of a headache. "It's worked for thirty years."

"Yeah," said Mathis, "but the number - and power - of your enemies may have increased dramatically. Look, I understand that this . . . offends you. That you're insulted by the idea that you might need a little . . . protection, but it would be stupid to disregard the threat. And, before you get your tits in a real twist, let me assure you that I know how to be discreet. I've had plenty of experience dealing with . . . "

Brian didn't even try to suppress a grin. "Drama queens?"

A pale flush tinted the security chief's cheeks; he wasn't accustomed to being read so easily. "I was going to say prima donnas," he admitted.

Brian was suddenly distracted by a figure on the security screen, featuring a buff physique bulging out of a black wifebeater, topped by a classic face and a mop of dirty blonde hair. "Yeah, okay," he replied absently, abruptly bored with the entire conversation and turning to make good his escape. "But I don't want to see you, hear you . . . notice you. You'll give a whole new meaning to the expression, on the down-low. Got it?"

"Understood," Mathis answered, exchanging quick smiles with his cousin. "And just so you know, Drew has agreed to keep an eye on Emmett - just in case we're wrong about their intentions."

Brian paused as he went toward the door, and allowed his eyes to drift down to examine the complete package of Drew Boyd. His smile was suddenly sensual. "Now there's a real hardship," he quipped.

Boyd blushed charmingly.

Brian laughed. "Is this a freebie - or do I have to pay for the queer jock to ogle his favorite Nelly-bottom?"

The big quarterback got to his feet and moved forward so he could look down to study Brian's expression, eyes dwelling on the symmetry of that perfect face and the enticing shape of those sensual lips. "If necessary," he said softly, lifting one hand to trace the strong jawline, "I'd pay you."

Brian's lips compressed suddenly, as he suppressed another bark of laughter. "You can't afford me."

It was Drew's turn to laugh. "You really are an obnoxious little prick . . ."

"Nothing little about it," Brian retorted.

"Yeah, right. I'm an NFL quarterback, you know, and a rich man. But that's beside the point. Charming as your perfect bubble butt may be . . ."

"Let me guess," Brian replied, in his best lesbianic lilt. "It can't compare to your one true love."

Drew simply smiled.

"Now if you boys will excuse me," said Brian, with a glance toward the monitors to make sure his target was still in his sites, "I have bigger . . . fish to fry."

"Just . . . keep your eyes open, OK?" said Lance Mathis.

"Hard to do," Brian called over his shoulder, "when you're getting sucked off, but I'll think about it."

And he was gone, leaving the security chief and the quarterback to exchange rueful smiles. "Come on," said Mathis. "I think I'll send out a couple of guards to patrol outside, and to keep an eye on his car. If last night is any indication, that's a likely spot for trouble."

"Yeah," said Drew. "That's probably a good idea, since it's perfectly obvious that he's not going to waste his time worrying about anything beyond his next blow job."

Mathis nodded. "No doubt he's an arrogant fucker. So why is it that I'm really beginning to like the little shit?"

Drew Boyd smiled. "Maybe because he's . . . one of a kind?"

Mathis laughed. "Well, there's no arguing with that."


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


When the buzzer went off, he almost ignored it. Who in the world would be at his door at this hour of the night?

Then he sighed. Who indeed?

When he hit the intercom, the mystery was solved. "Justin? I know it's late, Honey, but let me in. Please."

He didn't offer a verbal response, but he did hit the switch to unlock the door at the first floor entrance.

When Jennifer reached the landing outside his little hole-in-the-wall, Justin was waiting at the door. "Mom, what are you doing here?" he demanded, albeit softly. "It's two in the morning."

"I know," she replied as he backed up to let her in. "But I wanted to make sure everything was . . . " She paused and took a moment to study his face. "You were upset when you went tearing out of the tavern. And I didn't know if you . . ."

"If I what?"

She looked around the room, and spotted the suitcase lying open on his bed, and the clothing laid out around it.

"Guess that answers my question," she said with a gentle smile. "You're really going with Steven?"

"You have some objection?" His voice was very soft, but there was no way of disguising the bright spark of anger swelling within it.

"No, Honey," she said quickly. "No objection. Just a . . . concern."

"About?"

She took off her coat and settled herself on the side of his bed - the only place available for sitting. "Justin, I'm not here to register my objections or voice my doubts. I just want . . . to be sure that you're not rushing into something that you might not be ready for."

He turned away and walked to the window where he stood gazing out into the darkness. "I think," he said finally, "that I've waited long enough. Don't you?"

"What I think doesn't really matter, does it?" she replied. "It's what you think that counts. Are you really ready to . . ."

She fell silent, unable to actually speak the words - but he heard them anyway.

"He's never coming, you know," he whispered. "And I'm tired of watching the door, watching the clock, watching . . . time slipping away from me."

Jennifer took a deep breath, as she noted the rigid lines of his back and the set of his shoulders and recognized the emotion that gripped him so firmly. He could tell himself that it was over - that he was through with waiting and dreaming - but she knew better. Brian Kinney might be relegated to his past, but he was not yet ready to let go of everything they had been to each other. She sometimes wondered if he ever would be.

"You have to do what feels right to you, Honey," she said finally. "But I hope you're not just running away. Because that doesn't work, and I ought to know. I tried running away from the truth about your father . . . and look where that got us."

"Mom, please . . ."

"Okay," she said briskly, accepting the inevitable. He would talk when he was ready to talk, and not a moment sooner. "If I'm lucky, my cab is still waiting for me, so I should go. Do you need help with your packing? What about this?"

And she lifted the exquisitely soft cashmere sweater from its plastic cover, and started to fold it.

"No," he said quickly, hurrying forward to take the garment from her and place it carefully back in its protective bag. He offered her a smile, but it was only a pale reflection of his characteristic grin. "That's not exactly suitable for a tropical paradise, is it?"

"But . . ."

"No," he said firmly, picking up the garment bag and putting it back in the closet. "This stays here."

Jennifer did not bother to argue, as it was obvious that there was a great deal he was not saying, and his expression warned her to back off.

She sighed then, realizing that he had actually said very little, and she wondered when her lovely, big-hearted, overly impulsive, achingly candid son had become such a reclusive, closed-off stranger. She left him then, heavy-hearted and wondering if she had missed something, if there was anything she could do to fix what was so obviously broken, whether he admitted it or not.


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


It had been a night like most others.

When Brian had descended to the main floor of the club, he had been inundated with warm greetings and innuendos and propositions, gifted with smiles and come-hither looks and caresses that were not nearly as incidental as they seemed, subjected to bold invitations and explicit offers whispered in his ear, and he had taken advantage of a couple of them, allowing the target he'd spotted from his office to give him a most satisfactory blow job, and selecting a second companion - young and brunette with beautiful green eyes - to fuck within an inch of his young life. Then he'd stood at the bar for a while, drinking shot after shot of Jim Beam, watching the crowd, and talking a bit with Emmett and Drew and Alonzo.

Sexually, it had been satisfactory, as most of his nights were.

Beyond that, he didn't allow himself to think about it.

It was almost three when he decided that the night was no longer young, and it was time to seek solace in the oblivion of sleep. Alone. He deliberately ignored the significance of the hour as he retrieved his leather jacket - brand new, of course, and purchased just that day to replace the one damaged in the attack - from his office and headed toward the private exit.

From his vantage point near the stairs, Lance Mathis noted his employer's intention and spoke into his hand-held radio. Then he headed down, still speaking into his hand set and gesturing to get Drew Boyd's attention. Thus, by the time Brian got to the entrance to the exit tunnel, the security guards on patrol outside the building were already alerted to his approach and positioned to watch as he made his way to his car, and Lance, Drew, and Emmett had exited through a different door where they could observe the entrance to the back alley. Lance's car was parked nearby, in a spot he had chosen deliberately on his arrival at the club, to give him this particular vantage point at this juncture in time. In this way, Brian would only be out of sight for a few seconds; it was the perfect plan.

Of course, even the most perfect plan might be flawed if the fundamental information on which it's based is incorrect.

Lance took a deep breath, enjoying the briskness of a chill wind that was swirling odd bits of detritus through the air. After hours spent in the smoky/boozy/God-only-knows-what miasma of Babylon's atmosphere (or, as Brian referred to it, the 'faggot fragrance of freedom') the smell of the night air was invigorating. Drew, meanwhile, was busy adjusting the bright chartreuse scarf that Emmett had chosen to accent his gold and scarlet ensemble, tucking it tight into the neck of his pale quilted jacket to make sure Emmett didn't catch a chill.

They had been standing there for a few seconds, talking quietly, when they heard the roar of a motor, coming from the alley behind the club, a deep, pulsing, throaty growl that conjured up visions of leather-clad bodies astride powerful machines.

"What is that?" asked Emmett idly, just as Mathis jerked his radio from his belt and began to speak into it.

At that moment, three things happened simultaneously.

From the shadowed aperture of the alley, a dark figure emerged in a burst of speed, leather jacket, gloves, and helmet all a lightless black, contrasting beautifully against the crimson gleam of the classic 2002 Screamin' Eagle Harley Davidson customized Road King, and accelerated off into the night heading away from the individuals who could only stand and watch it go.

At almost the same moment, a huge, black Cadillac Escalade careened around an adjacent corner and raced off in the same direction, a lurid logo affixed to its rear window catching a ray from a passing street light to illuminate its features: a small gay-rights flag, obscured by a scrawled X that was not - quite - shaped like a swastika.

The third thing that happened was triggered by the second. Emmett staggered, and would have fallen if Drew had not grabbed him, as memory came roaring back, cued by the image of the logo. He closed his eyes as he saw it again, heard it again.

He had rolled himself into a ball as he heard the vile screaming voice that promised him that he would know pain like he couldn't even imagine, that he would never again be young and beautiful, that he would be deformed and ugly like the filthy faggot he was, that the whole world would realize that he was no hero; then he'd felt the brutal blows from heavy boots striking him, heard the crunch of ribs cracking. And then - a beat of silence - and another voice, low-pitched and guttural. "Fuck! It's not him. We gotta get out of here."

"Oh, my God!" Emmett gasped, clinging to Drew's strong arms. "They weren't after me. It was Brian they wanted. All along, it was Brian."

Lance was already running toward his car, shouting instructions into his handset, and cursing himself for his failure to pay attention. He had taken every contingency into account in his efforts to protect his boss; every contingency, except one. He had made sure that Brian's car was well-guarded and secure. Only . . . Brian hadn't come to the club in his Corvette on this night, because he had not gone home in it the night before. The 'Vette had remained in its niche near the club all day. Instead, he had come on the bike - the bike that was now carrying him out into the darkness, away from those who would protect him, away from safety and into . . .

Lance forced himself to stop thinking that way. He didn't have time to speculate; he only had time to run . . . and hope.

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

TBC

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